Movie Review:
O.C. and Stiggs
1985 / 1 hr., 49 min. / R
Director: Robert Altman
This review is part of my quest to see every Robert Altman film available in an attempt to discern what it is that made him a renowned director.
There is a reason that John Hughes lives on as a great writer and director of 1980's teen comedies, and Robert Altman does not. And O.C. and Stiggs is that reason.
O.C. (Daniel Jenkins) and Stiggs (Neill Barry) are two high school buddies who have a general disdain for their middle-class lifestyle in Scottsdale, Arizona, and a more specific hatred for local bigwig Randall Schwab (Paul Dooley). Schwab is the area’s insurance monarch, complete with a low-budget commercial that is almost too painful to even laugh at. And it seems that Schwab has turned down a claim filed by O.C.’s grandfather (Ray Walston), leaving O.C. no choice but to put Gramps in a nursing home and move himself off to a southeastern state to live with another relative. I can’t say exactly how Schwab’s declination topples the string of dominos – the film was a little unclear on that – but that is probably beside the point anyway.
The boys spend their free time – and they pretty much make sure free time is all they have – finding ways to harass, embarrass, and torment Schwab and every member of his extended family. They run up huge overseas phone bills on Schwab’s line, steal his barbequed dinners, crash the wedding of Schwab’s daughter, convert Schwab’s home into a drug rehab clinic fund-raising event, and blow up Schwab’s survival shelter, all with as much gleeful abandon as a couple of malcontent slackers can muster.
The teen comedy genre is capably populated by hits that fans still talk about, like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Sixteen Candles, and Porky’s. Not only does O.C. and Stiggs fail to place on that list, but I can’t even recall anyone ever mentioning this film when chronicling Altman’s list of achievements.
The foundational problem is that Altman didn’t even like teen comedies. He saw in the script a chance to satirize the genre, not complement it; and yet I don’t feel like he even succeeded at satire. Altman would have been wiser to craft his own script with that agenda, or drop the agenda entirely, rather than distort what the studio wanted and what writers Ted Mann and Donald Cantrell handed him.
The result is a meandering series of misadventures with almost no framework holding them together. Some of the pranks seem to have nothing to do with the Schwabs, so far as I could see. A summer river trip down to Mexico has no apparent connection to anything whatsoever, nor do the various subplots involving cheating husbands, bridezillas, or homosexual teachers. The film as a whole has little forward momentum or any sense of drive toward a climactic moment. The last prank, blowing up the bomb shelter, may be the most devastating one; but we are left with the feeling that this was just one of many, and not the grand conclusion of the boys’ scheme to ruin their archenemy.
The experience is made even messier with Altman’s trademark directing style involving overlapping dialogue. It worked in MASH, Gosford Park, and others, but here it feels overused and overmixed – conversations get layered so deeply upon each other that entire scenes are rendered helpless in moving the plot forward because we can’t hear anything relevant to the plot. And if there is indeed nothing relevant to the plot in those scenes anyway, then by the unwritten rules of storytelling, those scenes need to be cut. The wandering, noisy mish-mash makes the film feel even longer than its nearly two hours.
The film is not hopeless, it’s just nowhere near Altman’s best. Daniel Jenkins and Neill Barry are likeable onscreen presences. Barry is particularly charismatic in his attitude and delivery, with body language that is humorous in the way it just doesn’t care. I enjoyed their mutual repartee at several points, especially when they go to purchase a car. I can see where someone like John Hughes could have turned this same plot into a film that would have had Jenkins and Barry fielding larger offers than the sideline careers they both ended up with.
Altman recruits major stars to support our two anti-heroes, with more than a few of them playing parodies of their own earlier roles. Dennis Hopper’s character is lifted straight out of Apocalypse Now, for instance; and according to Altman, cameo performances by Martin Mull (Clue), Ray Walston (Popeye), and Melvin Van Peebles (Jaws: The Revenge) draw on their past cinematic lives as well. Paul Dooley (Strange Brew) and Jane Curtin (Coneheads) as Mr. and Mrs. Schwab are overblown exaggerations, but still manage to draw out some humor. All together, the cast delivers a light-hearted teen hijinx comedy, sometimes believable, sometimes too over-the-top to be at all convincing. If the overboard performances of some of the supporting roles is part of Altman’s satire, he missed and ended up with results that just look bad, not lampoonish.
I have a request of directors: If you just don’t like a genre, then when a studio offers you an opportunity to direct something in that very genre, just turn the offer down. To readers: You’ll definitely laugh more with Revenge of the Nerds, Real Genius, or any of a dozen others. How much more will vary, of course, but consider this warning as your opportunity to save yourself the two hours you would have lost.
My Score: 5
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Open Invitation
Even before reviewing "Waiting For Godot", I noticed that the praise people have given it has been of a very vague kind: "It's great!" "It's so interesting!" Etc.
After posting my review, the criticisms have been equally vague: "You just don't get it", "You're a loser," etc. Most of those who disagree with me have simply stooped to sarcastic mockery.
Why not take the opportunity to Educate instead of Excoriate? I had a mind open to seeing the play and giving it a chance -- why not practice what you preach and return the favor? Take some time to actually delineate what it is about this play that makes it great (objectively or personally subjectively), and write about it.
Normally I reserve my blog for things I write myself, but if someone actually takes the time to write an informative rebuttal that explains what it is I should be taking home from this play, I will publish it here. (If I get multiple entries, I'll pick the one I feel helps me understand the issue best.)
Now's your chance - rise above petty sarcasm and mockery that does not help in any way, and educate me.
After posting my review, the criticisms have been equally vague: "You just don't get it", "You're a loser," etc. Most of those who disagree with me have simply stooped to sarcastic mockery.
Why not take the opportunity to Educate instead of Excoriate? I had a mind open to seeing the play and giving it a chance -- why not practice what you preach and return the favor? Take some time to actually delineate what it is about this play that makes it great (objectively or personally subjectively), and write about it.
Normally I reserve my blog for things I write myself, but if someone actually takes the time to write an informative rebuttal that explains what it is I should be taking home from this play, I will publish it here. (If I get multiple entries, I'll pick the one I feel helps me understand the issue best.)
Now's your chance - rise above petty sarcasm and mockery that does not help in any way, and educate me.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Fascinating
Here's a tiny little blog read by maybe five or six people a month at most (in a good year), and suddenly it is the talk of the theatrical community because I voiced my opinion that I didn't like a play. I've not-liked previous plays, and my opinion still barely made a blip on the blog's viewer-hit chart. Why all of a sudden?
Now that I've hit the 100-views mark in a single day, a few thoughts come to mind:
* It should be noted that I've never picked on the actual performances of any community theater productions, mostly because there has never been anything to pick on. At least not since I started writing reviews. The direction and delivery of any given script has been anywhere from very good to outstanding. Every negative comment I've ever given for a community theater show has been about the script itself.
* For those concerned that I'm attempting to sway the entire Central Oregon community into not seeing "Waiting For Godot", I repeat that this blog's viewership has been so laughably low that to think I could sway any significant portion of the community is excessive flattery. But thanks for reading and believing I have that kind of vast internet presence! Where were all you readers over the past three years? I was about ready to give up.
* Is the Central Oregon theatrical community so thin-skinned that hearing a negative review brings about a firestorm? Are we all just supposed to pat each other on the back and say, "Good job, I loved the play" even if that's not true? That's what the Oscars are for, and look at the mediocre garbage being churned out year after year from that bunch of back-patters down in Hollywood because everyone's so afraid to say what they think.
* Did you like "Waiting for Godot"? Start a blog and tell the world! It's a fun hobby. If the entire blog is about the performing arts, I'll even be happy to put a link to it in my sidebar! - After all, I now have a hundred readers and they might be interested in your opinion as well!
I'm guessing, however, that after a few days, my blog will be back down to the usual 5 or 6 readers a month, and I'll write for the fun of writing as I have for three years now, and no one will give two hoots about my opinion, as they generally never have unless they are the few folks up here in Redmond who generally already agree with me anyway.
Now that I've hit the 100-views mark in a single day, a few thoughts come to mind:
* It should be noted that I've never picked on the actual performances of any community theater productions, mostly because there has never been anything to pick on. At least not since I started writing reviews. The direction and delivery of any given script has been anywhere from very good to outstanding. Every negative comment I've ever given for a community theater show has been about the script itself.
* For those concerned that I'm attempting to sway the entire Central Oregon community into not seeing "Waiting For Godot", I repeat that this blog's viewership has been so laughably low that to think I could sway any significant portion of the community is excessive flattery. But thanks for reading and believing I have that kind of vast internet presence! Where were all you readers over the past three years? I was about ready to give up.
* Is the Central Oregon theatrical community so thin-skinned that hearing a negative review brings about a firestorm? Are we all just supposed to pat each other on the back and say, "Good job, I loved the play" even if that's not true? That's what the Oscars are for, and look at the mediocre garbage being churned out year after year from that bunch of back-patters down in Hollywood because everyone's so afraid to say what they think.
* Did you like "Waiting for Godot"? Start a blog and tell the world! It's a fun hobby. If the entire blog is about the performing arts, I'll even be happy to put a link to it in my sidebar! - After all, I now have a hundred readers and they might be interested in your opinion as well!
I'm guessing, however, that after a few days, my blog will be back down to the usual 5 or 6 readers a month, and I'll write for the fun of writing as I have for three years now, and no one will give two hoots about my opinion, as they generally never have unless they are the few folks up here in Redmond who generally already agree with me anyway.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Good Godot, That Was Awful
Play Review:
Waiting For Godot
by Samuel Beckett
Company: Innovation Theatre Works
Venue: ITW Main Stage
Run: 3/5/12 - 3/22/12
While I don’t pretend I’m so old as to know everything about myself, I do know what kinds of plays and movies I am likely to enjoy. Upon reading the promotional material for Waiting For Godot at Innovation Theatre Works in Bend, Oregon, my gut reaction was of non-interest. Wikipedia and various essays described it as “absurdist” and “existentialist”, two words that characterize the genre of art for which I have the least appreciation.
However, for a handful of reasons I suppressed that initial reaction and decided to give it a go. For one, it was touted by multiple sources as a pivotal moment in modern theater. As a cinema enthusiast, I have known the trials of getting the uninitiated to understand why Citizen Kane is an essential cornerstone in the foundation of film history. So as a theater hobbyist, I felt I should at least give “the most important play of the modern theater” a chance to speak for itself.
For another, one of the cast members essentially dared me to see it. And third, a friend offered to enable my completion of the dare by purchasing my ticket at a time when I could not afford the ticket price.
Given the script’s lack of forward momentum through a traditional A-line narrative, the play defies a standard plot synopsis. It revolves around two men, Estragon and Vladimir (informally addressing each other as “Gogo” and “Didi”), who are waiting by a dead tree for someone named Godot (“GOD-oh”, not “g’DOH”). Apparently they have been requested by Godot to wait there for him, though neither of them can recall for certain what time Godot will arrive, or if they are by the correct tree, or even whether they will recognize Godot when they see him.
They pass a long and tedious day by talking, sometimes agreeably and sometimes less so. They ponder things like Gogo’s too-tight pair of boots, and whether the nearby tree would support them if they committed suicide by hanging, and other topics I cannot recall because I forgot my notepad. As the day rolls on, a man named Pozzo passes through, along with his tethered lackey Lucky. They stop and join the other two in conversation, pondering such things as why Pozzo keeps Lucky in slavish service to him, and what twilight looks like in that part of the country.
Eventually night falls, and a messenger boy arrives to inform Gogo and Didi that Godot will not be arriving that day after all, but will come tomorrow. The two men head off to find sleep, with the knowledge that they must return the next day and continue waiting.
That’s Act One.
Act Two is more of the same, though the tree has sprouted a few leaves, Pozzo shows up blind, and Gogo has a curious lack of memory regarding anything that happened the previous day. Eventually night falls, and a messenger boy arrives to inform Gogo and Didi that Godot will not be arriving that day after all, but will come tomorrow. Imagine Groundhog Day, only without Bill Murray’s ever finding a happy ending.
And at this point I am not sure how to proceed. Given the bizarre nature of the entire thing, it’s a bit tricky to critique any particular aspect of it. The performances were certainly capable – having worked with cast members Andrew Hickman, Liam Mykael O’Sruitheain, and Alastair Morley Jaques in the past, I expected no less. I can’t even really comment on Brad Hills’ work as the director because, knowing the caliber of three of the four main performers first-hand, I’m quite sure they all brought a great deal of collaboration to the table.
Tim Blough and Hickman, as Gogo and Didi respectively, are well-matched counterpoints. Blough brings out the dour skepticism of Gogo, who is far more ready to give up on ever meeting Godot than Didi is. Ailing from tight boots and foot lesions, Gogo makes many attempts to leave, only to be stopped by Didi; Blough’s deeply resonant voice and long face enhance Didi’s pessimism nicely without being so overtly depressing as to make us want to join him in hanging from the tree.
On the other side, Hickman makes Didi a fraternal twin of Stan Laurel: His hands constantly fidget with his short necktie, he deftly twiddles his hat, and he walks with feet turned way out in a bouncy waddle. Didi seems the more confident in the imminent arrival of Godot, and maintains the sunnier disposition throughout most of the play. Such optimism is brought out by Hickman’s lilting tenor tones and animated physical features.
Liam O’Sruitheain never fails to intrigue me. I have seen him on four occasions now, and he always manages to make his characters far richer than the scripts suggest. Though I cannot for the life of me figure out what Beckett’s script is even trying to suggest and therefore cannot decide whether his performance here was richer or not, O’Sruitheain is watchable as always, pretty much stealing Act One out from under everyone else with his wide range of emotional choices.
Alastair Morley Jaques plays Lucky, who carries around Pozzo’s belongings, and spends every waking moment on stage looking utterly fatigued by the load. Apart from one excessive outburst akin to the Monty Python skit where Eric Idle drove Michael Palin to insanity by complaining about travel agency package deals, Lucky is silent, a character of pure physicality, and Jaques handles it ably.
I started with the performances because I want to differentiate them from the play itself: It is possible to deliver a flawless and expert performance of a script, at the same time that the script itself is not even worth performing. And that is the situation we have here.
The easiest way I can think of to describe what I saw is “doodling”. A person sits and doodles to entertain himself. (I might add that’s why I blog about the theatrical arts, though I do appreciate anyone who stops to read.) It matters not if he doodles anything resembling a decent picture; it’s not really meant for anyone else to look at. And this is the impression I am left with: A play full of doodles.
Samuel Beckett’s script jumps from topic to topic, with or without rational motivation in the dialogue. What portion of page ten requires it to come before page eleven? Would the audience notice if the two pages had been switched? Doubtful. Apart from one hint at an attempt to be deliberately philosophical about the brevity of life (which Beckett also covered in his play Breath), none of the dialogue carries any significant weight or lasting resonance. Some humorous lines are good for a chuckle for their own sake, but they are just chuckles adrift, not serving any larger purpose. There is physical schtick reminiscent of a Mel Brooks film, but it comes and goes with stark inconsistency. Like a child doodling on page after page of blank paper and then throwing them all in a meaningless pile, Beckett doodles out a few dozen theatrical sequences that add up to nothing intriguing whatsoever.
The actors inhabit these doodles consistently and even creatively. O’Sruitheain’s brief discourse on the difficulty of sitting on his stool a second time is delivered with a sly twinkle. Blough and Hickman have volleys of patter that develop a nice rhythm. The list of such individual doodles is long, but doodles they remain: Even when all bundled together, they are still just doodles.
I am told that all this doodling is actually a play wherein Beckett uses the absurd setting to toss out to the audience several thought-provoking questions about the human condition. Indeed, this is the reason cited for the play’s standing as a landmark in modern theater: Never before had a play asked the questions and assigned the audience to ponder their own answers. From everything I have read, it is safe to say existentialism in theatrical form was born right here in Waiting For Godot.
And that is certainly a plausible explanation for my complete lack of enjoyment. I disagree with existentialist philosophy, and with existentialist art. Every play I consider a favorite was written before Waiting For Godot, back when playwrights actually had, you know, something to say. Back before modern art disguised Western culture’s growing relativism and skepticism in a cloak of pseudo-intellectualism.
The director’s program notes invite us to open our minds to the questions being asked. But even disregarding my belief in the presence of absolute truths and the rejection of existential thinking, I still did not even get the impression I was being asked any questions at all, let alone thought-provoking ones I was being burdened to answer. I cannot, a mere two hours after leaving the theater, name for you a single issue about the human condition I am now supposed to be mulling over. If I did not know better, I would say the whole experience felt like a big practical joke by Beckett, who went to his grave laughing quietly about how he duped every producer, director, actor, and receptive audience member into thinking that the play was actually significant. I have no idea what it is about this play that would intrigue any director into staging it, or any actor into auditioning for it. I’m not trying to be snarky, I’m just being honest.
And it’s not that I’m hopelessly shallow: I don’t mind a play or movie that gives me something to think about. But I want to know that the author had a specific assertion in mind, even if I have to dig for it, and even if I disagree with it. Waiting For Godot is none of these. Beckett refused to assign meaning to the play, which makes sense given its existential purpose, but in doing so he completely alienates me.
I think by now I’m beating a dead horse. Waiting For Godot is, for my taste, the worst theater script I have ever seen performed. I would hire any of the performers I saw, who all proved themselves skilled in creating and delivering consistent characters. But the play itself is useless. The fact that Innovation Theatre Works is having a hard time filling the seats for this production suggests I’m not the only one completely put off by its incomprehensible inanity.
When I was a kid who would grimace at some new dish placed before me at the dinner table, my mother would ask, “How do you know you don’t like it? You haven’t even tried it.” Whatever else you may think of my opinion of Waiting For Godot, you cannot say I didn’t even try it.
Basic Ticket Price: $15-$20
Value for Money: Not worth it
Waiting For Godot
by Samuel Beckett
Company: Innovation Theatre Works
Venue: ITW Main Stage
Run: 3/5/12 - 3/22/12
While I don’t pretend I’m so old as to know everything about myself, I do know what kinds of plays and movies I am likely to enjoy. Upon reading the promotional material for Waiting For Godot at Innovation Theatre Works in Bend, Oregon, my gut reaction was of non-interest. Wikipedia and various essays described it as “absurdist” and “existentialist”, two words that characterize the genre of art for which I have the least appreciation.
However, for a handful of reasons I suppressed that initial reaction and decided to give it a go. For one, it was touted by multiple sources as a pivotal moment in modern theater. As a cinema enthusiast, I have known the trials of getting the uninitiated to understand why Citizen Kane is an essential cornerstone in the foundation of film history. So as a theater hobbyist, I felt I should at least give “the most important play of the modern theater” a chance to speak for itself.
For another, one of the cast members essentially dared me to see it. And third, a friend offered to enable my completion of the dare by purchasing my ticket at a time when I could not afford the ticket price.
Given the script’s lack of forward momentum through a traditional A-line narrative, the play defies a standard plot synopsis. It revolves around two men, Estragon and Vladimir (informally addressing each other as “Gogo” and “Didi”), who are waiting by a dead tree for someone named Godot (“GOD-oh”, not “g’DOH”). Apparently they have been requested by Godot to wait there for him, though neither of them can recall for certain what time Godot will arrive, or if they are by the correct tree, or even whether they will recognize Godot when they see him.
They pass a long and tedious day by talking, sometimes agreeably and sometimes less so. They ponder things like Gogo’s too-tight pair of boots, and whether the nearby tree would support them if they committed suicide by hanging, and other topics I cannot recall because I forgot my notepad. As the day rolls on, a man named Pozzo passes through, along with his tethered lackey Lucky. They stop and join the other two in conversation, pondering such things as why Pozzo keeps Lucky in slavish service to him, and what twilight looks like in that part of the country.
Eventually night falls, and a messenger boy arrives to inform Gogo and Didi that Godot will not be arriving that day after all, but will come tomorrow. The two men head off to find sleep, with the knowledge that they must return the next day and continue waiting.
That’s Act One.
Act Two is more of the same, though the tree has sprouted a few leaves, Pozzo shows up blind, and Gogo has a curious lack of memory regarding anything that happened the previous day. Eventually night falls, and a messenger boy arrives to inform Gogo and Didi that Godot will not be arriving that day after all, but will come tomorrow. Imagine Groundhog Day, only without Bill Murray’s ever finding a happy ending.
And at this point I am not sure how to proceed. Given the bizarre nature of the entire thing, it’s a bit tricky to critique any particular aspect of it. The performances were certainly capable – having worked with cast members Andrew Hickman, Liam Mykael O’Sruitheain, and Alastair Morley Jaques in the past, I expected no less. I can’t even really comment on Brad Hills’ work as the director because, knowing the caliber of three of the four main performers first-hand, I’m quite sure they all brought a great deal of collaboration to the table.
Tim Blough and Hickman, as Gogo and Didi respectively, are well-matched counterpoints. Blough brings out the dour skepticism of Gogo, who is far more ready to give up on ever meeting Godot than Didi is. Ailing from tight boots and foot lesions, Gogo makes many attempts to leave, only to be stopped by Didi; Blough’s deeply resonant voice and long face enhance Didi’s pessimism nicely without being so overtly depressing as to make us want to join him in hanging from the tree.
On the other side, Hickman makes Didi a fraternal twin of Stan Laurel: His hands constantly fidget with his short necktie, he deftly twiddles his hat, and he walks with feet turned way out in a bouncy waddle. Didi seems the more confident in the imminent arrival of Godot, and maintains the sunnier disposition throughout most of the play. Such optimism is brought out by Hickman’s lilting tenor tones and animated physical features.
Liam O’Sruitheain never fails to intrigue me. I have seen him on four occasions now, and he always manages to make his characters far richer than the scripts suggest. Though I cannot for the life of me figure out what Beckett’s script is even trying to suggest and therefore cannot decide whether his performance here was richer or not, O’Sruitheain is watchable as always, pretty much stealing Act One out from under everyone else with his wide range of emotional choices.
Alastair Morley Jaques plays Lucky, who carries around Pozzo’s belongings, and spends every waking moment on stage looking utterly fatigued by the load. Apart from one excessive outburst akin to the Monty Python skit where Eric Idle drove Michael Palin to insanity by complaining about travel agency package deals, Lucky is silent, a character of pure physicality, and Jaques handles it ably.
I started with the performances because I want to differentiate them from the play itself: It is possible to deliver a flawless and expert performance of a script, at the same time that the script itself is not even worth performing. And that is the situation we have here.
The easiest way I can think of to describe what I saw is “doodling”. A person sits and doodles to entertain himself. (I might add that’s why I blog about the theatrical arts, though I do appreciate anyone who stops to read.) It matters not if he doodles anything resembling a decent picture; it’s not really meant for anyone else to look at. And this is the impression I am left with: A play full of doodles.
Samuel Beckett’s script jumps from topic to topic, with or without rational motivation in the dialogue. What portion of page ten requires it to come before page eleven? Would the audience notice if the two pages had been switched? Doubtful. Apart from one hint at an attempt to be deliberately philosophical about the brevity of life (which Beckett also covered in his play Breath), none of the dialogue carries any significant weight or lasting resonance. Some humorous lines are good for a chuckle for their own sake, but they are just chuckles adrift, not serving any larger purpose. There is physical schtick reminiscent of a Mel Brooks film, but it comes and goes with stark inconsistency. Like a child doodling on page after page of blank paper and then throwing them all in a meaningless pile, Beckett doodles out a few dozen theatrical sequences that add up to nothing intriguing whatsoever.
The actors inhabit these doodles consistently and even creatively. O’Sruitheain’s brief discourse on the difficulty of sitting on his stool a second time is delivered with a sly twinkle. Blough and Hickman have volleys of patter that develop a nice rhythm. The list of such individual doodles is long, but doodles they remain: Even when all bundled together, they are still just doodles.
I am told that all this doodling is actually a play wherein Beckett uses the absurd setting to toss out to the audience several thought-provoking questions about the human condition. Indeed, this is the reason cited for the play’s standing as a landmark in modern theater: Never before had a play asked the questions and assigned the audience to ponder their own answers. From everything I have read, it is safe to say existentialism in theatrical form was born right here in Waiting For Godot.
And that is certainly a plausible explanation for my complete lack of enjoyment. I disagree with existentialist philosophy, and with existentialist art. Every play I consider a favorite was written before Waiting For Godot, back when playwrights actually had, you know, something to say. Back before modern art disguised Western culture’s growing relativism and skepticism in a cloak of pseudo-intellectualism.
The director’s program notes invite us to open our minds to the questions being asked. But even disregarding my belief in the presence of absolute truths and the rejection of existential thinking, I still did not even get the impression I was being asked any questions at all, let alone thought-provoking ones I was being burdened to answer. I cannot, a mere two hours after leaving the theater, name for you a single issue about the human condition I am now supposed to be mulling over. If I did not know better, I would say the whole experience felt like a big practical joke by Beckett, who went to his grave laughing quietly about how he duped every producer, director, actor, and receptive audience member into thinking that the play was actually significant. I have no idea what it is about this play that would intrigue any director into staging it, or any actor into auditioning for it. I’m not trying to be snarky, I’m just being honest.
And it’s not that I’m hopelessly shallow: I don’t mind a play or movie that gives me something to think about. But I want to know that the author had a specific assertion in mind, even if I have to dig for it, and even if I disagree with it. Waiting For Godot is none of these. Beckett refused to assign meaning to the play, which makes sense given its existential purpose, but in doing so he completely alienates me.
I think by now I’m beating a dead horse. Waiting For Godot is, for my taste, the worst theater script I have ever seen performed. I would hire any of the performers I saw, who all proved themselves skilled in creating and delivering consistent characters. But the play itself is useless. The fact that Innovation Theatre Works is having a hard time filling the seats for this production suggests I’m not the only one completely put off by its incomprehensible inanity.
When I was a kid who would grimace at some new dish placed before me at the dinner table, my mother would ask, “How do you know you don’t like it? You haven’t even tried it.” Whatever else you may think of my opinion of Waiting For Godot, you cannot say I didn’t even try it.
Basic Ticket Price: $15-$20
Value for Money: Not worth it
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Real Hope for Real Change
Movie Review:
Milk
2008 / 2 hrs., 9 min. / R
Director: Gus Van Sant
Anyone who knows me will not even get past this first sentence without wondering if I can review a film like Milk without revealing a preconceived bias. Do my biblical beliefs on homosexuality affect my appreciation of a film about Harvey Milk’s crusade to correct a civil and societal wrong perpetrated on the homosexual community? Of course; and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I have long gotten over the idea that a film critic should not let his bias show; it’s when he’s covert about it that his journalism lacks honesty. If even the loftiest Roger Ebert can drop a star off a film’s score because it doesn’t line up with his liberal, irreligious view of life (and he has), surely this armchair pundit can do the same for a film that does not line up with my conservative, Christian view. And I’ll be honest about it right up front.
I have learned from past public embarrassment not to take a bio-pic at face value. I reviewed Finding Neverland on the assumption that it was reasonably factual, and a college student who had written major theses on J.M. Barrie had to correct me in an online forum. Inevitably, those responsible for producing real-life stories bend the facts for various artistic reasons, not the least of which is to show generosity toward the characters they wish to promote. But as I know nothing of Harvey Milk, indeed had not even heard of him until Milk’s advertising campaign began, I’ll go with the flow on this one.
In that spirit of deliberate naivete, then, I learned that Harvey Milk (Sean Penn) was murdered in 1978 by a very desperate Dan White (Josh Brolin). Who were they and why this was significant is the course of the movie, told by Milk into a cassette recorder in the justified fear that someone might try to assassinate him.
The film traces Milk’s life from his arrival in San Francisco around his fortieth birthday to his death about eight years later. During that time, the Castro district of the city was becoming a mecca for homosexuals, and Milk began to envision a world where gays would not have to live in fear of police brutality, job termination, and other discriminatory practices.
Bolstering support from the like-minded community, Milk became a candidate for office in San Francisco. It was not until the fourth attempt that he was actually elected, in 1977. For the following year, Milk worked to persuade his fellow city supervisors to pass bills extending basic human rights to the homosexual community. As the climax of his career, he was the rallying voice that unified a majority of Californians to defeat Proposition 6, an initiative that would require public schools to fire homosexual teachers.
Along the way, Milk seemed briefly to make a positive acquaintance with fellow city supervisor White, though White was clearly never totally comfortable with Milk. Whether it was Milk’s homosexuality that drove White to shoot both him and Mayor Moscone (Victor Garber) or whether it was White’s frustration regarding his financial and employment situation (a situation much of his own doing) is not made clear; though Brolin’s performance throughout the film would suggest both factors worked together, with the mayor’s refusal to reinstate White on the board of supervisors as the last straw.
At this point I’ve seen three Gus Van Sant films, and Milk is perhaps the most engaging of the three. His Good Will Hunting was, for me, an exercise in tedium unsuccessfully disguised as an inspiring story about finding greatness in humble places. And To Die For was interesting in a quirky way, but nothing I’d spend time watching again. As a piece of cinema, Milk is more focused and better-paced than either of those. I have my usual complaint about hand-held camera work, seen most overtly when Milk is rallying crowds in impromptu speeches on the streets of Castro; and some shots where the characters are so unusually framed as to be distracting. Why put the characters so low in the frame that it looks like a mistake instead of an artistic choice? Assuming the project was a typical artistic collaboration, such decisions fall first on the head of cinematographer Harris Savides, but why Van Sant gave his approval has me befuddled.
The script by Dustin Lance Black is subtle, sometimes witty, and otherwise strong for the film’s purpose. Black and Van Sant also successfully integrate a good portion of actual media from Milk’s life, to the extent that people like Anita Bryant, a spearhead in the effort to pass Proposition 6 and similar bills across the country, appears only in archived news footage and yet manages to upstage Josh Brolin in her role as a self-righteous hyper-angelic menace against homosexual rights. Apparently she was the Fred Phelps of her generation.
Sean Penn (Mystic River) has come a long way from his Fast Times at Ridgemont High – at least as far as his acting ability is concerned; his public appearances still remind me of a hot-tempered high school rebel slacker. I cannot compare Penn’s performance to the real Harvey Milk for accuracy, but his ability here to become someone else entirely is outstanding. Penn had help from the make-up and hair departments, but his whole character is transformed as well. Had I not known it was Penn, I don’t think I would have guessed. I’m not a Penn fan – most of his movies I’m simply not interested in – but here it would be accurate to say that he succeeded in that complete transformation of persona that is achieved by a rare few, most notably Daniel Day-Lewis (My Left Foot).
Penn is supported by a highly capable cast. Josh Brolin (No Country For Old Men) as Dan White finds a careful balance of a civil exterior with just enough edge to reveal that he’s subtly masking a disdain for Milk. Emile Hirsch (Into the Wild), James Franco (Spider-Man), Diego Luna (The Terminal), Alison Pill (Dan in Real Life), and Victor Garber (Titanic) join in as various associates, either politically or romantically or both. As an ensemble, they are well assembled.
The production team delivers quite an achievement in creating San Francisco of the 1970's. Often using the actual buildings where events happened, designer Bill Groom brings back all of the fashions and fabrics my generation ran from in a big hurry once we were old enough. I was only six when the 80's arrived, but the clothing and interior decorations of the film still had me cringing. (This is a compliment to the accurate recreation of the era’s style – I just don’t like the era’s style.)
All in all, the film as a work of art is of a fairly high quality. It is in the film’s motive and message that I have my sharpest disagreement.
As the film progresses, Milk increases his use of the word “hope”. He wants to give the gay community hope. He wants to give hope to young gays throughout the country feeling sidelined at best, ostracized and persecuted at worst. In the script his message of hope prevents one young man from committing suicide, and who knows how many others in real life.
But what hope could Milk really offer any of them? Nothing more than the American ideal of civil rights for the duration of their temporal existence. Milk’s own hope was sorely misplaced, and thus that message of hope sent out to the community was ultimately a very shallow one.
On the other side of the argument are people who only want to see homosexuals repressed. Anita Bryant, John Briggs (Denis O’Hare), and the straight portion of the Castro population are only interested in moralizing the country from the top down through restrictive laws. Dan White is willing to work with Milk when it advances the White agenda, but is tacitly uninterested in cooperating with Milk when it advances the Milk agenda.
Moralists should never be confused with biblical Christians. Moralists think that passing laws which reflect their morality is what makes a country good, even godly. If we can just cleanse all public life of any hint of homosexuality, God will smile upon us, they think.
Christians understand that this thinking is fruitless: Passing and enforcing laws does not make people godly; at best it only makes them act like it. We saw this in Iraq: When Saddam Hussein was deposed, barbershops were suddenly a booming industry, because an entire population of men were finally able to drop their fears about the government edict requiring beards and act in accordance with what they had been silently feeling at heart.
Like many of Hollywood’s modern pieces of propaganda, the film sets up a false either-or situation, where either we side with Milk’s message of hope, or we are accused of siding with the likes of Bryant, Briggs, and Company. But there is a third choice.
I do not advocate firing homosexuals, denying them housing, denying them jobs, denying them entry to businesses or running businesses of their own, relegating them to segregated portions of public or private establishments, and so on. Nor is the solution to shoot them, gas them, hang them, or any of history’s many other exercises of merciless cruelty – Such behavior is inexcusable and worthy of capital punishment itself. But neither can I endorse and encourage homosexuals to exercise their sinful desires. What I do believe is that their greatest need, as with every other person on the planet including myself, is to surrender to Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.
The Bible makes it clear that homosexuality is a symptom of an unredeemed soul; but unlike Fred Phelps and his “ministry” of damning homosexuals without any hope, the Bible reveals God’s offer of true hope to all mankind – a hope that makes the quest for temporal civil rights of any kind pale in comparison. For this one belief I have already been labeled a homophobe and a hater, despite the fact that I have nothing in common with actual bashers and haters, nor have any sense of phobia about homosexuals at all. I am simply one of the multitude of messengers bringing God’s true hope to all humanity.
For its cinematic quality, I give Milk high marks. But I cannot recommend the film as anything more than the sad portrait of the sad end of a man who had no true hope at all.
My Score: 7
Milk
2008 / 2 hrs., 9 min. / R
Director: Gus Van Sant
Anyone who knows me will not even get past this first sentence without wondering if I can review a film like Milk without revealing a preconceived bias. Do my biblical beliefs on homosexuality affect my appreciation of a film about Harvey Milk’s crusade to correct a civil and societal wrong perpetrated on the homosexual community? Of course; and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I have long gotten over the idea that a film critic should not let his bias show; it’s when he’s covert about it that his journalism lacks honesty. If even the loftiest Roger Ebert can drop a star off a film’s score because it doesn’t line up with his liberal, irreligious view of life (and he has), surely this armchair pundit can do the same for a film that does not line up with my conservative, Christian view. And I’ll be honest about it right up front.
I have learned from past public embarrassment not to take a bio-pic at face value. I reviewed Finding Neverland on the assumption that it was reasonably factual, and a college student who had written major theses on J.M. Barrie had to correct me in an online forum. Inevitably, those responsible for producing real-life stories bend the facts for various artistic reasons, not the least of which is to show generosity toward the characters they wish to promote. But as I know nothing of Harvey Milk, indeed had not even heard of him until Milk’s advertising campaign began, I’ll go with the flow on this one.
In that spirit of deliberate naivete, then, I learned that Harvey Milk (Sean Penn) was murdered in 1978 by a very desperate Dan White (Josh Brolin). Who were they and why this was significant is the course of the movie, told by Milk into a cassette recorder in the justified fear that someone might try to assassinate him.
The film traces Milk’s life from his arrival in San Francisco around his fortieth birthday to his death about eight years later. During that time, the Castro district of the city was becoming a mecca for homosexuals, and Milk began to envision a world where gays would not have to live in fear of police brutality, job termination, and other discriminatory practices.
Bolstering support from the like-minded community, Milk became a candidate for office in San Francisco. It was not until the fourth attempt that he was actually elected, in 1977. For the following year, Milk worked to persuade his fellow city supervisors to pass bills extending basic human rights to the homosexual community. As the climax of his career, he was the rallying voice that unified a majority of Californians to defeat Proposition 6, an initiative that would require public schools to fire homosexual teachers.
Along the way, Milk seemed briefly to make a positive acquaintance with fellow city supervisor White, though White was clearly never totally comfortable with Milk. Whether it was Milk’s homosexuality that drove White to shoot both him and Mayor Moscone (Victor Garber) or whether it was White’s frustration regarding his financial and employment situation (a situation much of his own doing) is not made clear; though Brolin’s performance throughout the film would suggest both factors worked together, with the mayor’s refusal to reinstate White on the board of supervisors as the last straw.
At this point I’ve seen three Gus Van Sant films, and Milk is perhaps the most engaging of the three. His Good Will Hunting was, for me, an exercise in tedium unsuccessfully disguised as an inspiring story about finding greatness in humble places. And To Die For was interesting in a quirky way, but nothing I’d spend time watching again. As a piece of cinema, Milk is more focused and better-paced than either of those. I have my usual complaint about hand-held camera work, seen most overtly when Milk is rallying crowds in impromptu speeches on the streets of Castro; and some shots where the characters are so unusually framed as to be distracting. Why put the characters so low in the frame that it looks like a mistake instead of an artistic choice? Assuming the project was a typical artistic collaboration, such decisions fall first on the head of cinematographer Harris Savides, but why Van Sant gave his approval has me befuddled.
The script by Dustin Lance Black is subtle, sometimes witty, and otherwise strong for the film’s purpose. Black and Van Sant also successfully integrate a good portion of actual media from Milk’s life, to the extent that people like Anita Bryant, a spearhead in the effort to pass Proposition 6 and similar bills across the country, appears only in archived news footage and yet manages to upstage Josh Brolin in her role as a self-righteous hyper-angelic menace against homosexual rights. Apparently she was the Fred Phelps of her generation.
Sean Penn (Mystic River) has come a long way from his Fast Times at Ridgemont High – at least as far as his acting ability is concerned; his public appearances still remind me of a hot-tempered high school rebel slacker. I cannot compare Penn’s performance to the real Harvey Milk for accuracy, but his ability here to become someone else entirely is outstanding. Penn had help from the make-up and hair departments, but his whole character is transformed as well. Had I not known it was Penn, I don’t think I would have guessed. I’m not a Penn fan – most of his movies I’m simply not interested in – but here it would be accurate to say that he succeeded in that complete transformation of persona that is achieved by a rare few, most notably Daniel Day-Lewis (My Left Foot).
Penn is supported by a highly capable cast. Josh Brolin (No Country For Old Men) as Dan White finds a careful balance of a civil exterior with just enough edge to reveal that he’s subtly masking a disdain for Milk. Emile Hirsch (Into the Wild), James Franco (Spider-Man), Diego Luna (The Terminal), Alison Pill (Dan in Real Life), and Victor Garber (Titanic) join in as various associates, either politically or romantically or both. As an ensemble, they are well assembled.
The production team delivers quite an achievement in creating San Francisco of the 1970's. Often using the actual buildings where events happened, designer Bill Groom brings back all of the fashions and fabrics my generation ran from in a big hurry once we were old enough. I was only six when the 80's arrived, but the clothing and interior decorations of the film still had me cringing. (This is a compliment to the accurate recreation of the era’s style – I just don’t like the era’s style.)
All in all, the film as a work of art is of a fairly high quality. It is in the film’s motive and message that I have my sharpest disagreement.
As the film progresses, Milk increases his use of the word “hope”. He wants to give the gay community hope. He wants to give hope to young gays throughout the country feeling sidelined at best, ostracized and persecuted at worst. In the script his message of hope prevents one young man from committing suicide, and who knows how many others in real life.
But what hope could Milk really offer any of them? Nothing more than the American ideal of civil rights for the duration of their temporal existence. Milk’s own hope was sorely misplaced, and thus that message of hope sent out to the community was ultimately a very shallow one.
On the other side of the argument are people who only want to see homosexuals repressed. Anita Bryant, John Briggs (Denis O’Hare), and the straight portion of the Castro population are only interested in moralizing the country from the top down through restrictive laws. Dan White is willing to work with Milk when it advances the White agenda, but is tacitly uninterested in cooperating with Milk when it advances the Milk agenda.
Moralists should never be confused with biblical Christians. Moralists think that passing laws which reflect their morality is what makes a country good, even godly. If we can just cleanse all public life of any hint of homosexuality, God will smile upon us, they think.
Christians understand that this thinking is fruitless: Passing and enforcing laws does not make people godly; at best it only makes them act like it. We saw this in Iraq: When Saddam Hussein was deposed, barbershops were suddenly a booming industry, because an entire population of men were finally able to drop their fears about the government edict requiring beards and act in accordance with what they had been silently feeling at heart.
Like many of Hollywood’s modern pieces of propaganda, the film sets up a false either-or situation, where either we side with Milk’s message of hope, or we are accused of siding with the likes of Bryant, Briggs, and Company. But there is a third choice.
I do not advocate firing homosexuals, denying them housing, denying them jobs, denying them entry to businesses or running businesses of their own, relegating them to segregated portions of public or private establishments, and so on. Nor is the solution to shoot them, gas them, hang them, or any of history’s many other exercises of merciless cruelty – Such behavior is inexcusable and worthy of capital punishment itself. But neither can I endorse and encourage homosexuals to exercise their sinful desires. What I do believe is that their greatest need, as with every other person on the planet including myself, is to surrender to Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.
The Bible makes it clear that homosexuality is a symptom of an unredeemed soul; but unlike Fred Phelps and his “ministry” of damning homosexuals without any hope, the Bible reveals God’s offer of true hope to all mankind – a hope that makes the quest for temporal civil rights of any kind pale in comparison. For this one belief I have already been labeled a homophobe and a hater, despite the fact that I have nothing in common with actual bashers and haters, nor have any sense of phobia about homosexuals at all. I am simply one of the multitude of messengers bringing God’s true hope to all humanity.
For its cinematic quality, I give Milk high marks. But I cannot recommend the film as anything more than the sad portrait of the sad end of a man who had no true hope at all.
My Score: 7
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Not Your Traditional Reporter
Movie Review:
The Adventures of Tintin
2011 / 1 hr., 47 min. / PG
Director: Steven Spielberg
Until 2011, I had never heard of Tintin. Even now I know very little except that my son discovered some Tintin books at the library that summer, that he loves reading them, and that this literary find randomly coincided with the news that a film version was on its way. Naturally, a father-and-son outing to the cinema was in order.
Tintin is the creation of French author Herge from back in the 1940's. An intrepid reporter with a shock of red hair, Tintin never has an easy assignment; like the Hardy Boys or Hercule Poirot, Tintin manages to end up in life-threatening adventures just by existing, it seems. The episodic series of books, packed full of mystery and action, therefore lent themselves quite well to another of Steven Spielberg’s grand-scale tributes to the Saturday matinee serials of yesteryear, plainly titled The Adventures of Tintin.
My son informs me that this one is based entirely on the book The Secret of the Unicorn, in which Tintin’s innocent purchase of a miniature sailing ship lands him in the middle of dark and sinister intrigue. Dark and sinister people desperately want a piece of parchment tucked in the model’s tiny mast, and Tintin is naturally not content with letting them have the ship and parchment – He did, after all, pay an entire British pound for it, at the 1940's value. Instead, he pursues the dark and sinister forces, ending up on a steamer bound for some place in the Middle East I have never heard of and cannot now recall.
Along the way, Tintin meets and rescues Captain Haddock, a drunken sod who has a penchant for alliterative expletives like “Blue blistering barnacles!” Together they delve into the mystery of why anyone would care about a model sailing ship and a cryptic scribble on a piece of parchment. Delving, in this case, involves getting lost on the open seas in a rowboat, flying a sea plane into a violent thunderstorm, dying of thirst in the desert, attending an opera, and driving through Arabian city streets on a motorcycle-and-sidecar in pursuit of a bird of prey. In that order.
In directing The Adventures of Tintin, Steven Spielberg returns to a bygone era where kids could run down to the local theater every Saturday and watch their favorite heroes take off on daring new escapades for a quarter. Each film spun off of the one from the week before, creating an episodic series (hence “serials”) of tales. The hero engaged in chases, fights, and high-stakes adventure in pursuit of dark and sinister villains, many of which escaped to antagonize the hero again next week. Spielberg first tipped his hat to this “golly-gee whiz-bang” age with Raiders of the Lost Ark and the ensuing episodes of Indiana Jones’ adventures, and I can only imagine that he fondly remembers being one of those kids plunking down a quarter, because he pulls it off again here quite well. Tintin may or may not become as iconic to American audiences as Indiana Jones, but the homage to Saturday matinees is unmistakable.
Unfortunately for my personal taste, Spielberg chose to present the film as computer animation instead of live action. I suppose the argument could be made that animation is in keeping with the spirit of the books, since they are in graphic form, but my inclination is toward real people and sets, especially for fantasies and adventures. The film employs the motion-capture method of animating, in which real actors perform each shot of the movie wearing special suits that allow a computer to record their movements. From there, computer artists create the characters and locations. While it is probably cost-effective for an adventure like this, saving money on everything from costumes to pyrotechnics, it simply does not draw me in. It is too animated to be real – individual frames do look deceptively photographic, but to this day computer-generated living beings still do not move like flesh-and-blood people on physical sets – and too real to be enjoyed as an animated film. I spent the entire screening being aware of the film, and that is precisely what a film-maker should avoid. When technique distracts from the story, the film is less than perfect.
This is also true with the excessive camera movement. Spielberg is occasionally guilty of succumbing to the “Because We Can” syndrome – don’t get me started on one particularly egotistical shot in his War of the Worlds – and The Adventures of Tintin is no exception. The hypothetical camera feels constantly on the go, swooping in and around and over and through, simply because it can. Throw in some ineffectively simulated “hand-held” motion, and I’m just about ready to vocalize my discontent right there in the theater.
But within the bounds of Spielberg’s personal choice of storytelling medium, I would have to say it was a very enjoyable experience. Spielberg’s senses of wonder, awe, mystery, suspense, and adventure remain keen – and he even gets to throw in his trademark beams of light shining in dark, dusty rooms. On only a couple of occasions does he slip and allow truly cartoonish moments of silliness to interfere; but what can you expect when the hero’s sidekick is a dog with enough cognitive and communicative prowess to make Lassie green with envy?
Tintin is “played” by Jamie Bell (Nicholas Nickleby), assisted by Andy Serkis, renowned for his very physical performances for other motion-capture roles like Gollum in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and Daniel Craig of recent James Bond fame. It is hard to critique anyone’s acting in a film like this, since their performances undergo computer manipulation; but the voice talents are decidedly appropriate, at least.
I cannot speak for how well the screenplay conveys the spirit of Herge’s story, but writers Steven Moffat, Edgar Wright, and Joe Cornish adhere closely enough that my son recognized which book he was seeing; and he sported a big grin on several occasions, particularly when Captain Haddock uttered another of his traditional epithets. He also instantly recognized the bumbling twin police detectives Thompson and Thomson, helpfully informing me of who they were. So as far as an adaptation goes, I guess they did a good job. As a script on its own terms, it is generally clever and consistent.
And I must comment with delight that John Williams is back. I haven’t heard anything truly interesting from him since his scoring for the Harry Potter series, and his recent work for Spielberg’s War Horse was pleasant but unmemorable. The rousing fun of Tintin’s quest allows Williams to rev up an energetic orchestra and really belt it out once again. There’s nothing specific to hum on your way out of the theater, like “The Raiders March”, but the music is in that same boisterous vein.
All told, I enjoyed my time with my son, and he enjoyed his time with Tintin. A few moments were spent cowering behind the row of seats in front of us – my son, not me – during some fairly intense chases and fights. But in general, for a harmless thrill ride through a good old mystery adventure, Tintin awaits you.
My Score: 8
The Adventures of Tintin
2011 / 1 hr., 47 min. / PG
Director: Steven Spielberg
Until 2011, I had never heard of Tintin. Even now I know very little except that my son discovered some Tintin books at the library that summer, that he loves reading them, and that this literary find randomly coincided with the news that a film version was on its way. Naturally, a father-and-son outing to the cinema was in order.
Tintin is the creation of French author Herge from back in the 1940's. An intrepid reporter with a shock of red hair, Tintin never has an easy assignment; like the Hardy Boys or Hercule Poirot, Tintin manages to end up in life-threatening adventures just by existing, it seems. The episodic series of books, packed full of mystery and action, therefore lent themselves quite well to another of Steven Spielberg’s grand-scale tributes to the Saturday matinee serials of yesteryear, plainly titled The Adventures of Tintin.
My son informs me that this one is based entirely on the book The Secret of the Unicorn, in which Tintin’s innocent purchase of a miniature sailing ship lands him in the middle of dark and sinister intrigue. Dark and sinister people desperately want a piece of parchment tucked in the model’s tiny mast, and Tintin is naturally not content with letting them have the ship and parchment – He did, after all, pay an entire British pound for it, at the 1940's value. Instead, he pursues the dark and sinister forces, ending up on a steamer bound for some place in the Middle East I have never heard of and cannot now recall.
Along the way, Tintin meets and rescues Captain Haddock, a drunken sod who has a penchant for alliterative expletives like “Blue blistering barnacles!” Together they delve into the mystery of why anyone would care about a model sailing ship and a cryptic scribble on a piece of parchment. Delving, in this case, involves getting lost on the open seas in a rowboat, flying a sea plane into a violent thunderstorm, dying of thirst in the desert, attending an opera, and driving through Arabian city streets on a motorcycle-and-sidecar in pursuit of a bird of prey. In that order.
In directing The Adventures of Tintin, Steven Spielberg returns to a bygone era where kids could run down to the local theater every Saturday and watch their favorite heroes take off on daring new escapades for a quarter. Each film spun off of the one from the week before, creating an episodic series (hence “serials”) of tales. The hero engaged in chases, fights, and high-stakes adventure in pursuit of dark and sinister villains, many of which escaped to antagonize the hero again next week. Spielberg first tipped his hat to this “golly-gee whiz-bang” age with Raiders of the Lost Ark and the ensuing episodes of Indiana Jones’ adventures, and I can only imagine that he fondly remembers being one of those kids plunking down a quarter, because he pulls it off again here quite well. Tintin may or may not become as iconic to American audiences as Indiana Jones, but the homage to Saturday matinees is unmistakable.
Unfortunately for my personal taste, Spielberg chose to present the film as computer animation instead of live action. I suppose the argument could be made that animation is in keeping with the spirit of the books, since they are in graphic form, but my inclination is toward real people and sets, especially for fantasies and adventures. The film employs the motion-capture method of animating, in which real actors perform each shot of the movie wearing special suits that allow a computer to record their movements. From there, computer artists create the characters and locations. While it is probably cost-effective for an adventure like this, saving money on everything from costumes to pyrotechnics, it simply does not draw me in. It is too animated to be real – individual frames do look deceptively photographic, but to this day computer-generated living beings still do not move like flesh-and-blood people on physical sets – and too real to be enjoyed as an animated film. I spent the entire screening being aware of the film, and that is precisely what a film-maker should avoid. When technique distracts from the story, the film is less than perfect.
This is also true with the excessive camera movement. Spielberg is occasionally guilty of succumbing to the “Because We Can” syndrome – don’t get me started on one particularly egotistical shot in his War of the Worlds – and The Adventures of Tintin is no exception. The hypothetical camera feels constantly on the go, swooping in and around and over and through, simply because it can. Throw in some ineffectively simulated “hand-held” motion, and I’m just about ready to vocalize my discontent right there in the theater.
But within the bounds of Spielberg’s personal choice of storytelling medium, I would have to say it was a very enjoyable experience. Spielberg’s senses of wonder, awe, mystery, suspense, and adventure remain keen – and he even gets to throw in his trademark beams of light shining in dark, dusty rooms. On only a couple of occasions does he slip and allow truly cartoonish moments of silliness to interfere; but what can you expect when the hero’s sidekick is a dog with enough cognitive and communicative prowess to make Lassie green with envy?
Tintin is “played” by Jamie Bell (Nicholas Nickleby), assisted by Andy Serkis, renowned for his very physical performances for other motion-capture roles like Gollum in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and Daniel Craig of recent James Bond fame. It is hard to critique anyone’s acting in a film like this, since their performances undergo computer manipulation; but the voice talents are decidedly appropriate, at least.
I cannot speak for how well the screenplay conveys the spirit of Herge’s story, but writers Steven Moffat, Edgar Wright, and Joe Cornish adhere closely enough that my son recognized which book he was seeing; and he sported a big grin on several occasions, particularly when Captain Haddock uttered another of his traditional epithets. He also instantly recognized the bumbling twin police detectives Thompson and Thomson, helpfully informing me of who they were. So as far as an adaptation goes, I guess they did a good job. As a script on its own terms, it is generally clever and consistent.
And I must comment with delight that John Williams is back. I haven’t heard anything truly interesting from him since his scoring for the Harry Potter series, and his recent work for Spielberg’s War Horse was pleasant but unmemorable. The rousing fun of Tintin’s quest allows Williams to rev up an energetic orchestra and really belt it out once again. There’s nothing specific to hum on your way out of the theater, like “The Raiders March”, but the music is in that same boisterous vein.
All told, I enjoyed my time with my son, and he enjoyed his time with Tintin. A few moments were spent cowering behind the row of seats in front of us – my son, not me – during some fairly intense chases and fights. But in general, for a harmless thrill ride through a good old mystery adventure, Tintin awaits you.
My Score: 8
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Practically Perfect
Movie Review:
Mary Poppins
1964 / 2 hrs., 20 min. / G
Director: Robert Stevenson
The “G” in the ratings system stands for “General Audiences,” as in a film that reaches the youngest children, the oldest adults, and everyone in between. Modern studios don’t seem to understand this – most of their “G” films really need a “K” for kids, since adults will typically find the product mind-numbing. Not so with Walt Disney. Mr. Disney was the Grand Master of true Family entertainment. He knew how to find and produce stories that truly reached all ages: Eye-catching visuals for the kids, humor and poignancy for the adults (something Pixar seems to have picked up on in the wake of the Disney corporation’s floundering after Walt’s death). While I enjoy practically every feature project created during Disney’s lifetime, I have found none that so exemplifies Family entertainment as Mary Poppins.
This is a film that everyone needs to see, first as a child, then as a teenager, then as a young adult, then as a parent – and as frequently as possible in between all of those stages – for it has something to offer at every stage of life, and its offerings get richer the older one gets. Of course, there is the likelihood that the modern cynical teenager will not have the patience for the film’s cutesy veneer, but it is his loss if he does not stick around and learn something about life.
George Banks (David Tomlinson) is aptly named, as he is a banker at a prestigious London bank in 1910. His wife (Glynis Johns) is a strange blend of Vigorous Suffragette and Submissive Housewife. His children, Jane (Karen Dotrice) and Michael (Matthew Garber), look up to him and want ever so much to love him – but George does not see it. Children are to be patted on the head and sent up to bed, educated by a nanny, and generally molded by their fathers and mothers into new fathers and mothers who will then do the same to the next generation. Such is the precision a British home requires.
When the previous nanny (Elsa Lanchester) quits in a huff, George advertises for a new one – but only after tearing up the advertisement his children wrote on their own. Children could not possibly know what is good for them. (Well, I agree on a limited basis, but not to the extreme George Banks believes.) In a fun interview scene, George meets the first and only applicant for the position of nanny, Mary Poppins (Julie Andrews).
The children quickly learn something is not quite ordinary about the new nanny. After all, she literally breezed in by coasting over London using an open umbrella as a sail. She does not deign to walk up the stairs to the nursery, but slides up the bannister instead. And not ten minutes into her new job, she is pulling impossibly large objects out of her carpet bag, cleaning up the nursery with a mere snap of her fingers, and talking to her reflection in the mirror. Yes, we’ve all done that, but who among us has a reflection that answers back with a mind of its own?
From there, Mary Poppins takes the children on an outing to the park, where they meet up with Bert (Dick Van Dyke), a jovial cockney bloke who employs himself with whatever comes to mind (including narrating the film at a few key moments). He is first seen as a one-man band, in the park he’s a chalk artist, and later he’s a chimney sweep. Together, the four of them enjoy an afternoon inside one of Bert’s chalk pictures, complete with animated singing animals.
But it is not my job to tell the whole story here. In short, the seemingly frothy and pointless adventures continue, quietly building to a purpose that leads to Jane’s and Michael’s running away from their father, whom they are sure is out to destroy them. “He’s bringing the army, the navy, and everything!” Michael claims.
And thus we come to the amazing beauty of the film. Yes, all of these adventures are fantastic tales for youngsters to watch. I laughed my pre-teen self silly at the sight of Jane and Michael magically cleaning the nursery, hopping into the chalk picture, and having a tea party on the ceiling with Uncle Albert (Ed Wynn). But it was not until my late teens, perhaps even early adulthood, when I realized what was really going on.
It happens in the scene where George decides to dismiss Mary Poppins. Lecturing her on the importance of raising the children with a certain mind set, Banks is prepared to let Poppins go because of her apparently frivolous methods. But before he knows what has happened, she has pegged his unloving short-sightedness dead on, and has done so in such a way that he has no clue his soul has just been laid bare.
From there, George’s world falls apart. His children inadvertently cause a run on the bank, bringing the terror of the bank’s executives down upon George. He is called to a late-night meeting where he will be sacked, and his walk to the bank in the middle of the night, through the empty London streets, is one of the most powerful moments of the film.
And then, he gets it. He finally gets it! In the midst of the chaos his life has become, the reality of what his life should have been all along strikes him. And isn’t that often the way? When we are rising to the top, our field of vision overlooks the objects of real beauty, joy, and love that surround us. It is not until we are toppled by one of life’s misfortunes that we take time to look around and see what is truly worthwhile to our existence.
But I should back up and do my duty as a reviewer. First, in dealing with the cast, Julie Andrews (The Sound of Music) plays Mary Poppins flawlessly. I mean that. I can’t find anything to quibble about. Apparently neither could the Motion Picture Academy, as Andrews was awarded Best Actress by her peers. Dick Van Dyke (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) appears to be having an unrestrained blast in his role as the everyman who guides the story along. Linguistic purists will cringe over his version of a cockney accent, but I don’t find it distracting. And watch for his other appearance as Mr. Dawes, Sr., the role he quite begged Disney to let him play.
David Tomlinson (The Love Bug) was Disney’s every-villain for a while, and while he’s not so much a “villain” here, he does a good job as the crusty father. Glynis Johns (While You Were Sleeping) is humorous as Mrs. Banks, one moment bravely asserting that women should get to vote, and the next repeating, “Yes, dear,” to her husband in meek acquiescence.
And then there are the two children, played by Matthew Garber and Karen Dotrice (The Gnome-Mobile). They are self-proclaimed adorable children, and I agree. Matthew is quite funny as Michael, especially when he is hopelessly frustrated by his inability to snap his fingers. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, these two joined the long list of Child Stars Who Failed to Make the Transition to Adult Stars, because aside from one or two other Disney features, they are almost completely unheard of after this film.
The script by Bill Walsh and Don Da Gradi did not win P.L. Travers’ approval, but it is lively, joyous, and in the hands of director Robert Stevenson (Bedknobs and Broomsticks) is told with great enthusiasm, wit, and fun. It also approaches its point with wonderful subtlety. Although there is an episodic nature to the little outings the nanny takes the children on, all of these things slowly and quietly build to the main point without ever stating it.
The songs are some of the most memorable ever written for a film. “Spoonful of Sugar,” the award-nominated “Chim Chim Cheree,” and the immortal “Supercalifragilistic” are among the gems of the music track. Websites that specialize in movie trivia inform me that Disney’s favorite song for the rest of his life was “Feed the Birds,” which I will agree is tender and haunting at the same time. The Sherman Brothers were brilliant in numerous films, and their compositions shine here.
The Disney company has always been a major innovator in new effects, and they are used here extensively. This is not to say the effects are perfect – the wires used to fly Andrews onto the Banks front porch are quite visible – but the sheer joy the film exudes tends to blur over the occasional flaw. Watching Dick Van Dyke dance with four animated penguins is a high point.
This is one of a handful of films I could discuss all day, and I feel like this review only begins to explore its depths. But I won’t do that; I will let you explore it for yourself from here on out. It is a treasure, assembled with care into one of the most touching films I’ve ever seen, with a beautiful life-affirming message about the joys of children, fatherhood, and family. See it often. With the whole family. It’s rated “G,” after all.
My Score: 9
Mary Poppins
1964 / 2 hrs., 20 min. / G
Director: Robert Stevenson
The “G” in the ratings system stands for “General Audiences,” as in a film that reaches the youngest children, the oldest adults, and everyone in between. Modern studios don’t seem to understand this – most of their “G” films really need a “K” for kids, since adults will typically find the product mind-numbing. Not so with Walt Disney. Mr. Disney was the Grand Master of true Family entertainment. He knew how to find and produce stories that truly reached all ages: Eye-catching visuals for the kids, humor and poignancy for the adults (something Pixar seems to have picked up on in the wake of the Disney corporation’s floundering after Walt’s death). While I enjoy practically every feature project created during Disney’s lifetime, I have found none that so exemplifies Family entertainment as Mary Poppins.
This is a film that everyone needs to see, first as a child, then as a teenager, then as a young adult, then as a parent – and as frequently as possible in between all of those stages – for it has something to offer at every stage of life, and its offerings get richer the older one gets. Of course, there is the likelihood that the modern cynical teenager will not have the patience for the film’s cutesy veneer, but it is his loss if he does not stick around and learn something about life.
George Banks (David Tomlinson) is aptly named, as he is a banker at a prestigious London bank in 1910. His wife (Glynis Johns) is a strange blend of Vigorous Suffragette and Submissive Housewife. His children, Jane (Karen Dotrice) and Michael (Matthew Garber), look up to him and want ever so much to love him – but George does not see it. Children are to be patted on the head and sent up to bed, educated by a nanny, and generally molded by their fathers and mothers into new fathers and mothers who will then do the same to the next generation. Such is the precision a British home requires.
When the previous nanny (Elsa Lanchester) quits in a huff, George advertises for a new one – but only after tearing up the advertisement his children wrote on their own. Children could not possibly know what is good for them. (Well, I agree on a limited basis, but not to the extreme George Banks believes.) In a fun interview scene, George meets the first and only applicant for the position of nanny, Mary Poppins (Julie Andrews).
The children quickly learn something is not quite ordinary about the new nanny. After all, she literally breezed in by coasting over London using an open umbrella as a sail. She does not deign to walk up the stairs to the nursery, but slides up the bannister instead. And not ten minutes into her new job, she is pulling impossibly large objects out of her carpet bag, cleaning up the nursery with a mere snap of her fingers, and talking to her reflection in the mirror. Yes, we’ve all done that, but who among us has a reflection that answers back with a mind of its own?
From there, Mary Poppins takes the children on an outing to the park, where they meet up with Bert (Dick Van Dyke), a jovial cockney bloke who employs himself with whatever comes to mind (including narrating the film at a few key moments). He is first seen as a one-man band, in the park he’s a chalk artist, and later he’s a chimney sweep. Together, the four of them enjoy an afternoon inside one of Bert’s chalk pictures, complete with animated singing animals.
But it is not my job to tell the whole story here. In short, the seemingly frothy and pointless adventures continue, quietly building to a purpose that leads to Jane’s and Michael’s running away from their father, whom they are sure is out to destroy them. “He’s bringing the army, the navy, and everything!” Michael claims.
And thus we come to the amazing beauty of the film. Yes, all of these adventures are fantastic tales for youngsters to watch. I laughed my pre-teen self silly at the sight of Jane and Michael magically cleaning the nursery, hopping into the chalk picture, and having a tea party on the ceiling with Uncle Albert (Ed Wynn). But it was not until my late teens, perhaps even early adulthood, when I realized what was really going on.
It happens in the scene where George decides to dismiss Mary Poppins. Lecturing her on the importance of raising the children with a certain mind set, Banks is prepared to let Poppins go because of her apparently frivolous methods. But before he knows what has happened, she has pegged his unloving short-sightedness dead on, and has done so in such a way that he has no clue his soul has just been laid bare.
From there, George’s world falls apart. His children inadvertently cause a run on the bank, bringing the terror of the bank’s executives down upon George. He is called to a late-night meeting where he will be sacked, and his walk to the bank in the middle of the night, through the empty London streets, is one of the most powerful moments of the film.
And then, he gets it. He finally gets it! In the midst of the chaos his life has become, the reality of what his life should have been all along strikes him. And isn’t that often the way? When we are rising to the top, our field of vision overlooks the objects of real beauty, joy, and love that surround us. It is not until we are toppled by one of life’s misfortunes that we take time to look around and see what is truly worthwhile to our existence.
But I should back up and do my duty as a reviewer. First, in dealing with the cast, Julie Andrews (The Sound of Music) plays Mary Poppins flawlessly. I mean that. I can’t find anything to quibble about. Apparently neither could the Motion Picture Academy, as Andrews was awarded Best Actress by her peers. Dick Van Dyke (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) appears to be having an unrestrained blast in his role as the everyman who guides the story along. Linguistic purists will cringe over his version of a cockney accent, but I don’t find it distracting. And watch for his other appearance as Mr. Dawes, Sr., the role he quite begged Disney to let him play.
David Tomlinson (The Love Bug) was Disney’s every-villain for a while, and while he’s not so much a “villain” here, he does a good job as the crusty father. Glynis Johns (While You Were Sleeping) is humorous as Mrs. Banks, one moment bravely asserting that women should get to vote, and the next repeating, “Yes, dear,” to her husband in meek acquiescence.
And then there are the two children, played by Matthew Garber and Karen Dotrice (The Gnome-Mobile). They are self-proclaimed adorable children, and I agree. Matthew is quite funny as Michael, especially when he is hopelessly frustrated by his inability to snap his fingers. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, these two joined the long list of Child Stars Who Failed to Make the Transition to Adult Stars, because aside from one or two other Disney features, they are almost completely unheard of after this film.
The script by Bill Walsh and Don Da Gradi did not win P.L. Travers’ approval, but it is lively, joyous, and in the hands of director Robert Stevenson (Bedknobs and Broomsticks) is told with great enthusiasm, wit, and fun. It also approaches its point with wonderful subtlety. Although there is an episodic nature to the little outings the nanny takes the children on, all of these things slowly and quietly build to the main point without ever stating it.
The songs are some of the most memorable ever written for a film. “Spoonful of Sugar,” the award-nominated “Chim Chim Cheree,” and the immortal “Supercalifragilistic” are among the gems of the music track. Websites that specialize in movie trivia inform me that Disney’s favorite song for the rest of his life was “Feed the Birds,” which I will agree is tender and haunting at the same time. The Sherman Brothers were brilliant in numerous films, and their compositions shine here.
The Disney company has always been a major innovator in new effects, and they are used here extensively. This is not to say the effects are perfect – the wires used to fly Andrews onto the Banks front porch are quite visible – but the sheer joy the film exudes tends to blur over the occasional flaw. Watching Dick Van Dyke dance with four animated penguins is a high point.
This is one of a handful of films I could discuss all day, and I feel like this review only begins to explore its depths. But I won’t do that; I will let you explore it for yourself from here on out. It is a treasure, assembled with care into one of the most touching films I’ve ever seen, with a beautiful life-affirming message about the joys of children, fatherhood, and family. See it often. With the whole family. It’s rated “G,” after all.
My Score: 9
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Blues Real Bad
Movie Review:
Ray
PG-13 / 2 hrs., 32 min. / 2004
I know precious little about Ray Charles. I am not a fan of his music, and I have only caught glimpses of his performance mannerisms in Pepsi Cola commercials. Now that I have seen Ray, I realize just how far-reaching his musical influence is. Call me naive, but I did not know he was the figure behind “Georgia On My Mind” and “Hit the Road, Jack,” and half a dozen other songs I’ve hummed in my lifetime.
Taylor Hackford’s Ray begins chronicling the life of Ray Charles as he leaves his native Florida in his early 20's and heads to Seattle for his first legitimate employment. Surrounded by sleazebags and conniving managers, Ray starts learning to stand up for himself and make his own way in the music world. His loss of sight only increases his other senses, enabling Ray to know when his employer is skimping on his cut of the pay, or when nightclub owners are attempting to rip him off. He uses his wits and brainpower instead of muscle to fight off the crooked bosses and studio honchos who try to steer him according to their plans. And he gains so much leverage in his quest that he can even demand an unprecedented clause in his contract: Personal ownership of his master recordings. Let it be said that my knowledge of the legendary figure has been enlightened.
And I have also been depressed and disturbed. Ray Charles apparently led a life of extensive drug use, marital infidelity, and the usual fame-induced attitude problems. Although the DVD case describes the film as “Ray’s inspirational journey; a tale of hope [and] redemption,” there is not a great deal of inspirational material in the film. The part about hope and redemption doesn’t even rear its head until the end credits are ready to roll. In the end, I think I would have preferred not knowing everything I now know about Ray. (And for those who would prefer not knowing any more about the film before seeing it, be aware that from here on out there may be some mild “spoiler” material.)
The problem with the movie’s entertainment value is in its choice of focus. The film spans a fair amount of time, but it is precisely that time in Ray’s life when things go from dark to darker. His drug addiction and his womanizing that nearly shatter his family tend to dominate the storytelling. (I can’t help thinking that his wife should have seen it coming, since she was sleeping with him before they were married, a ready indicator that he was not bringing a lot of high moral scruples into the union.) When the film does focus on Ray’s musical career, we are subjected to his increasingly egocentric behavior.
It doesn’t help that the flashbacks, designed to give us insight into why Ray is so driven, reveal a tragic and depressing childhood. Certainly this history to his personality is necessary, but combined with the weight of Ray’s present-day problems, we are really burdened down and pressed hard to squeeze some positive enjoyment out of the whole experience.
When I leave a theater, I generally like to feel better than when I went in. Ray fails here, as the entire film is 150 minutes of Ray’s long slow downfall into a pit of despair. Certainly there are the musical successes and the amazing celebrity status that this little boy from the South achieves, but these are not so much bright spots in the film as they are opportunities for Ray to sink even lower.
The film ends as Ray checks into a rehab clinic. A confrontation with his wife has enabled him to see what the drugs and the fame have done to him, and so he goes in for treatment. In other words, the film ends just when the advertised hope and redemption are finally entering Ray’s life; and all of his shining future is relegated to three or four screen captions just before the end credits, leaving us no chance to rebound with him and cheer him on. How much more rewarding to have taken the content of this film and assigned it to the first two-thirds of a movie that spends the last third rejoicing in Ray’s comeback.
Two things keep this film from becoming one of the most dreary sob stories ever made: Jamie Foxx’s performance, and the regular inclusion of Ray Charles’ upbeat musical numbers.
Jamie Foxx (Collateral) is outstanding as Ray. He has the manic sways and swings of the performer, the broad smile, and the speech patterns down so well, I did not recognize him as Foxx until a scene in which he takes off his glasses to “look” at his mother. I cannot compare him with the other four performances he was up against at his respective Academy Awards, but his victory as Best Leading Male was certainly reasonable at the very least. Quite a surprise from a man who started on In Living Color and appeared in such forgettable trash as Booty Call and Breakin’ All the Rules.
Foxx is backed up by a wonderful set of supporting performers, including Kerry Washington (Against the Ropes), Clifton Powell (Rush Hour), Harry Lennix (Get on the Bus), and Regina King (Jerry Maguire), among many others – and just when I think I’ve seen the last of Warwick Davis (Willow), he pops up again; this time he’s the announcer at Ray’s first Seattle gig.
The music of Ray Charles is peppered throughout the movie, as we would expect it to be, and fans will no doubt find themselves humming along. He apparently had quite the musical range and energy, and his fan base swelled so immensely that there’s a good chance “Elvis Lives” will soon be replaced by something else entirely. (That’s just a guess; I’m not an Elvis fan either.)
Taylor Hackford (Dolores Claiborne) has a sense of direction that is as energetic as Charles’ music. He keeps things moving right along. Sometimes too fast, even. The opening half hour of the film seems too eager to skip to “the good parts,” and feels choppy in its rush to get there. This is a minor complaint compared to the wonderful job Hackford does overall. We are convincingly and expertly swept into Ray’s world – but unlike Ray, we get to see it in all its sequined and neon glory.
I was not around during the times covered in the film, but everything feels right. From the hot, sweaty plantation in Florida to the grimy nightclub in Seattle and all across the country, the people look real, their costumes are right, the sets feel authentic. It is actually harder to work Production Design on a film that takes place just a generation ago than it is to redesign long-extinct civilizations – Stephen Altman and all the artists under him have done a wonderful job re-creating the American 1940's through 1960's.
It is entirely appropriate that since Ray Charles was a recording artist, it is his actual recordings that dominate the soundtrack. The only drawback is that Jamie Foxx’s speaking voice and Ray Charles’ singing voice are just dissimilar enough that the first time we hear one of Ray’s songs dubbed over Foxx lip-synching, it is a distracting change. Charles’ voice was slightly deeper and mellower than Foxx’s, judging from the recordings used, so the change in timbre from Foxx to Charles provides a slight jolt. A few of the songs do appear to be coming from Foxx’s vocal tone, and the end credits indicate that he did contribute singing talent to the soundtrack. Perhaps he should have contributed more, I don’t know.
Well, ultimately, I want to enjoy this film more than I actually did. The music is enjoyable. Foxx is wonderful. There is a zest in the storytelling. But I cannot shake the depressing tone of the film. Where most movies would consider Charles’ experiences in rehab to be the low point from which to spring into the third act, Hackford and writer James L. White let the curtain fall when the chips are down. And I am left with no desire to pick the chips up.
My Score: 7
Ray
PG-13 / 2 hrs., 32 min. / 2004
I know precious little about Ray Charles. I am not a fan of his music, and I have only caught glimpses of his performance mannerisms in Pepsi Cola commercials. Now that I have seen Ray, I realize just how far-reaching his musical influence is. Call me naive, but I did not know he was the figure behind “Georgia On My Mind” and “Hit the Road, Jack,” and half a dozen other songs I’ve hummed in my lifetime.
Taylor Hackford’s Ray begins chronicling the life of Ray Charles as he leaves his native Florida in his early 20's and heads to Seattle for his first legitimate employment. Surrounded by sleazebags and conniving managers, Ray starts learning to stand up for himself and make his own way in the music world. His loss of sight only increases his other senses, enabling Ray to know when his employer is skimping on his cut of the pay, or when nightclub owners are attempting to rip him off. He uses his wits and brainpower instead of muscle to fight off the crooked bosses and studio honchos who try to steer him according to their plans. And he gains so much leverage in his quest that he can even demand an unprecedented clause in his contract: Personal ownership of his master recordings. Let it be said that my knowledge of the legendary figure has been enlightened.
And I have also been depressed and disturbed. Ray Charles apparently led a life of extensive drug use, marital infidelity, and the usual fame-induced attitude problems. Although the DVD case describes the film as “Ray’s inspirational journey; a tale of hope [and] redemption,” there is not a great deal of inspirational material in the film. The part about hope and redemption doesn’t even rear its head until the end credits are ready to roll. In the end, I think I would have preferred not knowing everything I now know about Ray. (And for those who would prefer not knowing any more about the film before seeing it, be aware that from here on out there may be some mild “spoiler” material.)
The problem with the movie’s entertainment value is in its choice of focus. The film spans a fair amount of time, but it is precisely that time in Ray’s life when things go from dark to darker. His drug addiction and his womanizing that nearly shatter his family tend to dominate the storytelling. (I can’t help thinking that his wife should have seen it coming, since she was sleeping with him before they were married, a ready indicator that he was not bringing a lot of high moral scruples into the union.) When the film does focus on Ray’s musical career, we are subjected to his increasingly egocentric behavior.
It doesn’t help that the flashbacks, designed to give us insight into why Ray is so driven, reveal a tragic and depressing childhood. Certainly this history to his personality is necessary, but combined with the weight of Ray’s present-day problems, we are really burdened down and pressed hard to squeeze some positive enjoyment out of the whole experience.
When I leave a theater, I generally like to feel better than when I went in. Ray fails here, as the entire film is 150 minutes of Ray’s long slow downfall into a pit of despair. Certainly there are the musical successes and the amazing celebrity status that this little boy from the South achieves, but these are not so much bright spots in the film as they are opportunities for Ray to sink even lower.
The film ends as Ray checks into a rehab clinic. A confrontation with his wife has enabled him to see what the drugs and the fame have done to him, and so he goes in for treatment. In other words, the film ends just when the advertised hope and redemption are finally entering Ray’s life; and all of his shining future is relegated to three or four screen captions just before the end credits, leaving us no chance to rebound with him and cheer him on. How much more rewarding to have taken the content of this film and assigned it to the first two-thirds of a movie that spends the last third rejoicing in Ray’s comeback.
Two things keep this film from becoming one of the most dreary sob stories ever made: Jamie Foxx’s performance, and the regular inclusion of Ray Charles’ upbeat musical numbers.
Jamie Foxx (Collateral) is outstanding as Ray. He has the manic sways and swings of the performer, the broad smile, and the speech patterns down so well, I did not recognize him as Foxx until a scene in which he takes off his glasses to “look” at his mother. I cannot compare him with the other four performances he was up against at his respective Academy Awards, but his victory as Best Leading Male was certainly reasonable at the very least. Quite a surprise from a man who started on In Living Color and appeared in such forgettable trash as Booty Call and Breakin’ All the Rules.
Foxx is backed up by a wonderful set of supporting performers, including Kerry Washington (Against the Ropes), Clifton Powell (Rush Hour), Harry Lennix (Get on the Bus), and Regina King (Jerry Maguire), among many others – and just when I think I’ve seen the last of Warwick Davis (Willow), he pops up again; this time he’s the announcer at Ray’s first Seattle gig.
The music of Ray Charles is peppered throughout the movie, as we would expect it to be, and fans will no doubt find themselves humming along. He apparently had quite the musical range and energy, and his fan base swelled so immensely that there’s a good chance “Elvis Lives” will soon be replaced by something else entirely. (That’s just a guess; I’m not an Elvis fan either.)
Taylor Hackford (Dolores Claiborne) has a sense of direction that is as energetic as Charles’ music. He keeps things moving right along. Sometimes too fast, even. The opening half hour of the film seems too eager to skip to “the good parts,” and feels choppy in its rush to get there. This is a minor complaint compared to the wonderful job Hackford does overall. We are convincingly and expertly swept into Ray’s world – but unlike Ray, we get to see it in all its sequined and neon glory.
I was not around during the times covered in the film, but everything feels right. From the hot, sweaty plantation in Florida to the grimy nightclub in Seattle and all across the country, the people look real, their costumes are right, the sets feel authentic. It is actually harder to work Production Design on a film that takes place just a generation ago than it is to redesign long-extinct civilizations – Stephen Altman and all the artists under him have done a wonderful job re-creating the American 1940's through 1960's.
It is entirely appropriate that since Ray Charles was a recording artist, it is his actual recordings that dominate the soundtrack. The only drawback is that Jamie Foxx’s speaking voice and Ray Charles’ singing voice are just dissimilar enough that the first time we hear one of Ray’s songs dubbed over Foxx lip-synching, it is a distracting change. Charles’ voice was slightly deeper and mellower than Foxx’s, judging from the recordings used, so the change in timbre from Foxx to Charles provides a slight jolt. A few of the songs do appear to be coming from Foxx’s vocal tone, and the end credits indicate that he did contribute singing talent to the soundtrack. Perhaps he should have contributed more, I don’t know.
Well, ultimately, I want to enjoy this film more than I actually did. The music is enjoyable. Foxx is wonderful. There is a zest in the storytelling. But I cannot shake the depressing tone of the film. Where most movies would consider Charles’ experiences in rehab to be the low point from which to spring into the third act, Hackford and writer James L. White let the curtain fall when the chips are down. And I am left with no desire to pick the chips up.
My Score: 7
Friday, July 9, 2010
Hopelessness as Art
Movie Review:
Synecdoche, New York
R / 2 hrs., 4 min. / 2008
A synecdoche is a literary device in which an emblematic object is used to succinctly express a reality. When the order is for “all hands on deck,” the captain of the ship certainly expects more than just hands on the deck; he intends for fully-intact sailors to report. The word “hand”, then, is a synecdoche, emblematic for the sailor’s entire being. Until I reminded myself of that nugget of trivia picked up in college, I was at a loss to explain the title of Charlie Kaufman’s latest script and first directing effort, since the fictional Synecdoche, New York takes place in the very real Schenectady.
There is an air of despondency around Caden Cotard. His alarm clock wakes him up with a radio interview of a poet who thrives on verses about Autumn and its death-like symbolism. Every morning he turns to the obituaries in the newspaper. He regularly visits medical specialists who advise him to see other medical specialists. And he is wrapping up rehearsals of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, set to open soon.
It doesn’t help that box office manager Hazel has a crush on Caden, or that his wife Adele confesses in marital counseling to fantasizing about Caden’s death, or that the set for the play falls down shortly before Opening Night, or that Adele clearly shares no enthusiasm for her husband’s work anyway. Indeed, Adele is too busy preparing her display of paintings for an art show in Berlin to be much good as a wife to Caden at all.
When Adele departs for Berlin with their daughter Olive and the trip abroad begins to extend itself indefinitely, Caden finally realizes that he has been left, abandoned. As a director of performing arts, he decides to explore his feelings by staging a play; a play designed to be real, not full of pre-scripted phony emotions but raw and true to life’s pains. To accomplish this realism, Caden stages the play in a vast warehouse, where the set is a life-size replica of several city blocks.
Here in Caden’s personal synecdoche, he hires actors to play people he knows, including someone to play himself. His set includes a scale model of the warehouse they are performing in, and within the warehouse set is yet another warehouse set. Over a rehearsal schedule lasting several years, Caden’s real life and his theatrical life blur until the difference between what is true and what is theater become indiscernible.
Charlie Kaufman is certainly one of the most original screenwriters in modern cinema. He enjoys taking topics that other writers would treat mundanely and bending them, exploring issues like love and self-image in surreal ways. From the comparatively prosaic Adaptation to the bizarre fantasy of Being John Malkovich, Kaufman gives us a memorable and distinctive take on reality.
In Synecdoche, New York, he goes one step further, making it hard to peg reality at all. The first fifteen minutes take place in September, October, December, January, and March despite the immediate continuity of the events involved. The morning cartoons all seem to be about disease and death; and an animated Caden even appears on the television screen. After Adele leaves him, Caden thumbs through a magazine in a waiting room, only to find an interview about her inside. Caden discovers his daughter’s diary under her pillow, and the entries keep updating themselves over the years even though she has never been home to write more. A woman buys a house that is perpetually on fire. Another woman dies in a hospital, and her tattoos die with her. It is as if Caden is wide awake but dreaming at the same time, which is pure Kaufman.
Kaufman is also very thorough. As I sat watching the film for the second time (which is almost required if you’re going to review it intelligently), I was impressed with the way everything relates to Kaufman’s topic. Issues surrounding death, disease, or loneliness infect every scene. Dialogue that seems trivial on the first viewing turns out to be critical to the themes once you hear it again with awareness. And it is no mistake that Caden’s last name, Cotard, is a reference to a mental disorder in which a person believes he is already dead and no longer exists. Kaufman is a man clearly alert to the smallest of details, impressively so.
As Caden, Philip Seymour Hoffman more than capably plays a weary, downcast soul whose every attempt at finding joy and purpose is frustrated. At least three different women enter his life, and he always seems to want the one he has least access to at any given moment. He sends gifts to Olive in Berlin but never receives any reply. He struggles to produce the theatrical monument to realism for years, with each new artistic epiphany fading into confusion until the next one arrives, causing him to repeat throughout the film: “I know how I want to do the play now.” Hoffman makes Caden carry all that weight so effectively that I had a hard time making myself sit and finish the film – the melancholy and despondency are so heavy that reaching the end credits is labor, not fun.
Hoffman is surrounded by Kaufman favorites and seasoned veterans like Catherine Keener as Adele, who has relatively little screen time but uses it well. Though Adele’s words may blame Caden for the dysfunctional marriage, Keener’s tone and delivery render Adele as self-absorbed as Caden. Samantha Morton plays Hazel and successfully takes her character from the smitten young box office manager to Caden’s dedicated life-long assistant director with apparent ease. Every performance, right on down to Dianne Wiest’s appearance which is practically a cameo, is delivered with strength and believability. Or at least the sort of believability a Kaufman landscape can provide.
The script is a production designer’s nightmare, which is why its successful execution is so astounding. Script supervisor Mary Cybulski made elaborate master charts to keep track of which warehouse set each scene takes place within, and her work paid off. The film moves seamlessly from the real Schenectady to Caden’s set of Schenectady, to the set within the set, and on through the layers endlessly. The special effects to further enhance all of this blend in so well I could not tell I was looking at special effects, which should naturally be the goal of every special effects artist.
All in all, Kaufman and his entire company pulled it off with a very understated panache. What is unfortunate is that so much talent was wasted presenting an empty and useless viewpoint. Kaufman’s nihilism states itself overtly in two monologues in the film’s second half. One character talks about life’s being nothing more than waiting, and waiting in vain for something that will offer hope. Another character tells Caden, “You have struggled into existence and are now slipping silently out of it. This is everyone’s experience.” Jon Brion’s music underscores all of this with compositions that at best contain a wistful grasping at hope, but more often drag us down too effectively into Caden’s barren wasteland of existence.
To say I do not subscribe to Kaufman’s message is putting it nicely. Kaufman’s thinking is apparently void of any knowledge of real joy, real happiness, real love. He knows nothing of God, eternity, hope. Through one of his characters, Kaufman sums up life as a brief and pointless existence in which nobody cares about anybody else, in which any sense of satisfaction whatsoever is only attained when we are able to say with conviction: “F*** everybody.”
I’ve never understood why nihilists bother disseminating their message at all, let alone spending millions to preach it in cinematic form. If nihilism is true, then there’s no escape from it and thus no point in “helping” everyone realize this. It’s like having a cell mate who wakes up every morning and reminds you that you’re serving a life sentence in an inescapable prison. What is a person supposed to do with that knowledge? Likewise, what am I supposed to take home from the movie? If the film had suggested for a moment that because life is short I should let loose and live it up, I could at least follow the logical flow of thought even while still disagreeing. But Kaufman suggests that because life is short and painful, there’s nothing to do but sit around and mope about it until no one wants to be around you anymore. And maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get in some sex along the way.
Synecdoche, New York demonstrates once again that Charlie Kaufman is a clever and savvy writer. It also demonstrates that he is a talented director. And it also reveals that he is a blind, misguided, and ignorant philosopher.
My Score: 6
Synecdoche, New York
R / 2 hrs., 4 min. / 2008
A synecdoche is a literary device in which an emblematic object is used to succinctly express a reality. When the order is for “all hands on deck,” the captain of the ship certainly expects more than just hands on the deck; he intends for fully-intact sailors to report. The word “hand”, then, is a synecdoche, emblematic for the sailor’s entire being. Until I reminded myself of that nugget of trivia picked up in college, I was at a loss to explain the title of Charlie Kaufman’s latest script and first directing effort, since the fictional Synecdoche, New York takes place in the very real Schenectady.
There is an air of despondency around Caden Cotard. His alarm clock wakes him up with a radio interview of a poet who thrives on verses about Autumn and its death-like symbolism. Every morning he turns to the obituaries in the newspaper. He regularly visits medical specialists who advise him to see other medical specialists. And he is wrapping up rehearsals of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, set to open soon.
It doesn’t help that box office manager Hazel has a crush on Caden, or that his wife Adele confesses in marital counseling to fantasizing about Caden’s death, or that the set for the play falls down shortly before Opening Night, or that Adele clearly shares no enthusiasm for her husband’s work anyway. Indeed, Adele is too busy preparing her display of paintings for an art show in Berlin to be much good as a wife to Caden at all.
When Adele departs for Berlin with their daughter Olive and the trip abroad begins to extend itself indefinitely, Caden finally realizes that he has been left, abandoned. As a director of performing arts, he decides to explore his feelings by staging a play; a play designed to be real, not full of pre-scripted phony emotions but raw and true to life’s pains. To accomplish this realism, Caden stages the play in a vast warehouse, where the set is a life-size replica of several city blocks.
Here in Caden’s personal synecdoche, he hires actors to play people he knows, including someone to play himself. His set includes a scale model of the warehouse they are performing in, and within the warehouse set is yet another warehouse set. Over a rehearsal schedule lasting several years, Caden’s real life and his theatrical life blur until the difference between what is true and what is theater become indiscernible.
Charlie Kaufman is certainly one of the most original screenwriters in modern cinema. He enjoys taking topics that other writers would treat mundanely and bending them, exploring issues like love and self-image in surreal ways. From the comparatively prosaic Adaptation to the bizarre fantasy of Being John Malkovich, Kaufman gives us a memorable and distinctive take on reality.
In Synecdoche, New York, he goes one step further, making it hard to peg reality at all. The first fifteen minutes take place in September, October, December, January, and March despite the immediate continuity of the events involved. The morning cartoons all seem to be about disease and death; and an animated Caden even appears on the television screen. After Adele leaves him, Caden thumbs through a magazine in a waiting room, only to find an interview about her inside. Caden discovers his daughter’s diary under her pillow, and the entries keep updating themselves over the years even though she has never been home to write more. A woman buys a house that is perpetually on fire. Another woman dies in a hospital, and her tattoos die with her. It is as if Caden is wide awake but dreaming at the same time, which is pure Kaufman.
Kaufman is also very thorough. As I sat watching the film for the second time (which is almost required if you’re going to review it intelligently), I was impressed with the way everything relates to Kaufman’s topic. Issues surrounding death, disease, or loneliness infect every scene. Dialogue that seems trivial on the first viewing turns out to be critical to the themes once you hear it again with awareness. And it is no mistake that Caden’s last name, Cotard, is a reference to a mental disorder in which a person believes he is already dead and no longer exists. Kaufman is a man clearly alert to the smallest of details, impressively so.
As Caden, Philip Seymour Hoffman more than capably plays a weary, downcast soul whose every attempt at finding joy and purpose is frustrated. At least three different women enter his life, and he always seems to want the one he has least access to at any given moment. He sends gifts to Olive in Berlin but never receives any reply. He struggles to produce the theatrical monument to realism for years, with each new artistic epiphany fading into confusion until the next one arrives, causing him to repeat throughout the film: “I know how I want to do the play now.” Hoffman makes Caden carry all that weight so effectively that I had a hard time making myself sit and finish the film – the melancholy and despondency are so heavy that reaching the end credits is labor, not fun.
Hoffman is surrounded by Kaufman favorites and seasoned veterans like Catherine Keener as Adele, who has relatively little screen time but uses it well. Though Adele’s words may blame Caden for the dysfunctional marriage, Keener’s tone and delivery render Adele as self-absorbed as Caden. Samantha Morton plays Hazel and successfully takes her character from the smitten young box office manager to Caden’s dedicated life-long assistant director with apparent ease. Every performance, right on down to Dianne Wiest’s appearance which is practically a cameo, is delivered with strength and believability. Or at least the sort of believability a Kaufman landscape can provide.
The script is a production designer’s nightmare, which is why its successful execution is so astounding. Script supervisor Mary Cybulski made elaborate master charts to keep track of which warehouse set each scene takes place within, and her work paid off. The film moves seamlessly from the real Schenectady to Caden’s set of Schenectady, to the set within the set, and on through the layers endlessly. The special effects to further enhance all of this blend in so well I could not tell I was looking at special effects, which should naturally be the goal of every special effects artist.
All in all, Kaufman and his entire company pulled it off with a very understated panache. What is unfortunate is that so much talent was wasted presenting an empty and useless viewpoint. Kaufman’s nihilism states itself overtly in two monologues in the film’s second half. One character talks about life’s being nothing more than waiting, and waiting in vain for something that will offer hope. Another character tells Caden, “You have struggled into existence and are now slipping silently out of it. This is everyone’s experience.” Jon Brion’s music underscores all of this with compositions that at best contain a wistful grasping at hope, but more often drag us down too effectively into Caden’s barren wasteland of existence.
To say I do not subscribe to Kaufman’s message is putting it nicely. Kaufman’s thinking is apparently void of any knowledge of real joy, real happiness, real love. He knows nothing of God, eternity, hope. Through one of his characters, Kaufman sums up life as a brief and pointless existence in which nobody cares about anybody else, in which any sense of satisfaction whatsoever is only attained when we are able to say with conviction: “F*** everybody.”
I’ve never understood why nihilists bother disseminating their message at all, let alone spending millions to preach it in cinematic form. If nihilism is true, then there’s no escape from it and thus no point in “helping” everyone realize this. It’s like having a cell mate who wakes up every morning and reminds you that you’re serving a life sentence in an inescapable prison. What is a person supposed to do with that knowledge? Likewise, what am I supposed to take home from the movie? If the film had suggested for a moment that because life is short I should let loose and live it up, I could at least follow the logical flow of thought even while still disagreeing. But Kaufman suggests that because life is short and painful, there’s nothing to do but sit around and mope about it until no one wants to be around you anymore. And maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get in some sex along the way.
Synecdoche, New York demonstrates once again that Charlie Kaufman is a clever and savvy writer. It also demonstrates that he is a talented director. And it also reveals that he is a blind, misguided, and ignorant philosopher.
My Score: 6
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Ultimate Senseless Violence
Movie Review:
Wanted
R / 1 hr., 50 min. / 2008
Given the stories we hear of ordinary people who “were such nice neighbors” suddenly snapping and becoming raving killers, I’m not sure Wanted is the best entertainment to thrust upon American culture. In this film based on the comic books by Mark Miller and J.G. Jones, insignificant office marshmallow Wesley Gibson (James McAvoy) goes about his perfectly spineless day when he suddenly learns that his father, whom he has not seen since he was seven days old, was not only the world’s greatest assassin, but has also been shot and killed by another assassin who now has Gibson in his cross-hairs as well.
On the run for his life with the help of a mysterious woman (Angelina Jolie), Gibson is invited to join the organization of assassins that his father was, until recently, a leading member of: The Fraternity. This gathering of professional killers was founded a thousand years ago by a group of weavers who took it upon themselves to rid the world of those evil elements that were responsible for corruption, crime, and chaos. Unfortunately, one of its contemporary members has gone rogue and is knocking off Fraternity personnel one by one.
Fraternity leader Sloan (Morgan Freeman) impresses upon Gibson the importance of avenging his father’s death, and Gibson embarks on a training regime to learn the art of assassination. This includes getting his weak mind getting beat out of him, learning about knife-fighting via direct assault, and mastering the art of bending the trajectory of bullets by simply thinking about it. And then he has to practice a few assassinations on seemingly innocuous targets. Finally the big day arrives and Gibson the Fraternity graduate heads off to blast the snot out of the renegade member who has been stalking him. Let that be a lesson to you, the next time you pick on the insignificant marshmallow in your workplace.
Well, frankly, if there was ever a movie that had no more purpose than to satiate the bloodthirsty fans of gratuitous and explicit violence, Wanted is it – though anything by Quentin Tarantino comes in a close second. There is no ennobling tale among the gore, like Gladiator. There is no attempt at political and social discussion or pro-humanist anti-theist philosophy, like Watchmen. There is simply violence. Fist fights and bloody noses, knife wounds, uprooted teeth, the spray of cranial fluids, and bullets exiting foreheads in slow motion are among the charming images of what amounts to a total waste of time.
I will agree with my wife and say that were it not for the disgusting level of violence in the film, the story itself would be somewhat entertaining. Written for the screen by Michael Brandt, Derek Haas, and Chris Morgan, and directed with rock star sensibilities by Timur Bekmambetov, the adventure that Gibson finds himself in is decently intriguing. Khazakstani director Bekmambetov plays this action movie for all the stylization and visual wit he can muster, which is quite a lot.
I think what I find most interesting about the film is my own reaction to its cinematic style. While I am not a fan of film techniques like ramping, bullet time, and ultra-cool leather-clad marksmen with groovy weapons, I found this film’s take on the “grunge” cinema to be actually rather interesting. Maybe it has something to do with that very American style being run through a Khazak’s cultural interpretation and coming out as something different in some subtle way. As I know I will not be able to put my finger on it, I won’t babble on in an attempt to sound intelligent. In short, while other “grunge”-style films have left me wishing in the worst way that they would end quickly, Wanted did not induce such repulsion in me.
James McAvoy (Atonement) is fitting as Gibson, a young man who has already surrendered any interest in conquering life. No attempt is made to make him stunningly sexy as he becomes an assassin: He continues to look like an ordinary guy. And he has a beautiful dry tone for the lifeless narrations that open the film.
Supporting McAvoy are veterans Morgan Freeman (Batman Begins) and Angelina Jolie (Mr. and Mrs. Smith), who are pretty much typecast following years of playing the rich-voiced black mentor and the svelte sex symbol, respectively. These two have played these roles so often I doubt there was any challenge to it. Nor did I sense they went hunting for any new challenge either; their performances seemed almost phoned in with a yawn.
While there is not much to say about the film’s production design, I did like the room in which a giant loom has been weaving fabric for a thousand years. Its purpose I will not divulge, but in terms of the art direction, this set struck me as the one memorable location in the film.
Oh, and I suppose I should mention the reason I bothered renting an R-rated action film at all, which is not my usual style. The music was by Danny Elfman, which is definitely my usual style. For the most part, this is Elfman phoning in his work as well, but he does treat his fans to his voice again as he writes and sings the featured song in the end credits. Not bad work, but I’m not desperately adding the soundtrack to my wish list.
Ultimately, I’d say skip it. The story is pointless, and the violence and gore really would not be healthy images to be stuffing into your brain. There really is no good reason to spend two hours watching this one, as indeed I wish I hadn’t. Just being brutally honest.
My Score: 6
Wanted
R / 1 hr., 50 min. / 2008
Given the stories we hear of ordinary people who “were such nice neighbors” suddenly snapping and becoming raving killers, I’m not sure Wanted is the best entertainment to thrust upon American culture. In this film based on the comic books by Mark Miller and J.G. Jones, insignificant office marshmallow Wesley Gibson (James McAvoy) goes about his perfectly spineless day when he suddenly learns that his father, whom he has not seen since he was seven days old, was not only the world’s greatest assassin, but has also been shot and killed by another assassin who now has Gibson in his cross-hairs as well.
On the run for his life with the help of a mysterious woman (Angelina Jolie), Gibson is invited to join the organization of assassins that his father was, until recently, a leading member of: The Fraternity. This gathering of professional killers was founded a thousand years ago by a group of weavers who took it upon themselves to rid the world of those evil elements that were responsible for corruption, crime, and chaos. Unfortunately, one of its contemporary members has gone rogue and is knocking off Fraternity personnel one by one.
Fraternity leader Sloan (Morgan Freeman) impresses upon Gibson the importance of avenging his father’s death, and Gibson embarks on a training regime to learn the art of assassination. This includes getting his weak mind getting beat out of him, learning about knife-fighting via direct assault, and mastering the art of bending the trajectory of bullets by simply thinking about it. And then he has to practice a few assassinations on seemingly innocuous targets. Finally the big day arrives and Gibson the Fraternity graduate heads off to blast the snot out of the renegade member who has been stalking him. Let that be a lesson to you, the next time you pick on the insignificant marshmallow in your workplace.
Well, frankly, if there was ever a movie that had no more purpose than to satiate the bloodthirsty fans of gratuitous and explicit violence, Wanted is it – though anything by Quentin Tarantino comes in a close second. There is no ennobling tale among the gore, like Gladiator. There is no attempt at political and social discussion or pro-humanist anti-theist philosophy, like Watchmen. There is simply violence. Fist fights and bloody noses, knife wounds, uprooted teeth, the spray of cranial fluids, and bullets exiting foreheads in slow motion are among the charming images of what amounts to a total waste of time.
I will agree with my wife and say that were it not for the disgusting level of violence in the film, the story itself would be somewhat entertaining. Written for the screen by Michael Brandt, Derek Haas, and Chris Morgan, and directed with rock star sensibilities by Timur Bekmambetov, the adventure that Gibson finds himself in is decently intriguing. Khazakstani director Bekmambetov plays this action movie for all the stylization and visual wit he can muster, which is quite a lot.
I think what I find most interesting about the film is my own reaction to its cinematic style. While I am not a fan of film techniques like ramping, bullet time, and ultra-cool leather-clad marksmen with groovy weapons, I found this film’s take on the “grunge” cinema to be actually rather interesting. Maybe it has something to do with that very American style being run through a Khazak’s cultural interpretation and coming out as something different in some subtle way. As I know I will not be able to put my finger on it, I won’t babble on in an attempt to sound intelligent. In short, while other “grunge”-style films have left me wishing in the worst way that they would end quickly, Wanted did not induce such repulsion in me.
James McAvoy (Atonement) is fitting as Gibson, a young man who has already surrendered any interest in conquering life. No attempt is made to make him stunningly sexy as he becomes an assassin: He continues to look like an ordinary guy. And he has a beautiful dry tone for the lifeless narrations that open the film.
Supporting McAvoy are veterans Morgan Freeman (Batman Begins) and Angelina Jolie (Mr. and Mrs. Smith), who are pretty much typecast following years of playing the rich-voiced black mentor and the svelte sex symbol, respectively. These two have played these roles so often I doubt there was any challenge to it. Nor did I sense they went hunting for any new challenge either; their performances seemed almost phoned in with a yawn.
While there is not much to say about the film’s production design, I did like the room in which a giant loom has been weaving fabric for a thousand years. Its purpose I will not divulge, but in terms of the art direction, this set struck me as the one memorable location in the film.
Oh, and I suppose I should mention the reason I bothered renting an R-rated action film at all, which is not my usual style. The music was by Danny Elfman, which is definitely my usual style. For the most part, this is Elfman phoning in his work as well, but he does treat his fans to his voice again as he writes and sings the featured song in the end credits. Not bad work, but I’m not desperately adding the soundtrack to my wish list.
Ultimately, I’d say skip it. The story is pointless, and the violence and gore really would not be healthy images to be stuffing into your brain. There really is no good reason to spend two hours watching this one, as indeed I wish I hadn’t. Just being brutally honest.
My Score: 6
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