The Expressiveness of Ryan Gosling's Knuckles: DRIVE

Yes, DRIVE is as good as you've been hearing it is.

In its finest moments, it evokes the sublime perfection of films like HEAT or RESERVOIR DOGS or THE GODFATHER, and I don't think those comparisons are (too) hyperbolic. There's a mastery of filmmaking on display here that is genuinely thrilling to watch. Or perhaps I should say hear.

Because while the photography of DRIVE is undeniably gorgeous, in turns washed out by an uncaring L.A. sun and then plunged into fluorescent-tinged darkness, it's the film's soundtrack that is particularly noteworthy to me. When I say soundtrack, I don't just mean the film's score and use of pop music, although those are incredible, but rather the entire auditory experience of DRIVE.

This is a patient movie, one that takes time to express its point and revels in silence. Gosling's performance is made up of long stares and slow burns, and every word he speaks seems to have more emphasis because of it. His knuckles do more emoting in this film than Ashton Kutcher has done in his entire cinematic career.

There are at least four shots where Gosling's knuckles express emotions like anger, tension, and fear, while his face betrays none of those things. It's a neat trick of contextual meaning that a sound like scrunching leather driving gloves can express all of these things, and it's a small example of DRIVE's audio mastery.

I've seen DRIVE twice in the five days it's been out for, and I'll undoubtedly catch it at least once more before it leaves theatres. You should, too.

The End Of My First Date With COLOMBIANA

COLOMBIANA, I've been watching you for two hours now, and let's get real: who the hell do you think you are?

Let me back up for a second. I don't think you're a terrible movie, over all. You've got a sort of charming, old-school approach to action scenes, with a few notable set pieces worth seeing, and you've got a bona-fide hottie in Zoe Saldana prancing around all over the place, which makes you at least watchable for long sections where nothing appears to be happening.

But you don't end your movie with Johnny Cash's cover of "Hurt". You don't deserve it.

Now, to be honest, I don't know if any movie deserves to end with that song. It's a masterpiece, maybe the best cover of all time (music nerds can feel free to mock this uninformed statement, ideally with links). But coming after two hours of weak character scenes and half-baked Biggest Brother paranoid surveillance fantasies, ending with this song is like biting into a chocolate only to find it filled with liqueur. Or orange filling. Or that weird spongy toffee-that-isn't-toffee. You get the idea.

This sudden reversal of what I was expecting doesn't only leave me with a bad taste in my mouth; it makes me want to throw the whole thing out. I'm seeing you from a whole different perspective, like finding out you dated one of my old high school friends. You lured me in (and scored cheap points) with your overtly Tony Scott-influenced cinematography and Luc Besson's name, but you only aspire to those things. This movie is like a copy of a copy of a copy, with only the faintest lines of the original showing up: you're mostly negative space.

Also, your editing is some of the worst I've seen in a major motion picture for quite some time.

I think we're through. I guess I'll cover the bill.

My One-Sentence Review of TRANSFORMERS 3

Saying TRANSFORMERS: DARK OF THE MOON is better than TRANSFORMERS: REVENGE OF THE FALLEN is like saying Hitler was better than Stalin.

Why SUPER 8 Is Like Minutes 8-14 Of Heaven

I've had a very hard time trying to figure out how to write about SUPER 8, J.J. Abrams' Spielbergian tribute-band-but-we-do-our-own-stuff-too of a movie.

The difficulty doesn't lie in discussing the subtle Abrams reworking of Spielbergian thematic content, or the strong character work turned in by both the child and adult actors, or even a retroactive look at CLOVERFIELD as a sort of proof-of-concept and/or companion piece for this film. No, those things would all sort of write themselves, and by throwing them out there this early, I'm kind of hoping to get credit for writing four articles at once. The problem, for me, is how to talk about this film the way I want to talk about it. Because, to me, SUPER 8 really reminded me of one of the seminal moments in a movie adolescence: seven minutes in heaven.

I feel like this might be controversial, but it really shouldn't be. I mean, the argument could be made that the film is predominantly about children, and no one wants to bring sexuality anywhere near there. For example, no one wants to read (or write) about the homosexual undertones between Eliot and E.T. It would muddy the purity of that film, and our relationship to it. That's why we'll never see E.T.'s junk, even though that little freak's naked the whole movie. However, I would argue that SUPER 8 is far more about adolescence than it is about childhood. So let's just accept that as true, not leave me any angry comments about how I'm a pedophile, and move on.

You may have sensed that I have mixed feelings about SUPER 8, and this leads me to why it reminds me of seven minutes in heaven. Not any seven minutes in heaven, though. Specifically the second seven minutes you spend there.

Now, full disclosure: I feel like the whole idea of "seven minutes in heaven" may be a media creation that I'm feeding into here, and God knows I've never been to a party where such shenanigans took place. Maybe the kids have redefined the term and are doing unspeakable acts in those seven minutes, and this whole thing will come off like the Al Gore Internet-as-tubes speech of youthful sexual activity (wow, look at all the inappropriate word choices there). But in my day, and for the purposes of this article, we're talking about a straight-up makeout session.

The first makeout is a seminal moment. You never forget it. It's exhilarating, dangerous, and terrifying. You're not sure what's going on, you don't know what you're feeling, and suddenly the world seems a much larger, much more complicated place. But the second time you go in there? There's an eagerness to get back to that strange feeling, to be sure, but after a while, you kind of feel like you're going through the motions. Regardless of what happens in that room, though, you're still expected to come out of there grinning, shaking your head at the awesomeness that just transpired.

Metaphor over. There's a lot to like, and even love, about SUPER 8. But it never really seems to become more than the sum of its parts, to transcend its influences and become its own creation. It comes closest when the film is about the joy of running around shooting movies with your friends, an experience so profoundly drawn on screen that I have trouble recalling it without smiling. But the alien drama quickly overshadows that, and the film has trouble reconciling those two stories. In fact, Abrams has talked in several places about how the film originated out of these two distinct ideas, and the script still bears some of those scars from joining them. It's a bit of a Frankenstein of a movie, a cut-and-paste collage of the things we loved as kids. There is one moment, the emotional climax of the film, that attempts to link the arcs of the protagonists of the film, that just can't quite pull it off.

But if that one moment had worked for me, I think that SUPER 8 would be an instant classic. How's that for a mixed review?

Don't We, As A Society, Have A Moral Obligation To Not See THE HANGOVER PART II?

I've had invitations to go see THE HANGOVER PART II every night of this weekend, including last night's 10pm "(Try Not To Feel Ridiculous When You Say) Wolfpack" screenings (you know, the ones that made $10.4 million). Unfortunately, I was (and will be) unavoidably busy doing laundry every single one of those nights.

This poster makes me wonder if

a) I would think The Hangover was "delightfully Italian" if I saw a foreign subtitled print of it and

b) where the fuck is Tea Leoni?

It's not that I live in piles of dirty laundry, my floor littered with socks doomed to never again be matched, or that I have as few outfits as Bradley Cooper has varied acting roles (potentially fun drinking game: for every scene in a Bradley Cooper movie, decide if he is playing "charming", "asshole", or "charming asshole". Then drink whatever you feel is an appropriate measure to get you through the rest of the movie.)

No, I'm not boycotting THE HANGOVER PART II because of these once-true nightmare laundry scenarios. It's because, seriously, we have to start making a stand.

My greatest fear following the success of THE HANGOVER was that it would unleash a wave of imitators that would plunge the "stupid men" comedy genre into the type of creative stagnancy and according derision normally reserved for Katherine Heigl flicks. If I want to see a decade of comedies based on unrepentant asshole men-children, I'll just look back at the last ten years of my life, thank you very much. However, I fear that the success of THE HANGOVER has engendered something far more sinister than a bunch of movies about uninteresting, unsympathetic men who learn nothing.

I'd like to say that it just didn't speak to my sophisticated, mature tastes, but if you've ever read this blog before, you know how silly that would sound. It's tempting to say that this was a movie for bros, with the excessive drinking, hooking up, and wink-wink nudge-nudge bachelor party shenanigans. But this wasn't a movie for bros; it was for bros-to-be, 13 year-olds who were still working up the courage to steal their dad's liquor and who looked to Channing Tatum with admiring eyes.

Somehow, though, these prepubescent fucks scared up hundreds of millions of dollars and made a sequel to THE HANGOVER a bygone conclusion. How did they get this kind of money? In my day, an allowance was $1 a week, which you promptly went out and wasted on slushees and comic books. Have allowance rates gone up like the proverbial 1923 German deutschmark? Or am I just a bitter and angry old man who doesn't understand why the kids are wearing the baggy pants and thinks the iPad is some sort of woman's sanitary product?

Let's not get into that. Let's put aside my problems with the underlying concepts and ideology of THE HANGOVER franchise, and try to ignore the taste of ash in my mouth when I say the phrase "THE HANGOVER franchise". What's my real problem with THE HANGOVER PART II? It's the fact that it's called THE HANGOVER PART II.

Really, Todd Phillips? PART II? With the numerals and everything? I don't know you or anything, but who the hell do you think you are?

You know which films deserve a "Part II"? THE GODFATHER PART II. BACK TO THE FUTURE PART II. RAMBO: FIRST BLOOD - PART II (if only for the sheer ridiculousness of having the word "first" right next to the words "part two", and for steadfastly ignoring the potential of an equally-ridiculous title like RAMBO: SECOND BLOOD).

So maybe you're not the first hack to try to class up his popcorn entertainment by adding some Roman numerals to his title (hell, even Tony Scott did it). But Part II indicates that your film is the next chapter in an ongoing story, and THE HANGOVER PART II is no such thing. You are, if I may, an impliar, sir.

At least have the decency to come up with a subtitle, like last week's blatant cash grab PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: ON STRANGER TIDES, so we can all ignore your movie in a few years and pretend like it didn't blemish whatever we might have enjoyed of the first film (thanks for that, Brothers Wachowski).

Your movie, Mr. Phillips, is a return to the cynicism of the movie business of the '80s, where the rules of the game were to franchise any movie that showed any kind of financial return. This is the reason we have such revered classics as PORKY'S II: THE NEXT DAY, CANNONBALL RUN II, and MEATBALLS PART II (a title so bad it somehow manages to make the word "meatballs" sound disgusting). Some day, your new movie will join this hall of legends, and when it does, I hope the money men who bribed you to make this movie laugh you all the way to the creative poorhouse. You don't have a larger story you want to tell, so why are you pretending you do? I guarantee you no one went into the first HANGOVER pitching it as a trilogy, and I cannot wait for the day when one of you gets in front of an EPK crew for THE HANGOVER PART III: THE SEARCH FOR SPOCK (with a hilarious cameo from Leonard Nimoy!) and tries to tell me that it was always meant to be a trilogy and a series of anime shorts (fuck you for that, Brothers Wachowski).

I could go on, but I can't spend all this time whining about this movie. I've got to head to the laundromat.

Why Won't THOR Tell You It's THOR?

There were several questions I had while watching THOR, Marvel's latest venture away from the printed page, but the one you see above in big bold type was the key one. Or, more specifically, what happened to THOR's title card?


THOR starts with the Paramount and Marvel Studios logos (logi? logos), but plunges us right into a cold open introducing Natalie Portman's Jane Foster (if somewhat elliptically, in what feels like a weird compromise between making a fast-paced, exciting intro about turning on your laptop and not seeing Natalie Portman's face, neither of which works and/or was a good idea to begin with) and her dream team of the sassy Kat Dennings and stellar Scandinavian Stellan Skarsgard. This is followed by a somewhat exciting TWISTER-type sequence about chasing a storm, which ends when Portman runs over a mysterious stranger and looks to the sky, asking, "where did he come from?"

BAM. Cut to black. Great pre-titles sequence, intriguing and to the point, setting up the characters and basic hook of the story. The title card "Marvel Studios and Paramount Pictures Present" comes up, and I'm starting to settle into my seat, waiting for the inevitable THOR title card, perhaps with some nice lightning effects and CG rain.

But that's where THOR switches it up on you. You're all set for the credits sequence, when the film drops you into tenth-century Norway with only the disembodied voice of Anthony Hopkins as your guide. "Huh," you're thinking, "kinda weird. I guess we're going to do the whole Norse mythology thing before we get the titles." And that's exactly what you get, complete with some pretty obvious lifts from THE LORD OF THE RINGS, which initially feels cheap and repetitive. But this is a film from Sir Kenneth Branagh, and that's when it hits you: this may be a hacky use of shots and effects from THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING, but it must also be a reflexive moment, where Branagh is reminding you of that's film's epic pre-titles sequence, and asking you to cut him a little slack while he lays out his admittedly dense story.

"OK, Kenny B," you say to yourself. "I'll give you some time." So as THOR progresses, you're worrying less and less about the title. It's coming, you're sure, but it's a subconscious thing at this point, while you're asked to focus on more important things, like remembering that the Ice Giants' source of power is a kinda-silly-looking glowing blue chest that looks like Mr. Freeze's Arc of the Covenant, and that Loki is Thor's used car salesman of a brother (I bet he's the good guy).

But all of a sudden, it's thirty minutes into the film, and although you've seen an eyepatched Anthony Hopkins issue a blanket pardon for state-sponsored terrorism, Thor get his Operation Iraqi Freedom on, and a disturbing look into Stringer Bell's cosplay habits, you suddenly realize that you still haven't seen the title of the movie you're seeing.

You quell the rising panic inside of you. The title is coming. It has to be. I mean, why else would that "Marvel Studios and Paramount Pictures Present" card have been on screen twenty-five minutes ago? It just sets up an expectation about what they're presenting. They wouldn't leave us hanging like that. Would they?

Ah, wait. Thor's getting banished. It's all starting to make sense. I bet the film's gonna do one of those "here's where we started" things and then hit us with the title. That makes sense, even if it's gone on a bit long. Natalie hits him with the car, looks up, "where did he come from?" and then...

Next scene.

WHAT IS THE NAME OF YOU, MOVIE? WHAT IS IT?

Of course, I know what the name of the movie is. But why won't the movie tell me? Does the movie itself not know its name?

Things continue to play out on the screen in front of me, including an absolutely gratuitous Jeremy Renner (as Hawkeye!) cameo that adds literally nothing to the story, but I'm not even paying attention anymore. The missing title has become a splinter in my mind, a mystery that needs to be solved. The clues are bewildering, but it's the motive that has me really stumped.

It's not until the entirety of THOR's 114 minutes have played out that I finally put all the pieces together. Oh, I've finally seen the title of the movie, by the way. It was there in the credits, big and shiny and everything it should have been ninety minutes or so ago, but it didn't really click until I saw the post-credits scene.

That's where Mr. Skarsgard gets introduced to the Cosmic Cube by Samuel "the L stands for lnot even trying anymore" Jackson and Loki shows up and gets all glinty-eyed. And that's when it hit me. THOR doesn't have a pre-titles sequence because the whole movie is the pre-titles sequence. It's a tease for THE AVENGERS, through and through.

This might have been a bit harsh. I laughed several times and was genuinely entertained by quite a bit of THOR, but I'm just left wondering how they got people to pay for THE AVENGERS during it's first week of shooting. That's impressive.

Do You Need To Watch The Last 101 Minutes of Scream 4?

The short answer is, no, not really.


But SCREAM 4 is 111 minutes long, and you should absolutely see the first ten minutes of this film. That's where Kevin Williamson and Wes Craven try to bury the ghost of the reflexive horror genre they helped create, and promise a return to the scares-first type of horror that kept you awake as a child.

The reason you don't really need to see the next 101 minutes is that they never really succeed at that.

Let's back up for a moment, though. I used to find it odd that the brothers Wayans felt like SCARY MOVIE needed to exist. I mean, SCREAM was funny. It was satire. I always felt like the Wayans just pushed SCREAM a little further to the margins when they made SCARY MOVIE (what they were doing with the next 5 SCARY MOVIE films, I can't begin to guess). Looking back on it though, it makes a little more sense to me.

The great trick of the first SCREAM is, of course, how it functions as both satire and the thing it satirizes. It constantly functions as both a legitimate horror film and a critique of horror films, something that the sequels struggle with and often fluctuate between, delineating one scene as the "funny" scene, and the next as the "reflexive" scene. The signifier of this tonal shift is usually the presence of Jamie Kennedy. I'm just speculating here, but I think an enterprising individual could make a drinking game out of this thematic fluctuation that would probably make SCREAM 2 slightly more tolerable (and drown the memories of THE JAMIE KENNEDY EXPERIMENT at the same time).

All of this is to say I can now understand the existence of SCARY MOVIE. The deaths in SCREAM are truly horrific. SCARY MOVIE bypassed all that satire and aimed to make a spoof of those horrific elements. The image of Drew Barrymore gutted and tied up in the tree swing is the sort of thing that sticks with you. Ditto with Rose McGowan trapped in the garage doggy door. The sequels' uncertainty about their satirical intent dull these moments of true horror, and make everything feel removed and repetitive.

The same problems exist with SCREAM 4, although the beginning seems to promise an end to this sort of reflexive repetitiveness. Williamson pulls the rug out from underneath the audience's feet twice in the opening ten minutes, scripting a film-within-a-film-within-a-film that made me cackle with the sheer ballsiness of it all. It perfectly encapsulates both the appeal and the problems of post-modern awareness in film, and ends with a character ranting about how you don't care about any of the people in these films. It's easy to see this as a direct address from Wes Craven to the audience as he surveys the world he helped create, where the outrageousness of the kills trumps any kind of meaning or feeling.

Unfortunately, the script never really delivers on this promise to return us to that mode of filmmaking. The first half hour starts to function in this mode, but then, in what feels like an obligatory "oh, right, we're a SCREAM movie" awareness, we get the seen-it-all horror nerds who run a cinema club and give us the "new rules" speech. At this point, we're back to the let's-haul-Jamie-back-from-the-dead-via-the-miracle-of-VHS scene in SCREAM 3, where the franchise just basically admits it's out of ideas and hopes you get distracted by the combined awesomeness of Parker Posey and Princess Leia.

This is a film that laughs at the idea of "a Facebook killer", but expects you to think the idea of a kid live-webcasting his life can be used to dramatic effect. It's a film that wants to be innovative and full of fresh faces, but also wants to bring Neve, Courteney, and David back, because, shucks, wouldn't it be nice to bring them all back? And it's a film that refuses to kill a single one of those people, the only way it could have had the impact it so desperately wants to have.

There are still some worthwhile moments towards the end of the film, where Williamson and Craven take some valid shots at online and celebrity culture, but the story just kind of floats around and gets trapped in the "cool kill" mode. This is made even more disappointing given not only the promise of the film's opening, but also Williamson's story-first approach on THE VAMPIRE DIARIES, one of television's finest guilty pleasures (and before anyone gets too upset about that, let's remember Williamson's THE FACULTY, which is one of the finest alien invasion/murder your teacher films ever made). But by the end of SCREAM 4, you just kind of want to watch that opening 10 minutes again.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to write THE TWEET IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE, a horror film that will truly speak to my generation.

30 DoC: Criterion Does Racism - DO THE RIGHT THING / WHITE DOG

I was six years old when the L.A. Riots happened. I don't remember it ever being a part of my life at all. But I was nine when the O.J. Simpson verdict was announced, and I can vividly remember being ushered into the school library during the day so that the teachers could see the verdict announced live. I didn't understand why we were getting out of class, nor did I have the slightest idea who O.J. Simpson was, or why he was on trial, but I did grasp that something about this was important.

That night, after seeing the news, the world seemed a different place. That's the earliest I can remember being aware of the scale of the politics of race. I grew up in a tiny suburb without a ton of ethnic diversity, and there are a handful of incidents I can remember on the playgrounds where someone's race or beliefs or looks were singled out for persecution. It troubled me, but never to the point of defending those who were isolated and divided. I was never picked on, at least like that. I was always a part of the majority.

So, with that white male bias in mind, allow me to posit that in many ways, DO THE RIGHT THING is about something more than racism.


Of course, DO THE RIGHT THING is about racism, but to me, it's really about the foolishness of believing in any kind of binary system. It's a larger idea that is both incorporated and illustrated by racism.

Take the story of Love and Hate, as told to us by Radio Raheem (directly breaking the fourth wall, and cribbing from the Criterion-approved THE NIGHT OF THE HUNTER, soon to be watched around these parts). The story is a decidedly binary one, as Raheem makes the distinctions crystal clear: love and hate, two forces constantly at war in the universe. The story is left on a vague note, though. Raheem never really completes the story: he ends with the line, "If I love you, I love you. But if I hate you ..."

When Mookie screams "Hate!" at the end of the film, the significance of the story takes on a much more ambiguous note. Mookie's actions have a violent impact, and bear the trappings of hatred, but they are not borne of pure hatred; indeed, in some ways, they could be interpreted as coming from love. The story of love and hate is a far more complicated one than the narrative Radio Raheem suggests.

The title of the film also plays with the failings of binary choices. When Da Mayor tells Mookie to "always do the right thing," early in the film, Mookie laughs it off as something he's heard a thousand times before. At the end of the film, though, the simplicity of absolutes like "always do the right thing" have lost their meaning. Does Mookie do the right thing? Does he do the wrong thing? What about Sal? Or Radio Raheem? Destroying someone else's property is wrong, but what about when doing so could save someone's life? These aren't contrived choices, reality stretched and enhanced for dramatic impact, but rather the sort of excruciating choices life is made of. An action can be both wrong and right.

The greatest example of this blending of right/wrong, love/hate, is the Malcolm X/Martin Luther King, Jr. argument that runs through the film. The character of Smiley repeatedly shows us a picture of the two civil rights leaders smiling and shaking hands, which he decorates and attempts to sell to people throughout the movie. The two men are another example of two seemingly binary opposites that can actually co-exist. The film ends with quotes from the two men, King's an eloquent condemnation of violence, Malcolm X's a righteous justification of violence as self-defense. Again, it seems, an action can be both wrong and right at once.

To me, Lee seems to be saying that any kind of polarized view of the world is a false one, any world where we're given only two choices a limited one, and the film is really calling for a more nuanced and understanding view of each other as individuals.

The second feature in our Criterion-does-racism double bill, WHITE DOG, is equally brilliant.


The film examines racism through the nature/nurture argument, and examines racism as something taught, through the brilliant metaphor (and unfortunately all-too-factual reality) of 'white dogs', animals that have been trained to attack black people. When a young actress comes across one of these animals, she tries to cure it of its racist tendencies with the help of a black trainer.

I don't want to spoil things, as few people will have seen this particular film, given it's limited release, but it verges into surprising, yet inevitable territory. It's a brilliant depiction of the differences between human and animal, of the violence at the heart of survival, and it gives us one of the most fascinating villains in cinematic history.

Both of these films stuck with me, long after they were finished. They took me back to that little boy, watching Johnnie Cochrane on that tiny television, sitting on the library floor, and how much larger the world has become since then.

30 DoC: 8 1/2 and Mel Brooks

A while ago, I wrote about how you can connect RAGING BULL in one step to SPACE JAM (seriously). In that same entry, I also suggested that RAGING BULL might be the best-looking black-and-white film ever made.

I might have to eat crow on that one, because 8 1/2 is ridiculously gorgeous.


I'm not the world's biggest Fellini fan, but GODDAMN:




And all of these images take place within the first five minutes of the film!

8 1/2 is justifiably praised for its lush cinematography, its brilliant post-modern analysis of the filmmaker and the film, and for all of the things that make film profs feel tingly inside. Those are all valid reasons, and I love them too, but for me, it's the humour in 8 1/2 that truly sets it apart.

The cliche of older foreign films being sombre, highbrow examinations on death and misery gets shown the lie here: 8 1/2 is steeped in sex, jealousy, and lust, and it's often riotously funny while it does it. The "harem" dream scene is a mini-masterpiece within a masterpiece, lampooning male desire in a scene that wouldn't be too out of place in a Mel Brooks film.

Of course, comparing Brooks to Fellini is a little facetious of me, but not as much as it may seem. Brooks gets a dismissive shake from the the elitists as "the fart guy", and I'm sure there are those who would argue he is more closely linked to say, the Wayans, then Fellini, but his films are brilliant skewerings of racism, scientific rationality, and politics. I mean, he even shot a black-and-white film!

So Criterion, where's the Blu-ray of YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN?

Kidding. Kind of. That'd be totally awesome, though.

VALENTINE'S DAY: By The Numbers

I once jokingly referred to VALENTINE'S DAY as the Remembrance Day of movies.


I had no idea how right I was.

I worked in a movie theatre during VALENTINE'S DAY's theatrical release, and on the day in question, a huge fight broke out between two ladies over a seat dispute. There was name-calling and hair-pulling, and an eventual escorting of people from the theatre. Ever since then, I've been intrigued to discover if VALENTINE'S DAY had the sort of power that could compel two rational people to fight over a seat.

Well, those people were just idiots. This is a miserable excuse of a movie, all the ideas stolen from other, better films. So in the spirit of the script of VALENTINE'S DAY, allow me to break down the film by the numbers, Erin Brockovich style!

-1
the number of times I would watch VALENTINE'S DAY again.

0
the number of lines Ashton Kutcher is able to deliver with emotional sincerity.

1
the number of times VALENTINE'S DAY surprised me.

2 for 1
the deal the production seemed to score on Roberts actresses.

4
the number of times I considered just watching LOVE, ACTUALLY instead.

8
the number of times the words "I hate Valentine's Day" are spoken or written in the film. At least. But wait - how many times are the actors actually saying "I hate VALENTINE'S DAY"? These are the questions your brain ponders to help you make it through the film.

10
the number of years that the Taylors, Mr. Lautner and Ms. Swift, should be sentenced to some sort of acting prison for their incredibly irritating performances. Each.

90
the number of minutes I thought this film would last.

122
the actual excruciating number of minutes this film lasted.

I SAW THE DEVIL And It's Really Lame

This is an apology.

I've only ever walked out of one movie in my lifetime, and it happened when I was eleven years old. One summer day in 1997, my pre-pubescent mind just couldn't handle the ridiculous kangaroo-samurai of WARRIORS OF VIRTUE, and refused to tolerate it for one more minute. I headed to the lobby to eat my peanut butter cups in peace and wait for my dad and brother. This seemingly simple act had two complex, long-lasting effects on my impressionable young mind: one, witnessing the magic of slacker movie theatre employees shoot the shit about movies while all the theatres were in and they had nothing to do can probably be directly correlated to my working in movie theatres for the better part of a decade; and two, in the days and months to come, I began to suspect that maybe I had missed ... something ... by walking out of WARRIORS OF VIRTUE, something ill-defined but valuable, and I resolved to never walk out of a film again (a later viewing of the specific film in question during my twenties did nothing to definitively prove this notion, at least as it relates to the kangaroo-samurai genre).

Of course, I've come close to walking out of films since then: I've written about my disdain for Clint Eastwood's GRAN TURINO before, one of my favourite whipping-boys, and there have been some truly regrettable experiences that refuse to leave my cinematic memory, from KICKIN' IT OLD SKOOL to ACROSS THE UNIVERSE. On the search for new, exciting films, you're bound to find a few that don't speak to you. That's just part of the gamble. I suffer through these films with a certain begrudging acceptance, in a sort of unspoken pact with the movie gods that this is just the way it goes, sometimes.

But when I see a film like I SAW THE DEVIL (AKMAREUL BOATDA), I get angry.


I bemoan films like GRAN TURINO or ACROSS THE UNIVERSE because of the tremendous amount of skill and talent that went into making these films, all in service of hackneyed ideas (as opposed to a work like KICKIN' IT OLD SKOOL, which is just a cinematic abortion from frame one). I SAW THE DEVIL firmly belongs to this category. It's a tremendously polished and affecting film, plunging you into an incredibly disturbing serial rapist/killer story and never really letting you go.

"Harrowing" is an overused word, especially in film. Splashing any word on the cover of K-19: THE WIDOWMAKER will rob that word, whatever that word is, of some of its power. But I SAW THE DEVIL is harrowing in the true sense of the word. It's beyond hard to watch, its violence graphic and sudden, shocking even to jaded viewers. It got underneath my skin, and such power has to be commended. If visceral reaction was the only merit on which we judged film, I would applaud I SAW THE DEVIL and urge you all to see it.

But viscera is not the only criteria on which we should judge film. Film should serve a higher purpose than that. I SAW THE DEVIL does nothing with its incredible power. It is more than content to play out a seemingly never-ending string of horrifying scenes in front of you, then make a half-hearted, cynical attempt to make this a story about how becoming a monster to stop a monster will ruin more lives than it brings justice to. If memory serves, no less than three characters have a line to that exact effect, using a sledgehammer to drive home thematic ideas when it's been using a scalpel for everything else. It's a film that gives the viewer tremendous credit, except when it comes to the big stuff. It's bereft of ideas, or at least ideas beyond a higher plane of cool and or bloodcurdling ways to kill people.

I'm not going to pretend that my criticism of this film isn't rooted in moral outrage. This film offended me. I'm not against displaying the horrors that humanity is capable of, but there has to be a reason for putting those things on display for me. It's the reason I have a problem with the bulk of the horror genre, or at least the sections of it that isn't straight-out exploitative outrageousness (PIRANHA 3D) or has larger social implications (FRAILTY, THE THING). The director of I SAW THE DEVIL, Jee-woon Kim, previously made THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE WEIRD, a film that I loved, so maybe I'm not seeing something. Feel free to open my eyes with comments below.

When the film was finally over (I think even the most strident fan of this film would have to admit that you don't need 147 minutes to tell this story), I was getting up to leave and overheard the man in front of me mention something about how great the film was. It was a viewpoint I couldn't understand, had no sympathy for nor had an interest in exploring, and I left the theatre and went home without saying so much as "goodbye" to the friends I had come to the theatre with.

So to those friends, sorry I left without talking to you. It was the closest I could get to walking out on the movie. Why don't you come over one night and we'll watch WARRIORS OF VIRTUE together?

THE WOLFMAN Should Have Been Called JOE JOHNSTON'S MARK ROMANEK'S FRANCIS FORD COPPOLA'S THE WOLFMAN. But I Get That That's A Bit Unwieldy.

The recent Benicio del Toro remake of THE WOLFMAN has one of the more interesting production histories in recent years, with director Mark Romanek bailing just three weeks before the shooting was to begin and Joe Johnston (of JUMANJI and THE ROCKETEER fame, and the forthcoming CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE FIRST AVENGER) stepping into his shoes at the almost-last minute. Romanek left over the always dependable "creative differences", but things seem to have worked out well for him, as he went on to make NEVER LET ME GO, one of the finest films of last year. How did THE WOLFMAN fare?


Not so well. Perhaps predictably, this movie is a mess, a mishmash of ideas and styles that never forms into a cohesive whole. What is more surprising is the blatant stylistic lifts from Francis Ford Coppola's BRAM STOKER'S DRACULA, which might be the only film in history to possibly have more apostrophes than words in the actual title. I'm sure Johnston had minimal time to prep his version of THE WOLFMAN, but everything from the sped-up wolf-vision camera, to his use of long, creeping shadows, to the secret garden labyrinths, is a direct lift from Coppola's film.

So with so many similarities, let's explore some of the reasons why THE WOLFMAN falls so short of it's stylistic predecessor:

Anthony Hopkins is no Anthony Hopkins


The clearest link between the two films, aside from their gothic monster-movie origins, is the presence of veteran actor Anthony Hopkins. Unfortunately, THE WOLFMAN doesn't have the right Anthony Hopkins: it has THE RITE Anthony Hopkins, a decrepit shadow of his former self. Hopkins has been typecast as Hollywood's go-to creepy old guy ever since SILENCE OF THE LAMBS, and he seems remarkably fine with it. Occasionally he'll turn out a THE FASTEST INDIAN or something, but I kind of picture him sitting in some sort of spiky black tower, cackling to his orc henchmen as royalty checks for RED DRAGON and FRACTURE pour in.

Here, he's doing nothing new, occasionally lifting an eyebrow or smiling enigmatically, and you get a glimpse of the mischievous actor peeking out underneath the fatigue of playing the same role over and over. They're fleeting moments, though, few and far in between. In DRACULA, his Van Helsing is a fascinating enigma, a presence that constantly demands your attention. Where has his fire gone?

Emily Blunt is no Winona Ryder


Somehow, I've made it through my entire adult life without someone forcing me to watch THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA, so I first saw Emily Blunt in SUNSHINE CLEANING. To my mind, she's never been better. Every role I've seen her in since has been an excuse to look sort of sullenly off camera and be delicately vulnerable. Her character is severely underwritten in THE WOLFMAN, but she doesn't add anything to it, either.

Look at that picture: Winona's gonna mess you up. Emily's auditioning for a role in THE VILLAGE 2: CRAZIER WHITER PEOPLE. There's no comparison.

This Gollum-Thing is no Monica Bellucci


Monica Bellucci rising up between your legs as some sort of busty succubus vampiress? That's scary hot. Smeagol doing the same thing? That's neither.

And neither is this movie.

30 Days of Criterion: 2 OR 3 THINGS I KNOW ABOUT HER, SUCKER PUNCH, and the Narrative

Around these parts, I try to approach films like SPIDER-MAN 2 or OCTOPUSSY with the level of theoretical criticism we usually devote to the Fellinis and Truffauts of the film world. This is often good for a laugh or two, while simultaneously helping me make the sort-of central argument of this blog that films that function as pure entertainment (i.e. the ouevre of Tony Scott) have as much merit as their upper-brow cousins.

However, this leaves me in a bit of a bind when it comes to talking about art films. It's hard to elevate street dancing without feeling like you have to tear down the ballet, at least a little bit, in order to level the playing field. This approach would be totally insincere, though, for as much as I love the schlock of Hollywood, I have a tremendous affinity for the pretension of dark and mysterious foreign women, black-and-white photography, and the idea that subtitles are fun.

This leads me to the Criterion Collection. These magnificent bastards have been separating me from my money for years now, trading in on my obsessive-compulsive DVD habits and love of everything from M to Z to THE ROCK. Recently, Criterion had a 50% off sale on everything in their online store, and the next thing I was aware of was the incredible lightness of my wallet. The package arrived the other day, and it was most imposing:


I know what you're thinking, and yes, that is ARMAGEDDON, fourth from the left. It fills me with joy to think that over the next few days, I'll jump from Akira Kurosawa to Luis Bunuel to Michael Bay. So without further ado, let's dive in to 30 DAYS OF CRITERION, with Jean-Luc Godard's 2 OR 3 THINGS I KNOW ABOUT HER.


Now, after professing all this love for foreign cinema, I have to admit that I find 2 OR 3 THINGS I KNOW ABOUT HER a frustrating film. It's an essay film that veers into seemingly-unrelated tangents for long sections, and is full of extended rants at societal hypocrisy that sound like they were lifted from a second-year university paper. There are also moments where women stare pensively off camera and say things like, "Language is the house man lives in," and you're struck by the incredible French-ness of the film, something that time has brought closer to parody than anything approaching insight.

But for all of these moments, there are scenes of incredible innovation that still have an exciting sense of newness, like the coffee scene, where a close-up on a swirling cup of coffee comes to represent "the primordial ooze" of humanity's evolution (no CGI dinosaurs here, Malick, just a cup of coffee), or the scene where a young boy describes the origins of sexual violence before staring deep into the lens and shooting a toy gun right into the camera, or the scene where two prostitutes are paid to walk around with airline bags over their heads, simultaneously sexualized and dehumanized in an eerie portrayal of identity and choice.


My main frustration with the film comes from the vague narrative that frames 2 OR 3 THINGS I KNOW ABOUT HER, a device that, to me, seems to detract rather than support the essay. "Her" takes on many meanings in the film, and this distillation of the human element into a larger sociological argument slices two ways. I start the film wanting to know more about the character, Juliette, but am instead treated to an analysis of Paris as "her"; as soon as I start getting into that, we're back to Juliette, or Marina Vlady, the actress who plays her; or one of a dozen other women who play supporting "cubist" roles. The essay just moves too fast for me, and the narrative conceit makes me switch into different modes of watching the film.

Here's where we bring it all back to the intro - if you came here for a few words about Godard, you should probably just stop here, before I piss you off by comparing the master of the French New Wave with Zack Snyder and his most recent effort, SUCKER PUNCH.


Still with me? Don't say I didn't warn you. On the surface, these two films could not be less similar: Godard's analytic essay film may as well be an entire medium, if not worlds, away from Snyder's pretty-girls-blow-up-robots-real-good-while-Nine-Inch-Nails-pounds-in-the-background wet dream of an action film.

But both films are remarkably concerned with narrative, even while their ultimate goals are completely separate from that idea. SUCKER PUNCH aims to be nothing more than eye candy, a never-ending parade of "Holy shit, did you see that giant robot samurai?" "Yes I did, did you see the goddamned fire-breathing dragon?"-type moments that need only the barest of narrative concepts to be expressed. However, we still get the inciting incident, the introductions to characters and environment, and an attempt to explain where these visuals are coming from, all doled out in what feels like an obligatory manner from Snyder. Of course, he makes these moments as visual as possible, drenching everything he can in rain, sweat, and grime, but it's clear that it's the rain, sweat, grime, and steampunk Nazi zeppelins that he's really interested in. It leads to some beautiful images, and I don't even really have a problem with favouring the stylistic over substantive, if that's what you want to do, but why even bother with the narrative at that point? Why not just make the entire film the never-ending steampunk-Nazi-zombies/katana-wielding-robo-samurai visual porn Snyder wants it to be?

The truth is that in both of these films, the narratives are just a handhold, something for the audience to hang on to while Jean-Luc's playing in the conceptual sandbox, or Zack's making some pretty pictures. It serves as an anchor, assuring us that there is meaning to be had from all this.

I'm pretty sure they would hate each other.

In Praise of Guy Pearce (Let's Have A Toast For The Assholes)

Did you realize that Guy Pearce is in THE KING'S SPEECH?


I certainly didn't. When I finally got around to seeing The Best Movie of the Year last week, the veteran English actor's presence was the most surprising thing in it. I had heard all about noble "king Colin", expected Geoffrey Rush to kill it as he always does, and was eagerly looking forward to seeing Ms. Bonham Carter trying to fit her crazy hair into period-authentic demure hats, but I had no advance word about Mr. Pearce.

Which is a shame, because if I had known that he was in THE KING'S SPEECH, I would have been far more excited to see it. I think he's one of the most interesting character actors we've had in recent years, from his star-making turn in L.A. CONFIDENTIAL, to his Count Mondego in THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO, to his most-recognized work, MEMENTO. All of these roles, even his protagonists, have a similarity: they're all assholes.

But not straight-up assholes. Pearce brings an interesting quality to these dicks; they're all principled dicks. His character in L.A. CONFIDENTIAL might be an overly ambitious, sexually loathsome little prick, but he's an overly ambitious, sexually loathsome little prick that genuinely wants to solve the case and find out the truth. MEMENTO's Leonard is as convoluted and twisted a character as the film's narrative; you're constantly judging what you believe about what he believes, but at the root, his quest for vengeance is entirely sympathetic (at least if we believe what he believes). Vengeance and justice are at the heart of THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO, where his Mondego simply takes what he thinks should rightly be his, but comes out on the wrong side of class struggle.

He's playing an interesting mirror to the Count in THE KING'S SPEECH, once again a man of nobility, but this time at odds with the values of his class. Inasmuch as the film has a villain, he is it, but once again his villainy is based in principle, which makes him a much more interesting antagonist. He never does anything particularly reprehensible (as long as we ignore that hint of Nazi sympathies), and in fact, his position on love could easily make him the romantic hero of a different story.

As I wrote this, and realized just how much I like Mr. Pearce as an actor, I started wondering why he isn't in more films. Taking a quick look at his IMDb page, it's clear where the break occurred: the ill-fated remake of Jules Verne's THE TIME MACHINE. I briefly considered re-watching it, but there's limits to what I'm prepared to expose myself to for the betterment of a blog entry.

So, Mr. Pearce: stick to the interesting assholes.

The Lord of the Rings + Puns = Instawesomemes

In case anyone read yesterday's post and thought, "Brandon seems a little harsh on one of the greatest film series ever made," allow me to reassure you that I am still your friendly neighbourhood geek. These should help re-establish my nerd cred:

Why Gandalf Is A Dick, And What It Means About The Cold War

I recently spent some time in rural England, and walking around the endlessly lush countryside of that nation, you can't help but feel some of the magic of it's rich history. Every coastal area has an abandoned World War Two-era radar station, and you can faintly see the outlines of the kings and tribal warlords of the past, leading armies over the dales. It's more than just the stuff of history books, though; you occasionally top the crest of a hill and feel an Arthurian presence, a sense that you're connected to the legends and myths of the past, a feeling of reaching through time.

So of course, as soon as I got home, I threw on THE LORD OF THE RINGS.


Twelve hours later, I started thinking about something that I had never really taken notice of before: the fact that Gandalf is a huge dick.

There are elements of Gandalf's dickish behaviour as early as "The Fellowship of the Ring", where he gets off on withholding the joy of fireworks from little children, or mocking Bilbo's lame smoke rings, or in his constant berating of Pippin, but his full douchebaggery only really reveals itself with his transformation to Gandalf the White, in "The Two Towers".

That's when his reincarnated ass shows up, does a little Saruman impression just to fuck around with his best friends, mutters a bunch of alarming shit like "the veiling shadow that glowers in the East takes shape", proceeds to do nothing to stop humanity from entering a giant trap, and then takes off just as the single most important battle in the world is about to begin, abandoning the task of protecting the world of men to twelve year-old boys.

Now, technically, he's going out to gather reinforcements, to bring back the banished horsemen of Eomer, but really, why does he have to go? Why can't one of those twelve year-olds run out on horseback and bring them back? "Oh, Gandalf has Shadowfax, the Lord of Horses," I hear you saying. "Only he could go get the Rohirrim and bring them back in time to save Helm's Deep." No. No. That's bullshit. If Shadowfax is the Lord of Horses, and can both understand humans and communicate with other horses, why can't Shadowfax just go get the goddamned Rohirrim? Hell, that way, we don't even have to spare the twelve year-old. He can help 'man' the gates. Meanwhile, Gandalf could be using his magic flashlight and/or one-time bubble shield powers to help defend humanity. But before hundreds of boy soldiers can even start to learn the subtleties of barracks humour, let alone the intricacies of swordplay, Mr. the White is off, on a mission that literally almost anyone else could do. I won't go so far as to call him a coward, but by leaving at the worst possible time, he's clearly a dick.

Okay, so what? What can we learn from Gandalf the Jerk? A surprising amount about the Cold War, I think.


Tolkien would decry those who look for historical parallels in his magnum opus, but just as surely as they were not intended, they could not be avoided. Every work is shaped by the time in which they are created, by the concerns of a society and the individual experiences of their authors, not to mention the interpretations of the audience.

So if post-WWII readers would read the descriptions of women huddling around their children in the Helm's Deep sequence of "The Two Towers" as echoes of the Blitz, or modern audiences see the film version of it as an echo of American civilians comforting each other on 9/11, or of innocent Iraqis surrounded by the bombing of Operation Iraqi Freedom, who's to say they're wrong? They're all valid interpretations.

So without talking about what Tolkien intended, how would a post-WWII Soviet reader see Gandalf's abandonment of the people of Rohan? That's mostly a hypothetical question, as the USSR banned the book from being published, seeing it as a "hidden allegory 'of the conflict between the individualist West and the totalitarian, Communist East'". So we know the censors saw at least some of themselves in Sauron, which is a psychologically interesting self-identification, but I think the Soviet people would have seen more of themselves in Rohan, a nation abandoned by all of its allies to face the wrath of their enemy, alone.

There are clear parallels between Stalingrad and Helm's Deep, and in this light, Gandalf's abandonment would carry Yalta-like repercussions, an act that the Soviets took as a betrayal and greatly furthered the animosity that would eventually lead to the Cold War, nuclear proliferation, and the closest this world has come to total annihilation. Thanks Gandalf, you absolute piece of shit.

Of course, in the book and film, Gandalf comes back with the Rohirrim (leaving it until the last second, of course) and helps save the day. In real life? Uh, not so much. The Allies left Russia to bleed the Germans while they carefully prepared for the Western front. In this light, then, "The Lord of the Rings" can be read as a sort of anti-Cold War parable about how the West ruined its chances to create a lasting peace. In fact, the later conflicts in "The Return of the King", where the men of Minas Tirith are saved by the very Rohirrim they did not come to the aid of in the earlier book, plays like a fantasy of how the post-war period could have evolved.

The word 'fantasy' is not to suggest that Tolkien was a naive idealist: "The Lord of the Rings" is full of descriptions of the corruptibility and weakness of humanity. But perhaps more than orcs and goblins, wizards and magic rings, the greater fantasy of Tolkien's is in the hope that humanity can put aside our ambitions for power and status in favour of peaceful co-operation. That would be greater in every sense of the word.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Gandalf is terrorizing an entire village, including women and children, with apocalyptic fireworks shaped as dragons. What a dick.

Let's Play The Blame Game

BATTLE: L.A. is an atrocious movie.


Just how atrocious? Like a perfect storm of atrociousness. I haven't wanted to get out of a theatre this badly since Clint Eastwood's GRAN TURINO, and I almost ended friendships with people over that movie.

Unlike Clint's grumpy-man-learns-to-love senility exercise though, this is an alien invasion movie. Not only should I have been primed to love this, but even if it was sub-par, I should have at least been entertained. I mean, I'm the guy that watched James McTiegue's THE INVASION all the way through. Remember the $7.25 that made? That was me. Instead, halfway through BATTLE: L.A., I was wondering if I had literally seen every single moment of this movie before, in one form or another, and if a Mad Libs: Army book could have written a better script.

Playing the blame game with this stinking pile of shit is like having complaints about the Oscars: at some point, the well-deserved scorn reaches critical mass, and all you can do is sit back and wonder about the point of the entire process. So instead of bemoaning some of the most horrifyingly condescending ADR I've ever heard, or lamenting the sheer pointlessness of immediately dropping an audience into combat, only to pull them out and drown them in twenty minutes of expositional character scenes, I want to examine the whole point of playing the blame game. Where does disappointment come from, and why do we feel like meting out punishment for those that fail our expectations?

To examine this, allow me to lambast Ridley Scott's BLACK HAWK DOWN, a clear stylistic influence on BATTLE: L.A.


Ridley Scott doesn't get a fair shake around this blog, and I'm damn proud of that. Unlike his brother, Ridley aims for greatness, and while that may be admirable, it makes his failures that much larger. Such is the case with BLACK HAWK DOWN, an intriguing portrait of warfare that completely misses the point of the events it dramatizes. In fact, everything after the 30-minute mark might as well be labelled "Jerry Bruckheimer and the U.S. Army's BLACK HAWK DOWN" in that every U.S. soldier is a shining example of grounded moral fortitude.

Stephen Gaghan, the writer of TRAFFIC and the criminally underrated (and underseen) SYRIANA, tells a great story about being brought in to pitch his take on the events in Somalia to Scott and Bruckheimer. Essentially, Gaghan wanted to end the film on the image of hundreds of dead Somalians wrapped in food shipment sheets, reused as body bags, that had been branded with the stamp "Gift of the U.S.A.". Needless to say, that idea didn't really float Jerry's boat, and the resulting film decides to skirt around the questionable ethics of the situation in favour of celebrating the noble fraternity of the U.S. military (which, God knows, we haven't had enough films about yet). The entire film is a compromise, wherein Ridley gets to play with all of Uncle Sam's nice helicopters, as long as he doesn't say anything too mean about what they do. In an unrelated story, Stephen Gaghan hasn't been able to get a film off the ground for the last six years.

The disappointment I have for BLACK HAWK DOWN is rooted in the fact that it never achieves what it can be, or perhaps more accurately, what I want it to be. There's potential for great drama in the situation, but the film minimizes it and focuses on something we've seen hundreds of times before. BATTLE L.A. has the exact same problem: it doesn't only imitate the visual style of BLACK HAWK DOWN, but the thematic interests as well. I know it's unfair to compare the very real horrors of Mogadishu with an alien invasion used as entertainment; but as far as the filmmakers are concerned, these are both background issues, less important in themselves than how they affect the main characters. So instead of delving into the alien invasion, we get to see Aaron Eckhart telling kids to "be my little Marine", or Michelle Rodriguez sneer her way through another Michelle Rodriguez performance. The problem is that we didn't come to see a movie about a platoon of soldiers: we came to see an alien invasion movie. We don't care about any of these people, and it doesn't help that they're all walking stereotypes that never create a real connection with the audience. They don't connect to a reality, especially not the reality we expected to see.

So if disappointment, at least in this case, springs from not reflecting a reality we expect, what does that tell us about playing the blame game? We traditionally use blame to place the responsibility for failure at the feet of a few select people: for example, Jerry Bruckheimer can be blamed for making BLACK HAWK DOWN a jingoistic ode to the American serviceman, and Ridley Scott can be blamed for bowing to the Army and Mr. Bruckheimer's interests in bringing their vision to the screen. It's comforting to think that somewhere out there, in some alternate universe, there's a version of BLACK HAWK DOWN that didn't involve these two people, and presents a more accurate and responsible picture of the events in Somalia in 1993. It's comforting because the alternative is that the entire system is at fault. BLACK HAWK DOWN was destined to be what it is, and no one could have made it any better than it is, not even Ridley's brother.


Interestingly, I also saw THE ADJUSTMENT BUREAU the other day, a film which has similar questions of fate at heart, then decides, that's interesting and all, but what if Matt Damon has to use the forces of destiny to stop a wedding? I suppose I should be grateful; at least he didn't have to stop Emily Blunt from getting on a plane. THE ADJUSTMENT BUREAU is merely a bad movie, though, not a train wreck that just keeps happening, like some sort of Leslie Nielsen-tinged nightmare, and it feels easy to blame writer/director George Nolfi or studio brass for attempting to shoehorn a traditional romance into a existential sci-fi. There are only three or four choices that ruin the film for me, and make it unrealistic, either logically or emotionally.

When you look at the sheer vastness of the number of horrible decisions involved in almost every aspect of BATTLE: L.A., though, what else can you do but assume that the entire system is irreparably screwed up? We're just going to have to accept that horrible, horrible films will continue to get made until the day we die. Some of us will even pay $7.25 for them.

Now who should I blame for that?

Seriously, If You Can't Enjoy APOLLO 13, Fuck You

I'm just going to come out and say it: every child in the world should be shown APOLLO 13, and if they don't like it, we should just fucking execute them. Humanity will be better off.


Let me assure you that I am being incredibly sincere here. Irony's dominance in modern society can be informative and rewarding, but all to often it is stifling, a time-wasting, ephemeral amusement that neither betters nor develops us. APOLLO 13 is the antithesis of this, one of the most sincere films of all time, and if the children of the future can't turn off their post-modern auto-irony-wired brains for two hours and enjoy it, they should probably just do us all a favour and stop breathing.

Sure, we all like to smirk smugly at the ignorance and stupidity of the world, but APOLLO 13 steadfastly refuses to acknowledge the worst in us, and glories in humanity's ambition. It's one of the noblest Hollywood films ever made, basking in the value of life, friendship, and the interconnectedness of us all.

Ron Howard gets a bad rap, sometimes deservedly (THE DILEMMA, HOW THE GRINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS) and sometimes not (BACKDRAFT, FROST/NIXON), but I don't think anyone can question that APOLLO 13 is his greatest film. When we criticize his work, we're quick to deride him as "Opie", and this criticism is rooted in the irony/sincerity problem. Howard's work is usually rooted in a deep belief in the basic goodness of people and, indeed, the universe. When this attitude is played too prominently, it takes on an "aw, shucks" naivete that we can't help but mock, but when played at an appropriately quiet background level, it feels inspirational and moving. You can't help but tear up when those parachutes deploy at the end of the film.

A large part of the film's effect is James Horner's masterful score, surely one of the greatest in cinematic history. Sweeping moments of triumph punctuate the overriding tension, like the angels of our better nature piercing through the uncertainty of life. It's undeniably memorable, and incredibly uplifting.

However, the key to the film is Hollywood's go-to sincerity man, Tom Hanks. Hanks carries the film with a straightforward earnestness that has been his career trademark. From BIG onwards, Hanks made his mark as the innocent, affable protagonist, which made him particularly appealing in romantic comedies. Here though, his sincerity is played underneath that of the skilled, no-nonsense astronaut, and it's this subrosa approach that makes Lovell so relatable, and in a larger sense, the whole movie so effective. Its emotional sincerity is masked by the more pressing issue of survival.

It is also the best film ever made that understands the sheer awesomeness of space travel. 2001 undoubtedly has cool space stuff, but its dour, philosophical tone robs it of the wizardry of the process. Some of the greatest shots in APOLLO 13 revolve around the characters simply playing with zero-gravity, and you can't help but feel in awe of the entire idea of space travel. Now, I don't know if the children of the future will have any idea what space travel is, other than as words in the solitary history book their entire classroom is forced to share (if they're even teaching history at that point, that is), but that's when we should pop out the APOLLO 13 digital file, disc, or VHS tape and let them just bask in the sheer greatness of mankind.

And if they don't like it, let's just shoot them in the back of the head.

Let's All Jump On The "George Lazenby Was OK" Bandwagon

The title of this entry is not meant to indicate that ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE is a flawless film. But ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE is reviled with such passion by its detractors that those of us who kind of like it feel compelled to say a few words in its defence. This compulsion is made even stronger in my case, for one simple reason: I used to hate ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE.


This wasn't a Marion Ravenwood-Indiana Jones hate. My strong feelings weren't just a mask for an actual deep-seated love. It wasn't that kind of hate. I truly, truly hated this film. I found the story dull and uninvolving, the ending tacked-on and reeking of desperation, and I bemoaned the un-Sean Connery-ness of George Lazenby.

This, I think, is the critical complaint at the heart of our problems with Mr. Lazenby's lone portrayal of 007; not that he wasn't Sean Connery, but that he lacked a Connery-ness. This is actually less of a sleight on Lazenby than a criticism on the tone of the film. To put it simply, ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE was trying to do something different, and we didn't like it. Not one bit.

OHMSS (as it will be henceforth called) came on the heels of the three most successful Bond films in history: YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE (1967), THUNDERBALL (1965), and GOLDFINGER (1964). These films all follow the same general formula, in that Bond fights off a massive international conspiracy by seducing gorgeous women and eventually calling in the cavalry (Army, Navy, or ninjas). They're big-budget travelogues, and have a terrific fondness for technological gadgets (cars with ejector seats, jetpacks, and planes that come in four suitcases and are assembled by a team of white-suited technicians). If you're asked for the definitive Bond film, odds are you'll pick one of these. They capture the childhood imagination and root of the Bond phenomenon in ways that few have matched.

When Connery walked away from the franchise after YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE, the Bond producers felt they had to switch up the tone of the series as well. They brought in editor Peter Hunt to direct (a huge responsibility, given he'd never directed a film before) and approved a script that bore little resemblance to their last three efforts. Gone are the hollowed-out volcanoes and death-by-shark scenes, the seductive femme fatales and the cars with machine guns behind the headlights. In fact, the film OHMSS most resembles is FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE (1963), the second Bond film, which is often cited as one of the best spy films ever made (if not necessarily the best Bond film ever). Bond is vengeful, obsessive, and shows a contempt for authority unheard of in the call-in-the-marines days. The story, while still dealing with a megalomaniac holding the world hostage, is actually remarkably small in scale and is essentially an interpersonal story between Bond and his bride-to-be. It's notable that Bond's famous gadgets are nowhere to be seen, and Q's only scene in the film takes place at the end, where it feels like Peter Hunt has just discovered Desmond Llewelyn in a closet and rushed him to set in a bid to once again remind people that yes, this is a James Bond film.

The phrase "familiarity breeds contempt" has always struck me as half-true, and I think OHMSS is a perfect example of how this idea separates an audience from the filmmakers. The Bond team had spent six years creating very similar entertainment, and picked this moment, the departure of Connery, to radically change not only the star but the tone of their product. By contrast, audiences had experienced only six hours of sex, sun, and violence, and wanted more (bearing in mind, of course, that this was decades before home video). It reminds me of how Jerry Seinfeld expressed his reservations about acting in a movie: "You watch a movie, it's two hours; you're in a bad movie, it's two years. And that's if you're lucky!" (I hope it took considerably less than that to record the dialogue for BEE MOVIE, Jerry). For audiences in 1969, the Bond formula hadn't become familiar yet, and in this case, it wasn't familiarity, but false advertising, that bred contempt. Audiences felt like they hadn't got "a Bond movie".

Looking back on this film, with forty years' worth of ski chases and frogmen with spear guns, this exact same feeling lends OHMSS a uniqueness, and a new value. The story basically takes place on the fringe of government activity (and legality), making the story more personal and immediate to Bond, and the character of Tracey is one of the few '60s Bond girls with a personality that requires more than one sentence to describe (although it wouldn't take too many more than that). The fight scenes have a violence to them that Hunt's keen editorial eye has clearly crafted to maximum impact. And it is still the only Bond film where James Bond cries.

Not that the film is perfect; the fight scenes often use sped-up film, which has not aged well (in one particularly egregious scene, a fight on a beach, the waves seem to be coming in faster than the punches); Telly Savalas' accent and phallic handling of cigarettes is incredibly distracting; and the attempt to make Bond sympathetic to the counter-culture of the '60s come off as weak and half-hearted.

If you nodded vigorously to this last paragraph, but felt unsure about the rest of it, check out ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE again. You might be surprised at how interesting the film is, especially if, like me, you find yourself liking the exact things you remember loathing. Maybe it just depends on what you count as "familiar", and if you're feeling particularly contemptuous.

One thing's sure, though: this bandwagon is getting full.

Comprehending the Coens and TRUE GRIT

One of my favourite things about watching a movie with a group of friends is sitting through the end credits, making fun of crew nicknames and seeing how many assistants Hollywood stars have. So it was in this spirit that, as the credits rolled on the Coens' remake of TRUE GRIT, and I began to reflect on what I felt about the movie, I noticed the improbable-sounding credit for "Buster Coen, Mr. Damon's Abs Double". As Iris DeMent's "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" wailed to a merciful end (easily the worst end credits song since Kanye West's "Impossible", by the way), I realized that the Coens have officially stopped giving a fuck.


Now, the origin of this credit might seem to be a cute, familial nod to collaborative filmmaking, but it seems to me that it's more representative about what the Coens are about. Simply put, they make films for themselves, and no one else. Their admirable indie spirit is just as strong today as it was in the BLOOD SIMPLE days.

I would normally applaud such strength of conviction and vision, but in this case, I have a gripe. It seems like in their efforts to resist absorption into the mainstream Hollywood machine, Joel and Ethan have focused on creating increasingly nontraditional narratives, oddball fringe characters, and deliberately unsatisfying climaxes. In TRUE GRIT, they've gone one step further and made their characters as incomprehensible as possible.

I don't mean in terms of the murky human areas of motivation and desire; I mean that you have to strain to hear almost every single fucking word the characters are speaking. The Coens appear to have coached Jeff Bridges to mumble every word out of the corner of his mouth, around a cigarette when possible, and to consistently play with some level of drunken slurring. Hailee Steinfeld spits almost every line in a manner more resembling a semi-automatic rifle than a human being. They even cut Matt Damon's tongue and try to take out a tooth at one point, in an effort to drown his Texas drawl in a swirl of blood and enamel. I found myself wishing there were subtitles several times.

All of this seems puzzling, given the Coens' reputation for verbatim reads of their scripts, every word carefully placed and measured for effect. It's difficult to imagine the TRUE GRIT script filled with the contractions, mumbling, and elided consonants of the final product. It would be impossible to read, both like and completely unlike a transcription of BBMing between Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez (or at least what I imagine that transcription would look like).

In the light of "Buster Coen, Mr. Damon's Abs Double", though, this incomprehensibility could make a lot more sense. If the Coens are truly making films for themselves, than they probably don't care about transferring their words to us in a clear, unambiguous way. You can't understand what he's saying? SCREW YOU, WE MADE "FARGO"! This also makes sense of the biggest question inherent to TRUE GRIT: namely, why remake TRUE GRIT? Because the Coens wanted to. You see how this works?

Of course, this theory could be completely wrong. I might have just seen TRUE GRIT in a theatre with bad speakers, and blown this whole thing out of proportion. I reserve the right to completely erase this article if I see it with headphones and can make out what's going on.

But I don't think that's going to happen. Bad speakers won't explain "Buster Coen, Mr. Damon's Abs Double".