Friday, January 14, 2011

Feminism, Michelle Pfeiffer, and the Tragedy of Falling In Love At The Movies

Why do we go to the movies?

Aside from entertainment, or to learn something about the human condition, or because the neighbourhood Classic Bowl was closed due to a tragic gutter ball accident, I mean.

Speaking for myself, I know I go to the movies to fall in love.

It's like the safest one-night stand you can ever have, except instead of a physical connection (and risk), falling in love with someone in a film approaches the spiritual (and its accordant risk). I can vividly recall my cinematic loves, like the girl on Gordon Street, or the girl with a white parasol, glorious technicolour beauties with 5.1 surround voices, stuck in two dimensions and shared with strangers in the dark.

Rachel Weisz in THE MUMMY. Audrey Tautou in AMELIE. Eva Marie Saint in NORTH BY NORTHWEST. Leslie Bibb in SEX AND DEATH 101. Michelle Monaghan in KISS KISS BANG BANG. Rachael Leigh Cook in ... well, pretty much anything, but definitely SHE'S ALL THAT.

And Michelle Pfeiffer in BATMAN RETURNS.


Oh, Michelle Pfeiffer. Did you have any idea what you were doing when you stepped into Catwoman's knee-high boots? Did you set out to inflame desire and break hearts?

You played the demure secretary-turned sex kitten with such relish, such joy, that it's impossible to not fall in love with this performance. You play Selina Kyle as the epitome of confused female empowerment, an even-more perfect study in duality than the film's protagonist: both reveling in and scared by your power, alternately abused and loved by men, a product of society and trashing it at the same time. These are powerful forces, maybe too powerful for some viewers.

I would have been six in 1992, when BATMAN RETURNS came out. I didn't even know what the words were for what was happening to me. I wanted to save Catwoman; I wanted to make Selina Kyle smile. I wanted to hug Selina Kyle; I wanted to do ... something... to Catwoman. Only by looking back, can I name my pain: heartache. I'm no developmental psychologist, but I'd guess that six years old is too young for a boy to fall in love and have his heart broken. And Michelle Pfeiffer did it all in just 126 minutes, one chilly night in, of all places for a star-crossed romance, sleepy small-town Mississauga (a town so sleepy, we had a town mascot named 'Mister Sauga'. Now that's a tired PR staff).

That's the great tragedy of falling in love with film characters, of course - the credits are coming, and then it's all over. We'll be free to watch the film again, but it'll just be revisiting a memory. You only fall in love once, right? And like the hopeless romantics on a missed connections message board, we're doomed to relive those moments again and again.

But like those poor devils who exchange brief-but-meaningful glances from opposing subway cars, we eventually realize that there's always a new train coming (films are now trains, who are, of course, girls, in this horribly overwrought metaphor). We might only fall in love once, but if the string of names I listed above are any indication, we might not. We inevitably recognize that there are plenty of fish in the sea. Get it? Sea? 'C'? Catwoman!

Perhaps there are plenty of fish, but we can never forget the first time we were caught. Thank you, Ms. Pfieffer, for giving me another reason to go to the movies. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to watch THE PURPLE ROSE OF CAIRO.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Dispatch #53: Of The Devil And Nicolas Cage

Really, Nicolas Cage?

I felt like I could almost end the post here and the point would be pretty much exactly the same.


What the hell, man?

About an hour into your latest film, I realized I would so much rather be watching THE THING that I started fantasizing about characters in the film growing horrifying appendages and/or being Kurt Russell.

A further half hour into the film, I realized I would even settle for END OF DAYS, the movie that thought ROSEMARY'S BABY was cool and all, but would probably be better if Arnold Schwarzenegger punched the Devil in the face at the end (which, arguably, is a valid point).

By the end of the film, that list of films-I-would-rather-be-watching had expanded to include CONSTANTINE, THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE, KINGDOM OF HEAVEN, PRIEST, IN THE NAME OF THE ROSE, GONE IN 60 SECONDS, and even fucking GHOST RIDER.

Yes, Mr. Cage. GHOST RIDER. The cinematic abortion you released on the world in 2007. I'll be honest, I wouldn't really be watching the movie, as much as I'd be playing the drinking game Take A Shot For Every Button Undone On Eva Mendes' Blouses (you will get fucked up), but I think you get it. With five minutes left in your new film, I realized I would rather watch the entirety of the 123-minute Director's Cut then sit through another single minute of SEASON OF THE WITCH.

So if you're stuck at some God-forsaken multiplex this week and your friend says, "Hey, what about SEASON OF THE WITCH? Maybe it'll be bad-good," just look them dead in the eyes and say, "I've heard that movie is exactly 123 times more terrible than fucking GHOST RIDER."

And then, perhaps, "GULLIVER'S TRAVELS?"

Thursday, January 6, 2011

I'm So Thirsty I Could Cut Your Arm Off (And Other Connections)

I saw three movies yesterday, one of the side benefits of quitting one's job. So if I seem a little harsh or morbid in this article, just picture these words coming from a scraggly-bearded, unemployed man, and the whole thing might make a little more sense.

The first film I saw is a personal favorite of mine: LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, the 1962 David Lean masterpiece that swept the Oscars that year. I saw it in a stunning 70mm print at the Lightbox, and if they ever play it again, I will pay for your ticket. I'm serious. You need to see it.


Here's what it won that year: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Sound, Best Color Cinematography, Best Film Editing, Best Art Direction, and Best Score. It was also nominated for Best Writing (Adapted), Peter O'Toole should have won for Best Actor (Gregory Peck won for TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD) and Omar Sharif was nominated for Best Supporting Actor. Of course, all of this means nothing. We all know how stupid the Oscars can be, and how great BENJAMIN BUTTON was (more on that later).

In this case, though, the awards are justly deserved. LAWRENCE OF ARABIA will continue to survive the test of time because it's about some very complicated issues while also tapping into some really primal stuff. Because while you could argue that LAWRENCE is about culture clash, or colonialism, or even celebrity, it's really about water.

Not in the way POSEIDON or even CHINATOWN is, of course. It's about what water means to us, as people. How we all need it, and how that need defines and divides us. Some of the strongest moments in the film revolve around how thirst motivates and drives the characters. Consider the following line, one of my favorite in all of cinema:

AUDA ABU TAYI: I carry twenty-three great wounds, all got in battle. Seventy-five men have I killed with my own hands in battle. I scatter, I burn my enemies' tents. I take away their flocks and herds. The Turks pay me a golden treasure, yet I am poor! Because I am a river to my people!

or the following:

SHERIF ALI (after killing a man who has stolen water): He was nothing. The well is everything.

And finally:

LAWRENCE: He likes your lemonade.

Humanity is defined by what it does for survival. In those three lines, it defines a man as part of a community, it justifies a murder, and it shows how we separate and persecute each other (the third one would take way too much context to explain, but trust me, it does). Some of this stuff is on the surface, and some of it is only really clear upon contemplation, but there's one thing you're really conscious of for the whole film: you want a drink.

Really, really bad. It's the kind of thirst where you go to the concession stand and the only drink they have is Fresca and even so, you're like, "Give me a large."

A lot of that is attributable to the stunning desert photography, some of it might be due to subliminal Coke advertising, but I think a lot of it is due to the fact that the film really asks you to consider the basics of human survival.

The second film I saw was Danny Boyle's 127 HOURS, which has similar considerations at heart.

127 HOURS works best when it's focused on the nitty-gritty of human survival. For those unfamiliar with the story, it's based on the true story of one Aron Ralston, who got trapped while hiking and eventually had to sever his own arm in order to escape.

I've had major problems with director Danny Boyle's work in the past, and 127 HOURS is no exception. Traditionally, I've found that Boyle's stories take extremely divergent turns in the third act (I'm looking at you, 28 DAYS LATER and SUNSHINE) and are never really resolved in a satisfying way. That's not a problem here, as the story has a fairly obvious structure, but Boyle won't let the desperation of the situation play itself out. He wants to make this more than just a survival story.

It's clear that Boyle sees Ralston's situation as a larger metaphor for human connection and isolation. It's that old no-man-is-an-island chestnut, and Boyle drives it home in some very effective ways. There's some great fantasy/flashback/hallucinatory sequences that emphasize the need for other people in our lives, and the ways in which we shun it. The problem is that these scenes actually take away from the situation Ralston is actually in.

Boyle uses a lot of visual flair in the flashaways, using split-screens, heavy contrast and saturation, and layered images to evoke the reflective and/or hallucinatory state of the protagonist, but for me, the most exciting shot of the film occurs in the canyon as Ralston runs out of water. Boyle sets up a great device by having a camera inside the water bottle every time Ralston takes a ration. Shooting through the water, we get a murky and distorted view of James Franco's face, but every time we come back to the shot, and the water level drops, Franco is a little clearer to the audience. The last time Boyle comes back to this shot, it isn't Franco's face we see, but just a set of teeth and a tongue desperately crammed into the lid of the bottle, frantically trying to get some more water. It's a viscerally human shot, evoking the fragility and terror of human survival. It's not as dramatic as the amputation, but it's just as effective.

There's an amputation (sorta) in TRON LEGACY as well, the third film of my triple feature, but it doesn't carry any of the power of the one in 127 HOURS.


The major difference is that when the amputation comes in 127 HOURS, you've been dreading it, and the film makes you pay for watching it. When the TRON amputation comes up, you're thinking, "Thank God something finally happened."

Rarely have I seen a film with so little happening. Actually, that's not quite fair. I've rarely seen a film with so little new happening. I've read a few defenses of TRON that seem to boil down to, "You guys don't get it. It's all about Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth and the 7 Steps of the Hero and bio-digital jazz."

Guess what? We all get it.

I'll freely admit I've never read Joseph Campbell. Or Jungian archetypal theory. I honestly don't think I have to anymore. Because every childhood story I've seen is based on it. TRON LEGACY is more than happy to just plug its characters into the world's most basic formula and sit back and let the story tell itself. This is a film that desperately wants to be about "everything - science, medicine, religion", but only has the soul of a computer - endlessly outputting data from code. It's that exciting.

That tagline on the poster is quite apt - "it's not just a game anymore" perfectly distills how not-fun this movie is. There are occasional action beats that look cool and have clearly been designed with the idea of "This'll be a killer trailer shot", but these moments only serve to remind you of how hollow the rest of it feels. In fact, what this really feels like is a fanboy trailer, expanded to two hours and given $200 million dollars, with little regard for plot or character or purpose.

Maybe I'm just bitter. But when I think of a new generation of fanboys growing up on this kind of drivel, it's like going to a pop machine on a hot summer's day only to find out it's full of Fresca. And I just want to tear somebody's arm off.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

The Top 10 of 2010

Do you believe in heliocentricity? Well then, Happy New Year, you crazy sun-worshippers!

In the spirit of universe-defining observation, allow me to (ever so) humbly present my best-of list for the year. Some of these choices might be attacked, but like the Platos of yesteryear, the haters'll eventually come around.

10. UNSTOPPABLE

Did you think this wasn't going to make the list? C'mon, son.

9. PIRANHA 3D

Oh good Lord, the ridiculousness.

8. TOY STORY 3D

Pixar proves they can make anything amazing, even a film about mortality.

7. SPLICE

Beautifully warped.

6. BLACK SWAN

Darren Aronofsky proves he knows how to have fun.

5. EXIT THROUGH THE GIFTSHOP

The most fun you'll have at a documentary all year.

4. NEVER LET ME GO

Quiet sci-fi with a hell of an emotional gut-punch.

3. MARWENCOL

The finest documentary of the year.

2. INCEPTION

The zero-G fight is pure cinema.

1. THE SOCIAL NETWORK

Perfect.

The truth is, I didn't see a lot of films this year. That will change. But here's a quick list of things I missed this year that I have a sneaking suspicion might have made the list:

A PROPHET
WINNEBAGO MAN
GET LOW
CATFISH
HOWL
THE RED RIDING TRILOGY

Feel free to passionately disagree/talk about how Dren should have pheromones/snicker about Jerry O'Connell etc. below. In the meantime, I'll see you at the movies!

Sunday, December 26, 2010

(Almost) 12 Angry (Or Jealous) Men (and Women): The Characters of David Fincher (Part I)

I'm compiling my top ten of 2010, looking at the last year in film, and, just to spoil the suspense a bit, my top film of the year is going to be David Fincher's THE SOCIAL NETWORK.


It's a work of genius. Yes, genius. It's subtle and restrained, haunting and unforgettable. The final frame of the film is simultaneously hopeful and pathetic, funny and touching, taking the mundane and making it beautifully human and resonant. I haven't seen anything like it in years, and I'll be spoiled if I see something that approaches it next year.

I think the highest compliment I can bestow upon the film is that I've been reviewing the past work of it's key creative personnel ever since I watched it. Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin's SPORTS NIGHT and THE WEST WING have been my go-to TV shows as of late (sorry, THE VAMPIRE DIARIES), I've been absorbed in composer Trent Reznor's oddly-uplifting "Ghosts" in between bumping the new Kanye, and I've been watching a lot of David Fincher movies.

And not writing about them. In the words of Talib Kweli, one of Kanye's musical mentors, "They say I'm back - but I ain't go nowhere, though - I've been here the whole time. Where you been? You back." Regardless of who left who, who killed who, and who forgot their surprisingly juvenile Blogspot password, the fact is the blog is back.

To celebrate, I've decided to take a ridiculously long look at Fincher's films, and write a little essay about how he uses anger and jealousy in his lead characters.

ANGRY PERSON #1: ELLEN RIPLEY (ALIEN3)


Much has been made of ALIEN3 and it's troubled production history. I don't think Fincher even considers it "his" film any more. But we'd have to assume something drew him to the project to begin with (aside from getting out of the music video world on a huge Hollywood sequel, that is). I'm going to focus mainly on protagonists, so let's look at what happens to Ripley in ALIEN3.

Right off the bat, Fincher kills off Newt, the adorable orphan moppet from ALIENS, in a clear attempt to up the stakes. One of the most interesting things about ALIENS is the Ripley-Newt dynamic, and the depiction of Ripley as a mother. In fact, I would posit that ALIENS is the great female empowerment film of the 1980s, one in which a woman can kick ass and hold her own with the boys without using her sexuality as a bargaining chip. Cameron's Ripley was a badass who could sacrifice life while being incredibly maternal at the same time. Without Newt around, Ripley loses an element that made her so fascinating in the earlier film.

And this isn't the only thing Fincher takes away from the character - he shaves her head and outfits her in the same drab wardrobe as the rest of the all-male cast, stripping her of her sexuality. Fincher (and writer Vincent Ward) seem to be determined to get to the base humanity of Ripley, to the point of completely removing her femininity. Of course, the climax of the film makes it clear that they haven't forgotten that Ripley is a woman - the abortionist overtones of Ripley's death are an interesting and warped counterpoint to ALIENS' defense and indeed, celebration, of motherhood.

But what do we learn about Ripley by the end of ALIEN3? The answer is not much. We find out that she is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect the world. We pretty much already knew that. We also see that she's pretty pissed off about this phallic alien who keeps fucking up her life. We can get that, too. That's about it.

One of the (many) problems with ALIEN3 is that you get the sense that Fincher is a lot more interested in the convicts on the planet than with Ripley, but since the story has to be about Ripley, he's never really sure what to do with her. He'd rather be talking about, y'know, jail, and society and stuff. He never taps into the rage we expect to see from Ripley about Newt or Hicks' death, and he never plays her anger off against the anger of the convicts in a particularly interesting way.

Let's be honest: ALIEN3 is clearly a product of eight or nine different interests, and it's a confusingly beautiful mess because of it. Fincher can't be criticized for a lot of that. But Fincher's handling of his female leads is a disturbingly weak spot in my opinion, and one that we'll check back in on as we go.

ANGRY PERSONAGES #2 AND #3: DAVID MILLS AND JOHN DOE (SE7EN)


Another fair criticism of Fincher's work is that he can sometimes paint with too broad a brush, making his characters archetypes instead of real people. Nowhere is that more prevalent than in SE7EN (or, as the sane would type it, SEVEN - thanks for inventing l33tsp3ak, Mr. Fincher). I'd make the argument that this film needs that sort of mythic touch - it is, after all, a moral parable. The characters need to be representative, at least on one level, rather than individuals.

But there's no denying that Brad Pitt occasionally plays it a bit big. His Detective David Mills, or, perhaps more accurately, Wrath, is a man consumed by barely-contained rage, and Pitt likes to play up the explosion and underplay the smolder. I generally like Pitt, and I think he's become a fine actor, but I think he's a little out of his league here. Contrasted with Morgan Freeman, Pitt's performance seems obvious and a little showy - which, in an amusing way, actually enhances the rookie-veteran dynamic between the two.

Mills is perhaps the most fascinating character in Fincher's filmography, and possibly the most telling as well. The fact that character and creator share a first name may be coincidence, but the astounding physical similarities seem more than a bit planned. Watching behind-the-scenes footage of SE7EN and determining who is Pitt and who is Fincher (hint: Fincher's the one who isn't Brad Pitt) is probably the only EPK that can function as a drinking game (aside from the always-popular EPK drinking game of "Take A Shot Every Time Someone Says, 'It was a pleasure working with ...'"). It's clear that Fincher sees a lot of himself in the character, and with the pivotal decision of the climax resting entirely on Mills' shoulders, the audience is placed in his shoes for much of the film.

What truly elevates SE7EN though, is how uncomfortably close we get to John Doe, the killer played with menacing calm by Kevin Spacey. Doe does some truly horrifying things in the film, but when he speaks, it's with disturbing rationality. His philosophy is one without forgiveness, a merciless indictment of his fellow man, but one that is logically derived from it's biblical source. What's even more notable is how little time Doe truly has with the audience - a little over twenty minutes. This is some of the most awkward twenty minutes in modern cinema (excluding, of course, watching SCARY MOVIE with your dad).

Fincher very deliberately puts the cop car divider between the audience and Doe for the entire drive out to the desert (when Doe gets his big speeches and the majority of his screen time), almost as if to emphasize the difference between the emotional gap between what Doe has done and what Fincher's asking us to do: sympathize with the villain. Doe has crafted this morality play, and in that sense, one can see how Fincher would relate to him as well: they're co-directors of this charming pastiche of death and sin.

But what makes Doe disturbingly relatable to the audience is how he has cast himself: as Envy. He isn't above his own moral judgments. He deserves to die for his sins as well. And jealousy, much more than wrath, is a wholly relatable sin. In fact, in Part II of my review of Fincher's characters, I'll make the argument that he often uses jealousy as a tool to make his villains more sympathetic and his heroes more human.

Come back soon when we'll take a look at THE GAME, FIGHT CLUB, and PANIC ROOM. And next time I'll bring the grimy beats out the dungeon.