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: