Little Fockers (2010)

    This movie was a piece of shit.  Ok, now that that’s out of the way, let me acknowledge my embarrassment at discussing such a film.  Let me also acknowledge my embarrassment at having seen such a film, let alone on Christmas Day.  I shamefully joined the ranks of wide-waisted Americans sitting smugly for two hours as the cream-of-the-crap rolled by in trailers. Each of which, in its own terms, appropriately introduced this serial shitstorm.  It should be clearly noted that the only reason this writing exists is to express my dismay that the theater was full, the crowds were fat and jolly, and no one seemed to care that their hard-earned dollars were thrown away on complete and utter bull-plop.
    The fact that this is the third of three installments (so far…) is ample indication of the current cinematic state.  It is, both to filmdom and audience alike, insulting and degrading.  One would think, or at least hope, that certain entries of the Cinematic Canon would be untouchable, The Godfather and Jaws come to mind.  But I guess the presence of legendary Robert DeNiro is permission enough to desecrate any former artistic enterprise.  And I would have thought that his career was solid enough not to descend to such depths.  But alas, and this certainly isn’t new, cinema is doomed.  I, and ten of my family members, cast our vote for the studios to continue pumping out juvenile sequels to films that were both overrated and unwarranted.
    The existence of this movie says more than the film itself.  The grandparents come back, trouble ensues, genital jokes, who gives a flying fudge.  Certainly not anyone watching.  The credits roll as characters continue interacting on-screen.  The audience is nonetheless oblivious to this fact.  Instead, they respond to the credit-roll by evacuating the theater as if they just woke up from a long winters nap.  No one really cares what just happened, nor should they.
    It’s embarrassing to be infatuated with movies when most of what people flock to is comparable to what my dog leaves in the backyard.  It’s hard to tell just who the little f*ckers are; the people who keep making the films or the people that keep seeing them.  I sincerely hope this story ends in a trilogy but I might be the only one.  At least Jessica Alba was in it.

Rare Exports (2010)

     A new holiday traditions begins this year.  It is not the feel-good-beyond-belief classicism of Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life or the immortal childhood classics like Home Alone and A Christmas Story.  And it is by no means the brass commercialism of the fat, jolly Santa.  This Finnish export re-imagines the entire fairy tale behind St. Nick in a dark and rebellious tone that is, ironically, more in tune with the absurdity of an old man sneaking into houses during the midnight hours.  Somehow, this always gets overlooked.
     On the Russian side of the Russian/Finnish border stands an imposing mountain.  Only the greedy American businessman, looking very Scrooge-like, knows it to be the giant tomb of a frozen Santa.  He leads the excavation and subsequent robbing of earth’s most important grave.  In the meantime, schoolboys Juuso and Pietari witness the explosive activities.  Soon thereafter the local reindeer population, their fathers’ main source of income, is slaughtered by what Pietari knows to be the escaped Father Christmas.  Juuso and the rest of the town’s children disappear leaving Pietari to fear for his life in the wake of late night study sessions on the truly sinister origins of Santa as sadistic child-boiler.  A short time later, Pietari’s father captures old Kris Kringle in a punji pit designed for wolves and baited with a severed pig’s head.
     The old man is like no other cinematic interpretation of Father Christmas imagined thus far.  His old decrepit body is scrawny and malnourished.  He is bleeding from the stomach having been pierced by a punji stake.  His withered body is adorned with a wispy, dirty beard and the eyes bore deep.  The most animated his body becomes is when his nostrils twitch and Pietari’s smell drifts through his nose.  His hangs from a chain and is wrapped in plastic bags above the cold cement floor.  His captors munch gingerbread and look on in amazement at the evil-eyed old man
     The absurdity in this movie knows no end.  From the epic and moving score to Pietari dangling heroically from a helicopter; there are things not even the veteran cinephile has ever seen.  This genre mixing Xmas horror has an all male cast a la The Thing and a Santa logo suspiciously similar to District 9.  It mixes sweeping vistas with a grizzly slaughterhouse and explosive actions sequences with midnight movie madness.  It can only be presumed that this sure-to-be cult hit will find its place on the Christmas dinner table for years to come.  Highly recommended for its deliciously entertaining escapist fare and critique on the hyper-commercialization of modern Santa.

Valhalla Rising (2009)

    Nicolas Winding Refn strips his world down to the bare essentials; Earth and Death.  In the mist of the Scottish Highlands is caged a mute, one-eyed animal.  The beast is taken out for regular bouts of carnage, both in the vein of jugular tearing and skull-bashing.  The collar and leash that confine his movements are but minor disadvantages with mortal benefits.  One-Eye’s graying beard and neatly contained crop of lengthy hair quickly become matted in the mud of his battleground.  The only reward he receives for his kill count is a ladle of watery soup from the hands of a young, androgynously blond-haired boy.
    This child becomes his mouth; speaking more in a single word than the mute does from start to finish.  One-Eye talks with his eyes and with his body.  His red-saturated hallucinatory premonitions provide his escape.  In a matter of seconds he breaks his collar and slays his captors, making habitual use of a diving leg smash and finishing his opponent whence they have fallen to the earth.  The mute ties his final captor, as if to crucify, to a large rock only to disembowel the living man.  He continues through the thin air being tailed by the child.
    The unlikely, almost affectionately paired duo arrives at the aftermath of crusading Christian Vikings.  The small village’s men are slaughtered, the naked women chained, the huts burned.  One-Eye and the boy join the Vikings as they return to Jerusalem; a journey guided by God through the fog covered waters of the ocean.  Their faith in God will surely return them to the Holy Land.
    The river they abruptly find themselves in, and the land they soon set foot on, is surely more Hell than Heaven.  The first Viking is killed by an obsidian arrowhead of unknown origin; the first sign of primal inhabitants.  The open-air burials on raised scaffolding display withered and decaying bodies.  The forests have no end.  The mud is thick.  Their world is a wicked hallucination.  The Christians continue to delude themselves with visions of grandeur in building their New Jerusalem devoid of women or food.
    Valhalla Rising finds Refn at his most meditative and, despite my unrelenting adoration for Bronson (2009), perhaps his most masterful.  The savage brutality and violent masculinity is echoed yet is stripped of its societal incarnations and individual motivations.  Here, it is survival at its purest.  It is no small fact that One-Eye is both caged and collared and tied to a post like a dog.  He is fed from a bowl without spoon and used only for fighting.  And he doesn't talk. Unlike the violent nature of Bronson, One-Eye’s violence is not spurred on by challenging authority and immortalizing identity but by prolonging the physical life. 
    It is a life born from the earth and never separated from it.  His cage, the only time he is ever inside, is an extension of a massive boulder.  His battleground is but a textured and dirty mess of mud.  The rock cairn he erects on the edge of the water where he commits his final cleansing comes tandem with the bloodstained premonitions of his body beaten to death on a rocky outcrop.  While he bathes his body for the last time, the final Christian leader does the same, only to be penetrated by three arrows that leave his body floating in the dark water.
    It is unclear just what One-Eye has sacrificed in the final chapter.  Nor is it certain that he didn't lead the Christians astray, as he was accused.  It is certain that no New Jerusalem is to be formed in the primordial land. 
    Refn’s Death Trip is written in six chapters that suggest an easy reading but do not provide a concrete solution.  The child is all that remains after One-Eye is beaten by natives covered in dry mud who would undoubtedly admire their victim’s martial talents, enduringness, and affection for dirt.  The Christian faith is darkly portrayed and leaves very little reason to believe in God.  It is not surprising that Refn has exhausted himself with a pair of violent films soaked in masculinity and seeks explorations entirely surrounded my women.  Likewise, it should be noted that the film at hand demands multiple viewings.

Rembrant's J'Accuse...! (2008)

    Peter Greenaway’s most recent feature length documentary finds him opinionated and cynical.  The subjects of his dissatisfaction are the visually illiterate (re: Generation Y anyone?) who have not the skills to navigate complex paintings nor, as he would likely agree, the desire.  His argument centers around Rembrandt’s The Night Watch, which should come as no surprise to anyone that has at least seen a still from any of his most well-known features.
    From a little box superimposed over much of the film, Greenaway staunchly explicates his mastery of the painting under discussion.  There is no arguing with his authority on the subject matter nor in his deconstruction of the 34 mysteries embedded within the painting.  His affection for the painting, as well as what it represents, is clear.  Why he finds the need to float atop its beauty as a disembodied talking head is still unclear.  Perhaps from this vantage point we are less liable to disagree with our host.  Regardless of his questionable presence, snobbishly looking down his nose at the audience, his argument is sound and convincing.
    A two-hour discussion about a single frame may seem overkill for any tech savvy rug-rat born this side of the 1970’s.  The mass onslaught of images has long ago oversaturated our visual palette and left us partially desensitized to its power.  This is what the film is really about; yet leave it to Greenaway to support his argument with obsessive deconstruction of a truly complex and multi-faceted work of art.
    The visually decadent style we are used to in Greenaway’s fictional narrative finds its well-known source.  He restages the painting and excavates particular elements both in live action and animated cutouts.  The visual intricacies are managed one by one, slowly but surely revealing a larger story.  As the fourth most famous painting in history, the time spent with it is justified.  Needless to say, the shear intrigue Greenaway reveals justifies itself.  Rembradnt’s lauded use of light, the ambiguous and gender-ambiguous details, the x-rays that reveal edits by the artist, and the use of looks to tell the audience a story all contribute to the complexity of this 1642 masterpiece.
    Despite Greenaway’s unnecessarily scolding demeanor, his thoughts are justified.  The modern looker has lost a degree of skill in reading the painted image while at the same time compensated for it with literacy in other areas, say, motion picture.  And regardless of the director’s unending presence, the film is fascinating, entertaining, and endlessly intriguing in the complexity it reveals.  Highly recommended to those interested.

Justification.

  
“When people think they’ve seen enough of something, but there’s more, no change of shot, then they act in a curiously livid way.  They think there must be some justification for it, but it never occurs to them that the fact that you happen to like whatever is in the shot is sufficient justification.  They imagine that there has to be some other reason…”

                                                                                   -Wim Wenders (1971)

     Thank you, Wim Wenders, for stating my very own opinion, albeit 35 years before it would ever occur to me.  The main difference is of course glaring; Wenders holds significant prestige in the film-making world whereas I hold none.

    It would be naïve to suggest, yet innocent enough, that the documentary film is easier to justify as a social/cultural artifact.  An apparent truth automatically raises its supposed relevance and importance as a creative document.  I often wonder just how Michael Bay sleeps at night knowing his millions of dollars result in a hyperactive mess of explosions.  Does the shear existence of a Michael Bay film exhibit enough cultural relevance that it self-justifies as a document of the current cultural state of things?

    I’ll call it art for art’s sake, yet refrain from any attempt at proving why.  If it itself is visually pleasing is that not enough of a justification for its persistence, as Wenders argues?  Is not, then, Bays love of explosions and their powerfully uncontrollable nature not enough of an excuse to keep blowing things up?

    How will history look back on our still very young art form?  We may hope that each and every piece, even confessional YouTube bullshit, represents a distinct and telling insight into the way our society works and grows.  This likely will not be the case, as how many numbers of endless reincarnations do we need to understand the significance of, say, the Bill of Rights?  And only with certain cases does the individual matter.  History cares not about each and every person but about the collective actions of the species.  It is a very mathematical way to look at something that, at times, appears out of control.

    It is only because of this need to categorize and organize that we separate the documentary from the fiction film.  As a medium ages and evolves so does our way of classifying it.  Now more than a century of films to pull from and recent acceptance of film nerds as skilled filmmakers has meant an increase in cross-pollination betwixt genres, styles, techniques, and expectations.  The spectrums on which we classify films have melted into one another and become wholly indistinguishable.  And for good reason.

    No answers have been given here, only questions.

A Nightmare On Elm Street - Ranked

Here is my personal ranking, from best to worst, of the "A Nightmare On Elm Street" film franchise. Enjoy (oh, and in the words of the immortal Mr. Fred Kreuger: "Welcome to prime time, bitch!")...

1. A Nightmare On Elm Street (1984)

2. Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare

3. A Nightmare On Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors

4. Wes Craven's New Nightmare

5. A Nightmare On Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge

6. A Nightmare On Elm Street 4: The Dream Master

7. A Nightmare On Elm Street 5: The Dream Child

8. Freddy Vs. Jason

9. A Nightmare On Elm Street (2010)

Friday The 13th - Ranked

Here is my own personal ranking, from best to worst, of the "Friday The 13th" film franchise. Enjoy...

1. Friday The 13th Part VI: Jason Lives

2. Friday The 13th (1980)

3. Jason Goes To Hell: The Final Friday

4. Friday The 13th: The Final Chapter

5. Friday The 13th Part II

6. Friday The 13th VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan

7. Friday The 13th: A New Beginning

8. Friday The 13th (2009)

9. Friday The 13th Part III

10. Jason X

11. Freddy Vs. Jason

12. Friday The 13th VII: The New Blood

It must be said, though, that if the first fifteen minutes or so of the 2009 remake were separated and presented/released as a short film on its own...it would probably be the best entry in the entire series.

Ode to Yesteryear: Exploitation Double Feature

    More and more modern filmmakers are professing their love for films of the past by referencing and recreating them.  This is especially true of the grindhouse and exploitation films that seem to have been popularized by Tarantino and Rodriguez and whose references run wide and deep.  These serve as a quasi-in-joke to those familiar with the particular genres, films, actors, techniques, and clichés.
    Scott Sanders revives the blaxploitation film in full force.  Black Dynamite stars and is co-written by Michael Jai White, ripped beyond belief and fully aware of his surroundings.  Sander’s film pays homage to the low-budget inner-city exploitations by adopting the epitome of ridiculous plot points and technical elements.  Dynamite’s brother is killed sending the titular character on a sex-filled, Kung-Fu revenge rampage.  The story convolutes into Dynamite saving nearly everybody; the most extreme being the heroin addicted orphans.  He confronts friend and foe alike, demanding to be listened to and letting his fists do a majority of the talking.  There is really no limit this film doesn't push content-wise and feels like they packed three hours of story into half that. 
    Stylistically the film is nearly indiscernible from those it emulates, Shaft, Superfly, Sweet Sweetback, etc.  If weren’t for the obvious parody it would fit right in.  Dynamite is distracted by the boom mic as it hovers inches from his forehead.  Most scenes end with him declaring his superiority while brandishing his handgun and nunchaku.  The music feels right out of the seventies; the chase scenes make spatial continuity seem irrelevant.  In all respects, the film makes fun of everything that was blaxploitation and does so in such a jabbing manner that it surpasses its source.  One could not parody the genre more, short of casting white people in black face.
    On the other end of the spectrum is Ti West’s homage to classic splatter films of the 70’s and 80’s.  The House of the Devil is so pitch perfect and content and delivery that it could have easily been made 25 years before and no one would know the difference.  In contrast to Dynamite, West plays it serious.  The slow burn of horror is cautious in delivery, carefully withholding information for characters and audience alike.  We know when the young babysitter takes a job at a giant house owned by a creepy man that she will have a hell of a night.
    Filmed on 16mm and shot mostly at night, West’s film carefully controls the audience’s intake.  Much of the picture relies on methodical introduction of uncertainty; it scares us more with what we don’t see.  At the same time it shocks us abruptly; no scare tactic is off limits.  When it finally climaxes there is but 15 minutes left; 15 minutes that make up for all the blood lacking in the first 75.  We can only hope, given the expectedly unexpected ending, that the sequel is around the corner.

Both films highly recommended. 

Little Dieter Needs to Fly (1997)

    All Dieter Dengler wanted to do since seeing war planes fly over his city was join them in the skies.  The desire led him to America and to the military where the objective was always another hurdle away.  Finally, he found his way into the cockpit only to be shot down and taken prisoner.  This film is a one-man show of Dengler recounting the horrific torture he endured in Vietnam during the war years.  It is one of the purest stories of survival and triumph of the human will.  (Good lord.)  In all actuality, it is an upfront look endurance of the human spirit against the continued onslaught of true horror.
    Even the usually opinionated and loquacious Herzog struggles to get a word in during Dengler’s accounts.  Save for a question or two, the director must insert his voice overtop images of Dengler and his past.  He examines the archaic military training films, similar to ones shown to Dengler, and questions their teachings and accuracy.  But for the most part, Herzog lets the namesake character tell his own story.
    It is almost disarming, the ease with which Dieter Dengler described his story.  The eagerness to share shines through like a child’s, discovering a fascinating story for the first time.  It is with seemingly practiced nonchalance that he recounts the decapitation of his best friend, and sole surviving companion, at hands of machete wielding enemy.  This being after they shared a single tennis-shoe sole to protect a foot, and days of crawling once the damage to their feet had been too much.
    Upon meeting Dengler we are given a tour of his abode; complete with model airplanes, war honors, and an assortment of collections.  Beneath the floor is stored thousands of pounds of food in 5 gallon plastic buckets, a stock he knows he’ll never need but can sleep soundly knowing he has.  This trait becomes justified, rather quickly, as we see pictures of his body starved for months in the jungle.  The film never discusses any post-traumatic stress related issues but we’d be hard-pressed not to find them.  This makes he modern jungle escapades even more alarming.  Hands bound behind his back he is lead through the uneven jungle terrain that he covered years ago while a prisoner.  Some form of therapy or self-flagellation, the most logical explanation seems that Herzog himself convinced Dengler it would be a good idea.  At the hands of gun-toting Vietnamese he is towed quickly across roots, rocks, and memories of torture.  It is no small wonder that he doesn’t break down mentally into a heap of insanity.
    The film mixes in plenty of aged photographs and films.  Yet for the most part the star is present to tell his story; a story he has undoubtedly told many times before.  His endearing personality is the perfect contrast to the savagery of his tale; the delivery of his past emphasizes its content.  The weight of the story cannot be waived off, as proven by Herzog’s re-visitation in the form of Rescue Dawn.  Unfortunately, the latter film fails indubitably in comparison. 

The Girlfriend Experience (2009)

    Soderbergh’s films are pretty hit and miss as a whole but migrate towards the positive end of the spectrum.  It is not immediately apparent just where on the scale this film sits.  The 2009 experimental drama received mixed critical reviews and, not surprisingly, didn’t fare too well at the box office.  Upon reflection, though, it becomes quite apparent that this is a far cry from the super independent experiment Soderbergh conducted back in 2005.  Bubble was mostly unwatchable and while it may have achieved something for the filmmaker personally, did nothing for his audience.
    The Girlfriend Experience is much easier to justify from a spectator standpoint.  Shot with the wunderkind of cameras, the RedOne, it juxtaposes a handheld, overexposed subjectivity reminiscent of Ocean’s 12 with a carefully composed, architecturally sound interior world of glass and steel.  These frames are much more interesting, much emptier emotionally.  The inhospitality of these environments, all hard lines with sharply defined edges, may mirror the attachment absent in the main character.  The apartment even, lit smoothly and beautifully with what should be a warm red glow, remains cold in a wide and unceasing master shot.  The closest we ever get to two characters actually connecting in the classic shot/ reverse shot is between the escort and a reporter, secluding themselves to window seats in a restaurant.  Just as the viewer remains physically distant from all characters so do the characters fail to connect themselves.
    Chelsea fashions herself a high-class escort providing paid-for emotional attachment to her clients while at the same time maintaining a relationship with her boyfriend.  We rarely see their connection, rather, we see them living out their independent lives that occasionally cross and eventually disintegrate.  All human interactions in the film, as there is really no other kind here, retain as sense of everyday realism.  Their world is not exceedingly cinematic; Chelsea’s profession is not exploited like most other films would likely handle it.  (The fact that Sasha Grey’s name promotes the movie is another story.)  The conversations, especially if one is expecting more, come off as mundane, yet appropriately so.  The closest we come is a john promising a career-building week in Dubai full of cocaine, rich Indian businessmen, and skyscraping hotels; the type of location most prostitute movies would inhabit.  Naturally, the reviewer turns out an insulting review of her services.
    Soderbergh’s film is a languid exploration approaching urban ennui.  Nearly all of her rich clients report on their crumbling economic status, spending much of their paid for time talking rather than…  Yet we never see anyone do much of anything.  The exception being the gym, where mindless minions perfect their bodies, presumably for sex with whomever.  There exists a bleakness to the world; the sun never seems to shine.  The only sense of energy comes from street musicians who provide a contrastingly upbeat soundtrack for spurts of time only to be cut out abruptly.  Experiment is certainly the right word for the film and its success is debatable.  Yet in its completion it strikes the right chord, at least for me at the time.  So what more can be said about a film that feels like something more must be said?  Just that, that it is easy to consider this film more meaningful than it is.  Or perhaps it is that meaningful, you’ll have to decide for yourself.

An American Werewolf in London (1981)

    John Landis’s classic 1981 monster movie is by no means first or last in the long list of lycanthropic titles.  What makes it stand out is its mix of semi-campiness and bloody effects.  At the same time it manages to introduce some serious topics despite any attempt to satisfactorily resolve them.
    We meet a rather idiotic pair of Yankees in over their messy-haired heads while backpacking in the Yorkshire moors.  After being dropped from the back of a sheep truck they navigate the indiscernible land with complete disregard to spatial continuity; not the only time the film cheats its locations.  They arrive at the appropriately named Slaughtered Lamb to a cold reception from the accented natives who have neither food nor hospitality.  Upon leaving, they are greeted by a howling werewolf that murders one friend while the other flees in terror.
    And so begins the trials of David Kessler as he is haunted by his decaying best friend who is caught in a state of limbo.  Jack has returned in an attempt to get David to kill himself, a thought not entirely foreign after running from his friend’s side as he was slaughtered by a mysterious creature.  For the sake of a movie more than ten minutes long, David is more interested in his nurse, with whom he soon sparks a relationship that garners him both a place to stay and a convenient plot propellant.  Jack informs David that he must end the werewolf curse by ending his own life, or else he will become the beast during the next full moon…
    Naturally, he takes these apparitions as insanity and soon transforms, rather painfully, into a wolf.  A very ugly wolf.  Numerous others die and are added to the list of lives he must atone for, all the visitors in some stage of decay as he meets them in the back of a porn theater.  By this point he’s probably wishing the wolf had killed him.
    The premier wolf attack is taken almost tongue-in-cheek as a huge prop is thrust from screen-left and statically knocks Jack down.  The fact that David runs for his life is a knee-jerk reaction but remains the point of contention for the film.  David owes Jack his life and as such Jack feels compelled not to blame his friend but ask for his help in relieving him and others from a netherworld.  In a straight drama this dynamic would be played out to sappy music, emotional connection, meaningful dialogue.  Here, the awesome Rick Baker effects overshadow any serious issues and instead make the transformation scenes the serious issue. 
    David’s fingers protrude to an uncomfortable length, his face stretches forward, his shoulders arch into almost anorexic detail while growing scraggily hairs.  His eyes, ears, and mouth all transform, grotesquely, into the werecreature.  No less is spared on Jack’s postmortem presence that becomes puppet like near the end but effective nonetheless.  Naturally, the quantity of blood is sufficient for what one expects at the scene of a werewolf-attributed slaughter.  The Academy of Motion Pictures took note and created an Outstanding Achievement in Make-Up award for Baker's efforts.
    Throughout, the film maintains a sense of self-consciousness in its referral to past wolf lore and continued tone; never does it tread on being taken completely serious nor descend into another completely campy splatterfest.  Landis effectively navigates the line between making it worthwhile and making it fun.  We could certainly use a bit more discussion on the issue of say, stigmas of insanity, suicide, friendship, etc.  But then again, this is a werewolf movie.

    Look for the remake next year.

Stripped (2001)

     The title of this 2001 film is rather straightforward, and discussing in depth the life of a stripper is a tantalizing prospect for any film viewer already admitting to their scopophilic intentions.  The director, Jill Morley, becomes a stripper to gain unprecedented access into the backstage world and mindset of the controversial profession.
    The filmmaker, an aspiring actress, stars front and center from the beginning of her film.  Her voice-over tries just a little to hard to sound sincere and interesting and instead passes into pleading and unwarranted.  She would have done better letting her subjects, and friends, speak for themselves.  Add to this her own personal confessions, akin to half of YouTube’s uploads, and we have a film that seems garnered to promoting its creator.   We could discuss the poor sound quality and handheld camera work that feels misplaced and unpracticed and we have a film that so screams amateur it is hard to get into the story itself.
    This is where the film really misses the mark.  It would be wildly appropriate for the dancers themselves, all girls and women who understand the profession they practice with such refined pondering that they articulate the psychology behind it, to tell the story.  Rather, Morley jumps into the dressing room stuffs a camera in their faces.  The fact that she too is a stripper warranted a sense of companionship; they do not see one another as competition but as friends.  But the story could be told much better without the filmmakers voice coming from behind or in front of the camera.  It is hard not to see it as a self-promoting product.
    We can, however, still absorb a bit of what is happening in this world.  The girls examine themselves, both physically and emotionally, in the context of how they make money.  They make no attempt to hide the fact that they make very good money by working their customers.  It is a game, a routine, a performance where the single dollar bill never leaves their mind; only he who has it matters.  Many recount years later how their sense of self-confidence and power is escalated with years of dancing.  For some, these years bear emotional scars, for others they are shrugged off.
    It is a bit difficult to decide whether the film exploits its subjects.  (Of course, the entire profession is exploitative. Thus the cinematic process of capturing this could be considered exploitation.)  There is not shortage of backstage and onstage nudity, girls discussing their bodies; essentially free shows with no payment to the dancers.  Perhaps a bit counter intuitive, this film could easily be made without ever showing the act itself.  It seems the film only has little more respect for the girls than the men who inhabit the dark and dingy bars.  The film is indeed interesting but misses too much.

Gates of Heaven (1978)

    The first splice of b-roll comes more than twenty minutes into Errol Morris’s debut documentary.  This is in the form of a backhoe excavating pet graves and is as matter-of-factly composed as the preceding interviews.  As apt introduction to the intriguing world of Morris films, the tight 4x3 framing includes all necessary elements and manages to strike a consistent quirkiness that will continue on in the filmmaker’s oeuvre.
    We are introduced to an eclectic grouping of Californians whom all have some stake in the then recent introduction of the much-needed pet cemetery.  Whether they be the family of keepers, the neighboring rendering factory whose business exists on the opposite end of the spectrum, the pet owners whose beloved family members end up in the ground, or the local woman with some connection to the cemetery that rambles for five minutes and leaves any semblance of a pet focused film in the dust.  Such stream of consciousness interviewing has been the epitome of Morris’s infatuation/obsession with interviewing people.  More than any other filmmaker, he has the uncanny ability to find the most interesting of characters.
    Gates of Heaven, fascinatingly, has not only maintained a state of social relevance, but may have even increased in its application to modern day American life.  In a world where Paris Hilton totes her Chihuahua around like a toddler made of gold, where airlines/hotels cater to pet owners, where we care more for dying animals than homeless people and probably spend the money to prove it, a film about the final resting place of our beloved companions could only strike the right chords.  Unless of course, it deviates from the story on the outset, allowing the characters to intermingle in their own thoughts and opinions whether they be pertinent to the topic or not.  Morris is undoubtedly smitten with such outcome and there is no reason the viewer should feel any different.
     Perhaps the promise Werner Herzog made to eat his own shoe should such a film be made (the fact that he did it at the film’s completion is irrelevant) figured in to seeing the film through.  Regardless, it is a story, or rather a narrative of our culture, that is relevant to understanding said culture and telling of our priorities.  Morris strikes a pertinent chord with his first feature length documentary and it is an oh so delicious taste of things to come.

Review: The Social Network

The Social Network
dir. David Fincher
run time: 2 hours
Columbia Pictures
rating: 5 of 5 stars

     David Fincher started out small, doing commercials, music videos, the types of things most directors start out doing: a way to get their name into the world, attached to some brilliant works. He got his feature debut on Alien 3 (1992), and has since produced some of the most brilliant thrillers of today: The Game (1997), Fight Club (1999), Se7en (1995). He is well known for the use of unique, digitally enhanced camera movement, taking the audience to different rooms through walls, over ceilings, next to objects – places where cameras generally can't go. But since Panic Room (2002), Fincher has appeared to change pace, taking on more serious movies such as Zodiac (2007), which is based on the story of the investigators of the Zodiac serial killers. He was also the director behind The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008), which received mixed reviews.

     While his unique camera moves have since diminished, and his highly fictionalized crime thrillers have been replaced by "based on true story" films, his works remain uniquely him, something quite apparent in his most recent film The Social Network (2010), starring Jesse Eisenberg, Andrew Garfield, Justin Timberlake, and Armie Hammer. This film only once indulges in that unique camera move, and then hardly noticeable, but the story, although a drama, is set up as a thriller.
     From the beginning of the movie the fast-paced editing, the speedy and realistic dialogue, and the inter-cutting between present and past make for a relentless blast of information, emotion, and drama. The intensity of the movie is enough to make one jittery afterward, sending the mind traveling a million miles a second. The story of Mark Zuckerberg's (Jesse Eisenberg) creation starts at the end of his relationship with his girlfriend, where she tells him he tries too hard be something he is not. After the break-up, Zuckerberg breaks some school rules to create a "Hot or Not" website that catches the attention the Winklevoss twins (both played by Armie Hammer) on Harvard's rowing team, an exclusive group Zuckerberg obsesses about throughout the film. The twins approach him with an idea for a new dating website, which includes that same exclusivity that Zuckerberg so obsesses over.

     The film then cuts to the present, where we learn Zuckerberg is in legal negotiations with the twins as well as with his best friend Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield) about his creation "Facebook." The story unfolds from there revealing the shallowness of Zuckerberg, and the downfall of anything good that he may have had going for him.
      What comes as a large surprise, is the quality of the acting in The Social Network. Eisenberg plays the soulless Zuckerberg with a jittery, almost absent presence throughout the film. The character is a genius and knows it, using every opportunity that arises to demerit those around him. Garfield, on the other hand, plays the friend whose life is all but ruined by his relationship with Zuckerberg. This character is the only decent person in the movie, and Garfield pulls it off well. Few scenes are overacted, and none feel unreal. Even the performance as Sean Parker by Mr. Timberlake is exceptional. He plays the unbearable jerk, if you will, who steps in to be lauded by Zuckerberg and separate him from his best friend Eduardo. The other characters are, quite possibly, just as amazing; form Armie Hammer's two roles, as distinct as separate people, to Rashida Jones' quirky performance as Marylin Deply, no-one breaks the quality of this film's acting.
     As much as Aaron Sorkin's script, and Kurt Baxter and Angus Wall's editing do for the film, Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross's music gives considerable contribution. The diegetic techno music, as well as the non-diegetic score for the film are a herald of emotions that enhance the acting, the dialog and the editing in ways one would not expect such music to do.
    As Fincher has proven time and again, he knows how to choose a director of photography. Like Benjamin Button, and Fight Club before it, the cinematography in The Social Network is pristine, ominous, and quite appropriate. The often green or magenta lighting, along with the lower saturation, and super shallow depth-of-field contribute to the drama of the film, the intensity of the story. The opening sequence, just still shots of Eisenberg as he runs across campus, lets one know that the film is going to be a beautiful one. And by the time the rowing race comes, with its use of tilt-shift photography to make it all look like a miniature (as though the race is insignificant compared to the worth of Facebook), it is hard to ignore the beauty of the film.
     The implementation of techniques used in thrillers, the astounding screenwriting, the fast-paced editing, the low-saturation lighting and pristine composition, the unique score, and the absolutely mind-blowing acting make The Social Network one the year's best films, and likely to be praised as Fincher's best work to date.

I'm Still Here (2010)

    The existence of Casey Affleck’s pseudo-documentary about the disintegration of real life celebrity Joaquin Phoenix bears more significance than the content of the film itself.  Despite consistent efforts to suggest that the public at large was uncertain about Phoenix’s abrupt career change, only the most gullible of all would have believed what is now being called an elaborate hoax.  For many it has come as a big surprise the Affleck announced the documentary as false.
    The piece itself is inherently self-conscious.  It includes snippets of Phoenix’s public appearances as the Unabomber that seemed to mark the arrival of aspiring R&B artist JP.  The star constantly refers to the film as it is being made, and it addresses all the questions that the public had while it was being made.  In a world of post-modern media, plagued by reality television and Jackass inspired stunts, this film fits in, and is doubtless inspired by both.  Phoenix, as both star and character, is aware of what is happening both in and out of the film.  The character is conscious of the perhaps poor decisions precluding and following his acting status.  Naturally, he numbs his woes in cocaine and hookers.
    I don’t mean to suggest that no thought went into a film with such obvious immaturity.  The fact of the matter is, however, that this creative team had a chance to come up with something absolutely fascinating.  And those that have the desire will admire the Borat-inspired renegade.  And certainly Phoenix’s near self-loathing and acknowledgment thereof is neither anything to shake a stick at, nor something that other actors would be very willing to commit themselves to.
    Thus the concept and execution of the film is intriguing; very meta in story and natural in capture.  It is a plausible if not believable story of the collapse of a figure so steadfastly projected in the public eye that everything they do becomes significant.  Our celebrity culture celebrates just such acts of celebrity as pretending to be yourself for a documentary about your own collapse.  Social commentary or self-promotion?  I will say that I have confidence in both creative minds to be conscious of just what they were doing.
    When you get to the film itself, though, it seems rather drab.  Phoenix is overweight, verbally abusive, mentally jumbled.  His new pastime is getting high, whining in self-importance, and trying to get P. Diddy to produce his album.  Not the biggest of deals.  So when we examine the arena surrounding the film, that it is shrouded in uncertain truth (and inherently autobiographical to some extent), that it is real or not real, that we cannot pin down and define it easily, the whole project takes on more significance.  Unfortunately for the duo, Banksy’s Exit Through the Gift Shop does it so much better.

Between the Folds (2008)

     There’s much more to origami than the simple folded crane that the expert paper folders in this film must consider to be an outdated cliché.  For slightly less than an hour Vanessa Gould explores the depths of papers folding, traversing its real world application from its artistic beginnings.  ‘Life itself is folded’ becomes the hypothesis whether or not Gould started out with such intentions.  The budding leaves of a tree, even DNA itself can be recreated with squares of paper.
    Unless one partakes in the origami world, it is unlikely that they realize the old and new school mindsets exist even here.  The old folders have crafted their art for years, learning from one another and mainly from experience.  The younger generation is computer savvy and uses the underlying algorithms to aid in complicated constructions.  Their obsession is with complexity; the more folds the better.  And they are impressive indeed, two foot long dragons with a thousand scales, life like human figures, and of course animals.  One old folder’s interest can be found at the other end of the spectrum; simplicity.  He creates abstract designs with only a fold or two and is not concerned with the realism of the object.  How can a paper elephant even be realistic?
    We meet a folder whose hour-long creations produce movement; spinning like a top or popping in and out.  Manipulation of a 2-D plane allows it to exist in two additional dimensions.  We also meet a genius.  A boy with ponytail and glasses, taught and trained by his father with ponytail and glasses, who together solved an old problem; which shapes can be made by folding a paper and then making one single straight cut?  The answer: all of them.  But the boy’s interest lies not in folding papers, that is a hobby, he is more interested in real world applications like the folding of an airbag that results in the most logical and flat design.
    The mathematics involved in origami range from the simple to the complex, numerous professors have started using paper folding to teach.  It may sound absurd that something so simple as a paper frog that hops could hold answers to bigger questions about life.  But after all, folding is a unique property not inherent to all things, and as such, it can tell us much.  In this documentary that demands and deserves to be twice as long, Gould explores the nature of life as materialized in the art of paper folding.

Look (2007)

     The concept is great; construct a narrative entirely from surveillance camera footage.  The execution is quite good; overlapping storylines captured only from cameras that could actually capture such activities.  The acting leaves a bit to be desired and is really the only thing stopping this little film from being flawless.
    The film starts with assertive white font on a black background.  It informs us as to how often we are captured on cameras- 200 times daily- and how much surveillance footage is accumulated from the countless robotic eyes watching our actions.  It is a film that could only be set in the present.  Someday, its meager concept will be tame as everyone has their own reality show and 15 hours of fame.
    It should, if anything, be an eye-opening reminder of how public our lives are whether we intend them to be or not.  The opening shot is within a department store dressing room as two nymphets undress and the face-to-face mirrors reflect into infinity.  Their actions are then monitored as they navigate the store, the entire mall, and then back into a car as they exit the parking lot.  Public space is aptly named.  The cameras continue to observe as one of the underage girls seduces her reluctant teacher.  His arrest is captured by an eager student’s phone.  Or we see a set of candid camera killers whose crimes are preserved by ATM cameras and police car dashboards.  They are eventually identified by a keyboard playing stoner who works at a gas station.
    The great success of the film is undoubtedly its social relevance.  Candid camera and reality TV shows depend on the audiences’ inherent voyeuristic qualities.  Laura Mulvey must be salivating with the prospects of discussing Adam Rifkin’s 2007 film and the ripe cornucopia of scopophilia it offers.  If it were real, we would know the subjects were unaware of our presence.  But alas it is not, and the acting alerts us that the characters know they are being watched and their actions are choreographed.  We will forgive their actions, be they vile or illegal, for these reasons.  Unless, of course, they start throwing cats into dumpsters.

The Endless Summer (1966)

     Part documentary, part travelogue, part extreme sports film, Bruce Brown’s immortal 1966 creation follows two surfers around the world on their quest for perfect waves during an endless summer.  The film is incredibly archaic, a satisfying and occasionally cringe inducing reminder of the innocence and nostalgia of yesteryear.  The market now saturated with extreme sports docs capitalizing on whatever is in style, we would be hard pressed to find a film that shares the fascination and lightheartedness found here.
    Brown narrates the film with an eager and informative style befitting any travel film of the fifties and sixties where idyllic beaches and paradise lands are captured in grainy 16mm and populated by vintage cars and clothing.  Not only does he take liberty with the on-screen actions, but he seems to create an entirely non-existent back-story.  But it’s all in good fun.  The puns, both visual and verbal, floweth in full accord with complete disregard for political correctness or cultural sensitivity.  The innocence of nearly five decades passed is front and center as the surfers visit primitive cultures, deserted beaches, and sights uncommon to the average nuclear family.  It’s a relief that much of Brown's narration can be waived off as old school, today it would be seen as ignorant.
    The film is a breeze to watch.  Much of it consists of countless surfers navigating the lengths of their board with skilled agility and a showman’s confidence.  On the best of beaches, the length of their rides surpasses that of Brown camera magazine, minute upon minute of perfectly formed waves washing by the thousands onto an unpopulated beach.  The documentary is also a who’s who list of surfers from around the globe; Brown seems to take pride in naming each and every one, as well as their specialty.
    It is a document to years long gone, to a world long gone where the simple joys need not be validated and traveling country to country was as safe as riding the ocean waves without having to worry about being demolished by floating trash.  This film’s longevity is not surprising and is requisite material for documentary, sports, and surf enthusiasts.

Exit Through the Gift Shop (2010)

    The film’s credits read like a who’s who of (in)famous street artists and for anyone who has paid attention to the resounding noise this scene has made, the names will be very familiar.  They are captured in direct contact with the artists themselves, both in casual conversation as well as law-defying theatrics.  The opening images create a montage of reckless abandon, a society seemingly falling apart, yet one full of life.  For the viewer, it is an inspiring and exciting parade of juvenile delinquents brandishing their cityscapes with more life than the last million passersby.  Street artists escape authorities, install work, ooze creativity, and give the public a free show of body of works more developed than many others.  The opening sequence of internet clips and home footage is enough to inspire a heated debate about the legitimacy of graffiti vandalism, immediately offset by its vast commercialism and the branding of street art culture.  Hence this film.
    We rather quickly find Banksy himself addressing the camera, cloaked in anonymity (he is, after all, a Criminal), and reporting on the nature of his film.  We are introduced to Thierry, an obsessive and compulsive videographer whose camera remains open more than his eyes, who has a house full of thousands of tapes, and who just happens to have an artistic cousin that goes by Space Invader.  Thus our un-reluctant cameraman arrives conveniently at the near-birth of the street art movement and seems the perfect accomplice to document the temporary, illegal, and most culturally responsive of all art forms.  If you haven’t seen this film, stop reading.

Review: Scott Pilgrim vs The World

     British born director of Shaun of the Dead (2004) and Hot Fuzz (2007) Edgar Wright makes another impact in cinema history with his latest movie Scott Pilgrim vs The World. Based on Scott Pilgrim by Bryan Lee O'Malley, the story revolves around a 22-year-old Scott Pilgrim as he grieves over his ex-girlfriend, and pretends to enjoy his time with his new girlfriend, a 17-year-old Knives Chao, a young girl obsessed with everything Scott Pilgrim.
     Scott is in a band, which is currently trying to make a name for itself. Knives is their most loyal (and probably only) fan, as they head into a Battle of the Bands. Scott's life with Knives seems to be going well, until (as a dream foretells) he runs into the girl of his dreams: Ramona Flowers. He stalks her a bit before he can convince her to go on a date with him. Soon after, he decides to break up with Knives.
     Unfortunately, dating Ramona comes with a few... seven to be exact... minor problems. He must "defeat" Ramona's seven deadly exes. This is where this movie really stands alone. For the duration of the movie so far, there have been a few instances of "extra" reality: drawings and video-game-like pop-ups on the screen add something... extra to the action. But the moment the first ex shows up, All reality seems to slip away, as Scott flies around, punching and getting punched without actually getting hurt. Essentially, the film turns into a video game with earned points flying out of the other characters, and evil exes, or their minions turning into coins when destroyed.
     Scott fights the evil exes in various ways: by wit, by strength, by music, and by martial arts. It's truly an amazing and unique image, and it's really up to the viewer whether it's a good thing. It can, at times, be distracting, and since it steps so far out of reality, one may sometimes wonder what is actually happening. It's a worthwhile experience for anyone who enjoys comic books, video games, or just something new and fresh in a film.

     With 5 movies under his belt since Juno, Michael Cera, seemingly type-cast in roles of heartbroken nerds, makes a slight leap from his usual character. Although this new character is as charming and witty as the others, it does step out of the norm with the flashy and quirky action hero qualities he exudes by the end of the film. Anna Kendrick (Up In The Air, 2009) plays a minor role as Scott's sister and adds a fun twist to the nerd lifestyle with the older but caring sibling. Other roles as the exes include Brandon Routh, Chris Evans, and Jason Schwartzman. While I wasn't particularly fond of most of their acting, it worked in the whole scheme of the movie.
     The visuals were striking, the score was brilliantly composed, and the sound design for the movie was quite perfect. The video game aspect of the movie is pulled off at every turn of the road. Surprisingly, the film turns out to be a fun one, enjoyable as well as exciting and intriguing.
The movie comes out this Friday, August 13, 2010.

Review: Inception

     Christopher Nolan's Following is a masterful labyrinth of a film. It is also his first feature, and a trend-setter for his later films. Memento (2000), Insomnia (2002), Batman Begins (2005), The Prestige (2006), and of course The Dark Knight (2008) are his repertoire. An oeuvre of epic proportions. Each film is a mind-bending look into our fears. That we committed our worst crime, that we become the villain we so desperately try to take down. Inception is no exception.
     Dominic Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) is the best extractor in the field. He can enter a person's dream and steal their most valued ideas, thoughts and secrets. Lately he's been performing corporate espionage, stealing people's thoughts for a profit. But he is running from his past, trying to escape the accusations of murder, all the while hoping to find a way home. His most recent client, Saito (Ken Wantanabe) has the answer: If Cobb can do the opposite of his job and plant the idea in the son of Saito's business enemy to break up his father's business, Saito will make some calls allowing Cobb to return to America.
     To plant an idea, one must enter into the deep subconscious of one's mind (here being a dream within a dream within a dream). This is where Nolan provides the brunt of the suspense in the film. In order to get out of a dream you need what's called a kick (essentially free fall in the real world) so that you are ripped out of your dream. In order to get out of the dreams within dreams, you need to have a kick in the first dream world. And in order to get out of the dreams within those dreams within dreams, you need a kick in the second dream world. The question is, can the characters achieve all their goals before the kicks occur? Each level of dreams is twenty times faster than the level before it, so that if you're asleep for 1 minute, your dream world is twenty minutes long, and the dream level before that is seven hours long etc., which gives the actors plenty of time, as long as they are deep in the subconscious.
    The film is entirely comprehensible, and fully engaging. The characters literally make the movie-goer excited for what's happening and what's about to happen. And of course, we're never let down. Each dream level is fascinating and enthralling, mesmerizing and beautiful, dangerous and scary. Nolan keeps the characters as entertained as the audience, throwing them into the worlds of dreams, where anything could happen next. It is hard to find fault with the cinematography, the CG or the sets. It's nothing new, but it retains a certain air of appeal.
     With a lineup of actors as good as this, it is surprising to find that none really blew the ship out of the water. DiCaprio was alright, giving a Shutter Island (Scorsese, 2010) performance (without the accent), Ellen Paige was good, but nothing extraordinary. Ken Wantanabe Cillian Murphy and Tom Hardy all did admirably, yet they weren't as prominent of characters and therefore didn't have much billing time. Marion Cotillard may never live up to her Edith Paif portrayal, while Tom Berenger and Michael Caine had such small roles, it was hard to tell if they did well or not.
    While the story was astoundingly complex and layered, with conflicts up the wazoo, there was little there. What you see is what you get with this film. There's little deep to talk about, since the deepest part of the human conscious is materialized, something that isn't quite possible. As soon as we see that to be trapped in the mind is as simple as building your own worlds, we lose all wonder and astonishment. The mystery of the mind is simplified too far for the film to have anything worth discussing afterward.
  

J.J. Abrams Double Feature

    From the very moment the finale of the Lost pilot episode finished, I found myself hooked. Its sheer magnitude and quality blew me away: how could a television show look so much like a film? The answer was not just money (the episode costing over 11 million dollars), but also the genius behind the camera. Director J.J. Abrams proved himself that day I watched Lost, and it was not until 2006 that I realized just how genius this man truly is. Mission Impossible III looked promising in trailers, and despite the troubles Cruise was having with my comrades, I ventured to the theaters to watch what I quickly realized it was a masterpiece. 

     The quick cutting was not new. The spy tools weren't new. What was new was the non-stop action, the beautifully crafted story, and the sheer beauty of the film. To anyone unfamiliar with the IMF concept, it's a fun, engaging and entirely engrossing film, and to anyone who knows IMF like the back of their hands, the film is fun, engaging and engrossing, while feeling fresh: Ethan Hunt pumped with adrenaline and revitalized. 

     Now in retirement, Ethan Hunt, IMF (Impossible Mission(s) Force) agent, is engaged to a beautiful, loving women. When he is called to perform one more mission to save one of his trainees, he finds himself entangled in a web of lies and deciet that lead him to Rome, Berlin, Tokyo and Shanghai in search of "the rabbits foot." 

     The film is J.J. Abrams' first feature film, one that no one can deny is edgy and exciting. The use of color to set the mood is used so well that you could watch the raw footage without sound and get the right emotion. The use of exposure and lighting only enhances the color, and makes the appropriate things pop on screen. Music, provided by Michael Giacchino (and based on Lalo Shifrin's original theme from the tv show) builds on the emotion even further. And finally, the editing brings it all together.

     Even further, the direction given the actors and the acting itself is superb. Tom Cruise may play the only character he knows how to, but it Abrams makes it fit, makes it work as part of the story, the drama. The co-stars keep up with Cruise's ego with their own impeccable acting, and it all comes together to make the best Mission impossible (and one of the best Cruise) films yet.

     Three years later, Abrams' Star Trek is released in theaters. It is his second film, and an attempt by studios to revitalize the Star Trek franchise. Like the six year period between Mission Impossible II and Mission Impossible III, the seven year break Star Trek took from producing another film was a well-needed one. Although the series had made the switch from the first Generation to the Next Generation, the films quickly lost value, and Star Trek: Nemesis (2002) earned a 44% on Rotten Tomatoes Top Critics.
     Like M:i:III, Star Trek (2009) brought new life to the series. Something fresh, bold and exciting. Although many Trekkers might say that the film isn't a true Star Trek film, since the storyline and characters don't follow the original plot. Even though this is true, the story maintains that everything that has happened since the beginning of Star Trek remains true, we've simply traveled back in time to create an "alternate reality."
     This reality is fun, fast and action-packed. There's really a non-stop flow of action and adrenaline pumping through the film at all times. It's all at once new and familiar, with enough suspense to hold your breath and attention through the entire film.
     Abrams' use of color is still present, each planet popping, every deck on the Enterprise blindingly colorful. The lighting has that familiar play with exposure, with something new added: Lens flares. Some might get sick with all the light flashing in their eyes, but it makes the entire world of Star Trek seem more brilliant and bright. Of course Giacchino's score expounds upon the film's brilliance again, pulling the film together after it's beautiful editing cut it apart.

    Abrams has continually wowed me both at the theater (as director and producer) and on the TV (Lost, Fringe), and I don't doubt that I'll once again be amazed with his upcoming feature Super 8 due to be released in 2011.

The Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day (2009)

       Troy Duffy returns to the streets of Boston with a sequel to his 1999 cult hit despite such a follow-up being both unnecessary and unwarranted.  And in the places that many found acceptably over the top and gratuitously stylish are hinted at and returned to unsubtly and ineffectively.  I have not found a reason for the widespread appeal, at least for the target demographic, of the first film because I do not share the enthusiasm.  Regardless, it is obvious with this film that many of the marks set by the first are erroneously duplicated to banal result and its presence more taints than supports its predecessor.

            A copycat killer emerges thirsty for blood in Boston church and commits a crime with intended effect of rousting the Saints out of hiding in the Irish countryside where they are camouflaged in years of uncharted facial hair growth.  The plan inevitably works as they arrive stateside to clear their name, commit some more gratuitous violence, and take on a misplaced and annoying-as-can-be sidekick whilst evading the FBI and law enforcement alike.  The supporting cast of cheesy cops is so sophomorically written and pathetically conceived that it is difficult to decide whether dialogue or delivery is worse.  It is matters not, however, as either way their placement is surely and clearly aimed but poorly and inaccurately fired. 

Revisited: Matchstick Men (2003)

            Taken from Eric Garcia’s novel of the same name and caliber, this unlikely Ridley Scott film is a straightforward adaptation of a rather serene novel.  It is as much a story about family as it is about psychological condition as it is about the con game.

            Cage stars as a successful con man whose tics and obsessive tendencies are as much a benefit to his game as they are a detriment; they ensure his precise and careful construction while at other moments almost blow the take.  Scott takes every opportunity to subject the audience to the characters point of view, a technique that years ago bothered my viewing but today are rather tame.  The jump cuts, blurred vision, intensified sound and color lend themselves appropriately to the subjective experimentation that filmmakers have been exploring since the birth of the medium.

            The film’s only glaring detriment is its low potential for a rewatch.  It has been years since I last saw it and months since I read the book, but knowing the precise narrative end ruins its surprise.  And it doesn’t, as it probably should, force one to reevaluate every scene and look for clues; the ones that exist are obvious when seen in the right context.

            Given personal affection for caper films, it is unfortunate that this one is so forgettable.  There is a sharp and crisp visual style that plays well for the story, yet with its conclusion there is not much to dwell on; everything has been patched and lives are in order.  I’ll blame Hollywood for the just heck of it.

Pumping Iron (1977)

Yes, this is the Arnold documentary where the now world famous strongman/actor/governor compares the act of weightlifting to sexual gratification.  And such comparisons never hurt his political career.  While he may not show it now, in his aged and endured state, back in the day he was ripped from head to toe, more so than in Terminator.

            Labeled as a documentary, there are many confessed falsities revealed in a follow-up documentary about the film’s making.  Regardless, the content within is energetic and testosterone infused, making it all the more entertaining and impressive.  There seems a natural peculiarity in the sport itself, where one builds loads of muscle then poses on stage to scores of screaming fans and everyday weaklings.  Perhaps there is something vicarious in a muscle-bound mammoth of a man displays the potential of the human body, a potential that none of us normies will ever reach.

            At the same time there is just as much oddity in the event.  It is like a freakshow, a collection of strange people, who in this case have something in common.  But unlike that malformed or bizarre, these people have intentionally transformed their body into something more.  And more is better.

            The film creates a battle between Arnold and an East Coast nemesis who weighs in at 275 pounds of solid muscle.  His father is his trainer, he is partially deaf, and his gym is like a torture chamber where he gruels away the days.  On the other side of the country is Arnold pumping weights at Gold’s Gym and Venice Beach and posing in photo shoots with bikini-clad women.  And this rivalry was created for the film, regardless of whether it would have existed itself; it was embellished by the filmmakers for the sake of conflict.

            This is not altogether a bad thing, but labeling it a documentary stretches the definition to a degree.  A degree that, in my opinion, is not even necessary in the first place.  The body building culture, which is still effectively portrayed throughout the film, is fascinating in its own right.  Legions of screaming fans and scores of muscle magazines and groups of the manliest of men encouraging each other to lift a little more.  Much of this film is consists of groaning interludes with specific music that, if one were to close their eyes, could be mistaken for an old-school adult film.

            But ‘tis not the case and this 1977 feature is as motivating as it is curious.  A definite must for the cult fan, doc snob, and muscle head. 

Review: Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time

     If there was one review that I whole-heartedly agree with, it would be Manohla Dargis' Before the Sword Fights, Cue the Harem Girls. The film, directed by Mike Newell in his second film since Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2005), is a "high concept" video game with money behind it. Jerry Bruckheimer, who produced the film, has a clear hand in everything from content to form. The characters, the comedy, and the action all feel like a failing attempt at Pirates of the Caribbean (Gore Verbinski, 2003, 2006, 2007).

     Unfortunately, as Dargis points out, the film takes a political stance against America's current involvement with Iraq, using weapons (of mass destruction?) as an excuse to attack an otherwise innocent city. The weapons are, of course, never found, and a deeper plot is exploited throughout the run of the film. Continuing on the same line, Alfred Molina's character begins complaining about taxation and the bad effect it has on small businesses. Reallly, the film could have done without any of it. (but what would have been left, then?)
     Generally, the film's strengths lie in the visuals (John Seale) and the music (by Harry Gregson-Williams) which generally hold one's attention. The action sequences are fairly well-pulled off, and Dastan's (Jake Gyllenhaal) acrobatics, in a very video-game-like way, are enough to leave one dizzy, but entertained. But despite his ability to pull off these moves, Gyllenhaal fails to impress with his acting skills, especially with his "British" accent. The other actors are equally as bland, Ben Kingsly seemingly type-cast as the same character in every movie, and Molina giving an intriguing, if not so unique, character to laugh at.
     Overall, there's not much here. Just another film pumped out from Hollywood to entertain (or at least to attempt to).