Quickies, Vol. XXXI

The Double Life of Véronique (1991, dir. Krzysztof Kieslowski) – A film that continues to challenge and provoke. Struck this time around by the very immanent nature of Kieslowski’s transcendence. Zizek thinks Kieslowski finds “God” a cosmic sadist (to use C.S. Lewis’ term), a rather mean child who toys with his creation for his own entertainment. Then Zizek goes on to perform neo-Lacanian analysis of Kieslowski’s own life (not his person, mind you; his life history), which renders his film theory very theoretical indeed. To boil down this film to something so dismissively simple seems quite unfair. The filmmaker here certainly toys with the notion that the Divine may not be purely gracious, but Kieslowski seems rather to suggest that it’s humanity’s idols that are vacant of grace and sovereignty, not the Great Other Himself. So the film constructs false gods in order to tear them down. On the other hand, the film also ends on a distinctly terrestrial note. For being so transcendent in nature, Kieslowski is a man of the earth.

12 Monkeys (1995, dir. Terry Gilliam) – A wild ride, and one that deserves more than it typically gets. Having not seen a ton of feature-length adaptations of short films by different filmmakers, it’s probably not worth much to say that this is one of the best of that variety. Here, though, the colors, the lenses, the sets, the shots, and the music create something superbly surreal. What the film says about reality and sanity hearkens back to Gillian’s earlier Brazil, this time tapping into something more quintessentially “Nineties” in all of its end-of-the-millennium paranoia. Just when you think you’ve honed in on who the truly “insane” are, you’re thrown a curve ball. The crazy revolutionaries are too crazy really to be crazy. It may be the scientists, the professors, the intellectuals that are truly mad. Undoubtedly.

Somewhere (2010, dir. Sofia Coppola) – The grand prize at Venice? Unanimously voted? What else was showing at Venice? As Wife observed, this film reminds one of Maeby’s classic line in Arrested Development when it’s inadvertently suggested that she end a film with two characters walking across the ocean: “No, deep is good. People are going to say, ‘What the hell just happened? I better say I like it,’ because nobody wants to seem stupid.” Being one of those who appreciated Lost In Translation and even Marie Antoinette, perhaps we can state with some degree of credit that Somewhere seems to go out of its way to be “arthouse,” begging even lovers of Terrence Malick and Wes Anderson to use the big “P” word (pretentious) in describing Sofia’s latest. Yes, it’s wandering, fluid, elusive, exploratory; and not explanatory, straightforward, or all that structured. The point being made is not a difficult one, but the film presents it as difficult. This is essentially the definition of the “P” word.

Akira (1988, dir. Katsuhiro Otomo) – Animated dystopia at its best, probably, but who watches much of it? Seems like such a time warp into the 80s, not to mention a space warp into Japan. Put those two together and you get something so huge and ideologically influential (not to mention aesthetically) that there are probably countless dissertations out there on the subject. The myth at the narrative’s center is easily the most interesting aspect of the film. After years of waiting for their god to resurrect, they stumble into the definitively postmodern fact that god is dead and guys with money have just been perpetuating the image of his existence for all this time.

Fanboys (2009, dir. Kyle Newman) – By geeks, for geeks, via geeks. A flatly objective satire on Star Wars followers would have equated them, ultimately, with Star Trek nerds. Instead, Fanboys, despite utilizing William Shatner himself, shamelessly betrays its preference for all things Lucas. This makes the project all the more endearing, and is probably exactly what led Shatner to agree to it (recall his infamous SNL rant). Those behind and in front of the camera are perfectly tuned into the confused sexuality of these tools, which not only disarms the films critics but gives the film’s social awkwardness that special ingredient of self-consciousness.

Galaxy Quest (1999, dir. Dean Parisot) – Actually watched this one the night before the aforementioned. As a former Trekker/Trekkie/whatever-they-want-to-be-called-these-days, Galaxy Quest really is the Star Trek equivalent of Fanboys. It is the equivalent in the sense that Trek people really are a more social crowd: gathering at conventions and submerging themselves in team heroism, too busy to flip their noses at Star Wars people. (Arguably, they know that Roddenberry could no more take down Lucas than the Gorn could take down Kirk.) Made for an older crowd than Fanboys, Galaxy Quest is a bit more laid back and takes even its satire less seriously than the former.

Quickies, Vol. XXX

The Stranger (1946, dir. Orson Welles) – Deserves more space, obviously. Suffice it to say, Welles’ camera rewards the viewer’s careful attention. Every movement is so deliberate, and the long takes don’t draw attention to themselves as a result of competence in front of and behind the lens. This would be great for a study of spaces and eras. Wartime Germany –> postwar Americana. Small-town rural: the soda joint, the church, the trail through the woods.

Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides (2011, dir. Rob Marshall) – Yeah, rough. Hadn’t seen the previous one and had only seen the one before that once. Thanks to Twitter, was expecting it to suck, and it came through. Something actually a little interesting was suggested by the vicious, bloodsucking, vampire mermaids, but of course it descended into a Twilight-esque melodrama. Depp: get back to hanging out with Jarmusch, or even Burton, for that matter.

Rango (2011, dir. Gore Verbinski) – It’s been awhile now, but this seemed like one of the better, more unique examples of animated fare of the last few years. Unlike a lot of stuff, which is made both for kids and adults, this one is made for kids and cinephiles. Plenty of allusions to the classics, particularly Westerns. And it sticks pretty well to the man-with-no-name formula, in the sense that Rango doesn’t have much of a past and we only know his self-invented name. Also, a shout out to some of the most impressive animation one’s gonna see these days.

The Outlaw (1943, dir. Howard Hughes & Howard Hawks) – Other than existing to ignore censors and exploit Jane Russell’s assets, The Outlaw has the feel of a B-movie from its acting to its absence of substance to its poor camera work to its striking lack of cleverness. Still, it stands as yet another testament to the mythos of the American West, a kind of revisionist history that puts Doc Holliday, Billy the Kid, and Pat Garrett in the same story and imagining a different ending to the generally accepted historical one. The characters don’t have the edge that later Westerns do, instead glorifying the “outlaws” and vilifying the sheriff. Doc and Billy are sweeties; innocents, really. Gay stuff is everywhere, of course, even with a woman like Russell cast aside by comparing her regularly with a horse.

Quickies, Vol. XXIX: Fantasies

Close Encounters of the Third Kind (dir. Steven Spielberg, 1977) – At this point, Spielberg hadn’t quite mastered his balance between grand scope and human interest; it’s overly big with not enough emphasis on the small. It’s good and well to offer a regular joe as your main protagonist, but don’t dwarf him too much. E.T., Indiana Jones, etc. do a better job with this. Still, lots of nice images of children, with the juvenile elements of humanity most likely to connect with the extra-terrestrial.

Ghostbusters 2 (dir. Ivan Reitman, 1985) – An old, guilty pleasure. Not as classic as the original, but still with its moments. It’s all Murray’s show as far as comedy goes, and all Aykroyd’s show as far as the occult stuff goes. There’s a lot of postcolonialism going on here, a la The Exorcist. All that is paranormal and weird seems to originate in the third world, reflecting all of our “Western” anxieties about the other/Other/mother. Whereas in the first film we have a symbol of Western capitalism terrorizing Manhattan – in a fundamental departure from the Godzilla rampage in Tokyo – this one flips to the “other” side: what we have most to fear is no longer ourselves, positioned here as we are halfway through the Reagan era, but the other, more netherworldy hemispheres.

Everything You’ve Always Wanted To Know About Sex…But Were Afraid To Ask (dir. Woody Allen, 1971) – Didn’t finish this one…didn’t make it halfway through, to be truthful. The idea of a series of vignettes about sex is worthwhile enough, and one would think that if anyone had something interesting and humorous to say about the subject, it would be Woody. It suffers from lengthy periods of either complete silence (intended as humorous awkwardness) or painful attempts at jokes. So many setups, so few coherent witticisms.

Femme Fatale (dir. Brian De Palma, 200?) – A pleasant surprise from the very techie, very senses-minded De Palma. He likes his cinema, too, as Blow-Out and this one clearly demonstrate. He’s playing with cinema’s tools, almost theorizing with them, and it comes off as exploratory and experimental rather than flashy and pretentious. By using such a classical form and narrative (noir) and toying with it and injecting it with modern thriller tropes, he whips up an interesting and bold mash-up that is, in its way, a very cool novelty. (Each of these films was screened via Netflix Instant, so screenshots suffer.)

Quickies, Vol. XXVIII

Topper (dir. Norman Z. MacLeod, 1937) – As with all of these, it was awhile ago, invoking the question, why bother? That’s fair. To answer, probably just as a record, in order to lessen the already-high odds of forgetting about them completely. So, this is just a silly little something that was hugely popular back in the day. It is both refreshing and disturbing to see characters in the 30s treating the issue of death with such levity, actually. In the years soon to follow (WWII and aftermath), this would change. This is in the vein of Arsenic and Old Lace, but not quite as well written. Produced by Hal Roach, you can see his Little Rascals fingerprints all over it.

Lady Chatterley (dir. Pascale Ferran, 2007) – Oh, dear. You can call it a literary adaptation of a great novelist, or something much closer to sex-kitsch. The most fascinating thing about this one is getting to see a reverent and painstaking adaptation of a book that probably didn’t deserve the praise it received, D.H. Lawrence’s novel of the same (or a similar) name. As far as cinematics go, this is adeptly done. As far as the content goes, it feels like a Dead Poet’s Society-type embrace of Romanticism even in the face of its glaring pitfalls. It’s fitting that this is in French, filmed by a French guy, despite taking place in England.

You Can’t Take It With You (dir. Frank Capra, 1938) – Dear, dear Frank Capra. This is, in practically every way, the pre-WWII part-one to It’s A Wonderful Life. The “problems” they encounter here are utterly trivial (other than token allusions to the Depression), and the comedy is textbook screwball. Great to have Jean Arthur and Jimmy Stewart share the screen – is it possible that she and Jimmy click better than she and Cary? Provocative. Lionel Barrymore is the polar opposite of his Mr. Potter in the later film. This may also be a kind of precursor to the family comedies that made My Big Fat Greek Wedding such a formulaic success.

Mystery Science Theater 3000 – Pod People (1983/1991)- Excepting the incomparable Mitchell with Joe Don Baker (and with Hobgoblins close behind), this is the best MST3K episode. We’re watching an ultra-cheap ripoff of Close Encounters of the Third Kind and E.T. fused with a seventies teen flick. They combine to form ideal material for riffing: just enough structure and bad special effects to keep it interesting, and more than enough filmic incompetence that it deserves all that it has coming to it.

Apollo 13 (dir. Ron Howard, 1995) – Golden material for someone like Ron Howard, that great cinematic manipulator of emotions. It’s tailored to those who remember the historic event, and intended to function precisely as the historic event to those of us unborn at the time. As if Howard thought, this was such a big deal that we should relive it up-close, and recreate it for our children. Archival news footage is spliced into the film with reckless abandon, as the film insists that its content is real despite its form being quite unreal.

Quickies, Vol. XXVII: Bromances, sort of

Pirate Radio (dir. Richard Curtis, 2009) – As movies go, bad. But, it’s another example of the mythologizing of the 60s, as seen in other rock ‘n roll period films like Almost Famous and Taking Woodstock. Like those, this one centers on a male youth who’s a fish-out-of-water, an audience stand-in that helps us relate to the wild world of the then. The era is remembered with fondness, a time of innocence and blossoming, letting loose our scruples and letting our wild juices flow. It’s decidedly overly utopian, even when it does acknowledge an opponent out to get them. In this case, it’s Kenneth Branaugh, whose character is such an irredeemable villain that the audience has nothing to grab a hold of. He has no humanity, no motivation, no incentive other than taking down people who like contemporary music. We’re never shown his underlying affections, only his rampant hatred. It would be funny if it weren’t so serious.

Old School (dir. Todd Phillips, 2003) – It had been awhile. This time more than ever, was overwhelmed by the presence of phalluses. This is a textbook case of the bromance, or the dickflick, after all. Women so don’t matter in this world. The men all move in with each other. They kiss each other. They hug each other. They treat each other with the kind of affection they are incapable of showing to women (“You’re my boy, Blue!”). They hate Dean Pritchard, as does the film itself, which is interesting. He plays a gay-ish character, while the rest of them are defined simply by their homoeroticism. The former is shameless and consummated, while the latter is closeted and defined only by desire.

Oceans Eleven (dir. Steven Soderbergh, 2001) – Pure entertainment, for the most part. It’s not a “bromance,” technically, but it’s an all-boys show for sure. Julia Roberts is the token woman presence, which functions, of course, as an excuse for all the guys to get together and take down a man who’s defined by lack of community, unlike this crew. It’s also a celebrity-fest, obviously. The men here are portrayed as the sex objects they are in “real life,” with Brad Pitt in particular wallowing in own beautiful image. He does here what Sandra Bullock used to do all the time (maybe she still does; who knows?): eat constantly while maintaining a beautiful figure and complexion, stirring a raging jealousy in us alongside a desire both to have him and to be him.

Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy (dir. Adam McKay, 2004) – While it mightn’t immediately jump to one’s mind as a bromance, this is the real deal, no doubt. Multiple and lengthy sequences exist in which male members of the news crew both express their undying affection for one another and their undying loathing for the addition of a woman to the staff. An interesting feature of the bromance, which is reflected in Anchorman, is how the films themselves work as opportunities for male bonding in the viewing experience. The films not only depict repressed men in love with one another, but they encourage homoerotic bonding in male viewers and completely reject the possibility of allowing female viewing pleasure as a woman. To appreciate the comedy of these films, a woman must deny herself and assume a male position. The way female characters even speak in these movies causes wonder as to why an actress would accept such a role. The dialogue forces her to speak solely for male pleasure, catering to the misogyny (however ridiculous it may be suggested to be) of the male audience.

Quickies, Vol. XXVI

The Red Shoes (dir. Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger, 1948) – This was awhile ago, but it begs mentioning. A beautiful, nearly sublime film that only early Technicolor could produce. Films about art that still maintain a concern for the inner political machinations and ramifications of art demand attention. They don’t pretend to transcend, and in so doing they wind up utterly transcendent. The portrayal of theater nearly suggests that theater existed for centuries – millennia – simply to preface what it would look like cinematically. Put them both together and they give birth to something that neither on its own could approach.

Breathless (dir. Jim McBride, 1983) – Although it’s been just long enough to warrant a revisit to Godard’s “original” (something about calling Godard “original” is always slightly ironic), took in the American remake instead. Expectations were low, so when this one offered some really remarkable bits, pieces, and overall product, apologies were in order. This belongs with the “best” of the L.A. films. Los Angeles dominates everything about it and is used adeptly as a catalyst that drives the narrative. Also, cinema. They make love behind the giant screen, with Gun Crazy‘s own love scene in the background. They aren’t cinephiles, exactly, but this is meta. At one point she stands identified with a contemporary Venus de Milo mural. It, like the film, is a scribbling over something classic and established. This is permissible, since that’s all Godard was doing in the first place. The films plays with the gaze, attempting to offer a more balanced take on the typical assumed male spectator. Richard Gere is objectified sexually, although so is Valerie Kaprisky. Still, shots of her are complex, offering subjective access rather than just candy for the male viewer’s enjoyment.

Blow Out (dir. Brian DePalma, 1981) – Like the above Breathless, here’s another free-standing gem that rips heavily but shamelessly off European art house cinema from the sixties. Blow-Up was Antonioni’s look at surveillance and all its implications regarding reality, or the lack thereof. DePalma’s version works off of Antonioni’s, along with Coppola’s The Conversation, but with a more realist narrative conclusion. It may not be feel-good, but it’s geared more toward audience expectations and pleasure. That’s to say, Travolta doesn’t disappear on a green in the last shot as Hemmings does in Blow-Up, and he doesn’t return to a primal, womb-like stage like Hackman does in the last shot of The Conversation.

Revolver (dir. Guy Ritchie, 2005) – This was marketed as Ritchie’s return to form, following his dabbling in the remake business and featuring his wife Madonna as the main star (Swept Away). In Revolver, he’s trying to have his cake and eat it too. Going for maximum entertainment value, the film also wallows in its refusal to give any clear-cut answers. Reminds one of the description of Lucille Bluth in Arrested Development: “She gets off on being withholding.” Once the film wraps up, Ritchie enlists various psychologists and university profs to explain the mental phenomenon underlying the film’s narrative uncertainty during the closing credits. Whatever. Using this sort of thing as an instrument to a greater end is one thing, but it comes off as highly pretentious. Hitchcock had a way of giving the audience enough to work with while maintaining suspense, but films like Revolver put off the distinct vibe of being better than their audience. Ritchie confirms this in an interview, acknowledging that they cut out a lot of material that would have shed more light on the nature of the plot.

The Great Dictator (dir. Charlie Chaplin, 1940) – Embarrassed not to have seen it earlier, but at least it’s now happened. Quite a fascinating Prince and the Pauper story set in WWII, mostly because of Chaplin’s suggestion of Hitler’s humanity. Of course, he later said he wouldn’t have made the film if he’d known about the nature of the Holocaust. The most interesting scene has to be when Hinkel plays with the balloon-globe privately in his nest of an office. There’s something wickedly beautiful, almost transcendent, about the image. Chaplin is a self-described fool, so when he portrays a Hitler-esque dictator, he comes across as a naughty child who is so self-obsessed (as children tend to be) as not to consider the realities going on based on his ruthless orders.

Morning Glory (dir. Roger Michell, 2010) – Wow, just awful. This one sticks to the formula like it’s got nothing else to offer, which it doesn’t. Harrison Ford seems just as scotch-drunk here as he did on Conan a couple weeks ago. Rachel McAdams’ character, to which the viewer is sutured, is a workaholic whose outlook on life is completely superficial, and that is applauded at least or assumed normal at best. The obligatory unemployed montage is an insensitive insertion in an era of massive unemployment. It’s another movie that tells us: you can be the very best, if you only work hard enough, and once you get to the top, you realize how only then can you take a breather and enjoy life a little.

Quickies, Vol. XXIV

The War Wagon (dir. Burt Kennedy, 1967) – This is really all formula, all textbook Western – for its era, anyway. John Wayne is a slightly less upstanding character this time around (but there were hints of that even in The Searchers, weren’t there? Wayne and Kirk Douglas certainly make a fine pair, although one wishes they’d taken advantage of the opportunity and put more of a visionary director at the help. It’s been commented upon that the Native Americans are pure stereotypes here (savage pawns existing for the purposes of the white protagonist, until they are easily massacred while the Duke rides away into the sunset…unlike The Searchers), to say nothing of the Mexican women (buxom, and that is all). Still, an old, entertaining classic.

Gunfight at the O.K. Corral (dir. John Sturges, 1957) – There has been a bunch of films about the notorious gunfight, about Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday, those legends of the American West/Midwest that may as well have staged their lives in order to inspire one of the ideal Western narratives. Even the Westerns, old and Spaghetti, that have nothing to do with Earp and Holliday have everything to do with them. This realization of the story features a relatively inept Wyatt Earp, who needs Doc Holliday’s help even more than he’s usually willing to admit. He’s a rather poor judge of character, inasmuch as Burt Lancaster’s version of him allows for such an interpretation between the lines of the historical source. Contrast him with, say, Kurt Russell’s messianic version of Earp in Tombstone. Marks go to Sturges’ film, however, for subtlety and not being made in the 90s.

Snatch (dir. Guy Ritchie, 2000) – It’s still in style (as it probably always will be) to say that Lock, Stock… is better, so we must review it sometime soon in order to judge. To those of us who, in 2000, were not as in touch with broader cinematic trends, Guy Ritchie’s films seemed to come out of nowhere and carry tons of street cred by virtue of (1) being British and (2) being cool enough to lure Brad Pitt out of movies like Meet Joe Black and cameos in Friends for no paycheck (reportedly). Now, it’s easier to see Pulp Fiction all over it, along with plenty of other hipster-friendly, heist-driven, pop-and-roll-soundtracked, ecstasy-inspired editing before it. To be fair, though, it seems more than a little clear that Steven Soderbergh took a lot of hints from Snatch before delving into the Oceans series. What does Snatch say, exactly? What a confusing world we live in, with so many coincidences that mock humanity’s efforts to carry out their harebrained, get-rich-quick scenes. If you win in the end, it’s by sheer luck and despite the incompetence that undergirds the illusion of smarts you see when you look in the mirror.

Top Gun (dir. Tony Scott, 1986) – As gay as they get. So very many clichés fill this one up to the brim, but to be fair, it invented most of them. Tarantino’s rant in Sleep With Me gets some of the details wrong, and it certainly conflates everything else about the movie into subtextual homoeroticism (as so many are prone to do), but basically it’s all there. Buddy movies had existed for decades before this one, although they started to hit a real stride in the 70s. With Top Gun, it’s taken to a new level and given a man-love triangle to make it more interesting. Also, this is a big lesson in old-school morals, in the vein of Aesop’s Fables. Don’t be too cocky, or it’ll come back to bite you. Have fun in your job, but remember just what a high calling it is to be in the Navy. Hard to see much more in this through Tom Cruise’s perpetual grin.

Quickies, Vol. XXIII: In which Tony Curtis goes downhill

Sex and the Single Girl (dir. Richard Quine, 1964) – A Tony Curtis marathon was obviously in order, following the old fella’s death recently at the ripe old age of 85. (Held off on Some Like It Hot for now on account of a relatively recent viewing.) This one is, well, very sexy indeed. One must try not to think of Natalie Wood as the cute little girl from Miracle on 34th Street during this one, at the risk of feeling quite awkward indeed. They call this “the poor man’s Pillow Talk,” but I don’t see what’s so “poor” about it. Quite funny, quite amusing, albeit completely formulaic. These films rely on gender tropes, and also on undermining them just enough to entertain/surprise the audience. Thank you, Netflix Instant.

The Amorous Mis-Adventures of Casanova, or, Casanova & Co., or, Some Like It Cool (dir. Franz Antel, 1979) – Must admit to turning this off after only 20 minutes or so. Even worse, must admit to watching the first 20 minutes or so. Thus ends the Tony Curtis marathon, with an unfortunately abrupt conclusion at Curtis’ softcore stint in the late 70s. This one is so bad from so many different vantage points. The male fantasy here gets to have a complete heyday without an ounce of brains stitching together disconnected, pornographic scenes. Thank you, Netflix Instant.

The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Todd Margaret (created by Shaun Pye & David Cross, 2010) – In a word, wow. In a few more, this pilot starts off about as great as a pilot can start out: love the courtroom scene followed by “14 days earlier” (or whatever). No one could play the clueless American as well as David Cross, who has made part of his living out of dissing the Larry-the-Cable-Guy-type American persona. Will Arnett’s character is Devon Banks (3o Rock) on crack. Some of this humor is distinctly “British” and not “American” (quotations tossed out there as an acknowledgment to problems with essentialism); the restaurant scene in particular just didn’t seem to end. Be reminded of this (and Monty Python) whenever we’re told that American humor is slapstick and British humor sophisticated.

The Man Who Knew Too Much (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1934) – It’s not an easy job to engage with these older British films, especially when the picture is so dark. Clearly, though, this is Hitchcock. Lots of little tools and frills are thrown out there for story cohesion, stylistic flare, and, of course, good old-fashioned suspense. The penultimate scene in a crowded theater is now so signature that you would know something’s about to happen there even without being told. Also, you have to appreciate the bookends of the mother firing a shotgun both for and in spite of her daughter. Will need to revisit the remake.

Quickies, Vol. XXII

Duplicity (dir. Tony Gilroy, 2009) – Refreshing and helpful to see this one for the first time since the big screen. What stands out now is how it turns on its head the traditional caper movie, something that Gilroy was probably only too glad to do after penning the Bourne stuff. So what this amounts to is playing a trick on the cinema audience. Normally, as in the Oceans movies et al., we’re mostly informed as to the plan, but left in the dark about a key part of it so as to wow us at the end. That’s what we’re led to believe is happening in Duplicity, until the big upset twist at the end. The fact that it’s the corporate world that gets the best of the little guys (not to mention their corporate rival), is the movie’s reference point with reality. These days, even high-class thieves that look like Julia Roberts and Clive Owen can’t best the bigwigs in the high-rises.

A Hard Day’s Night (dir. Richard Lester, 1964) – We could by cynical about it and say it was intended to create a particular image for the Beatles, or we could be idealistic about it and say it embodied who they were, or we could be realistic and say that the truth, as always, is probably somewhere in the middle. Stylistically, its content is just so well-suited to its form. Despite the screaming girls in the background, John, Paul, George, and Ringo seem mostly ambivalent about them and prefer to goof off for the camera. It’s no accident that this came out just in time to incorporate a number of nouvelle vague techniques, since it was the same world that needed a major break in cinematic form as the one that needed a major change in popular music and accompanying persona.

The Palm Beach Story (dir. Preston Sturges, 1942) – Saw this one not too long ago, but just long enough ago that details are evading the memory. Recalling that everything is pretty wonderfully backwards about it; it turns the happily-ever-after story on its head, and explicitly so, from the beginning. While the rest of the country is recovering from the Depression, this couple is entering their own financial and romantic recession; or maybe Sturges thinks it’s finally kosher to joke around about financial woes. The target of his critique isn’t only the everyman, but the rich folks (“John D. Hackensacker” = John D. Rockefeller). As always dialogue and pacing are generally pretty quick; vintage Sturges. Some of the scenes, however, seem to lag on, although probably intentionally. The train car sequence is one of these, with a club of drunk men swooning over and serenading Claudette Colbert.

Frantic (dir. Roman Polanski, 1988) -Polanski is channeling Hitchcock here, as everyone can’t help but point out when they watch Frantic. It’s another case of urban spaces and the havoc they can wreak on the dweller, or, in this case, the tourist. The opening credits are overlaid on images of American Richard Walker (Harrison Ford) and his wife driving into Paris in a taxi (surely the inspiration for the opening shots of Lost in Translation and others). (The closing credits follow the couple back out of town toward the airport.) When a tire blowout halts their arrival in the city, we know immediately that Paris will throw plenty of curve balls at Walker, which he will be better at fixing than the Parisians (he seems more adept at changing the tire than the cab driver, but even then is prevented on account of a flat spare). The famous early shots in the hotel room split Walker and his wife within the same screen in both visual depth and aural fields; they often can’t hear each other or talk past each other. They’re on different pages, much in the same way that Walker won’t be able to communicate with the Parisians whose help he needs to locate his wife. So much suspense; so little that actually happens; so much depth of field; and so many of those dwarfing, claustrophobic de-profundis shots.

Point Blank (dir. John Boorman, 1967) – They call it a neo-noir, of the modernist sort (as opposed to simply “modern” or “postmodern”), since it utilizes noir themes and styles while critiquing its assumptions. That seems fair. Boorman injects formal surrealism into it, with a shockingly chaotic use of colors, liquids, cuts, and flashbacks. Walker can’t escape his past, figuratively, but we’re never quite sure if he’s escaped it literally. It may be all a dream, a vengeful fantasy. The centripetal urban space of traditional film noir is sacrificed for what L.A. really is: a sprawling, centrifugal, somehow-urban plain that scatters rather than gathers. One of the noir assumptions that Point Blank challenges and rejects is the practice of, simply, making assumptions. The one character whom Walker trusts and in whom he confides turns out to be the real enemy the whole time. This goes also for the spectator, who traditionally could trust whomever the protagonist trusts. We, like Walker, are punished for this misplaced faith. Also, instead of the war-torn gumshoe, the pretty-much upstanding private eye, we have here a war-torn criminal who’s been double-crossed. Let’s call a spade a spade; there’s something sinister lurking within the genre and there always has been, and Boorman has the guts to foreground it. Finally, can’t help but love the name “Walker,” especially when considering Dimendberg’s oft-cited work Film Noir and the Spaces of Modernity, particularly the chapter on the “walking cure” as the temporary fix of urban malaise.

Quickies, Vol. XXI

Une Femme Mariée (dir. Jean-Luc Godard, 1964) – Have read it said that this one empowers women, but that’s about the most superficial, narrative-prejudicial sort of reading one can imagine. Do not the first umpteen shots in the film so fracture the female body that the rest of the film can only be seen through that violent lens? This is Vivre sa vie but less coherent, less worked through. The woman is either mother or whore, sometimes both, but never neither. The headshots alone create either the most uncomfortable viewing experience or the most obliviously pleasurable. She is so framed, so polished, so posed, so (sigh) objectified, and JLG knows it all too well. This is apparently the point, and one that he never seemed to tire of making in the same basic way so repeatedly.

"I'm Tom Jane."

Under Suspicion (dir. Stephen Hopkins, 2000) – Pretty much the worst. You can be a nihilist, but you still have to mean something.

The Rescuers (dir. Wolfgang Reitherman et al., 1977) – Not much to report. Fun in places, perhaps stands out by virtue of being Disney, being animated, and not being a musical in the usual Disney sense.

The Rescuers Down Under (dir. Hendel Butoy & Mike Gabriel, 1990) – They say, the first fully totally digitally animated film made. The opening shot alone is worth one’s viewing. After that, the first 15 minutes or so are alone worth one’s viewing. The animators are clearly having fun here, exploiting their new computers to maximum effect, and it’s pure visual pleasure. Sure, you miss the little pencil imperfections from The Jungle Book and Robin Hood, but this is a new breed of Disney, and one that works well. Ensemble of characters that maintains the spirit of the good ones and opened a brief, great period of Disney films that has now been overtaken by Pixar/Disney.

The Awful Truth (dir. Leo McCarey, 1937) – A predictable (but that’s the point, right?) bit of classic code-era Hollywood fare. It creates the initial impression of raciness, suggesting divorce, but then comes full circle and celebrates raciness within its boundaries, not unlike It Happened One Night. So, like The Philadelphia Story but not as good. Cary Grant & Irene Dunne click together almost as well as Grant and Jean Arthur, but Ralph Bellamy does well to offer some Southern, masculine flare.

Eight Miles High (dir. Achim Bornhak, 2007) – A German biopic on the infamous groupie Uschi Obermaier. A major problem with many biopics is the impression that the filmmakers don’t need to defend their content on the basis of it being a “true story.” This seems to be one of the problems here. Just because it “happened” doesn’t make it film-worthy. And in some cases, a particularly interesting true story doesn’t make for a great film. Eh.

Quickies, Vol. XX

Ever heard of Van Gogh?

Age of Consent (dir. Michael Powel, 1969) – Trying to catch up, so it’s gonna have to be another one of these; machine gun style rather than the usual fire hose style…and definitely quantity over quality, with the exception of this first one. Age of Consent, that classic of the great Brit Michael Powell’s, is lent some theatrical legitimacy by virtue of its casting: James Mason and Helen Mirren. Powell gives Mirren’s young girl character secondary but strikingly strong point of view here. While engagement with Mason was unavoidable (and not only because of his “producer” status) given the nature of the narrative, the young model grows a little out of her naivete while remaining constrained by her environment. There was more here, originally, but it’s been a few weeks.

Cotton mouth

Me, Myself & Irene (dir. Farrelly Brothers, 2000) – It had been awhile, and it was on TV, so what the heck. The Farrellys are addicted to shock comedy, and usually to its companion, the buddy film. This one veers away from the latter, probably because Jim Carrey was through sharing the spotlight at this stage in his career. Music is used effectively as an interior musical soundtrack to Charlie/Hank’s transformations but Carrey’s performance draws more attention to itself than it does to intended comedic effects. The film doesn’t seem to mind its inherent contradiction: nature/nurture. Charlie’s upbringing and general social treatment in life lead to his schizophrenia (or split-personality), while “his” black sons remain quite stereotypically urban despite being reared by a (very) white male parent. But whatever, this is one of the few things that makes the movie funny.

I just shot Bill Murray.

Zombieland (dir. Ruben Fleischer, 2009) – Probably the American answer to Shaun of the Dead, and somewhat admirable. It’s being commented upon that Jesse Eisenberg and Michael Cera are the go-to guys for affable, impotent American male youth, and this feels true. This is about location and rules, law and space. As the last semblance of the living, the survivors take on the names of their hometowns while, interestingly, doing their darnedest to eat (Twinkies) and play (amusement park). The unique edginess of the film seems coincidental with the popular outlook these days: fatalistic hedonism, or, society’s going down the tubes so I’m going to go live it up.

Crashed

Wedding Crashers (dir. David Dobkin, 2005) – The buddy comedy reaches new levels of (attempted) legitimacy by casting Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson at their peaks, then adding Christopher Walken and Jane Seymour. While Vaughn steals the show, he’s given a run for his money by the up-and-coming Bradley Cooper, who plays the most insane-funny bad guy since the principal in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. This is all bros-before-hos, of course, with Isla Fischer and Seymour constituting the only non-boring, non-judgmental females in the film…and they’re both clinically nuts. This one follows the formula, albeit more effectively than your average Starsky and Hutch or Envy-type fare.

Objects in mirror...

Mission: Impossible – 2 (dir. John Woo, 2000) – Pure nostalgia, for some of us. Apparently this is loaded with John Woo trademarks, but who knows. Overt yet vacant symbolism makes this quite apropos for MST3K. As Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise, of course) descends into the bowels of the enemy compound on a note-so-remote island off the coast of Sydney, he buddies up with a lone dove surrounded by filthy pigeons. I’m not making this up. There are too many vantage points from which to attack this allegory, so we’ll just choose one: why is Hunt identified with the avian symbol of peace and life when he proceeds to unload round after round of ammunition on his pigeon-like enemies? Maybe it’s for a greater cause, but peace this is not. This Mission: Impossible movies are about the star image of Cruise, more than anything. But if there’s a flow to the three we have thus far, it’s moving into what could be considered a more “human” direction. The first film is about computer hacking, with a little biblical verbiage thrown in. The sequel is about the body, biological warfare, and (of course) the use of the female body as the petri dish for transporting a killer virus. (She, by the way, is so incessantly punished and generally put-back-into-her-place that no female agency exists here at all. She’s a thing to be used, which is ironic, since Tom Cruise is such a tool.) The third film gets very personal, with a psychotic super-bad guy who gets off on being pure evil kidnapping, holding ransom, and nearly murdering Hunt’s new woman (this time, wife). Seeing as the villain in the first film is a middle-aged woman, the fact that women become major factors that only propel the subsequent narratives by virtue of their powerlessness is quite fitting and natural.

Quickies, Vol. XIX

Bonnie and Clyde (dir. Arthur Penn, 1967) – It’s got New Hollywood written all over it, and it’s affected so much that’s come after it. Still, it contains plenty of echoes to all that is old and non-Hollywood, like Battleship Potemkin, e.g. Hard not to think of Eisenstein’s peasant woman on the steps getting shot at in the glasses like so many good and bad guys in this film, through glasses or glass. So different, though: not about morality, justice, and nation, but rather about escape, lawlessness, and fate. Bonnie’s opening sequence shows her about to be born again, in the womb and beckoned outside of it by her anti-savior.

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (created by Rob McElhenney, 2006/2007) – Seen just a few (maybe five?) episodes now from seasons 2 and 3, and it’s quite in-your-face. Plays like a cartoon in that characters are consistently teetering into death without caring or realizing it. Teeth are pulled out with reckless abandon and what is shot somewhat like a mockumentary is, in its diegetic world, quite abject. So what seems at first like pure idiocy stretching beyond the characters into the writing actually isn’t. It’s written coherently and cleverly, its content is often disgusting albeit oblivious of itself, and the jury is still out as to whether its shock value is outweighed by something both novel and substantial.

Archer (created by Adam Reed, 2010) – Saw the first two episodes of this one (eight more to go and then all caught up). Adult animation super-spy spoof stuff, we have here something witty and fast-paced, all about timing and circular/repetitious themes and punchlines. As my guy on the inside tells me, it’s got something Arrested Development to it, and not just Jessica Walter, Judy Greer, and Jeffrey Tambor. Genuinely funny stuff, it seems to fit in great with a relatively new wave of television that includes the aforementioned and prematurely canceled masterpiece, Curb Your Enthusiasm, It’s Always Sunny, and almost-but-not-quite Modern Family. These are edgier fare that demand fuller attention than your laugh-track driven drivel that’s easy to watch without actually watching it.

It’s Complicated (dir. Nancy Meyers, 2009) – Am probably one of the many/few who noticed the cast, saw some promise, then saw the trailer and the director’s name. It can at least be said for Meyers that she’s been giving some attention to the silenced voice of the middle-aged woman…sort of. She makes movies for women and about woman that seem to entertain a lot of women, but that also get women to accuse her of betraying her race. You don’t find a lot of unlikeable men in her films, at least in terms of the film’s point of view. The ladies, on the other hand, range from the b-word to the girl-next-door in the body of the girl-next-door’s mom. Things in this universe look too perfect, too polished, and have no reference to reality. You don’t run a bakery of that caliber and have nothing but time and money for additions to your Santa Barbara, Martha Stewart-style chateau. Actors are clearly stifled here (Steve Martin) like they were in Meyer’s earlier The Holiday (Jack Black). This is an unimportant point, but whatev. This one exists for Meryl Streep looking lovely, Alec Baldwin being a charming cad, and John Krasinski being funny.