Leave it to Tony Scott to disregard all
realistic expectations for sophistication, artistry, and morality, and in
the process make something completely sophisticated, artful, and moral—in
its own demented sort of way. Domino is “based on [the] true
story…sort of” of Domino Harvey—as the film’s opening credits inform
us—the female-bounty-hunter daughter of The Manchurian Candidate’s
Laurence Harvey. Throughout the duration, Scott throws around random
subtitles on various parts of the screen, plays with totally unnecessary
lighting-techniques, and directs his cast to a point of compulsive
obscurity. Not once does he even stop to think about the way in which his
movie will be received by audiences. Why? Because he could give a shit.
Domino was made in the spirit of genuine energy and hilarity, fast and
funny as hell in just about every way one could imagine or—scratch
that—not imagine. Keira Knightley—as protagonist Domino herself—throws
around numchucks, finds sawed off arms with the codes to safes on them,
and discovers in reverse-motion that people “haven’t really” been buried
alive. The entire movie represents what Quentin Tarantino would’ve done
had he made films as a teenager; it’s mad about pop culture, totally
violent, and über-pointless, but that’s the fun of it all. Not to mention,
as if his vision wasn’t already mad enough, Scott dares to include the
ingenious Christopher Walken in the mix as a TV-producer who decides to
make a reality-show following Domino around while bounty-hunting. It may
be true that Domino is a mess, but it’s one heck of a thrilling
one, never more overbearing than it is entertaining.
Watch the first scene in Craig Brewer’s
Hustle & Flow, a monologue by the now seemingly unstoppable Terrence
Howard, and tell me that the actor isn’t a star. I had noticed Howard in
previous movies—he was terrific in everything from the important Crash
to the fun-and-games Big Momma’s House—but not ever like I did in
this movie. He portrays his character, DJay, a Memphis Pimp who recognizes
his dream to become a rapper, in a way that completely defies the concept
of acting itself. Howard takes to the coldness of his character’s immoral
business but never ceases to realize his potential to overcome it and his
rough surroundings. In fact, as a testament to the power of his work, I
would rank a scene in which DJay and his crew, formed by Anthony
Anderson’s Key and D.J. Qualls’ Shelby, compose their first song, “Whoop
That Trick”, as one of the best of the year. As Shelby frantically hits
buttons on his mixing-board to allow the bass and high-hat of the song to
kick in and Key sits back and realizes a star in the making, DJay begins
to read the rhyme that he has written on a pad of paper, and we, the
audience, become lost in the moment. The core of Howard’s performance,
encompassed by the music, is unleashed, expressing simultaneously both his
character’s angst and exuberance. Even when the movie falls for
conventional ghetto-life-exploitation (this is a John Singleton
Production, after all), and indulges too much in scenes featuring rap-star
Skinny Black, Howard’s performance remains consistently amazing. Without
him, Hustle & Flow may have come across as trite and
clichéd—perhaps if one was to read Brewer’s script on paper, it would seem
this way—but, as a finished product, it is a fully alive and noteworthy
achievement in filmmaking. With any luck, Howard will be nominated for an
Oscar.
I have the sneaking suspicion that, if one was
to turn off the dialogue-track on Memoirs of a Geisha, they might
actually assume it to be a great movie. Everything technical about the
film is rather astonishing, from John Williams’ score to Patrick M.
Sullivan Jr. and Tomas Voth’s art-direction to Colleen Atwood’s
costume-design. Even the main performances by Zhang Ziyi, Li Gong, and Ken
Watanabe are exceptional, given the material. However, aside from its
striking face-value, Memoirs of a Geisha has nothing to offer; it’s
emotionally and thematically inept. Robin Swicord has adapted Arthur
Golden’s famous novel of the same name without any sense of poignancy. As
a viewer, I didn’t care about a single one of the characters, despite all
of them being convincingly portrayed by the cast. Not to mention, Rob
Marshall, who helmed the outstanding Chicago, feels totally
disoriented in his direction; Memoirs of a Geisha’s pacing and
structure are “off”, to say the least. Steven Spielberg was originally
slated to fill Marshall’s shoes, and I would be willing to bet that he
took one look at Swicord’s screenplay and realized just how clunky a movie
it would lend to the creation of, regardless of the talent of its
director. Unfortunately, not all of the big names surrounding the
production realized this. Then again, Memoirs of a Geisha would be
absolutely lost without them: only their reputations separate it from the
rest of the trash pumped out of Hollywood nowadays.
All good social commentary needs historical
relevance, but writer/director/actor George Clooney takes this concept to
extreme measures in Goodnight and Good Luck, his unashamed attack
on conservatism. Using the verbal battle between CBS newscaster Edward R.
Murrow and Sen. Joseph McCartney, which occurred as a result of the latter
figure’s famous 1950’s Communist “Witch Hunts”, as his premise, Clooney
blatantly imposes his own political views on otherwise fascinating
material. Whether it was his conscious effort to try to draw a superfluous
parallel between the disastrous McCarthy and modern-day conservatives, I
dunno, but the mere implication distracts the central focus of the film to
a beyond-detrimental extent. And that’s really a shame, too, considering
the fact that Goodnight and Good Luck actually has quite a lot
going for it. Creamy black-and-white cinematography that seamlessly blends
in with actual archival footage of McCarthy (which makes a performance for
his character unnecessary); brilliant, Oscar-worthy acting by David
Strathairn in the lead role; and thought-provoking themes regarding
honesty in journalism are merely some of its many redeeming qualities.
And, in the end, it’s safe to say that while movie may not be able to
overcome its own central absurdities, it manages to conjure up enough
interest to make it worth seeing.
I’m still convinced that much of the reason why
Charlize Theron pulled off her Academy-Award-winning turn as Monster’s
Aileen Wuornos as remarkably as she did was because she had hair, makeup,
and weight on her side. However, North Country makes a compelling
argument against this case. In her second “serious” role, Theron is
completely believable as Josey Aimes, a female coal-miner who leads the
first class-action sexual-harassment suit in history against her
morally-despicable male-co-workers. The performance offers solid proof
that she may just have the acting-chops to become Hollywood’s next great
actress, if she’s not there already. Theron is so empathetic in North
Country that the fact that director Niki Caro and screenwriter Michael
Seitzman have, in actuality, crafted a melodramatic and somewhat
self-indulgent film becomes the last thing on viewers’ minds as they watch
the story unravel. Supported by an Oscar-worthy Richard Jenkins, the
leading actress is practically invincible in her role, reaching out to the
audience in a way that is truly affecting. The implications made regarding
the ways in which sexual harassment affects Aimes’ daily behavior and the
“based on a true story” claim that precedes North Country can, at
times, seem like a bit much, but with Theron at its helms, it can really
do no wrong. It is exemplary of the fact that, even in an age of
MTV-style-editing and multi-million-dollar CGI creations, great acting is
still worth a damn.
Is Jarhead some kind of elaborate,
multi-million-dollar practical joke on this relatively unknown critic?
Could it really be a Sam Mendes picture? ‘Cuz if the credits aren’t lying,
I dunno what to think of the guy. He’s made two of my favorite films of
the last decade, Road to Perdition and American Beauty, only
to take a turn for the worst with Jarhead, a truly offensive,
nihilistic piece of cinema. Focusing on day-to-day military life in the
first Gulf War in a ridiculous way, Mendes’ film tritely suggests, in
short, that every member of the Marine Corps is either a total psycho upon
enlisting or they become one once they finish serving. Although, perhaps
I’m going too far in making this synopsis. To say that Jarhead is
trying to make a serious statement would be giving it too much credit. In
actuality, all the movie really functions as is a straightforward,
brain-dead, MTV-styled piece of crudity. The only reason that members of
the media have allotted it as much positive buzz as they have is because
it is able to disguise itself as a meditative character-study fairly well.
Jarhead certainly isn’t getting the undeserved acclaim that it is
because of its view of military operations, which is about as realistic as
xXx’s take was on secret agents. If Mendes and his screenwriter,
William Broyles Jr., had anything more to say than that they believe that
the American government and the military supporting it are evil, it was
clearly lost in the process of filming. What’s the most absurd about the
picture is their claim that their protagonist (who is based on a real
man), is scarred for life by war without even ever seeing combat. Not only
have Mendes and Broyles put a great cast (Jake Gyllenhaal, Jamie Foxx,
Chris Cooper) to shame; they’ve also shown the utmost of disrespect to the
men and women who willingly, bravely fight for the United States’ freedom
in the dangerous international political climate of today. “Welcome to the
suck” is Jarhead’s tagline. It’s no stretch to call that the most
accurate studio-penned description of a film in years.
There are times when ‘ya just gotta say “I hate
Jim Jarmusch’s guts” and mean it. Sure, the guy is some sort of bizarre
filmmaking genius—I’ll give him that—but he’s equally self-indulgent as he
is creative. Broken Flowers is thought-provoking and tremendously
performed, but by its end, even the most artistically open-minded of
viewers will feel a little bit cheated. The plotline centers on an letter
received by Don Johnston, another brilliant in-mid-life-crisis Bill Murray
character. Don has just been dumped by his latest mistress (Julie Delpy),
and the letter comes as no comfort when, reading it, he discovers he might
have a son he never knew about. Trick is: it wasn’t signed by the mother
who wrote it; in order to find out who his son is (or if it is true that
he has one at all), he will have to track down four of his old exes that
he had the most intimate relationships with.
All the while, the movie manages to be
mysterious, poignant, and humorous. The problem is that viewers won’t
expect this material to stand on its own as a movie. The end of Broken
Flowers is one which completely ignores the emotional value of the
situation that has been presented, simply so that Jarmusch can show off by
saying “Look at me! I can make an ending of thoughtful ambiguity!” Regular
readers of mine know that I have nothing against the open ending—in most
cases, too much closure is a very bad thing—but, in Broken
Flowers, the concept of uncertainty is taken to a nonsensical extreme.
What good is a conclusion if it doesn’t speak to what has happened earlier
in the plot? “Thoughtful” as it may be, I left the film regretting what it
could’ve been had its third act been of the same quality as its first two.
Manipulation is never a
bad thing when Ron Howard is the puppet-master. The filmmaker, who has
made some of the best and often most overlooked films of the last twenty
years, takes to the roots of Hollywood when he makes a motion picture. His
means of glamorizing his subject don’t use any sentimental music, cheesy
lines, or drawn-out climactic moments to make the audience ignore the
conventionality of the material; in fact, it takes all of these elements
and does the exact opposite. Strong performances and powerful stories
allow them to become real parts of living, breathing works.
In Cinderella Man,
Howard recreates Depression-era America in a riveting way. Telling the
story of James J. Braddock (Russell Crowe), a down-on-his-luck man with a
heart of gold, he crafts one of his finest films to date. Braddock was a
boxer who lost his fame and, without any other skills to support his
family in one of the roughest times in the country’s history, could only
rely on occasional shifts at the local dock to bring home the bread. That
is, until his manager, Joe Gould, found him another shot in the ring and
he had one more chance to prevail.
Here is a movie about an
entirely good man, made with conviction and truth. It functions as both
gripping drama and a testament to the ways in which America’s history has
made it the rich land of opportunity that it is today. Howard can do no
wrong with each step he takes in his execution; from Braddock’s home-life
to his boxing-matches, Cinderella Man is as exhilarating as its
subject is admirable. Not to mention, Russell Crowe and Paul Giamatti have
never been better in their entire careers; I don’t think it’s too early to
say that, if they do not win Oscars, they will have been snubbed.
This brings me back to
the idea of manipulation. Sure, Howard may manipulate audiences by
depicting Braddock in such a cheerfully positive light, but does it really
matter when the result is this captivating, this powerful? I don’t think
so; Cinderella Man had me from start to finish. It’s a gripping,
unforgettable experience.
It’s hard to get worked up about anything that
doesn’t even want to be controversial in the first place, and Dukes of
Hazzard proves this. A conventional “remake” of the old 1970’s
TV-show, the strongest case one could argue against it would be that it is
irritating because it is full of too many stupid redneck-gags. That or the
fact that its entire third-act is comprised of a snooze-inducing car chase
scene. But I digress.
Really, Dukes of Hazzard isn’t that bad;
it’s just not that good, either. It has its fair share of sweetly humorous
scenes and amazing shots of good ‘ol Jessica Simpson’s body, in addition
to its fair share of downright annoying moments. My instant response to
the material, as a viewer, was that of apathy. I really couldn’t care less
about what direction the movie was headed in; at the time, I was content
with sitting in a nice movie theatre, sipping a $5.00 Lemonade. I went in
expecting something truly atrocious and came out slightly pleased that the
experience wasn’t entirely excruciating. Still, never would I actually go
as far as to recommend actually paying to see it. Dukes of Hazzard
will someday make for a mediocre pierce of viewing on HBO when there
aren’t any other alternatives in sight on a boring afternoon. For now,
it’s not even worth being concerned over.
Shock and insight are two very different but
strangely similar artistic expressions that can lend to a movie’s quality,
but it takes a truly great filmmaker to interweave the two into a singular
storyline. Writer/director David Cronenberg is one of the elite few that
can do just this, and his latest picture, A History of Violence,
does nothing to fault his respectable reputation. Starring Viggo Mortensen
as a protagonist with a dark past, Cronenberg tells a riveting story
while, at the same time, thought-provokingly commentating on the nature of
violence in society.
Mortensen’s character is family-man Tom
Stall…or so his small-town friends and family are led to believe. That is,
until late one evening when he is greeted by a group of men dressed in
black suits as he closes up the diner he owns and operates. “Coffee,” the
leader of the bunch demands, threateningly. Tom reluctantly serves them,
despite the inconvenience of doing so after calling it a day, only to then
be met at gunpoint by one of the members of the mobster-looking crew. He
reacts quickly, grabbing the gun and shooting them dead, protecting the
remaining few customers and employees in the diner.
Tom is hailed as a small-town hero without
question, admired by all of those around him. In fact, so much so that no
one ever stops to ask how he became such a quick reactor or good shot.
Despite this, conflict has not left his life. Days later, more men dressed
in black suits, this time headed by Carl Fogarty (Ed Harris), stride into
the diner. “Nice place ‘ya got here, Joey,” Fogarty proclaims, accusing
Tom of being an ex-mobster who he had ties with in previous years. As the
plot progresses, Tom is further endangered and it is revealed that he is,
indeed, the Joey that Fogarty claims him to be. In order to protect his
own reputation and reformed life, he will have to settle the score and
head to Philadelphia, where he used to do his dirty work.
Through a mere plot description, the movie
seems to be like any other Fall Revenge-Blockbuster. It is anything but.
Cronenberg is far more concerned with perfecting the details that the
picture is made up of rather than trying to fill it with extra baggage.
The revelatory moment in the diner is exemplary of this; the scene is
blocked simply and efficiently, powerfully moving from Point A to Point B.
In one moment, the viewer observes the admirable Tom and, in the next,
shaken by the banging noise of the gunshots, they are scared by the
monster that he has become. Aided by Mortensen’s pitch-perfect
performance, A History of Violence is as tense as it is
self-reflective.
Make no mistake, the film is not an outcry for
gun-control or individual-rights, but rather a statement about the ironies
of human response to violence. How do Tom/Joey’s actions affect his own
psyche and those of the people around him? How does controversy lend to
conflicting reactions? The way in which A History of Violence
serves as an analysis of these ideas through its suspenseful story is what
makes it the astounding movie that it is. Don’t miss it.
Stealth is a movie about three Navy
fighter-pilots who are chosen to be the first to fly missions aside a UCAV,
an “Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicle”. The UCAV is a plane controlled by
artificial intelligence and, at first, does exactly what they want it to
do. But wait. The screenwriters forgot about this little thing called a
plot! What will they do? Oh, yeah! Allow the A.I. to form feelings of its
own and turn against its team! It’ll say things to them like “I will not
follow your orders” in a very monotone, computer-like voice! They will
have to overcome the evil danger it puts them in!
And they work from there. Stealth is
surely the bearer of one of Hollywood’s dopiest premises to date.
Fortunately, Columbia Pictures was willing to shell out $100 million
dollars to make it, allowing them to hire a director and cast that were
able to at least make it tolerable to watch. Sure, Rob Cohen, Josh Lucas,
and Jessica Biel aren’t exactly Martin Scorsese, Robert DeNiro, and Jodie
Foster, but they handle the material provided fairly well. Each plays off
of their strengths. Cohen knows how to turn obvious climaxes into
suspenseful ones, Biel knows that she looks best in a bikini, and Lucas
knows that he can be convincing when he tries. In cahoots with a talented
visual effects team, they provide Stealth with enough life to allow
it to mildly entertain viewers while they watch it, even if they walk out
of the theatre only to realize how stupid it actually was. This
achievement was actually a rather remarkable one; they were able to make
something out of nothing.
Well, I guess it just wasn’t meant to
be. When I first heard the buzz that The Great Raid was a
pro-America, pro-military movie, I was very excited for it. It was what
the movie-going public needed, as far as I was concerned: an exhilarating
war-epic which depicted the nobility of defending America. Now, after
actually having seen it, I guess it’s safe to say that it is true
that all great filmmakers are pot-smoking, America-hating Frenchmen.
Actually—seriously—The Great Raid is a pretty good movie about the
honor and bravery found in the service. I just had hoped it would’ve been
a lot more creative than it is. From the hokey voice-overs to the
irrelevant sub-plots to the bland acting, the movie could be called stale
filmmaking at best. There are some riveting moments, to be sure—the scene
involving the raid it is named after and the real footage director John
Dahl uses from the era are particularly visually striking and often
poignant—but, as a whole, The Great Raid doesn’t measure up to most
other war films. I applaud its themes, but I can’t go so far as to deem it
a first-rate motion picture.
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