..but Bowen’s Cinematic is taking its act on the road for the next few days. I’m hoping to fire something off before the weekend ends but, as with everything else, there’s no guarantees. Worst case, I’ll be back Monday, with a look at either In Bruges or The Darjeeling Limited.
The Narrow Margin (1952)
We’ve somehow managed to initiate an informal “dangers on a train” mini-marathon here at Bowen’s Cinematic. Earlier in the month we covered Hitchcock’s peerless The Lady Vanishes, yesterday we looked at The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, and so today is The Narrow Margin, the noir classic directed by genre veteran Richard Fleischer. The film’s box (courtesy of TCM Noir Set Vol. 2) actually likens Margin to Lady and it’s a testament to Fleischer and screenwriter Earl Felton’s work here that that comparison isn’t laughable, the two pictures would, in fact, make an ideal double bill.
If you’ll indulge me for a moment, The Lady Vanishes is a parfait: a light, masterful medley of tones. The Narrow Margin, on the other hand, is a big, gooey, probably under-baked chocolate brownie that really needs milk to properly dislodge from the throat. Both are delicious, but pleasurable in altogether different ways. Hitchcock’s film is graceful, The Narrow Margin is lean and merciless, a disarmingly blunt, nearly flawless thriller.
By minute five of Margin, we know the good guy, Det. Sgt. Brown (veteran Charles McGraw), the reluctant heroine, Mrs. Frankie Neall (Marie Windsor) and the task at hand, which is to get Mrs. Neall on a train to Los Angeles so she can testify against several of her dead husband’s associates. By minute twelve we’ve killed the good guy’s partner (obligatory even in the 1950s) and shoved the good guy and heroine aboard the train, which, needless to say, contains a few boarders that aren’t so sympathetic to Neal and Brown’s plight.
The remaining hour (totaling a svelte 71 minutes) is pure gravy: narrow escapes, double crosses, and red herrings. Charles McGraw is an ideal embodiment of square-jawed, incorruptible valor, the sort of Dick Tracy-Joe Friday thing that I normally have trouble relating to (they generally strike me as the sort that were bullies as kids, or Republicans as adults). McGraw gets around that, I think, because the film successfully stacks the deck: Brown’s odds are so laughably horrible as to render his determination poignant, even naive. Another key to Brown’s unexpected appeal is McGraw’s wonderful voice, that nothing new to the genre gravel cut with a slight, barely tangible, withheld pain: maybe Brown stepped on a tack before showing up for work that day.
The film’s humor humanizes Brown too, repeatedly scoring points off his self-righteousness. Mrs. Neall isn’t played as a clueless tramp, as many pictures would, she gets some good chewy tough girl dialogue, and McGraw, spittle nearly visible, throws it right back at her. There’s no heat in the movies like that great no-budget, 1950s noir heat, and Fleischer doesn’t go and ruin it by having his characters fuck.
Fleischer’s film is also a remarkable work of common sense, there is one great scene, toward the end, that finds a bad guy cornering a woman in her room and about to shoot the lock off. Many films, even good films, would have the bad guy blow the lock away without giving it the slightest of thoughts. THIS bad guy, however, looks around, sighs, realizes he can’t fire a weapon in a cramped train without stirring chaos, and instead appeals to the boy’s curiosity in the room next door.
The proper climax of the picture that follows a few minutes later is just as ingenious: Brown, powerless for the first time in the picture and still thrown from a clever twist earlier in the film, finds himself having to finally rely on the kind of person he thought he detested, and on the kind of fate he thought didn’t exist. Who knew a tired “don’t judge a book by its cover” sound bite could go down this good? You can’t tell me Hitchcock didn’t see it and, when no one was looking, didn’t smile.
★★★½
Posted on February 27th, 2008 in Reviews, Thriller, 1952 | 2 Comments
The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (1974)
Being a movie enthusiast (I’ve always disliked the term “film buff”; that sounds as if I’m assembling model planes in the garage) requires, like anything else, dedication that isn’t immediately apparent to those on the sidelines. It takes a bit of time to be able to bore a girl at the coffee shop (that is unless you actually MAKE movies, then the tables are turned). I loved what Quentin Tarantino said, I think, in a commentary track for True Romance, filmmakers have their films, movie enthusiasts, or geeks, have their knowledge, which, if I may add, they defend with the fervor of a knight approaching his joust.
Movie geeks, assuming I rate as one and can comment, go through stages of intense consumption of genres and filmmakers, suddenly they need to know everything they can find about X, preferably before the week ends. That task is impossible of course, no one knows everything about everything, or anything, but that quest stands as the constant, elusive windmill of the movie geek, particularly a movie geek in his twenties, an age group that has its demands of insecure pursuit of self-improvement anyway, regardless of target interest.
My recent insecure pursuits of self-improvement have been Jean-Luc Godard, motivated by the recent release of Pierrot le fou; Ridley Scott, inspired by the recent Blade Runner, and crime/noir in general, aided immeasurably by the wonderful boxed sets produced by TCM (and thank whomever you believe in for TCM, have you watched AMC lately? Spike TV plays more legitimate films these days).
Here’s a recent example of my crime/noir investigation: I watched a very slim, dangerous, terrific Lawrence Tierney in Dillinger and Born to Kill, which prompted yet another viewing of Reservoir Dogs (been on a Tarantino bender lately too, as you no doubt guessed). The criminals of Reservoir Dogs‘ use of colors as aliases reminded me, alas, that I had never seen The Taking of Pelham One Two Three.
This brings us to the proper point of this post. The Taking of Pelham One Two Three is a heist picture set in New York in which four hoods decide to steal the titular subway train. The hoods, with refreshing lack of pomp and circumstance, take over the train, disconnect it, keep eighteen of the passengers as hostages, and radio back to the station demanding that they be given one million dollars in non-sequential bills for their trouble. If the City of New York doesn’t comply, then the passengers will be executed, one for every minute over the hour deadline.
We know how this picture works. The good guys huff and puff, and try to stall the bad guys. The bad guys, cool, collected and merciless, hold tough on their specifications. Most of the good guys are clueless baboons, with the exception of the First Star, just as most of bad guys are vicious, clueless hotheads, with the exception being, of course, the Second Star. But we can’t make that deadline, the good guys usually say. Then everyone’s going to die, the bad guys usually counter.
The Taking of Pelham One Two Three is as pulpy and crude as it sounds, and thirty years of rip-offs haven’t increased its novelty. For awhile, the irritating, ceaseless Neil Simon-ish back and forth threatens to steer the viewer’s sympathies toward the psychopath of the piece, Mr. Blue. Mr. Blue may be attempting something unforgivable, but, at least he doesn’t assert his clichéd New York lout entitlement every second of the picture. For one thing, he’s British, which would probably make him suspect enough for the majority of the occupants of the subway control station, whom we’re supposed to be rooting for.
Saving us from ironically cheering immorality is Walter Matthau, whose contributions to this film should not be under-estimated. I hear that Tony Scott is preparing a remake with (who else?) Denzel Washington. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Denzel can be a terrific actor but, by this point, he might as well be Superman. We don’t look at Denzel and wonder whether he was able to pay his taxes last year, or if he had trouble getting coffee stains out of his blazer (that he probably wears to work everyday). We don’t look at Denzel and hope that he’s able to make his alimony payment this month. We look at Denzel and we say “that’s a fucking bad ass.” And that’s perfect for certain pictures, you’ll never hear me saying that Walter Matthau should’ve played Denzel’s part in Training Day, but in The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, Walter Matthau is perfect. Tony Scott should cast Paul Giamatti in the Matthau part, that would show that he understands (or cares about) the material that he’s remaking.
We root for Walter Matthau because Walter Matthau doesn’t belong; he isn’t the guy that we imagine handling a ruthless hostage imbroglio. He’s the guy that sneaks a beer at lunch, or is entrusted with thankless chores such as giving a tour of the station to a group of Japanese visitors. He, like us, just wants to get. the. fuck. along. But then Mr. Blue, embodied by an intimidating, classic Robert Shaw, happens to screw everything up.
The film carries on exactly as you expect from there. Director Joseph Sargent doesn’t seem to have much in the way of finesse, but he at least has the good manners to move things along at an urgent clip so that you don’t notice too much. The script is showy and irritating, but that’s all forgotten when Shaw or Matthau are on the screen. These two icons lend the final showdown a human gravity that drives the thing into the realm of true suspense; you’re authentically afraid for the undeniably vulnerable, human, Matthau as he delves down into the subway to find Shaw, who has a wonderful, chilling, unexpectedly curt exit.
Actually, Denzel’s intimidating, suffer no fools bravado/resentment could make for a credible Mr. Blue opposite a hunched, self-loathing Paul Giamatti. Though I will have to cross-reference thirty or forty various Tony Scott, Joseph Sargent, Paul Giamatti, Robert Shaw and Walter Matthau offerings and get back to you before I can safely commit to that line of thinking.
★★★
Posted on February 26th, 2008 in Reviews, Thriller, 1974 | 4 Comments
Caution, Misdirection
While we’re on the topic of alternate editions, I ask you to please avoid the recently released Lust, Caution DVD that promises the “R-Rated Version of the Film Not Seen in Theatres”. That phrasing implies that scintillating footage has been added, when it is actually the opposite. The R-rated Lust, Caution wasn’t seen in theatres because producer James Schamus and director Ang Lee had the stones to tell the MPAA where they could go with their R-rating and took the NC-17 instead, releasing Lust, Caution with all footage intact. The R-rated version (in fairness, I haven’t seen this cut) most likely abbreviates very intense sex scenes that magnify the story considerably. See the film, it’s a very good one, but see the naughty version that was available in theatres.
Posted on February 25th, 2008 in Bits & Pieces | no comments
Death Proof: Extended and Unrated (2007)
This post assumes you’ve seen Death Proof. Plot is discussed.
You’ll note that the phrasing found on the box of the Death Proof DVD never once uses the often irresponsibly applied words “director’s cut” to sell the film. Death Proof, which originally appeared as Quentin Tarantino’s 85 minute half of the double- feature/experiment Grindhouse, has been lengthened by about twenty minutes, and the changes, while largely subtle, have significantly improved the picture. If this isn’t Tarantino’s preferred cut of the film, then it damn well should be.
But I’m not going to use Death Proof’s alterations as an excuse to revise my opinion of the film, truthfully, my view was probably subject to revision anyway. I enjoyed Grindhouse in the theatre, but faithful readers will remember that I found Death Proof to be a hedging of bets: bad-boy, have your post-modern cake and eat it too posturing that was too chicken shit to simply commit to the disreputable genre at hand.
Many applauded Tarantino’s newest narrative gambit, which essentially divided the film into two long acts, but I found that to be perverse in a way that wasn’t exhilarating at all: two prolonged, banal acts of exposition (typically found in slasher films) for the price of one. At the time of Grindhouse, I believed that the bravest thing that Tarantino could’ve done was to simply give us what he’d promised us: a damn horror movie. A slasher film with Kurt Russell directed by Quentin Tarantino should be more fun than 80 odd minutes of (with a few exceptions) boring actresses trading various not up too par bon mots. As his detractors have said, the famed Tarantino dialogue was beginning to sound an awful lot like the wannabes.
I missed the point.
Death Proof is a savage battle of the sexes horror comedy as well as a surprisingly sensual past versus present shocker. Tarantino has made the most erotic horror picture in immediate memory. The film takes the sexist resentment that lurks under most slasher pictures and throws it back in our faces. Upon original viewing, I found the first group of girls (Sydney Poitier, Jordon Ladd, Vanessa Ferlito) to be intolerably self-absorbed and shallow. Their girl-girl confidence was clearly a put-on, and ripe for the intervention of the big bad wolf of the piece, Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell). The brilliance of the first half is that (admit it) you’re nearly rooting for Russell’s Stuntman. But we should ask ourselves guys, why do we hate this first set of girls? Because they’ve adopted the cavalier fuck first ask questions never attitude that is normally reserved for men in the movies. And look for the savagery that clearly lurks in the emasculated men on the sidelines, watch as the Eli Roth character talks of pouring a few more shots “down these bitches’ throats.”
While the film may put us in the odd position of vaguely rooting for Mike at first (at least until Tarantino pulls the rug out in a murder scene of tone shattering cruelty), Death Proof isn’t perverse wish-fulfillment, it’s a farce of female objectification, the exact sort that typically occurs in filmmakers, fanboys or other delayed adolescents. Watch how Tarantino’s camera soaks in Poiter’s fleshy derriere or her long limbs in the rain illuminated by her billboard in the background, or watch the way Rose McGowan (in the best performance other than Russell’s to be found here) leans into Mike’s car and nearly purrs. This is the dance between the girls and the geek, the haves and the have-nots, just as much as De Palma’s Carrie. It’s a testament to Tarantino’s fluency with the genre that he’s managed to stage a film in which both the haves and the have-nots win.
And what about Kurt Russell as Stuntman Mike? My only regret with the part is that it isn’t larger; I was always, even when I had issues with the film, enthusiastic about this performance. Russell is a tough guy, but he’s always been a tough guy of seemingly boundless comic wit and invention. The key may be his voice; it’s softer than you expect: poignant even, it doesn’t jive with his rough around the edges good looks. Kurt Russell manages to personify John Wayne, the Prom King, and the sardonic best friend who never actually gets the girl simultaneously. Tarantino, a clear fan, has written a part in Stuntman Mike that manages to capitalize on ALL of that. I love how Mike, even when he’s got the charm turned on, can’t help but let out the barely contained rage that drives him to do what he does. Watch how the girls always get his name wrong, and watch how each correction is just a little closer to sounding like the kind of guy who would splatter someone on the highway just for the fun of it.
If Tarantino’s dialogue has gone soft and indulgent in recent years (and it has, starting with Kill Bill Vol. 2) then his eye as a director has become disciplined and more impressive in each subsequent picture. I love the rough-hewn vibrant heat that Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction give off, but they, visually, are stagier affairs. Jackie Brown (possibly my favorite Tarantino film) maintains the grit, but the camera work is more fluid and beautiful (the film has my favorite murder sequence in the Tarantino canon so far: Jackson’s killing of Chris Tucker, framed in an elegant long shot that’s showy but essential to character: we, in one shot, get Jackson’s casual, animal immorality). Kill Bill Vol. 1, a genre defining masterpiece, and Kill Bill Vol. 2, fascinating but uneven, took Tarantino even further visually and revealed him to be a crack action director in the bargain.
This brings us back to Death Proof, which sees Tarantino, as a pure visual artist, at the height of his powers. I’ve read the Death Proof screenplay and, on paper, it’s, well, it’s a colossal disappointment, particularly when you consider the past characters that Tarantino has created. On the screen though, Tarantino’s aim becomes clearer (what we’ve already discussed about sexism, blah, blah) and the once tiresome dialogue and awkward performances punctuate a growing, masterfully sustained tension of sexually charged dread. The opening fifty minutes of Death Proof prove, beyond any doubt, that Tarantino can own the horror genre any day he damn well pleases.
And then the film releases itself, and Mike walks away the victor, having come whether the ladies were interested in him coming or not. A cop, who fans of the director will recognize as Earl MacGraw (Michael Parks), contemplates going off the grid to prove that Mike intentionally killed those girls even though every bit of evidence indicates to the contrary. In a funny genre wink, MacGraw says fuck it and elects to follow NASCAR as usual.
Of course it doesn’t matter, because Stuntman Mike gets cocky and wanders over into a different genre altogether, a high-octane car-chase movie that doesn’t as readily tolerate him. The girls of this half are a truly empowered, (the girls of the first half were all pretense, these ladies are the real thing) appealing bunch. Zoë Bell may not be an actress, but she’s charming. Rosario Dawson brings timing, and yes, even a bit (just a bit) of pathos to the role, and I’m GUARANTEEING you that the beautiful Mary Elizabeth Winstead was hired because of her resemblance to Meg Tilly circa Psycho II. Tracie Thoms is the super-duper verbal firebrand of the bunch, and while I wish we’d gone in a direction that less resembles Tarantino’s collaborations with Samuel L. Jackson, I’ll live with it, if, for nothing else, because it’s a relief from the MySpace-cell phone chitter-chatter of the prior segment (more of that past/present stuff, Mike’s a pure old school TV, no CGI, no cell phone, no diet man.)
In short, Stuntman Mike’s descension upon these girls feels like a true intrusion, you want his ass to be kicked, and it is kicked, in a prolonged car chase of giddy, explosive, pure cinema joy. The ending of the film was another original problem of mine, I felt that Tarantino should’ve played harder and darker, but, upon re-watching, I actually found this tone more unsettling: the murder of Mike, who’s been reduced to a victim more pathetic than anyone in either half of the film, is treated casually, as a throw away joke even. These young movie freaks are driven to kill at the drop of a hat (though I guess attempted vehicular homicide might rate a tad higher than carelessness with head apparel on the offense-o-meter).
As thrilling as Death Proof can be at its best, I feel now that Tarantino, with this and two Kill Bills has completed his essay on the films he loves so much more than most people (myself included). It’s time to wed the newfound visual gamesmanship with the emotional urgency of the first three films, and to discard the crutch that is the devotion to obscure movies of yesteryear. After the hall-of-mirrors reflexiveness of the last few films, that would be the most shocking thing Tarantino could do: daring someone to give a shit, daring someone to accept something that hasn’t been (however expertly) pre-digested.
★★★½
Posted on February 23rd, 2008 in 2007, Reviews, Action | 9 Comments
If Bowen’s Cinematic picked the Oscars (we don’t)
First a taste of the clichéd and self-righteous: I boycotted the Oscars last year, the prior year’s awarding of Best Picture to Crash being enough, and I didn’t even get on the All the Cool Kids Hate Crash bandwagon. Crash is what it always was, a better than average bit of rich guilt porn. People blowing it all out of proportion and then hating it because THEY overrated it is their issue not the movie’s, just as a certain movie this year that rhymes with Uno (hint: Juno) is a perfectly ok bit of irresponsible teen babe wishful thinking malarkey when taken on its own terms, it’s just not a Best Picture.
Oscar and I are still broken up though, even though they rectified the fascinatingly absurd omission of Martin Scorsese last year. Every year the Oscars leave me feeling a little guilty and woozy, as if I just eaten a box of very heavy candy. I would rather have the candy, or at least the self-congratulation of skipping a ceremony that will do just fine without me.
Because I’m a whore though, and because I’ll do anything for attention, here, out of the nominees, are my picks:
Best Picture: There Will Be Blood.
Best Director: Paul Thomas Anderson-There Will Be Blood.
Best Actor: Daniel Day-Lewis, There Will Be Blood.
Best Actress: Julie Christie, Away from Her.
Best Supporting Actor: Javier Bardem, No Country for Old Men.
Best Supporting Actress: Amy Ryan, Gone Baby Gone.
Best Original Screenplay: Tamara Jenkins, The Savages.
Best Adapted Screenplay: Joel and Ethan Coen, No Country for Old Men.
Best Cinematography: Roger Deakins, No Country for Old Men, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford.
Readers of my site will know that I have a major jones for There Will Be Blood, as well as its star and director, so I will elaborate no further on those. I will say, however, that the Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress nominees largely leave me cold. They all feel so obligatory, so created simply to be honored on this special night that it doesn’t give me much pleasure to really root or talk about them, with one exception: Julie Christie. She’s a legend, she’s beautiful, and neither of those matter. Her performance in Away from Her is not the work of a famed personality resting on their laurels: it’s subtle and vulnerable, deserving of recognition. Gordon Pinsent, the proper star of Away from Her, was even more devastating and understated, but I guess he isn’t famous enough.
Ruby Dee’s work in American Gangster is the equivalent of giving the good actress a gold watch, she’s fine, but there just isn’t much of a part there, Scott’s film is a boy’s club all the way. Tilda Swinton is good, but again, it feels pitched to win awards, as is Cate Blanchett’s Jude in I’m Not There. Blanchett gives good freak show method impersonation, but it’s actually the least interesting Dylan to choose to reward. People accusing Amy Ryan of over-acting don’t know what they are talking about; a prior day job occasionally afforded me a close look at Amy Ryan’s mother in Gone Baby Gone, and let me tell you: they ARE that obviously odious and unpleasant. Ryan’s work is more ambitious than initially appears, beyond the up-front ready made for the Academy white-trash histrionics is an authentic portrait of bitchy entitlement as mask for cancerous self-loathing.
But the Academy overlooked many of my favorite Actresses this year, the most obvious being Wei Tang of Lust, Caution and Carice Van Houten in Black Book. Just because they’re sexy doesn’t mean they’re just sexy, these women give star-making performances in wonderful erotic thrillers of quick-silver deceit and pain. Or if we wanted to honor I’m Not There, what about Charlotte Gainsbourg? She gave the film a yearning that helped save it from tipping too far into the Glory of the Artist abyss. People continually mourn the lack of roles for women in the movies, but the best female performances are frequently ignored anyway.
Best Supporting Actor is an unusually strong category this year, and it seems a pity that Philip Seymour Hoffman shouldn’t win anything despite giving not one or two, but three of the best performances of his career in 2007. That’s how the cookie crumbles though, because Daniel Day-Lewis and Javier Bardem are iconic and un-missable: avenging dust clouds of our collective apathy and despair.
Original Screenplay goes to Tamara Jenkins because she managed, with The Savages, to write an “it was daddy’s fault” pity party that’s quick, funny and plays fair. Michael Clayton would be next, but The Savages gets the edge for giving me either my first or second favorite to date Philip Seymour Hoffman performance, no mean feat. Laura Linney is fine too, but Jenkins’ imagination isn’t quite as generous with her, I never believed I was watching anything other than Laura Linney prestige performance #12.
Adapted Script goes to No Country, primarily because There Will Be Blood appears to be an original script masquerading as an adaptation. The Coens should be recognized anyway, for their graceful distillation of the overly ponderous novel, and for creating a film that’s just about as rich and powerful as Blood.
Cinematography is barely debatable. Roger Deakins shot The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford and No Country for Old Men this year. If that’s not enough to convince you, I don’t know the words that will be.
Happy hunting.
Posted on February 20th, 2008 in Bits & Pieces | 9 Comments
Oscar Reviews
Hey guys, this is Ben. Here is a little meta-post round-up of reviews Chuck has done this year for films either nominated for an Oscar or featuring Oscar nominated performances.
There Will be Blood
Eastern Promises
Juno
Michael Clayton
The Savages
Away From Her
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Ratatouille
Sweeney Todd
Posted on February 20th, 2008 in Bits & Pieces | 1 comment
Romance and Cigarettes (2007)
Over the weekend I revisited Bob Fosse’s All That Jazz; primarily because I had just mentioned it in the Scheider piece and remembered that I hadn’t seen it in a LONG time. I wanted to ensure I wasn’t talking out of my ass, and I wasn’t, Scheider remains superb and the film, like Fosse’s Cabaret, manages a striking tone: dark and bubbly, almost giddy at first: in the mindset of the hero all the way, but with a gradual slide that reveals the hero’s perspective to be quite fallible, the giddiness stripped away to reveal a pitiful waste of life. I then popped in John Turturro’s long delayed Romance and Cigarettes, and found that I had accidentally planned an ideal double feature.
Someone said this, and I don’t know who, but we need to bring movies back a bit from the realm of the literal. David Lynch is certainly fighting the good fight, but we need more troops. There is a place for stripped down reality in films, of course, but we need to understand that there is more room for the fantastic too, and I don’t mean more horror and science-fiction (though good members of those genres are always welcome). I mean films that utilize the inherent benefits of the medium more, that explore the mindset of our heroes with less interest in what “actually happens” in favor of a greater interest in something more surreal and, ultimately, just as true. Most movies, even the acclaimed movies, aren’t anything like life anyway, so why let that hang-up fetter the imagination of our greatest filmmakers?
Turturro’s imagination certainly isn’t fettered in Romance and Cigarettes; this is a ballsy, swing for the back row picture. The film should be disjointed and absurd; insufferably self-absorbed and artificial, but it isn’t, and there’s one reason: Turturro has conviction in his film, there’s no last minute pull-out to appeal to less adventurous audience’s tastes, no apology, he follows his impulses to the very end.
The characters of Romance and Cigarettes don’t talk as people in real life; they talk as the dime store novelists of our dreams: overflowing with the kind of awkward, poetic obscenity that we wish could conjure at a second’s notice. Fantasies appear and disappear at whim, symbols are abundant and disarmingly obvious, and, best of all, popular songs are always available at the slightest provocation to vent the intangible disappointments that plague us. Turturro taps into the primal appeal of the musical that seems to elude many modern practitioners of the form: the release. Camera pyrotechnics are beside the point, it’s the emotions that should be blunt and in the foreground, everything else will follow.
I’m also happy to report that James Gandolfini has finally found a post-Tony Soprano part that suits his vicious Teddy Bear contradictions, that tweaks and refines his image in equal measure. Gandolfini hasn’t been this good in a movie since his brilliant bit in the best scene of True Romance, where he explains to a dizzy, battered Patricia Arquette the history of his induction into killing for money. It’s a chilling bit of work, but, like all the great movie sociopaths, Gandolfini remains undeniably appealing, or if not appealing, at least a little vulnerable, we’re ashamed of ourselves for (sort of) liking this guy.
Gandolfini plays Nick Murder (a wink at Tony?) a heavy, sad, ironic lothario whose infidelity is discovered by his wife, Kitty (Susan Sarandon, terrific) within minutes of the opening of the picture. The couple, still clearly very much in love, trade movie barbs with savage gusto, but it’s soon obvious that Nick isn’t going to be forgiven anytime soon. Nick isn’t even sure if he should be forgiven, being that he still hasn’t managed to quit his insatiable other woman, Tula (Kate Winslet). Nick and Kitty’s separate, desperate wanderings comprise the majority of what follows in Romance and Cigarettes: Kitty tries to find Tula to exact revenge; Nick tries to shake Tula and be the family man that he wishes he could be.
There’s a bit of macho idealization going on here, with two attractive women battling it out over a man who wouldn’t look out of place under a bridge, but the sheer force of the piece holds it together. Romance and Cigarettes isn’t a thinly veiled appeal for the right to screw around, it’s tender and melancholy, a pop art collage of surprising weight. By the end, the cost of Nick’s self-absorption has undeniably been acknowledged, particularly in his final encounter with Tula by the water.
Tula has been, up until this moment, one of Winslet’s gaudiest and most outsized creations, a coarse burlesque of a wife’s worst nightmare of the “other woman.” Winslet’s work is striking throughout, but it doesn’t become one of her best until this final scene. Nick finally ends it with Tula, and she gasps and falls into the water: singing as she sinks. The image of this fallen young women is beautiful and haunting, like something out of a good silent film that Tim Burton never got to make, and as “truthful” as any hundred more subtle scenes.
Some of you are going to watch Romance and Cigarettes, or have watched it, and think me absolutely nuts. It’s that kind of picture: squirrelly, impossible to pin down, and infuriating for those who don’t want to play along. Normally this would be my spot to rant about how unjust it is that such a good movie sat around for so long, but, in this case, I’m not surprised. It’s too bad though, because we need more movies this messy, this human, this willing to be patched and imperfect. These kinds of pictures can be awful, but, at their best, they can also be the kinds of pictures you think about when you shave in the morning. Watch Romance and Cigarettes, All That Jazz, and The Fountain close together over a weekend, and see if that following Monday isn’t just a bit different from the Monday before it.
★★★½
Posted on February 19th, 2008 in 2007, Reviews, Musical | 3 Comments
We Own the Night (2007)
We Own the Night opens on a somber collection of photographs that would be right at home in the opening credits of a 1970s Sidney Lumet film. From there, writer-director James Gray cuts, jarringly, to a very deliberate shot of Bobby Green (Joaquin Phoenix) walking down the hallway of a loft he has tucked away in the down town club he manages. At the end of that hallway lies a living room, and in that living room lies the luscious Amada (Eva Mendes). Bobby steals a bit of carnal respite before being called back to the front of the club to settle the sort of dispute that is obviously very usual-usual for him. We catch tantalizing glimpses of the sexy girls, the bartenders, and the clearly very dangerous clientele that frequents the place. Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” tells us it’s the 1980s, and a subtitle reinforces that just in case we missed it.
A few moments later, Bobby and Amada make their way to a celebration being held on the other side of town in honor of Capt. Joseph Grusinsky (Mark Wahlberg) who’s, I think, receiving a promotion. Presiding over the ceremony is Deputy Chief Albert Grusinsky (Robert Duvall), Joseph’s father and boss. The Grusinskys spot Bobby and quickly pull him away for a moment. It turns out that Bobby is Joseph’s brother and the long lost member of the Grusinsky family. The Grusinskys need Bobby’s help, a frequenter of the club is one of the deadliest drug runners in Brooklyn. Bobby, drunk, high on weed and vague self-loathing, tells his family to take a hike. Bobby feels a closer familial connection to Marat Buzhayev (Moni Moshonov) an older man who runs the club Bobby manages. The old man always happens to be related to the drug runner that Joseph and Albert hope to corner.
For about forty-five minutes, We Own the Night is tasty pulp, as breathless and obsessive as it sounds, and refreshingly old-fashioned. In a time of countless, ceaseless shaky-cam “excitement”, it’s nice to see a filmmaker who takes his time and actually builds a little steam before blowing the top off. That old fashion that I speak of also extends to the film’s look: lush and beautiful, the Brooklyn streets shot with the kind of painter’s eye that the David Cronenberg of Eastern Promises could appreciate.
We Own the Night comes down with a bad case of the “importants” about half-way through though, and the vitality seeps right out of the picture. The film primes you for a conflict between Bobby and Joseph, and between Bobby’s real and surrogate family, only to resolve that in a matter of minutes. The film primes you for one of Phoenix’s more interesting performances in years (where has the raw live-wire from Parenthood and To Die For gone?) only to revert to another one of his noble numbers that wins lots of nominations and little else.
Joaquin Phoenix is one of the strongest actors of his generation, but lately he’s been suffering from the same ennui tinged discombobulation that plagued Johnny Depp in the early 1990s before Ed Wood showed up. Bobby starts out a sexy, dangerous, kind of sluggish presence only to fall right in line when the you know what hits the fan. He’s ideal, upright, and dull as a damn fence post. Gray’s script is more consistent with the Duvall and Wahlberg roles, they’re dull from the very beginning.
I’m not going to dissuade you from seeing We Own the Night once, the film works when Gray isn’t smothering it with well meaning profundity. Gray turns out to be a virtuoso with violence, his gunplay is alive and terrifying in a way that the characters never quite manage. The best sequence, a claustrophobic highway ambush in the rain shot almost entirely from inside a character’s car, has the possibility of becoming classic, and proves that Gray has the stuff of a great filmmaker, when he isn’t going out of his way to prove he’s a great filmmaker.
★★½
Posted on February 18th, 2008 in 2007, Reviews, Crime | 6 Comments
Something to Watch: Valentine’s Day
Apologies for the loss of comments, something kept eating the end of this post and it seems that deletion was the only solution.
It may be a desperate grab for cash, along the lines of a Father’s Day II or National Golf Acknowledgement Day, but anything that could possibly remind you to kiss your girlfriend’s toes one extra day of the year can’t be all THAT bad. After dinner and drinks, you may find yourself searching for that perfect flick to begin (or end) that dance that starts as the public portion of the evening reaches its end. With that, I offer five double features:
The Samuel L. Jackson as Ironic Instigator of Unexpected Romance Double Feature: Jackie Brown (1997) and Black Snake Moan (2007).
The very best romances are the romances that feel spontaneous, unreal, scary and vulnerable. The relationships shouldn’t feel like they’ve been worked out two months ahead of time by their star’s agents. Nothing, nothing, nothing is less romantic than numbing obligation. You will be able to sneak up on your young lady with either Jackie Brown or Black Snake Moan, because both, in the beginning, will feel like she’s doing you a favor. Both are riddled with profanity, both are steeped in sweaty, sleazy movie references that she (or you) probably haven’t heard of, and both feature Samuel L. Jackson at his crazy best as a very unexpected cupid.
Quentin Tarantino had written True Romance a few years before tackling Jackie Brown, but that earlier film is the fantasy of a very under-laid white guy who just wants “someone that understands him”. He actually understanding her is un-explored and, at best, optional. Jackie Brown was Tarantino’s follow-up to the monumentally successful Pulp Fiction, and one imagines that he was able to gorge himself on a variety of carnal delights while picking a follow-up picture.
As a result, Jackie Brown, an adaptation of Elmore Leonard’s Rum Punch, is mature and confident: Tarantino doesn’t feel the need to remind you that he’s cinema’s reigning bad boy in every frame. At about the forty-five, fifty minute mark, Robert Forster, in the best performance to ever grace a Tarantino film, spots the titular Jackie (Pam Grier) coming out of jail. She looks like shit (for the movies) but that doesn’t stop Forster from hearing a beautiful R&B song in his head as she approaches him. He’s instantly hers, but life, age and other things keep romance at a side-line. Instead, they decide to rip-off Samuel L. Jackson in his career best work.
If Jackie Brown features Jackson as the object of the couple’s wrath, then Black Snake Moan has a frazzled, vaguely Uncle Remusy Jackson inflicting his wrath on a mixed up couple that needs it more than they ever imagined: Christina Ricci and Justin Timberlake. I never thought I would call a Ricci and Timberlake teaming romantic, but such is the charm and potential surprise of the movies. The film, a little like Punch-drunk Love, dives head first into the notion of people as mutual saviors from one another’s crippling rage and insecurity. Moan begins foul and self-conscious and ends in tender embrace. Few films can make a transition so believable, or heartbreaking.
The Paul Giamatti as Unlikely Romantic Hero Double Feature: American Splendor (2003) and Sideways (2004).
Again your young lady is going to initially feel as if she’s doing you a favor: men seem to get the appeal of Paul Giamatti much more than women. And I get it. Giamatti, at his best, is the spokesperson for everything a man can find about himself to dislike: he’s paunchy, short, stooped, bitter, making little money, and way too self-conscious to ever dream of landing a woman. But he does, and by the end, the women just may believe it too.
American Splendor isn’t exactly a romance, but the relationship between Giamatti and Hope Davis eventually comes to signify something very romantic: two flawed people who unite in mutual desperation discovering via their bitching that they’re perfect for one another. Watch how Davis handles Giamatti’s (playing Harvey Pekar) announcement that he has cancer. Watch how she holds him up, and forces him to face his art and his life.
Sideways, one of the most perfect American comedies to come down the line in some time, is more idealized. Giamatti offers a portrait of the self-loathing failure that’s, if possible, even less compromising (certainly less showy) than his Harvey Pekar, but the savior female embodied by Virginia Madsen here is a bit more on the fantasy side of things. She’s beautiful. She’s articulate. She’s undemanding, and, most importantly, she “sees something in him.” When the writing is this sharp, this lived-in, this poignant, this literate, you won’t much give a damn what’s real and what’s false. The final image is one of the most hopeful, satisfying, and earned in recent movies.
The Probably More Appropriate for Halloween but, Screw It, It’s My Web-Site Double Feature: The Fly (1986) and Mulholland Dr. (2001).
The Fly and Mulholland Dr. have more in common than you may initially realize. Both are my favorite of their acclaimed directors’ (David Lynch and David Cronenberg) work and both are, at their core, intensely moving stories of broken romance. The Fly is actually the more optimistic of the two, at least the lover in that one (Geena Davis) has reason to break the affair, her boyfriend (Jeff Goldblum) gets drunk and turns himself into a bug. Her devotion (again that word) is admirable though, as she’s the only one who has the stuff to do what must finally be done. Mulholland Dr., on the other hand, represents the other side of that coin: the lover splits as soon as things become somewhat inconvenient. Below a sometimes challenging narrative (though it’s not as bad as you’ve heard) lurks Lynch’s most naked, moving story of rejection and self-delusion.
The Unrequited, Self-Pitying Artist Love That Most Directly Taps Into Our Memories of Being Stood Up at the Junior High Dance Double Feature: Edward Scissorhands (1990) and Being John Malkovich (1999).
Edward Scissorhands ages poorly: the not really that funny John Waters satire slows the thing to a crawl, but there’s no denying the power of the opening and closing minutes, where an older Winona Ryder recalls to her grand-daughter the strange would-be lover that got away. That lover, an S&M cover of the creature that lived in the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, remains in the tower Winona left him in so many years ago, creating snow storms just for her. We all like to think that we’ve inspired that kind of regret in someone who never saw anything in us (though we probably haven’t), so watch this movie and see what it could look like.
As trapped as Edward may feel at the end of his film, it’s nothing on what John Cusack (effectively playing against type) has to contend with at the end of the still fabulous Being John Malkovich. Cusack doesn’t just not get the girl. He doesn’t just lose his wife. He doesn’t even just lose his wife to the girl he also didn’t get. No, Cusack, in addition to those tropical storms of disappointment, is fated to witness their happiness for eternity in the mind of their love child. Total abject failure with someone you inappropriately love has rarely been rendered so vividly, or beautifully.
The This Behavior Would Strike Most As Sociopathic if This Wasn’t A Movie Double Feature: Say Anything (1989), Frankie and Johnny (1991).
Most women that I’ve spoken to love Say Anything, which represents the more popular incarnation of John Cusack, back before he started to play around with his “nice guy with just a bit of quirk so he’s not super boring” image. Guys like the movie too, and they tend to admire Cusack because he’s more approachably flakey than the leads in many romances, but can we acknowledge that the behavior that women applaud so in Say Anything is just a teensy-weensy deranged? Imagine, ladies, what you’d do if the man you lost your virginity to showed up one morning with the soundtrack to your lovemaking blaring over a boombox. Yet, in the movies, this is the height of selfless expression.
Actually it isn’t. The appeal of Say Anything lies in the notion of a total absence of mind games: Lloyd Dobbler is exactly who he claims to be and feels for Diane exactly how he claims to feel. Lloyd’s feelings are constant, un-changeable, reassuring, and totally absent in real life. Writer-director Cameron Crowe used to have a flair for selling this sort of thing, which has since, evidently, abandoned him. Crowe’s most recent picture, Elizabethtown, features a would-be lover (Kirsten Dunst) who’s one pretend camera click away from appearing opposite Bette Davis AS THE CRAZY ONE OF THE TWO.
Al Pacino’s short order cook Johnny is a little more relaxed by comparison, he waits about two hours into his first shift with waitress Frankie (Michelle Pfeiffer) before deciding to follow her around and declare their destiny to be united. The film seems to regard Frankie as a broken, up-tight shrew because she’s slow to warm to Johnny, but I found her behavior surprisingly relaxed and tolerant in that she manages to resist calling the cops. The film is an ode to stalking, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise that it’s directed by Garry Marshall, who’s managed to also transform kidnapping (Overboard), prostitution (Pretty Woman) and abandonment (Runaway Bride) into frothy romantic byplay. Common sense gets the better of those other pictures, but Pfeiffer and Pacino’s work in Frankie and Johnny trumps the cynic in me, and if it trumps the cynic in me, it will trump the cynic in you.
This last double feature, by the way, could also be called The Double Feature She’ll Most Actually Watch on Valentine’s Day and That Doesn’t Require A Bunch of Pretentious Cinephilic Justification.
Have fun kids.
