Thursday, February 16, 2012

 

The waiting isn't the hardest part


By Edward Copeland
Glenn Close's fascination with the story of Albert Nobbs began in 1982, the same year she made her film debut in The World According to Garp where she vividly brought John Irving's character of Jenny Fields to cinematic life and was robbed of an Oscar for her efforts by Jessica Lange's win for Tootsie, when Lange wasn't even the best supporting actress in Tootsie. Before I watched the film of Albert Nobbs, I hadn't heard many complimentary things about the movie but it surprised me. Much of Albert Nobbs, especially in the earlygoing, plays more as a comedy and a solid ensemble brings its canvas of characters to entertaining life, most notably Oscar nominee Janet McTeer. To be sure, Albert Nobbs contains flaws and, ironically, its biggest weakness lies in the performance of the actress whose perseverance got the film made in the first place.

For those unfamiliar with the story of Albert Nobbs, it began life as a short story by Irish novelist George Moore called "The Singular Life of Albert Nobbs" in 1918 about a woman who lives disguised as a man for 30 years in 19th century Ireland in order to find work. Nobbs finds employment as a waiter at an upscale Dublin hotel and hopes to save enough money to open his/her own shop. A chance meeting with a painter leads Albert to discover another woman who lives as a man and has taken a wife as well, giving Albert the idea that perhaps she should take a bride when she makes her escape as well, setting her sights on a young maid who is having a torrid affair with another worker with plans to escape to America.

Simone Benmussa adapted the short story into a play and directed Close in the starring role in the summer of 1982 in a production presented by the Manhattan Theatre Club at Stage I of New York's City Center. Close won an Obie Award for her performance. In the nearly 30 years that followed, Close made it her mission to play the part on film. Close met one of her co-producers, Bonnie Curtis, on the film The Chumscrubber where Close handed Curtis a draft of a screenplay for Albert Nobbs and told her, "I must play this part on the big screen before I die." Now that she finally has achieved that dream, she not only plays Nobbs, Close also co-produced and co-wrote the film as well as the lyrics for an original song sung by Sinead O'Connor over the film's credits.

Albert Nobbs almost came to the screen first under the guidance of Hungary's great director Istvan Szabo (Mephisto) who directed Close in the 1991 film Meeting Venus. She gave Szabo a copy of Moore's short story and soon he handed her the first treatment for an Albert Nobbs movie so he still receives screen credit (though not on the Inaccurate Movie Database) for the treatment along with Moore for his story and Close, John Banville and Gabriella Prekop for screenplay.

In the majority of her duties on Albert Nobbs, Close seems to have performed well. She earned an Oscar nomination for best actress, but a lot of mediocre performances have been nominated (and won) before. Close's take on Albert Nobbs comes off as so stilted and mannered when compared to the performances of everyone else in the cast that she acts as if she's in a different movie. It's only accentuated because the actors and actresses that surround her carry themselves with such ease and that goes for seasoned vets such as Pauline Collins as the hotel's owner, Brenda Fricker as on, Brendan Gleeson, Phyllida Law and newer discoveries such as Mia Wasikowska and Aaron Johnson (the young John Lennon in 2010's Nowhere Boy).

Now, it isn't merely because Close portrays a woman pretending to be a man in the 19th century and Albert Nobbs isn't a comedy, though it does contain a fair amount of humor in it, because Janet McTeer also plays a woman pretending to be a man and she's brilliant. I was fortunate enough to see McTeer live on Broadway as Nora in the 1997 revival of A Doll's House and she was spectacular (and deservedly won the Tony). She wowed again when she earned a lead actress Oscar nomination for her role in the 1999 film Tumbleweeds directed by Gavin O'Connor when he made interesting movies before he turned to junk such as Warrior.

In the lead paragraph, I brought up Tootsie (in a different context admittedly) but Dustin Hoffman's work as Dorothy Michaels in that film is so great because after awhile, you not only forget that it's Hoffman, you believe it's a woman. I wouldn't go that far with McTeer, but I find it more believable that her character of Hubert Page could pass for a man in 19th century Dublin than I could Close's Albert Nobbs. Hell, I'm not sure Nobbs would pass for a human.

You would think when the main character turns out to be a film's major deficit, the film itself would be doomed, but miraculously I enjoyed Albert Nobbs in spite of Albert Nobbs. Somehow, the rest of the cast, the script and the surefooted direction by Rodrigo Garcia (Mother and Child) more than compensate for Close's performance. (It's somewhat ironic because Close gave the only great performance in Bille August's awful 1993 all-star adaptation of Isabel Allende's The House of the Spirits that featured the rare bad Meryl Streep performance and a cast that also included Jeremy Irons, Winona Ryder and Vanessa Redgrave.)

I do sense that significant sections of the film were edited out based on the presence of actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers. He plays a viscount who checks into the hotel with his wife. We see one brief scene that shows a naked man waking up in his bed in the morning and then we don't see him again until he and his wife check out. Something must have been left on the cutting room floor. It didn't add anything, so they might as well have cut out all those scenes.

Much of the behind-the-scenes work succeeds at a high level including cinematography by Michael McDonough (Winter's Bone), production design by Patrizia von Brandenstein (Oscar winner for Amadeus) and costumes by Pierre-Yves Gayraud.

Albert Nobbs always will mystify me. I can think of major problems with the film, but I can't dispute the fact that I enjoyed it anyway. In a way, it's sort of a corollary to my idea that the purest test as to whether a movie works for you or not is if your mind wanders and you get bored. Albert Nobbs held my interest and I didn't have an unpleasant time watching it, even if a lot of Glenn Close's acting choices made me cringe. It's sad. I'm surprised that no one has mentioned that when Close loses come Oscar night, that will make her 0 for 6, tying her with Deborah Kerr and Thelma Ritter among actresses with the most nominations without winning (though Kerr's were all in lead and Ritter's were all in supporting while Close splits hers evenly three in each category).

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Thursday, January 05, 2012

 

Survival of the greediest


By Edward Copeland
If any Occupy gatherings want a movie to pass the sit-in time which also speaks to the group's issues, the protesters could make no better choice than the riveting Margin Call, a well-acted depiction of the callous way that a fictional Wall Street investment firm treats its employees, its clients and the U.S. economy — all for the sake of perpetuating executive lifestyles, everything else be damned.

Margin Call marks the feature writing-directing debut of J.C. Chandor and an impressive debut it turns out to be. It begins much like John Wells' wretched The Company Men, except that it's an investment firm laying off much of its work force and the movie's focus isn't trying to convince us to cry crocodile tears for the execs who no longer can afford country club fees.

One of the first to get his walking papers is Eric Dale (Stanley Tucci), a senior executive in risk management. His layoff shocks him but Dale seems more concerned about the data on his monitor when he receives the news. He tries to explain to the woman (Susan Blackwell) informing him of his fate about the importance of that in-progress project, but she stays on the severance script, letting him know what his exit package contains and how — for security reasons — his access to email, computer files, etc., has been severed. She sends him back to his office with a security guard to collect any "personal items" and escort him from the building.

As Dale grabs a few things, senior trader Will Emerson (Paul Bettany) sticks his head in to offer sympathies. Eric tries telling Emerson about his incomplete work, but Emerson tells him it isn't his problem anymore. As Dale takes his final walk to the elevator, box of belongings in his arms, one of his assistants, Pete Sullivan (Zachary Quinto), catches up to thank him for the chance to work with him. Eric again mentions his work — and he slips Sullivan a flash drive along with the warning, "Be careful." When Dale gets to the sidewalk, he attempts to make a call on his cell phone only to discover the firm shut that off as well, something that will bite the company in the ass.

Once the floor's layoffs have been completed, its top trading executive, Sam Rogers (Kevin Spacey), comes out of his office to give the survivors a pep talk, explaining that it's been a difficult day but it's one that they may all go through again throughout their careers. On the bright side, with so many people gone, the rest should celebrate because they've all moved up several notches in the firm's hierarchy. Pretty much the entire floor takes the advice literally and heads out for drinks after work, including Dale's other assistant, Seth Bregman (Penn Badgley), who encourages Sullivan to go but Pete has immersed himself in flash drive's data and stays to work on it.

When Pete finally figures out what Dale had discovered, he can't believe the numbers and calls Seth to come look at them, followed by Will Emerson. With the projections, the trading firm has become so overleveraged that if its assets (made up mostly of those infamous mortgage-backed securities) should decrease by 25%, the company will owe more than it is worth. Emerson drags Rogers in and soon the firm's most important players have arrived to work through the night for possible solutions to the impending explosion including the head of risk management, Sarah Robertson (Demi Moore), a particularly cutthroat senior exec, Jared Cohen (Simon Baker), and the company's CEO, John Tuld (Jeremy Irons).

As complicated as the subject matter is, Chandor's script makes it digestible and understandable. As a director, Chandor turns the material into a truly suspenseful thriller where no one's physical life may be at stake but it feels as something much larger is. Chandor's screenplay and direction prove great, but he also has been blessed with an embarrassment of riches in the casting department.

Jack Lemmon's influence on Spacey shows in his portrayal of Rogers, the veteran trader who serves as the firm's conscience. Irons turns in a fine performance as the CEO who feels his decisions are based on pragmatism not greed or self-preservation. Baker makes all his scenes come alive simply by the mysterious nature of his character. Quinto (who also served as one of the film's many producers) and Badgley work as a kind of yin and yang of up-and-comers in the business world. Though Tucci's role is limited, he makes the most of his appearances. Daily Show correspondent Aasif Mandvi even appears, playing it straight as a firm lawyer.

For me though, the film's standout ends up being Paul Bettany. He caught my attention first as Russell Crowe's roommate in A Beautiful Mind, but I've been waiting for him to break out ever since, but most of his roles I've missed or have failed to make an impression on me. As Emerson in Margin Call, Bettany creates a cool customer that you're never quite certain where his loyalties lie or whether he even has any. He's also wry and somewhat of a tour guide for the audience through the corporate maze.

Margin Call also boasts crisp editing by Pete Beaudreau and production design by John Paino with set decoration by Robert Covelman that makes the boardrooms and trading office look spot-on real, especially when seen through Frank G. DeMarco's wondrous cinematography. Office interiors don't get heralded enough when filmed this well.

Chandor has won and been nominated for several first feature and first screenplay awards and the Independent Spirit Awards has given this cast its Robert Altman Award for best ensemble, all very deserved accolades. I look forward to seeing where Chandor goes from here.

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Tuesday, November 15, 2011

 

A "Kafka-esque" Tribute


By Damian Arlyn
Today marks the 20th anniversary of the release of Kafka, the first film Steven Soderbergh directed after his award-winning sex, lies, and videotape. I saw it many years ago on VHS and, although I didn't completely understand it, really enjoyed it. It was a tense, atmospheric thriller that starred Jeremy Irons in the title role and included a cast of such distinguished actors as Jeroen Krabbé, Ian Holm, Joel Grey, Armin Mueller-Stahl and Alec Guinness to support him. It was shot entirely in black and white (with only one brief color interlude near the end) and served as my introduction to Steven Soderbergh, a filmmaker who would later become one of my personal favorites. I was looking forward to watching it again for the purposes of writing this article. Unfortunately, it was not to be.

After much searching (and in a strange turn of events which perhaps Kafka himself would have appreciated), I discovered that the film has yet to be released on DVD here in the U.S. and there are apparently no plans to do so anytime soon. Since I am unable to revisit it and my memory of the film is somewhat sketchy, I fear I am unable to compose a proper tribute for it. However, it occurred to me that, in a strange way, this might perhaps be the most fitting tribute that could be done for a film that features the isolated and misunderstood Franz Kafka as its protagonist. I do hope that the film eventually gets released on DVD/Blu-ray someday (it deserves it) and if it does, I can highly recommend checking it out. In the meantime, I'll simply end this piece with a quote from the famed Prague-born writer:
"Life's splendor forever lies in wait about each one of us in all its fullness, but veiled from view, deep down, invisible, far off. It is there, though, not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If you summon it by the right word, by its right name, it will come."

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Monday, October 31, 2011

 

Paradise Lost


"All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing."

By Damian Arlyn
An elderly Catholic cardinal stares intensely at us, his hard facial features betraying an expression of complete ambiguity. Is he angry? Sad? Afraid? We don't know. After several seconds he begins to speak. He is dictating a letter to the pope, relaying details of a past event which the film proceeds to show in flashback. His narration explains how Jesuit priests, who set up missions in South America for the education and protection of the local natives, journeyed into the depths of the jungle "to bring the word of God to those Indians still living in their natural state and received in return, martyrdom." We then see one such cleric, stripped to the waist and wearing a makeshift crown of thorns on his brow, being tied to a wooden cross and carried by a group of these Indians (whom we later learn are called the Guarani) down to a river where he is thrown in. He floats away silently, still alive but seemingly resigned to his fate. We watch as he travels further downstream, a grotesque living crucifix adrift in a series of rough rapids, before sailing over the edge of an immense waterfall and plummeting to his death. Thus opens the breathtakingly beautiful and tremendously powerful historical drama The Mission (which celebrates its 25th anniversary today), one of the finest films I personally have ever seen.

Based on actual events that occurred in the territory that borders Paraguay, Brazil and Argentina in the mid-18th century (and, knowing Hollywood's track record for distorting history, no doubt embellishing it), The Mission primarily tells the story of two very different, and yet remarkably similar, men. The first is Father Gabriel (Jeremy Irons), a kind, noble and patient Jesuit priest who, after the death of his friend, decides to bravely enter the domain of the Guarani tribe. In one of many memorable and visually spectacular sequences, Father Gabriel climbs up the waterfall from the film's prologue, slipping and almost plunging to his own death in the process. His conquering of the falls is the first of many obstacles he must overcome in his quest to finish what his unlucky colleague began.

In a subsequent scene, Gabriel sits calmly on a rock and plays a sweet but elegiac little tune on his oboe as Guarani begin to slowly surround him with their weapons drawn. Though he notices them approach, he continues to play on, his face clearly betraying fear and yet his will proving strong and resolute. Suddenly one native shouts at him angrily, grabs the oboe, breaks it in two across his own knee and storms off. Another one picks up the pieces, examines the instrument as if trying to understand how such a lovely sound could come from it and meekly offers it back to Gabriel who tries to fix it before shaking his head. The native then takes Gabriel's hand and with the consent of everyone else present leads him back to their home. It is a phenomenal dialogue-free sequence about the universal allure of music and the kind of respect that can exist across vast ethnic, cultural and linguistic barriers. In courageously refusing not to be intimidated by these dangerous "savages" as well as not responding with anger or hostility to their destruction of his beloved property, Gabriel begins the first step in earning the trust and admiration of these understandably scared and suspicious people.

Gabriel begins to establish a mission named San Carlos in the heart of the jungle, a sanctuary where the Guarani can hear the Gospel and also be safe from the brutality of the slave traders who capture (and sometimes kill) them. It is here that the film introduces its other primary character: a mercenary named Captain Rodrigo Mendoza (Robert De Niro) who is so notoriously ruthless that when he encounters father Gabriel in one of his many hunting excursions, Gabriel's assertion that they are "building a mission here to make Christians of these people" is met with the callous response, "If you have the time." However, when Mendoza discovers his younger brother Felipe (Aidan Quinn) in bed with his own fiancee, he angrily kills Felipe in a duel and, unlike his spiritual ancestor Cain, immediately regrets his fratricide afterward. Although the law can't touch him, Mendoza is consumed with guilt and punishes himself by wasting away in a cell refusing to eat or speak to anyone. Into his misery comes none other than Father Gabriel who, in a manner very similar to his initial encounter with the Guarani, bravely confronts Mendoza for the coward that he is (not only refusing to be intimidated by his threats but actually daring him to act on them) and offers him a chance at redemption. "For me there is no redemption," Mendoza laments. "There is no penance hard enough for me." Gabriel asks: "But do you dare try it?" to which Mendoza replies: "Do you dare to see it fail?"

What follows is another magnificent extended sequence wherein Mendoza accompanies Gabriel and a few other members of his order back into the jungle all the while dragging behind him a huge bundle of metallic weaponry (swords, shields, armor, etc) at the end of a rope. It even involves climbing the same waterfall (which becomes a sort of character in itself) Gabriel did. It all culminates in another dialogue-free scene of almost immeasurable emotion and profundity; indeed it's one of the most moving depictions of forgiveness I've ever seen on film (although there is a comparable one in Terrence Malick's latest opus The Tree of Life). Mendoza soon becomes an active part of the seemingly idyllic existence at San Carlos. Grateful for his "second chance" at life, he asks Father Gabriel what he can do in return. Gabriel hands him a Bible and we see Mendoza reading passages from the apostle Paul's first letter to the Corinthians ("Though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing. Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up…But now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love."). Indeed, much like Paul, who persecuted Christians only to become one of their greatest proponents, Mendoza transforms from a murderer and trader of the Guarani into their friend and advocate.

Having witnessed enough death in his life Mendoza swears off all violence (as is seen in a sequence where the Guarani invite him to help slay a boar they've hunted and he refuses) and even joins Gabriel's order vowing to protect and serve his fellow man. This, however, proves very difficult as the signing of the Treaty of Madrid reallocates the previously protected lands inhabited by the Jesuit missions to Portugal, which unlike Spain permits slavery. This leads to the section of the film where Cardinal Altamirano (Ray McAnally), the stoic priest who narrates the film, is sent by the pope to appraise the Jesuit missions and decide whether they should continue to fall under the protection of the Roman Catholic Church. In some emotionally charged scenes (where the disparity between good and evil is rarely so starkly drawn), the Jesuits defend the humanity of the Guarani and the virtues of the missions while the plantation owners assert the inferiority and animal-like natures of the Guarani and apply political pressure to Altamirano for a favorable decision. They are such despicable, sorry excuses for human beings that it actually borders on the comical.

Unfortunately, even after visiting the San Carlos mission and seeing the "paradise on earth" that the Jesuits and the Guarani have built together, Altamirano comes to the inevitable conclusion that in order to save the whole body (the body in this case presumably being the "body of Christ," or the church) one must sometimes hack off a limb (the limb being the missions), not unlike another pragmatic religious leader named Caiaphas who determined centuries earlier that it is "better that one man should die for the people than that the whole nation should perish." He tells the Guarani that they must leave the mission, but they do not want to leave. It is their home. When they question the wisdom and authority of this priest, he asserts that they must learn to submit to the will of God. Confused, the Guarani say that it was the will of God that they came out of the jungle and built the mission and they don't understand why God has changed his mind. The Guarani decide to stay and fight. Altamirano tells the Jesuits that they must not fight with the Guarani but that they must instead return to Rome with him. Angry at this betrayal by the church, Mendoza literally takes up his sword again and, along with several other Jesuits (including a young Liam Neeson), joins with the Guranai in defending their home against the colonialists.

The only one who doesn't take up arms is Father Gabriel. Heartbroken at this turn of events, but still unwilling to abandon the Guarani to their doom, Gabriel chooses to stay with them, but he will not kill. On the eve of the impending battle, Mendoza comes to Gabriel to be blessed for his efforts, but Gabriel refuses to do so. "If you're right, you'll have God's blessing," he says. "If you're not, my blessing won't mean anything." The two men embrace and the climactic final showdown soon follows. Alas, the outcome is hardly unpredictable. Nearly all of the Guranai who resist are slaughtered. Mendoza and the other priests are killed in battle. Father Gabriel, who stages a nonviolent demonstration with many of the Guarani women and children, also is killed and his mission is burned to the ground.

Shortly thereafter, Altamirano is seen eating with the plantation owners and he is utterly sickened not only by the news of this massive loss of human life but by their ambivalence to it. "And you have the effrontery to tell me that this slaughter was necessary?" he asks. Calmly and coldly, they tell him that they believe it was. "We must work in the world, your eminence," one of them says. "The world is thus." To this Altamirano replies, "No, Señor Hontar. Thus have we made the world," before gazing out the window and somberly admitting his own culpability in the affair. "Thus have I made it." The film concludes with Altamirano finishing his letter to the pope and, in one of my favorite post-credit movie codas (right up there with Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Young Sherlock Holmes), stares intensely back into the camera as he did in the film's opening image.

The Mission was written by Tony Award-winning playwright (A Man for All Seasons) and two-time Oscar-winning screenwriter Robert Bolt (Doctor Zhivago and A Man for All Seasons), whose credits also include other historical epics with decidedly intimate focal points such as Lawrence of Arabia and The Bounty. The Mission was directed by the English filmmaker Roland Joffé, whose only prior feature film, The Killing Fields, won him much critical acclaim and seemed to signal the promise of a great director. Unfortunately, his career since The Mission has been notably unimpressive, with his failures (such as Super Mario Bros., The Scarlet Letter and Captivity) looming much larger than his successes. Nonetheless, in spite of its flaws, The Mission is an extraordinarily compelling piece of work with many superlative elements to recommend it. The performances are uniformly solid but Jeremy Irons and Robert De Niro are especially good. The spiritual journeys of these two men are the real heart of the film and both actors imbue their parts with subtlety and soul. De Niro's reticent warrior is perhaps a bit more complex, but Irons' faithful Father Gabriel is no less interesting or sympathetic.

One of the things I love about The Mission is how it doesn't cast its lot with either character at the film's finale. Both men are clearly trying to do the right thing in an otherwise awful situation and even though they disagree as to what that is, the film doesn't judge the actions of either. The film also boasts some gorgeous locales beautifully rendered by cinematographer Chris Menges (who won an Academy Award for his efforts) and the highly evocative film score by legendary Italian composer Ennio Morricone not only stands out as one of his best works but has become one of the most popular soundtracks around…even for those who don't typically notice/collect film music. The piece "On Earth as it is Heaven" (the tune played by Gabriel on his oboe early in the film) is a bittersweet melody that haunts much of the film's imagery and the celebratory choral "Guarani" theme (made up of exotic instruments and native-style chanting) lingers in the memory long after the film is over.

Although it received a handful of awards (including the prestigious Palme d'Or at Cannes) and numerous other nominations, The Mission was lukewarmly received when it was released in 1986. Nobody panned it but few critics praised it as a masterpiece either. Most labeled it merely mediocre and remained rather indifferent to it. Roger Ebert wrote that it felt "exactly like one of those movies where you'd rather see the documentary about how the movie was made" (incidentally, the DVD and Blu-ray release of The Mission includes the hour-long doc Omnibus, which chronicles the making of the film in case he, or anyone else, ever wants to actually do that; I have and although it is fascinating, I still prefer the film itself). Considered by many to be muddled, ponderous, pious and with characters who seemed more like "types" than fleshed-out human beings, it grossed a meager $17 million at the box office and faded into relative obscurity thereafter. Over the years, however, as more and more people have discovered this little-known treasure of a film, it has gained a somewhat more prominent reputation …particularly among religious folk who are drawn to its themes of redemption, forgiveness, faith, courage, love, compassion, goodness, evangelism, etc. In fact, the weekly Anglican publication Church Times picked it as No. 1 on a list of the "Top 50 Religious Films" and in 2004 Arts & Faith ranked it No. 54 on their "Top 100 Spiritually Significant Films."

Speaking only for myself, I find it to be an incredibly deep and thoughtful piece of work; indeed one of my favorite films. In the interests of full disclosure though, I should probably make it known that I am myself a Christian (though I don't belong to any particular denomination) and as such tend to respond favorably to stories that involve people who share my faith and the struggles that they deal with as they attempt to live it out. Many people already now this about me, but it's still a little nerve-wracking to admit that about myself because I realize it is not a popular thing to be right now. There are a lot of Christians out there who are making a lot of noise (as well as a lot of enemies) and as such people tend to lump us all in the same category.

As I believe Dr. Peter E. Dans observes in his book Christians in Movies: A Century of Saints and Sinners, it is becoming more and more difficult to find positive portrayals of Christians in movies and TV and far more commonplace to see them depicted as sanctimonious, hypocritical, judgmental, right-wing ignoramuses (see movies such as Paul, Footloose and Easy A as well as TV shows such as 30 Rock, The Big Bang Theory and The Office). Consequently, a film such as The Mission, where the church may not come off particularly well but individual believers are depicted quite sympathetically, resonates with me simply because it goes against the recent trend.

I'd like to think, however, that I can still be objective enough to recognize a good movie (which I think The Mission is) when I see one, whether it tends to paint Christians in a good light or not. I am not particularly interested, for example, in so-called "Christian" movies, partially because they are essentially works of propaganda and I tend to respond to all propaganda the same (whether it propagates something I happen to agree with or not), but also because they tend to be as many critics (including this one and this one) have pointed out, pretty bad. Nonetheless, there are some films that I think could be classified as "Christian" (though I personally don't even really consider that a viable category) that don't fit the usual "faith-based" mold we have come to expect and which I think are far more powerful, existential and artistic (films such as Shadowlands, Chariots of Fire, The Exorcist, Dogma, Chocolat, etc). I think The Mission belongs with those films. It might not be a "Christian movie" per se (whatever that is) but it is a movie about Christianity and its admittedly checkered past (I am not naive enough to think that the real-life missions were as idyllic as they are depicted here) and it appropriates into its worldview many of the truths about life and human nature that draw me to the Christian ideology.

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Monday, January 03, 2011

 

Pete Postlethwaite (1946-2011)


The first time I noticed Pete Postlethwaite was when I saw his distinctive face in the trailer for 1993's In the Name of the Father. Something instinctively told me, just from what little I glimpsed of his performance in that preview, that this actor, who'd previously been unknown to me, would score an Oscar nomination for his work in this film. He did and he deserved it. Postlethwaite died of cancer Sunday at the age of 64.

Postlethwaite made his feature film debut in Ridley Scott's 1977 film The Duellists. Though it took In the Name of the Father for the actor to appear on my radar, he had been in other films I had seen prior to that, including the Franco Zeffirelli/Mel Gibson version of Hamlet, where he took on the role of The Player King; David Fincher's Alien3; Waterland opposite Jeremy Irons; and Michael Mann's The Last of the Mohicans, the first time he worked with Daniel Day-Lewis.

It was that second teaming with Day-Lewis though that really brought Postlethwaite to prominence as the proud Irish father who goes to jail protecting his son against British allegations of terrorism in In the Name of the Father. Not only did he give a superb performance, but his face, that wonderful face, really belonged to an earlier generation of movie character actors, whose visages stood out in a way that skin and bone alone were almost enough to distinguish them.

After that success, Postlethwaite's appearances became more frequent, ranging from the go-between for Keyser Soze in The Usual Suspects to his great leading role as Danny, the man trying to restore dignity to an economically depressed mining town by forming a competitive brass band in Brassed Off. He even was an unlikely romantic lead opposite Rachel Griffiths in Among Giants.

He worked with Spielberg in Amistad and in 2010 alone appeared in both Christopher Nolan's Inception and The Town. He had completed another film, Killing Bono, which is scheduled for a 2011 release.

RIP Mr. Postlethwaite.


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Sunday, October 17, 2010

 

Still a Strange Man After All These Years


By Squish
When millionaire Claus von Bülow was convicted of the attempted murder of his wife Sunny in 1982, he asked high-profile lawyer Alan Dershowitz to appeal the case. Dershowitz accepted, and, in 1985, wrote a book about it. From this book came the 1990 film Reversal of Fortune, directed by Barbet Schroeder (Single White Female, Barfly), a mystery drama that plays on the borders of thriller and dark comedy. With a glorious 94% on Rotten Tomatoes, critics agree that Reversal of Fortune is certainly a film worthy of revisiting on this, its 20th anniversary.

Above all things, the script is the most impressive aspect of Reversal of Fortune. It takes a multifaceted approach, making our narrator the philosophically waxing comatose Sunny, putting Claus, our might-be-murderer, in the unlikely shoes of "hero," and topping it all off with the "Jewish New York Lawyer" stereotype as Claus's Champion of Justice. Then, rather than going the route of cold and legal docudrama, director Barbet Schroeder and writer Nicholas Kazan take Dershowitz's material and make it an ethics-questioning whodunit that goes beyond "did he or didn't he?" and deeply into the themes of class difference and Big-Picture Justice, all while rooting us firmly with an entertaining air of suspense that keeps you glued to the screen.

MINNIE: Yeah, OK, so, someone's got to defend Claus. But why you, why us?
ALAN DERSHOWITZ: Look, you're my student, you, you have a choice. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do; that is your choice. The reason I take cases — and here I'm unlike most other lawyers, who are not professors and therefore have to make a living — I take cases because I get pissed off. And I am pissed off here. The family hired a private prosecutor: unacceptable! They conducted a private search! Now if we let them get away with that, rich people won't go to the cops any more. You know what they're going to do? They're going to get their own lawyers to collect evidence — and then they are going to choose which evidence they feel like passing on to the DA. And the next victim isn't going to be rich, like von Bülow — but it's going to be some poor schnook in Detroit who can't afford, or who can't find, a decent lawyer.

RAJ: I agree von Bülow is guilty, but then, that's the fun — that's the challenge.
ALAN DERSHOWITZ: Now there is a lawyer.


Of course, for as exquisite as the writing may be, the cherries that top this film are the performances of a hoity and entitled Glenn Close, a nerdy and driven Ron Silver and a deliciously stoic Jeremy Irons in his Academy Award-winning performance as Claus von Bülow. He exudes his character's cold and nigh-malignant demeanor, but not without enough sentimentality to inspire sympathy and even occasionally pity, if only for a little while.

Reversal of Fortune is an intelligently written, wonderfully nuanced film with characters that are just different enough to be as fresh and entertaining as they were 20 years ago.


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Monday, June 01, 2009

 

2008-2009 Broadway Plays, Part 1


By Josh R
May is not a time of year that holds pleasant associations for anyone who’s ever survived a college education. Cramming for exams, grinding out term papers, fighting off the urge to procrastinate…to say that it can be overwhelming is the height of understatement (I would describe my mood at the tail end of my final semester as falling somewhere between immoderately frazzled and thoroughly deranged). It was never my intention to revisit this dreaded state of emotional dystopia, and yet, with a whole season’s worth of plays to discuss, and the Tony Awards looming on the not-too-distant horizon, I find myself in more or less the same spot as when I had to pull 30-odd pages on Dalton Trumbo and The Blacklist out of thin air in about 48 hours in order to graduate. The best approach — really, the only realistic approach at this point — is address everything as briefly as possible, with apologies to the shows I omit due to considerations of time, space and exhaustion.

The straight play reigned supreme on Broadway this year, with more than 20 revivals and a smattering of new works. Theatres that have traditionally housed musicals played host to tried-and-true favorites by Coward and O’Neill, as producers tried to adjust to a less friendly economy. Musicals cost money; with smaller casts and lower overheads, plays are here to stay — at least for the immediate future.

First up — the early-season entries that premiered in the fall, as well as the current crop of “new” plays (note the use of quotation marks) in contention for Tony Awards.

The most surprising production of the 2009-2010 season may well have been Ian Rickson’s glorious staging of The Seagull, in a production that transferred from London. Chekhov can be a rather dry affair, and The Seagull, while indisputably a classic, can seem pretty parched in the absence of a fresh directorial perspective. This was very much the case with the last Seagull I’d seen — a star-studded debacle in Central Park helmed by Mike Nichols featuring Meryl Streep, Kevin Kline, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Natalie Portman and a phalanx of other big-name talents. The fact that Nichols seemed more interested in throwing an A-list party than in interpreting the text was the least of that show’s problems — everyone seemed to be acting in a different play (and frankly, all but a few seemed mismatched with their roles). This was most assuredly not the case in Rickson’s masterful staging, which, while remaining entirely true to the spirit of the piece and the intentions of its author, didn’t treat the play like the kind of lofty classical opus to be treated with kid gloves and kept under glass like a priceless museum artifact. In much the same manner as Louis Malle’s Vanya on 42nd Street, this was The Seagull brought down to earth and demythologized — a naturalistic staging which captured the emotional truth behind the words without getting wrapped up in the profundity of them, or aiming for the formal gloss of a Masterpiece Theatre production. With his complex portrayal of a woman who can be both passionate and aloof, engaging and off-putting, breathtakingly assured and wildly insecure, Chekhov seemed to have imagined the actress Arkadina as a Molotov cocktail blended from equal parts fire and ice — and that’s exactly the way Kristin Scott Thomas played her, embodying the myriad contradictions of the character with wit, verve, and a laser-like emotional acuity. Since the production ended its limited engagement way back in December — and since Tony nominators have notoriously short memories — The Seagull and its star were conspicuously absent from the list of contenders for the big prizes.

Also lost in the shuffle was Thea Sharrock’s hugely successful revival of Peter Shaffer’s Equus — although whether that success owed itself more to the merits of the production than to Daniel Radcliffe’s highly publicized nude scene can remain a subject of debate (or not — something tells me all those teenage girls in attendance the day that I saw it were not hardcore Shaffer mavens). No matter how many times I see it, I’m never quite sure what to think of Equus as a play; while frequently fascinating and unfailingly provocative, it never quite seems to come together in the way that it should. Its central conflict is built around the contention that true liberation can be achieved only through madness — a conceit that the narrative doesn’t really seem to support, given that the lunatic in question seems less a free spirit than a desperately unhappy prisoner of his own warped mind. That notwithstanding, Sharrock’s highly polished staging kept the action moving even though the play’s overly cerebral passages, and Richard Griffiths delivered a performance admirable for its understatement (resisting the urge to mine so many flashy monologues for the stuff of actorly tour-de-force is no small thing). Inevitably, it was Radcliffe — in clothes and out of them — who attracted the lion’s share of the attention, although the performance lacked something in terms of shading and nuance. I’m not averse to an element of theatricality — but portraying a character who functions in a state of angry delirium doesn't necessitate shouting all of one’s lines.

The shouting was appropriate in Neil Pepe’s fall revival of David Mamet’s Speed-the-Plow, a marvelously cynical look at Hollywood power players and the ambitious hangers-on who love them (or, at least, want to ride to glory on their coattails). As a play, Speed-the-Plow isn’t quite as rich in scope as some of Mamet’s more celebrated works — nevertheless, it is a smartly calibrated, vastly entertaining example of the playwright’s craft. The action is streamlined and concise, while the dialogue, consisting mainly of sentence fragments, manages to be blunt yet elliptical at the same time. In some of his plays — particularly, it must be said, in the ones where female characters are placed front and center — Mamet’s fragmented style seems to be at odds with characterization. It feels perfectly right in Speed-the-Plow, which centers around the interactions of two jittery, over-caffeinated studio execs whose motors run so fast they can only pause long enough to communicate in sound bites. When I saw the production, these two titans of industry were played by Jeremy Piven and Raul Esparza, while the role of the seemingly demure office temp who gets caught in the crossfire was performed by Elisabeth Moss. Piven left the production mid-run amidst some controversy — something about mercury poisoning after having eaten too much salmon — and was subsequently replaced by Norbert Leo Butz and Mamet stalwart William H. Macy. Better Piven had departed under fishy circumstances than Mr. Esparza, who, I suppose, may be capable of giving a performance that is less than brilliant — I only say “may” because his most recent performances haven’t provided any evidence to that effect. On the heels of his triumphs in Company and The Homecoming, the protean star of plays and musicals delivered yet another galvanizing star turn — one which went for the jugular, and hit its target like a guided missile.

As for new plays, the story remained much as it always has on Broadway — which is to say, ‘twas slim pickins. The season’s best and most interesting new works could be found in non-for-profit off-Broadway houses — venues where the risk factor is considerably less from a financial standpoint, and greater risks can be taken on the artistic front as a result. Female playwrights made a particularly strong showing this year. Lynn Nottage’s Ruined, a modern-day version of Mother Courage set in war-torn Congo, deservedly won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, while Gina Gionfriddo’s Becky Shaw was a sharply observed comedy of manners with a sleek contemporary twist. Sarah Kane’s Blasted — an audacious compendium of unspeakable behaviors — was perversely fascinating, while Annie Baker’s clever, inquisitive Body Awareness marked a particularly auspicious debut for an emerging playwright. If the women commanded the spotlight, the men were not entirely lacking in action; Lorenzo Pisoni’s Humor Abuse, an autobiographical account of growing up in the circus, and Chris Durang’s absurdist trifle Why Torture is Wrong and The People who Love Them were particular standouts in a off-Broadway season that offered more than its share of high points (the lows were there too…but that’s a discussion for another day).

To say that no new works to be seen on Broadway quite matched that standard is a bit misleading, since all but a few could be accurately termed “new.” The late Horton Foote’s Dividing the Estate, written and first performed in the late 1980s, made its belated Broadway bow in a limited engagement at The Booth Theatre last fall. A kindler, gentler cousin to August: Osage County, featuring a gaggle of contentious Texan siblings squabbling over their inheritance, it was warmly received by critics — if generating little in the way of excitement beyond that. Foote’s homespun, elegiac style can work to beguiling effect when plied in service of gentle stories about gentle subjects — Trip to Bountiful and Tender Mercies are the two that immediately spring to mind. It doesn’t seem entirely appropriate, though, when the subject is something as thorny as a family feud. As with many of Foote’s later works, Dividing the Estate seemed to consist mainly of rose-tinged anecdotes strung together to create a sort of careworn, dog-eared scrapbook — while the fire-and-brimstone antics of Osage County would have seemed completely out-of-place, the proceedings could have used a bit more in the way of tension and urgency. Still, the play did furnish the occasion for pitch-perfect ensemble work by cast led by Elizabeth Ashley and Gerald McRaney; deserving of special praise (and receiving the show’s lone acting nomination) was Hallie Foote, the playwright’s daughter and frequent collaborator, making a memorable impression as the passive-aggressive sister determined to grab off the biggest piece of the pie. Another “new” play — at least according to Tony eligibility rulings — was Richard Greenberg’s The American Plan, originally performed off-Broadway in the early '90s. The Manhattan Theatre Club revival, directed by David Grindley, featured expert performances by Lily Rabe, Keiran Campion and particularly the acerbic, husky-voiced Mercedes Ruehl as an imposing, fatalistic Teutonic mama who alternately coddles and smothers her hapless offspring. Fine acting aside, you could see The American Plan’s surprise twist coming from a mile away, and the pretensions of the dialogue weighed the proceedings down to a certain degree — it didn’t quite make sense for Jews on vacation in The Catskills to spend quite as much time waxing philosophical.

Something called Impressionism quickly established itself as the biggest belly-flop of the year — not even the marquee value of Jeremy Irons and Joan Allen, making their first Broadway appearances since The Real Thing and The Heidi Chronicles respectively, could keep it from closing two months ahead of schedule. Not all the news was bad, however, and other instances of starry casting paid big dividends. There was no reason to assume that Jane Fonda, who hadn’t set foot on a Broadway stage in some 40-odd years, would deliver one of the breakout performances of the season. She did just that in 33 Variations, a strange, diffuse work by I Am My Own Wife scribe Moises Kaufman, rising above the limitations of the script and showing that she’s still got the goods to take on multi-faceted roles of the non-monster-in-law variety. Fonda’s most exciting quality as a performer has always been her bracing, prickly intelligence — the performances that stand as her career high-water marks always examined the manner in which intellect can exist at odds with naked emotionalism. It’s a formula that still retains its potency; as a dying scholar trying to unravel the mysteries of Beethoven’s life and work, she was never less than compelling, even when the play itself seemed unfocused and inconsistent in its ambitions. A cutesy subplot involving a burgeoning romance between Colin Hanks and Samantha Mathis — appealing performers who work a bit too hard to be ingratiating — could have excised altogether without altering the narrative framework considerably.

If 33 Variations was, at least, a work of considerable ambition, the season’s one true non-musical smash was blissfully unencumbered by anything of the kind. I didn’t see Art, Yasmina Reza’s previous Broadway hit, or Life x 3, which did very well abroad but was less kindly received in its 2004 New York debut. Based on everything I’ve gleaned about the prolific French playwright and her oeuvre, God of Carnage doesn’t represent much of a departure for her. It’s simplistic in its aims, which is to say it has about as much depth to it as pan of water; if that statement smacks of reproach, bear in mind that, in certain instances, shallowness can be a virtue. Reza has a remarkably assured grasp of the mechanics of playwriting — one can’t fault her sense of structure, and God of Carnage is, above all things, a shrewdly constructed work of theater. It knows exactly where it’s going and exactly how to get there, moving along smoothly from start to finish without hitting any speed bumps or permitting itself to stall for a fraction of a second. If it is, essentially, a glorified sitcom given the illusion of sophistication by virtue of an upscale milieu and highbrow cultural references (a pigeon dressed up as a peacock), that doesn’t prevent it from qualifying as the most entertaining new work of the season. Two couples meet to discuss an altercation their children have had on the school playground — what begins as an informal meeting for dessert and cocktails, largely characterized by strained civility and forced politeness, quickly degenerates into a drunken, screaming free-for-all, with the type of juvenile antics that might embarrass Albee’s George and Martha (in case you were wondering, it is a comedy). It’s a foolproof recipe for success — everyone loves seeing grown-up people behaving like children, especially when those cell-phone-stealing, flower-throwing, projectile-vomiting heathens in Armani are played by actors as resourceful as the four person cast assembled by director Matthew Warchus. His rollicking, immaculately executed production gives each performer his or her moment to shine in turn — James Gandolfini and Jeff Daniels are perfectly matched as wildly contrasting combatants in what turns out to be the silliest of pissing contests, Hope Davis’ drippy passivity mutates into a kind of maniacal glee all the more hysterical for its unexpectedness, while the indispensable Marcia Gay Harden all but steals the show as the kind of self-important, highly strung culture vulture who couldn’t let any imagined slight pass if her life — or her sanity — depended upon it. You can insult her husband, but don’t dare to insult her taste.

If God of Carnage was the best production of a new work to be seen on a Broadway in 2009, honors for the best new play can be conferred upon Neil LaBute’s reasons to be pretty, currently playing at The Belasco Theatre. That may sound like a ringing endorsement, but honestly, when you look at the season’s new plays as plays — meaning what’s on the page, as opposed to what shows up on the stage — 2009 didn’t produce any classics. There were some good, solid efforts, but very little in the way of risk. Reasons to be pretty is about the gap in communication and between men and women, and specifically how that lack of understanding is fueled by male competition and insensitivity (a friend of mine remarked that all LaBute’s plays and screenplays revolve around the notion that men are pigs - she may be on to something there.) It’s a worthy effort, with sharply drawn characterization and a dramatic intensity most of the year’s other new entries lacked — and yet, it feels a bit like the writer is spinning his wheels. If you’ve seen LaBute’s other works — in addition to being a prolific playwright, he’s had success as an independent filmmaker (In the Company of Men, Your Friends and Neighbors) — you know that he’s traversed this terrain before, and isn’t breaking any new ground at this point. There’s a sense of déjà vu that comes with seeing so many different variations on a single theme; LaBute is too talented a writer to get stuck in place, striking the same notes over and over again in slightly different arrangements. While his latest effort a lot to recommend it, it can’t avoid seeming remedial.

To avoid seeming remedial myself, I’m going to leave things there for now….the portion of our program where Josh is generally underwhelmed by everything and impossible to please has reached its conclusion. Next up, I’ll tackle the flurry of revivals that arrived in the spring — which is when the wow factor really kicked in, with some marvelous productions I fully expect to bore everyone to tears going gaga over. Stay tuned…


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Thursday, December 25, 2008

 

Harold Pinter (1930-2008)


By Edward Copeland
It was announced this Christmas morning that Nobel Prize-winning playwright and screenwriter Harold Pinter has succumbed to cancer after a long battle at age 78. Pinter always evoked mixed reactions from both critics and audiences with his often challenging works, where what wasn't said was often as important as what was.

Eleven of his plays were performed on Broadway, with several being revived, the most recent being The Homecoming last season, which our own Josh R hailed as sensational in his review.

The first Pinter play to ever hit the Great White Way was The Caretaker in 1961. He managed to win a Tony only once, for the original 1967 production of The Homecoming but he also was nominated for directing Robert Shaw's play The Man in the Glass Booth.

The only Pinter play I had the pleasure of seeing was a 1990s off-Broadway revival of The Hothouse, an oblique farce set in an institution that shows more of Pinter's wit than he's usually given credit for.

Pinter began writing screenplays about the same time as his plays began to hit Broadway, though some never played Broadway and were written exclusively for television. Among the notables: The Pumpkin Eater, which earned Anne Bancroft an Oscar nomination; Accident and The Go-Between, both directed by Joseph Losey; and The Comfort of Strangers.

He earned two Oscar nominations for adapted screenplay. One for adapting the novel The French Lieutenant's Woman and one for adapting his own brilliant play Betrayal. The story about a romance told in reverse chronological order starred Jeremy Irons and Ben Kingsley and remains one of my favorite films. It even inspired the great backward Seinfeld episode called "The Betrayal" where a character was named Pinter in further homage. He was knighted by Queen Elizabeth and received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2005.

RIP Sir Harold.

To read The New York Times obit, click here


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Saturday, December 06, 2008

 

From the Vault: Reversal of Fortune



By Edward Copeland
One can only speculate what goes on behind a closed door, one character says in Reversal of Fortune.

The legal process that tries to determine what did happen behind one closed door lies at the heart of this darkly humorous telling of the Claus von Bulow (Jeremy Irons) story.

Sunny von Bulow (Glenn Close) narrates the film from the "persistent vegetative state" she's lived in since the disputed events of the early 1980s that resulted in Claus' trial and his eventual acquittal for her attempted murder.

The film focuses on celebrated attorney Alan Dershowitz (Ron Silver), the man who took on von Bulow's appeal despite his own reservations about the man. As the unconscious Sunny asks, "Is he (Claus) the devil? If so, can the devil get justice?"

At one point in the film, one of Dershowitz's legal team describes a good lawyer as part logician, part psychiatrist and part detective and these aspects all play into making Reversal of Fortune of the year's most enjoyable and compelling films.

Directed by Barbet Schroeder, who made 1987's excellent Barfly, the film marvelously contrasts the glitz of the von Bulows' Newport mansion with the working class background in which Dershowitz was raised but has long since out-earned.

The performances — as well as Nicholas Kazan's adaptation of Dershowitz's book — make this film work. "What does someone have who's afraid of insulin?" Claus asks at one point. "Claus-trophobia."

Much of the film takes that tone, teasing the audience's voyeuristic impulses with assaults on its sense of right and wrong. The other half of the film deals not so much with questions of right and wrong as it does with what's legal and ethical.

Dershowitz's legal investigation fascinates as he attempts to break down the case against Claus piece by piece. What's most compelling about Reversal of Fortune is its refusal to judge von Bulow. By the end, the audience doesn't know whether or not von Bulow is "guilty of something," all they know is that he's innocent in the eyes of the law.

Irons' perfect mimicry of the Danish aristocrat is but a small portion of his outstanding performance that infuses Claus with a jet-black sense of humor about his plight. While Close's role is limited, it still registers strongly as one of her best. Silver — who seems to alternate between good and bad performances — lands a good one here.

"Being human is so literal," Sunny says. "Time only moves in one direction — forward. It's stupid and boring."

Reversal of Fortune is neither stupid nor boring and with its Rashomon-like nuances, one shouldn't take its events literally. Instead, they should just enjoy the tale it spins.


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Thursday, November 22, 2007

 

From the Vault: Double Impact

Never will I forget the story of Alex and Chad.

Told in the new Jean-Claude Van Damme film Double Impact, their tale is a simple story of stolen destinies and exacted revenge. Van Damme plays both Alex and Chad, twins separated at birth by the murder of their parents, who are raised in two completely different environments.

Alex, left at a Hong Kong orphanage, becomes a small-time hoodlum smuggling contraband. Chad, raised by his parents' bodyguard (Geoffrey Lewis), turns out to be a successful martial arts instructor in Los Angeles who lacks street smarts but dresses appropriately preppy. When Lewis discovers Alex's whereabouts, he takes Chad to Hong Kong so the three can avenge the parents' deaths and restore their claim to the investment over which they were killed.

Dual roles are a challenge to actors and Van Damme comes at the parts kicking. Most actors would go the conventional route of creating two distinct flesh-and-blood characters who happen to look alike, such as Jeremy Irons did in Dead Ringers. Van Damme takes a more deceptively simple route by dressing Alex and Chad differently and giving them their own props.

Chad seems perpetually trendy and has a neatly groomed haircut while Alex dresses in black with slicked-back hair which makes him resemble Steven Seagal, which I'm certain must be a clever satirical point about the other action star who seems positively shallow when compared to Jean-Claude.

Furthermore, Alex seldom lacks a cigar in his mouth and his manipulation of that prop borders on the magnificent. Van Damme plays both characters perfectly without any typical thespian tricks getting in the way.

The script does explain that Chad grew up in Paris to account for his accent, but it doesn't feel the need to account for Alex's. Why should it? Van Damme takes his cue from Kevin Costner and just reads the lines without allowing a "performance" to distract from the film itself.

The story and screenplay credits four individuals, including Van Damme, and it shows. It would have been difficult for one person to come up with such a perfect spoof of traditional action archetypes and sustain that level for nearly two full hours.

Every nuance appears from the poorly filmed and fake-looking fight scenes to the crusty mentor Geoffrey Lewis plays, who seems to resemble G. Gordon Liddy.

The fights are choreographed hysterically so that Alex finds it necessary to roll prior to each time he fires a shot and where Lewis magically knows where to be in every shoot-out.

Even the climax proves a perfect action film parody with plenty of steam and pipes and the requisite "pits of hell" lighting that illustrates well the size of this film's budget.

Double Impact hits its target as a brilliant dissection of the martial arts/action cheapie genre. The film lacks a single serious moment and the people behind it couldn't have meant for it be taken at face value — could they?

Surely not.


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Tuesday, May 08, 2007

 

Film as nonsequitur

By Edward Copeland
As the lights came up and the credits began to roll at the end of INLAND EMPIRE, another audience member asked me, "Do you have any idea what that was supposed to be about?" "No," I replied, "but neither did Lynch."

Part of the fun of Lynch as a filmmaker has always been those odd moments that come out of nowhere, but usually they come with a story engine of some sort that pushes the viewer along at the same time. (For example, I recently re-watched Wild at Heart, which consists almost entirely of those sort of moments but which works because the digressions such as Crispin Glover's Cousin Dell occur within the framework of the larger story of Sailor and Lula's road trip.)

Unfortunately, INLAND EMPIRE consists only of those moments and while there are certainly great images and sequences, it ends up being a long, tedious exercise. The slim thread most of the film dangles from concerns an actress (Laura Dern) who is about to begin shooting a film called "On High in Blue Tomorrows" with a notorious lothario of a co-star (Justin Theroux) and a noted director (Jeremy Irons). Only, the filmmakers are surprised to learn that what they thought was an original script is a remake of a never-completed film, a film cut short when the leads were murdered.

Following that, the line is blurred repeatedly: Are we watching the movie, the making of the movie or Dern's real life? For me, the answer is that it just doesn't matter since none of them end up being particularly interesting. Frank N. Furter sang in Rocky Horror, "A mental mind fuck would be nice" but sometimes they are nicer than others.

INLAND EMPIRE is the first time David Lynch reminded me, of all people, of Woody Allen, though not in any literal way. It seems that Lynch, like Woody, keeps repeating himself, serving up leftovers from both his own previous works and from others. The rabbits resemble the one from Donnie Darko while they seem to exist in a strange sitcom land that reminded me of Natural Born Killers, which is never a good thing.

Lynch regular Grace Zabriskie shows up early to relay the story of a boy who went through a door, cast a reflection and created evil, which seems straight out of the Black Lodge playbook of Twin Peaks. There even are requisite shots of red curtains. Oh and lamps — lots of lamps. Extras on the DVDs of Blue Velvet and Wild at Heart both contain stories about how Lynch would suddenly run off and build a lamp for a scene and I fully expect there will be another such story on INLAND EMPIRE's eventual DVD release.

Once again, the setting of INLAND EMPIRE, as in Mulholland Dr., circles Hollywood specifically, much as Lost Highway revolved around Los Angeles. Lynch doesn't seem stuck in the land of dreams you have while you are asleep but in the land of dreammakers: "Stars make dreams, dreams make stars," William H. Macy's announcer says in an out-of-nowhere cameo. Lynch seems lost in Hollywood just as Allen keeps coming back to murder and magic.

Still, despite the tedium and pointlessness, Lynch still has the power to create striking images and moments, particularly using sound, to snap the viewer back to attention. For all the talk I'd heard about particularly muddy images in this film shot on digital video, aside from the opening, I found most of the images to be quite crisp. Just when you're ready to drift into your own thoughts, a room full of women (maybe prostitutes?) start performing Little Eva's "The Locomotion." You hear the familiar sounds of electricity and sparks only to see that in this case it's really a squirt of ketchup.

Dern bravely marches on with her performance, even though it's hard to create a character in a universe of ephemera. When one of her incarnations says that men don't always reveals themselves until later when you learn who they really are, you have to wonder if Lynch is talking about himself.

At one point, Mary Steenburgen wanders into the film and she and Dern both seem puzzled as to why she's there. (In another Woody Allen shoutout, in a bizarre way it reminded me of the black sperm in Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex but Were Afraid to Ask wondering how he got there.)

Then, there are the rabbits. One of the rabbits, keeps telling another rabbit that she's going to find out. I hope if she does, she tells me.

It's a true disappointment. I loved Mulholland Dr., but there was some sort of coherence lurking beneath the weirdness. My views on Blue Velvet change with each viewing, but I think about it. Wild at Heart really is just a bizarre riff on The Wizard of Oz, but it's fun to recall. I didn't care much for Lost Highway, but I thought about things within it afterward and wouldn't rule out watching it again. Of course, my love of Twin Peaks knows few bounds (Actually, that's not true. Don't care for Fire Walk With Me much).

With INLAND EMPIRE, it evaporates the moment you see it. Little has lingered and my only thoughts have been how you can spend three hours doing essentially nothing. After reading Lynch's book Catching the Big Fish, and learning of his intuitive nature and how he would never do DVD commentaries because he doesn't want to tell people what they've experienced, it's understandable how this lumbering time-waster earned praise. People fill in the blanks with whatever they want. I did the same and my blanks runneth over with boredom and frustration.


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