Let the Right One In is a recent vampire movie, but it’s also one of the better melancholy films I’ve seen. It’s set in a small Swedish town that lies in the shadow of the Iron Curtain and under a foot of snow. Oskar, a withdrawn and bullied 12-year-old, lives in a small apartment with his mother, an unconcerned parent. (In a clichéd, but nonetheless poignant, scene, she asks him how he got a cut on his face and unhesitatingly accepts his answer, admonishing him to be more careful on the playground.) Oskar dreams of exacting violent revenge on his tormentors, going so far as to act out scenes with a pocketknife. He also covertly collects newspaper clippings about murders and other grisly incidents. But the most troubling thing about him is his apparent detachment from his predicament. It’s not that he’s underconcerned or perversely content with being bullied; it’s that, outwardly at least, he responds dispassionately, as if he’s come to terms with hopelessness. He doesn’t ever run, cry, or raise his voice, even though he’s clearly suffering and has been engaged in an internal struggle over whether, and if so when, to strike back. Notably, we have every reason to believe that he regards striking back as the ideal. It is not compassion or an aversion to “lowering” himself that stays his hand, but rather something else, such as the inherent gravity of revolutionary action. Perhaps he is also concerned with the physical act of revenge, for he takes up weight training under the tutelage of his amiably eccentric gym teacher.
One night, in the snowfield outside his apartment building, Oskar meets Eli (rhymes with "deli"), who recently moved in next door. She is also 12, in her words, “more or less.” Though Oskar maintains his emotional flatness in her presence -- even after she confirms her sanguinivorous nature -- he is obviously fascinated. He begins, shly, to let her in. He tells her about the bullies, and she advises him to hit back. He questions her willingness to kill, and she points out his. Eli and Oskar are both sympathetic characters in that they are constantly victimized by circumstance, but they are not innocent characters. They are both outsiders, but they must confront the conventional world. Naturally, they are drawn together, certain irreconcilable differences be damned. The subsequent plot developments are largely unremarkable, but their execution is wondrous and moving.
Often, the film successfully resonates by economizing on the explicit, in the same way that a lingering shot of a snowscape can say more about doleful desolation than could even a Roy Batty voiceover. For instance, there are two scenes in which I recall Oskar expressing childlike delight in contrast to his usual aloofness: one where he goes sledding while visiting his dad, and another where he and his mom start brushing their teeth in unison and turn to each other with amusement in their eyes, perhaps engaging in a nightly ritual for the thousandth time. These glimpses of realistic domesticity -- a rare treat in film -- flesh out the viewer’s psychological portrait of Oskar; they suggest that he is not entirely consumed by his bullying and not always so removed from the viscerality of emotion -- that he feels his pleasure and therefore his pain. In another telling domestic scene, a man arrives while Oskar is hanging out at the dinner table with his dad, and the relaxed mood immediately shifts: Oskar stiffens, and his father, invoking the obligation of hospitality, gets the door and pours a couple of drinks. Oskar quickly leaves, and we are left to wonder what prompted his anxiety. His dad comes across as a genial, easygoing man, but is he a horrible drunk? Is the other man his lover? Was Oskar simply crushed by the disruption of his fragile tranquility? Such moments bow my heart strings as much as the bullying, because they convey the tortuous inner life of a tortured child. And like the wordless scenes of delight, they do so in a way that leaves unnecessary details to the richness of imagination.
Let the Right One In also succeeds atmospherically. From the opening fade-in of a gentle flurry, snow plays a prominent role in the film. Fittingly, there is something about snow that complements the vampiric. Perhaps it is that snow signifies short, dark days. Perhaps it is that in its presence we cling bitterly to the very warmth that the vampire craves. Perhaps it is the lifelessness of a whited-out landscape. Perhaps it is simply our association of cold and death. At any rate, the omnipresence of snow contributes to the town’s air of remoteness and repose. There is little vivacity in the dead of winter, and the moonlight, reflected and amplified by the snow, bathes the town in a subdued, blue-tinged glow. Practically, it is hard to argue that a vampire wouldn’t be better off in a big city, where victims are anonymous and hideouts are plentiful, but aesthetically Eli has come to the right place. Overall, the film’s atmosphere is in harmony with its pacing -- the exposition of important plot developments is unhurried, and the viewer is given time and space to reflect on characters’ experiences. Thus, while the film has its share of violent and passionate events, its intensity is never at odds with its contemplative tone.
I am compelled to discuss Let the Right One In’s take on vampirism, because a review of a vampire movie isn’t worth its weight in blood without such a discussion, and also because the film presents a particularly compelling account. Most significantly, Let the Right One In does not glamorize vampirism. Many vampires, particularly the more recent creations, are charismatic creatures who -- bloodthirst and daylight curfew aside -- have transcended their physicality in the manner of ageless superheroes. We are inclined to envy them, especially in this age of blood banks and limitless indoor stimulation. Not so with Eli, who, in the vein of Nosferatu, elicits an uneasy sympathy. She is trapped in a child’s body, so she is limited in her ability to function independently and feed ethically. She possesses preternatural physical prowess, but she is unable to seduce or entrance her victims. When she is underfed, she smells of death. She derives no apparent pleasure from the taking of life. Yet take life she does, wantonly at that, so we cannot comfortably sympathize. She is still childlike in many respects, despite her apparently great age, so perhaps her responsibility is diminished. Indeed, with the selfishness of a child, she has rationalized her murderousness as a need, and is apparently unburdened by the arguable moral imperative to end her life. Moreover, we cannot help but perceive her as a child, for fundamental elements of her identity have been frozen in time. But there is no escaping the fact that she is a serial killer, albeit probably not the first one you’ve rooted for.
Oskar certainly seems to have few qualms about this fact. After all, he is 12 and troubled, and he is in love, or something like it. But so is Eli. At first, she prudently attempts to dissuade his efforts at friendship, but it is clear that she, too, is suffering from loneliness. (For how long has she endured a life of permanent juvenility, perpetual night, forced seclusion, and desensitized murder?) Soon it is not just Oskar who is opening his heart.
It is wonderful to watch their love unfold, but it is also tragic. The romantic endeavors of 12-year-olds do not ordinarily inspire such gravity, but in this case it feels appropriate. Together Oskar and Eli have found a happiness it seems they had never known, but it is a happiness that cannot last. Oskar will become a teenager, then a man, and they will have to let each other go. But all is not lost if they never regret having let each other in.
Rating: 8/10
Showing posts with label Review. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Review. Show all posts
February 9, 2011
July 12, 2008
Review - Encounters at the End of the World
I am compelled to say a few words about Werner Herzog’s latest effort, Encounters at the End of the World, a documentary about Antarctica that I watched from behind the back row in various positions of discomfort and incomplete view. (I entered the packed theater just in time and wisely opted to strain my knees instead of my neck.) I can only assure you that these facts do not taint my judgment.
I am a big fan of Herr Zog. But while Encounters provided me with an overall positive experience, it is a flawed film. First, the good news. Hearing the inorganically musical underwater vocalizations of Weddell seals through the theater’s multichannel speaker system was alone worth the price of admission. One of the scientists studying the pinnipeds aptly describes their varied and otherworldly sounds as Pink Floydian. I am also pleased to have beheld extended footage of the magnificent world beneath the sea ice. It is a teeming environment whose surface we are only beginning to scratch, and I cannot blame Herzog for choosing choral background music that perhaps screams “awe” a bit too loudly; there is no danger of it cheapening the majesty of the frozen stalactites or the splendor of the sunlight dispersing through the ice-ceiling. Lastly, I’ll note the humor, usually intentional, that Herzog uncharacteristically displays. His Teutonic deadpan is not his only comedic asset; he has a keen sense of the ridiculous, and ample targets among the many dubious denizens of the Antarctic.
My complaints are essentially twofold. First, the movie is disjointed. It is a hodgepodge of Herzog’s encounters with various Antarctic researchers and residents; there is no apparent order or theme. This is a minor criticism, as most of the segments make for fine viewing on their own, but it would have been more satisfying if Herzog had presented a unifying thesis or two about the Light Continent (aside from the oft-repeated observation that it is populated by a fair number of "professional dreamers"). He should have at least arranged the segments in a clearly meaningful sequence. At its best, the film made no more of an impression on me than “that was beautiful,” “that was cool,” or “I didn’t know that.” Second, and more significantly, Herzog’s narration is at times irritating. As someone who has studied climate change, I share his frustration and pessimism. But there is no call for saddling the film’s final moments with apocalyptic platitudes (e.g., “the end of human life is assured”) and a casual reference to global warming. These sentiments are incongruous with the rest of the film, which does not substantially address environmentalism and whose most haunting scene is of a mad penguin that abandons its flock and runs inland towards distant mountains, to certain death, with a singular determination. Herzog’s doomsayings, in any event, are better communicated by the satellite images of rapidly melting polar ice that we observe on a climatologist’s computer screen. I know that Herzog is capable of more thoughtful reflections on the impersonal and uncontrollable power of nature; for example, from Grizzly Man: “[W]hat haunts me is that in all the faces of all the bears that Treadwell ever filmed, I discover no kinship, no understanding, no mercy. I see only the overwhelming indifference of nature. To me, there is no such thing as a secret world of the bears. And this blank stare speaks only of a half-bored interest in food. But for Timothy Treadwell, this bear was a friend, a savior.” In Encounters, Herzog superficially and self-indulgently overstates his case. I’m looking forward to his next film.
Rating: 7/10
UPDATE: upon reflection, increased my rating by 1.
I am a big fan of Herr Zog. But while Encounters provided me with an overall positive experience, it is a flawed film. First, the good news. Hearing the inorganically musical underwater vocalizations of Weddell seals through the theater’s multichannel speaker system was alone worth the price of admission. One of the scientists studying the pinnipeds aptly describes their varied and otherworldly sounds as Pink Floydian. I am also pleased to have beheld extended footage of the magnificent world beneath the sea ice. It is a teeming environment whose surface we are only beginning to scratch, and I cannot blame Herzog for choosing choral background music that perhaps screams “awe” a bit too loudly; there is no danger of it cheapening the majesty of the frozen stalactites or the splendor of the sunlight dispersing through the ice-ceiling. Lastly, I’ll note the humor, usually intentional, that Herzog uncharacteristically displays. His Teutonic deadpan is not his only comedic asset; he has a keen sense of the ridiculous, and ample targets among the many dubious denizens of the Antarctic.
My complaints are essentially twofold. First, the movie is disjointed. It is a hodgepodge of Herzog’s encounters with various Antarctic researchers and residents; there is no apparent order or theme. This is a minor criticism, as most of the segments make for fine viewing on their own, but it would have been more satisfying if Herzog had presented a unifying thesis or two about the Light Continent (aside from the oft-repeated observation that it is populated by a fair number of "professional dreamers"). He should have at least arranged the segments in a clearly meaningful sequence. At its best, the film made no more of an impression on me than “that was beautiful,” “that was cool,” or “I didn’t know that.” Second, and more significantly, Herzog’s narration is at times irritating. As someone who has studied climate change, I share his frustration and pessimism. But there is no call for saddling the film’s final moments with apocalyptic platitudes (e.g., “the end of human life is assured”) and a casual reference to global warming. These sentiments are incongruous with the rest of the film, which does not substantially address environmentalism and whose most haunting scene is of a mad penguin that abandons its flock and runs inland towards distant mountains, to certain death, with a singular determination. Herzog’s doomsayings, in any event, are better communicated by the satellite images of rapidly melting polar ice that we observe on a climatologist’s computer screen. I know that Herzog is capable of more thoughtful reflections on the impersonal and uncontrollable power of nature; for example, from Grizzly Man: “[W]hat haunts me is that in all the faces of all the bears that Treadwell ever filmed, I discover no kinship, no understanding, no mercy. I see only the overwhelming indifference of nature. To me, there is no such thing as a secret world of the bears. And this blank stare speaks only of a half-bored interest in food. But for Timothy Treadwell, this bear was a friend, a savior.” In Encounters, Herzog superficially and self-indulgently overstates his case. I’m looking forward to his next film.
Rating: 7/10
UPDATE: upon reflection, increased my rating by 1.
January 21, 2008
Review - The Hobbit
This charming film - along with The Last Unicorn, The Flight of Dragons, and Triumph of the Will - worked its magic on me many a time when I was a little kid who understood neither its context nor its subtext. At the time I hadn't even heard of The Lord of the Rings, and I hadn't recognized the archetypal nature of Tolkein's universe. The movie was my first brush with elves, dwarves, goblins, hobbits, and Gollum. I was fascinated. I could sense that The Hobbit was part of something larger, and there was something captivating about its tone from the opening narration, in which a venerable voice recites the famous first line of the novel, the opening statement of high fantasy: "In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit...." (Compare the back of the box of my questionably legitimate DVD: "A homebody demi human in Middle Earth gets talked into joining a quest with a group of dwarves to recover their treasure from a dragon!" I guess someone at Westlaw has some free time.)
Recently I revisited the film, and let's just say that I saw it through new eyes. And rather than finding that it merely held up well, I came to appreciate it even more and on multiple levels. (For instance, it's uncanny how well the video synchronizes with the audio of The Wizard of Oz.) Before delving into my customary areas of analysis, I'll preface what I say by mentioning that I evaluate movies as independent works of art. I don't care if The Hobbit abridged or even modified Tolkein's epic. If it's good, it's good. (Consider it "inspired by" the book if you must.) Now for the highlights:
1. The voice acting. These are some of the best voices I've heard in English-language animation. It turns out that a few of them are heavy hitters. To me, the standouts are: Gandalf, noble, authoritative, and wise; Bilbo, mellow, gracious, and (more on this later) smooth; and Gollum, tortured, twisted, and temperamental. Not a bad use of star power.
2. The fundamental lightheartedness. The film is, of course, meant to appeal primarily to children, and it's a good example of how this can be done without diminishing palatability to adults. Essentially, rather than sacrificing meaningful content, Rankin and Bass only gloss over the presentation of mature elements (danger, fear, violence). For example, when Bilbo defeats the giant spiders, the damage from his dagger thrusts is symbolized by images of the spiders' heads spinning. When he hesitates on the way towards confronting Smaug, we hear of his doubts, but his inner monologue is given a calm and reasonable voice. We know he's thinking (not for the first time on this quest), "I may very well be walking to my death," but why scare the kids by making such realities palpable? Another benefit of the absence of truly dark moments in the film is that the audience is always primed for humor. This comes in handy since the movie has numerous amusing or funny elements, intentional or otherwise. (Try thinking of Gandalf as a benevolent questmaster, for instance. The film lends itself to this "reading" because of his teacherly demeanor and conveniently timed appearances, departures, and revelations - it's as if he's trying to set the ideal difficulty level for the little guys [or for a good story].) Overall, The Hobbit is a very fun movie. I consider it more of a comedy than anything else.
3. The animation. Or should I say anime? While of course dated, it's more quaint than outmoded. There's something charmingly British about it. Maybe the production team based the film's landscapes and character designs on Tolkein's own illustrations. I wouldn't be surprised.
4. The cinematography. The Hobbit shines in this department, too. Two good examples come to mind. First, consider the opening credits. In many movies these are shown at the beginning, superimposed on landscape shots and the like so as not to distract viewers from anything too important. Here Rankin and Bass present the opening credits the night after the first scene, in which Bilbo is enlisted by Gandalf and the dwarves. The credits provide a transition from night to day and are accompanied by images of Bilbo's uneasy dreams and by the uplifting theme song. The dream sequence is beautifully "shot," and the contrast between it and the inspirational lyrics artfully expresses Bilbo's conflicted attitude towards suddenly leaving his life behind for the promise and peril of adventure. Second, there's the famous riddle scene, in which Bilbo and Gollum try to stump each other. After a couple of exchanges, the camera zooms out and pans around the cavern, and a haunting choral interlude sings one of the riddles and conveys the passage of a considerable amount of time. Then the scene shifts back to the adversaries and their final confrontation.
5. Bilbo Baggins. (Best porn name ever.) Much of the amusement I derive from the film is due to its portrayal of this little big man. In short, he's a badass, and I don't just mean for a homebody demi human. Despite getting pushed around by the condescending king of the dwarves, Bilbo takes it in stride and calmly saves them on many an occasion. Like James Bond he confounds his enemies by never losing his cool, and he's got a British accent. Unlike James Bond his enemies include goblins, giant spiders, and a dragon, in addition to crazy Russians (i.e., the hard-drinking and xenophobic wood elves, who have Russian-esque accents to boot). One of his best moments is when, after playing along with the riddle game for quite some time, he asks Gollum "what have I got in my pocket?" and pretends to be taken aback when Gollum objects. It's clear what Bilbo's really thinking: "Not fair? Who's the fucking nihilist here?!"
6. The songs. These work wonders for the film's tone. Maury Laws wrote some great melodies. Glenn Yarbrough has an ideal voice for the contemplative folk ballads, and various choirs are used to good effect, particularly in the goblin battle chants. Notably, most of the lyrics come directly from poems and songs that Tolkein included in the novel.
I think I've spilled enough ink about a cartoon that you probably vaguely remember, if at all, as a cheesy adaptation of a vastly superior book. But hey, I'm trying to convince you otherwise. If you're into this sort of thing, The Hobbit is worth (re)visiting.
Rating: 9/10
Recently I revisited the film, and let's just say that I saw it through new eyes. And rather than finding that it merely held up well, I came to appreciate it even more and on multiple levels. (For instance, it's uncanny how well the video synchronizes with the audio of The Wizard of Oz.) Before delving into my customary areas of analysis, I'll preface what I say by mentioning that I evaluate movies as independent works of art. I don't care if The Hobbit abridged or even modified Tolkein's epic. If it's good, it's good. (Consider it "inspired by" the book if you must.) Now for the highlights:
1. The voice acting. These are some of the best voices I've heard in English-language animation. It turns out that a few of them are heavy hitters. To me, the standouts are: Gandalf, noble, authoritative, and wise; Bilbo, mellow, gracious, and (more on this later) smooth; and Gollum, tortured, twisted, and temperamental. Not a bad use of star power.
2. The fundamental lightheartedness. The film is, of course, meant to appeal primarily to children, and it's a good example of how this can be done without diminishing palatability to adults. Essentially, rather than sacrificing meaningful content, Rankin and Bass only gloss over the presentation of mature elements (danger, fear, violence). For example, when Bilbo defeats the giant spiders, the damage from his dagger thrusts is symbolized by images of the spiders' heads spinning. When he hesitates on the way towards confronting Smaug, we hear of his doubts, but his inner monologue is given a calm and reasonable voice. We know he's thinking (not for the first time on this quest), "I may very well be walking to my death," but why scare the kids by making such realities palpable? Another benefit of the absence of truly dark moments in the film is that the audience is always primed for humor. This comes in handy since the movie has numerous amusing or funny elements, intentional or otherwise. (Try thinking of Gandalf as a benevolent questmaster, for instance. The film lends itself to this "reading" because of his teacherly demeanor and conveniently timed appearances, departures, and revelations - it's as if he's trying to set the ideal difficulty level for the little guys [or for a good story].) Overall, The Hobbit is a very fun movie. I consider it more of a comedy than anything else.
3. The animation. Or should I say anime? While of course dated, it's more quaint than outmoded. There's something charmingly British about it. Maybe the production team based the film's landscapes and character designs on Tolkein's own illustrations. I wouldn't be surprised.
4. The cinematography. The Hobbit shines in this department, too. Two good examples come to mind. First, consider the opening credits. In many movies these are shown at the beginning, superimposed on landscape shots and the like so as not to distract viewers from anything too important. Here Rankin and Bass present the opening credits the night after the first scene, in which Bilbo is enlisted by Gandalf and the dwarves. The credits provide a transition from night to day and are accompanied by images of Bilbo's uneasy dreams and by the uplifting theme song. The dream sequence is beautifully "shot," and the contrast between it and the inspirational lyrics artfully expresses Bilbo's conflicted attitude towards suddenly leaving his life behind for the promise and peril of adventure. Second, there's the famous riddle scene, in which Bilbo and Gollum try to stump each other. After a couple of exchanges, the camera zooms out and pans around the cavern, and a haunting choral interlude sings one of the riddles and conveys the passage of a considerable amount of time. Then the scene shifts back to the adversaries and their final confrontation.
5. Bilbo Baggins. (Best porn name ever.) Much of the amusement I derive from the film is due to its portrayal of this little big man. In short, he's a badass, and I don't just mean for a homebody demi human. Despite getting pushed around by the condescending king of the dwarves, Bilbo takes it in stride and calmly saves them on many an occasion. Like James Bond he confounds his enemies by never losing his cool, and he's got a British accent. Unlike James Bond his enemies include goblins, giant spiders, and a dragon, in addition to crazy Russians (i.e., the hard-drinking and xenophobic wood elves, who have Russian-esque accents to boot). One of his best moments is when, after playing along with the riddle game for quite some time, he asks Gollum "what have I got in my pocket?" and pretends to be taken aback when Gollum objects. It's clear what Bilbo's really thinking: "Not fair? Who's the fucking nihilist here?!"
6. The songs. These work wonders for the film's tone. Maury Laws wrote some great melodies. Glenn Yarbrough has an ideal voice for the contemplative folk ballads, and various choirs are used to good effect, particularly in the goblin battle chants. Notably, most of the lyrics come directly from poems and songs that Tolkein included in the novel.
I think I've spilled enough ink about a cartoon that you probably vaguely remember, if at all, as a cheesy adaptation of a vastly superior book. But hey, I'm trying to convince you otherwise. If you're into this sort of thing, The Hobbit is worth (re)visiting.
Rating: 9/10
January 14, 2008
Review - Punch-Drunk Love
Ever since I saw the Breaking the Waves and Billy Madison double feature that my local drive-in played (in that order) shortly before it went under, I knew that it was only a matter of time before a visionary filmmaker would capitalize on the obvious potential chemistry between Emily Watson and Adam Sandler. For some reason the rest of the audience that night wasn't feeling Sandler's jokes - some people, probably the same stiffs who didn't so much as chuckle when Bess did her spot-on impressions of the Lord, even drove off during the opening credits. Good riddance! Never one to be comedied-out, I stayed all the way through the Billy Madison outtakes (alas, Breaking the Waves didn't have any - must be a von Trier thing), contemplating the nuances of Sandler's performance. I think I noticed some intriguing parallels between Jewish and Calvinist approaches to humor and salvation, but I'm still working out the details. Perhaps this is fertile ground for a future post...
Anyway, boy was I glad when I found out that P.T. Anderson had shared my vision and committed it to celluloid. Alas, despite more on-screen chemistry than Al Pacino and the word "fuck," Punch-Drunk Love isn't the perfect film, but it has a lot going for it. Here's what caught my attention:
1. The original (in both senses) soundtrack. Barry Egan (Sandler) has psychological problems. He's prone to paroxysms of destructive rage, sparked primarily by his seven domineering and dysfunctional sisters. But his issues are more complex than anger management. In my lay opinion, he seems to be too close to the bad end of the autistic spectrum: he often appears oblivious to, and overwhelmed by, everyday stimuli (such as meeting new people, especially women); he's emotionally and socially stunted (but in a way distinct from the typical Sandlerian manchild); and verbal communication isn't exactly his strong suit (except when intimidation is called for). So what has this got to do with the soundtrack? Well, it struck me that the percussive, layered, and sometimes cacophonous music that plays when we see things from Barry's perspective is meant to convey the blooming, buzzing confusion that he's experiencing. It's as if we can hear his inner chaos. At any rate, these conspicuous and distinctive tracks help bring atmosphere to the foreground of the film, which is a plus, because the story itself is nothing special; the magic of this film is in the execution, the details, the tone.
2. The cinematography. I am not expert, but Anderson clearly uses some cool and unusual shots and lenses. He also intersperses some colorful abstract art by frequent collaborator Jeremy Blake (R.I.P.). You'll have to see for yourself.
3. The descent into fantasy. The film starts off quirky but fundamentally realistic. Ayn Rand didn't write the dialogue, and no one makes a dwarf-tossing joke in the middle of a pitched battle over the moral fate of the world - everyone acts like a real person, with real emotions, however eccentric. But once the love story takes off - literally, to Hawaii - no amount of chemistry can make up for the fact that we have no idea what Lena Leonard (Watson) sees in Barry. She's stable, successful, and has a British accent; he's crazy, strapped for cash (he's counting on a milking an overgenerous frequent flyer miles promotion - based on a true story), and sounds like Adam Sandler. Yet she's really into him. Maybe this is just Anderson situating himself in the romantic comedy section (love at first sight), but still, there should be something, however implausible, behind the romance if he wants the audience to care. (Interestingly, maybe he doesn't: maybe he was that committed to style over substance; maybe he wanted to focus exclusively on Barry's emotions; maybe this was his way of satirizing the genre.) Fortunately, viewers are free to form their own understandings of characters' motivations.*
Rating: 8/10
*To me, it's obvious that Lena is Bess, or, more accurately, who Bess became when she entered the universe of P.T. Anderson. (Maybe she ran away; I hear that von Trier tends to get a bit testy around the 17th take.) She may be unconscious of her true motives, but I know that the real reason she's getting coital with Barry is so she can tell Jan all about it - in Breaking the Waves II: Punch-Drunk Confessions. You heard it here first.
Anyway, boy was I glad when I found out that P.T. Anderson had shared my vision and committed it to celluloid. Alas, despite more on-screen chemistry than Al Pacino and the word "fuck," Punch-Drunk Love isn't the perfect film, but it has a lot going for it. Here's what caught my attention:
1. The original (in both senses) soundtrack. Barry Egan (Sandler) has psychological problems. He's prone to paroxysms of destructive rage, sparked primarily by his seven domineering and dysfunctional sisters. But his issues are more complex than anger management. In my lay opinion, he seems to be too close to the bad end of the autistic spectrum: he often appears oblivious to, and overwhelmed by, everyday stimuli (such as meeting new people, especially women); he's emotionally and socially stunted (but in a way distinct from the typical Sandlerian manchild); and verbal communication isn't exactly his strong suit (except when intimidation is called for). So what has this got to do with the soundtrack? Well, it struck me that the percussive, layered, and sometimes cacophonous music that plays when we see things from Barry's perspective is meant to convey the blooming, buzzing confusion that he's experiencing. It's as if we can hear his inner chaos. At any rate, these conspicuous and distinctive tracks help bring atmosphere to the foreground of the film, which is a plus, because the story itself is nothing special; the magic of this film is in the execution, the details, the tone.
2. The cinematography. I am not expert, but Anderson clearly uses some cool and unusual shots and lenses. He also intersperses some colorful abstract art by frequent collaborator Jeremy Blake (R.I.P.). You'll have to see for yourself.
3. The descent into fantasy. The film starts off quirky but fundamentally realistic. Ayn Rand didn't write the dialogue, and no one makes a dwarf-tossing joke in the middle of a pitched battle over the moral fate of the world - everyone acts like a real person, with real emotions, however eccentric. But once the love story takes off - literally, to Hawaii - no amount of chemistry can make up for the fact that we have no idea what Lena Leonard (Watson) sees in Barry. She's stable, successful, and has a British accent; he's crazy, strapped for cash (he's counting on a milking an overgenerous frequent flyer miles promotion - based on a true story), and sounds like Adam Sandler. Yet she's really into him. Maybe this is just Anderson situating himself in the romantic comedy section (love at first sight), but still, there should be something, however implausible, behind the romance if he wants the audience to care. (Interestingly, maybe he doesn't: maybe he was that committed to style over substance; maybe he wanted to focus exclusively on Barry's emotions; maybe this was his way of satirizing the genre.) Fortunately, viewers are free to form their own understandings of characters' motivations.*
Rating: 8/10
*To me, it's obvious that Lena is Bess, or, more accurately, who Bess became when she entered the universe of P.T. Anderson. (Maybe she ran away; I hear that von Trier tends to get a bit testy around the 17th take.) She may be unconscious of her true motives, but I know that the real reason she's getting coital with Barry is so she can tell Jan all about it - in Breaking the Waves II: Punch-Drunk Confessions. You heard it here first.
January 13, 2008
Review - 2001: A Space Odyssey
Preface
This is the first of many movie "reviews" (commentaries, really) that I intend to post here. I'll rate each movie on a 10-point scale, whole numbers only (my understanding of my preferences is only so precise). I plan on stepping up my film viewing, an activity that tends to be massively more rewarding than most two-hour periods in my life. Despite this fact, and despite the passiveness of the endeavor, I usually find it difficult to motivate myself to watch a movie. Maybe this is because I wishfully think that I'll do something more productive, or maybe I relish the freedom of controlling my time. (Do you ever find yourself feeling too lazy to watch a movie, besides when you're too tired?) At any rate, there are worse forms of self-paternalism than being glued to the screen.
Review
I first saw this film when I was about 12, and I didn't think too much of it. But the circumstances were less than ideal: the TV was small, the audio was weak, sunlight encroached on the screen, a vulgar caterwauling emanated from the attic, and I had just been fired for running an illegal organ lottery among the other paperboys. (I hope you're enjoying your redundant kidney, Jimmy.)
My viewing experience was much improved when I revisited 2001 a few days ago. (Business is booming, thank you.) Here's what stood out to me:
1. The music. On the one hand, duh. On the other, have you actually listened to "On the Beautiful Blue Danube" recently? It's 10+ minutes of constant enjoyment - every melody is beautiful. Of course, another Strauss also has his moments. What most intrigued me, though, were the selections by György Ligeti. I don't usually appreciate atonal or unmelodic pieces, but the "monolith theme" is an awesome blend of the haunting, intense, and otherworldly. Notably, Kubrick commissioned a score by Alex North but then decided to use the classical recordings he had been playing during production - without telling North.
2. The new bone. At the end of "The Dawn of Man" chapter, the triumphant tool-user throws his tapir bone (which he just used to beat the life out of a rival hominid) into the air, and the scene artfully cuts from the bone to its modern counterpart: a white, cylindrical nuclear device orbiting the earth. That's deep. Or maybe I'm just a sucker for a good transition.
3. The visual realism. The space exploration special effects hold up remarkably well considering that the film turns 40(!) this year. Not only do they look realistic, they also illustrate Kubrick's attention to procedural detail. He uses extended shots of relatively mundane activities in order to give us a sense of what it's like in the vacuum and how exactly people get things done.
4. The computer. HAL's got a great voice (he's going to sing "Fitter Happier" in my remake). And his lines aren't half-bad, either. If only his shipmates weren't so wooden and...mechanical. (Was Kubrick trying to say something about astronauts - that the government preferred unimaginative military men to a fault?) If I were on board, I'd've picked his brain nonstop. A conscious computer would never get old. Screw chess - imagine having a conversation about philosophy, or anything else for that matter. What would you talk about?
5. The end. What's the deal? The protracted light show screams "we've got to do something with all these FX shots," especially when the colored landscapes kick in after what I thought would be the climax (when everything appears to be culminating in a burst of white light). And then there's the bizarre room sequence. I won't spoil it; I'll just speculate: is this how the aliens wanted Dave to perceive his transformation? Or is it Kubrick reminding us that 2001 is an art film, infinitely beyond trashy sci-fi?
Rating: 9/10
This is the first of many movie "reviews" (commentaries, really) that I intend to post here. I'll rate each movie on a 10-point scale, whole numbers only (my understanding of my preferences is only so precise). I plan on stepping up my film viewing, an activity that tends to be massively more rewarding than most two-hour periods in my life. Despite this fact, and despite the passiveness of the endeavor, I usually find it difficult to motivate myself to watch a movie. Maybe this is because I wishfully think that I'll do something more productive, or maybe I relish the freedom of controlling my time. (Do you ever find yourself feeling too lazy to watch a movie, besides when you're too tired?) At any rate, there are worse forms of self-paternalism than being glued to the screen.
Review
I first saw this film when I was about 12, and I didn't think too much of it. But the circumstances were less than ideal: the TV was small, the audio was weak, sunlight encroached on the screen, a vulgar caterwauling emanated from the attic, and I had just been fired for running an illegal organ lottery among the other paperboys. (I hope you're enjoying your redundant kidney, Jimmy.)
My viewing experience was much improved when I revisited 2001 a few days ago. (Business is booming, thank you.) Here's what stood out to me:
1. The music. On the one hand, duh. On the other, have you actually listened to "On the Beautiful Blue Danube" recently? It's 10+ minutes of constant enjoyment - every melody is beautiful. Of course, another Strauss also has his moments. What most intrigued me, though, were the selections by György Ligeti. I don't usually appreciate atonal or unmelodic pieces, but the "monolith theme" is an awesome blend of the haunting, intense, and otherworldly. Notably, Kubrick commissioned a score by Alex North but then decided to use the classical recordings he had been playing during production - without telling North.
2. The new bone. At the end of "The Dawn of Man" chapter, the triumphant tool-user throws his tapir bone (which he just used to beat the life out of a rival hominid) into the air, and the scene artfully cuts from the bone to its modern counterpart: a white, cylindrical nuclear device orbiting the earth. That's deep. Or maybe I'm just a sucker for a good transition.
3. The visual realism. The space exploration special effects hold up remarkably well considering that the film turns 40(!) this year. Not only do they look realistic, they also illustrate Kubrick's attention to procedural detail. He uses extended shots of relatively mundane activities in order to give us a sense of what it's like in the vacuum and how exactly people get things done.
4. The computer. HAL's got a great voice (he's going to sing "Fitter Happier" in my remake). And his lines aren't half-bad, either. If only his shipmates weren't so wooden and...mechanical. (Was Kubrick trying to say something about astronauts - that the government preferred unimaginative military men to a fault?) If I were on board, I'd've picked his brain nonstop. A conscious computer would never get old. Screw chess - imagine having a conversation about philosophy, or anything else for that matter. What would you talk about?
5. The end. What's the deal? The protracted light show screams "we've got to do something with all these FX shots," especially when the colored landscapes kick in after what I thought would be the climax (when everything appears to be culminating in a burst of white light). And then there's the bizarre room sequence. I won't spoil it; I'll just speculate: is this how the aliens wanted Dave to perceive his transformation? Or is it Kubrick reminding us that 2001 is an art film, infinitely beyond trashy sci-fi?
Rating: 9/10
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