earth-bound misfit, i

WARNING: Sex Changes Everything

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 17:01:00 +0000

My standard spoiler alert applies. It's not a play-by-play but I say my piece.

WARNING: Sex Changes Everything

For my Alaskan dear, Heather, I've taken up the pen again...er...or, whatever. It has been quite a while since I've written one of these, and while I do mean a film review I also mean a deliciously sardonic one. Do not misunderstand me. I won't be going all out Marta Alicia-vicera-in-the-face sarcastic with this one, because I actually find a lot of redeeming qualities in this film...outside of sheer campy amusement. However, there is simply no way to accept this film without embracing the dark humor of it and just rolling with the weirdness.

The film itself defies genre. Is it horror? Is it comedy? Is it a coming of age tale? Most definitely it is all three, and no single description. And just to get the bad puns out of the way right now:

It's a film with a biting wit, written and directed with some serious teeth.

I'm done with the bad jokes. OK...just the REALLY bad jokes. I can't account for the rest of the attempts at humor to follow.

I was intrigued to check out this film on the query of my friend Heather, as mentioned. What really sealed it for me, however, was not the trailer so much as the discovery that the film was featured and WON awards at BOTH The Sundance Film Festival AND The Fangoria Horror Fest. I mean, let's be honest...how often does that happen? Exactly.

"Dentata. It's Latin for teeth. It's what's inside of me." -Dawn

So a horror movie titled TEETH, seems fairly unsuspecting on the surface, right? Probably some horribly over-bloody latex-fest with oogedy boogedy monsters and lots of big sharp pointy fangs. No. No. No...and Not that we're shown. What the preview does show you is a glimpse of every man's deepest darkest fear. Beautiful, nubile girl. Blonde, blue-eyed, pink pouty lips. She's a virgin....and her vagina bites off her gynocologist's hand.

I'll give you a minute.

The appropriate responses to that scene would be a healthy mixture of horrified "what the fuck!'s" and inane, childish giggling because if you don't manage to muster both of those, there is something seriously wrong with you. This, my friends, is just the preview. Just a 30 second teaser to 2007's Indy gem, TEETH.

Written and directed by Mitchell Lichtenstein, TEETH is his feature film debut. The star is the cherubic Jess Weixler, a Julliard graduate who has already amassed nearly more awards than roles, including the Sundance award for her performance in TEETH. It is truly these two that bring the bizarre magic to the film.

"That's what the ring is all about. The way it wraps around your finger - that's to remind you to keep your gift wrapped. Wrapped... until the day... you trade it in for that other ring. That gold ring. Get it?" -Dawn

As a coming of age tale, TEETH centers around a beautiful young teen, Dawn. A prominent leader of the school's chastity club, a compelling speaker about the virtues of purity and abstinence, Dawn is also a child of the nuclear family. Her single mother married a single father with a son...a son with a mildly disturbing affinity for his step-sister Dawn, which began at a very tender young age. Dawn's deep seeded beliefs in purity and virtue could stem from a psychological need to distance herself from her life in a run down rancher under the shadow of a nuclear power plant, her mother's deteriorating illness or from her disturbed brother's love of loud, vulgar music, violent pets and equally loud, vulgar and violent sex-romps with his girlfriend. However her strict adherence isn't so much a fanatical counter-reaction as a genuine naivete, which is wholly evident in a scene in which Dawn uncovers a detailed diagram of the vulva, a region she has obviously never really seen before. The wonder, curiosity and, indeed, the admiration in her eyes is all too genuine and a credit to miss Weixler's acting ability, as it most definitely solidifies the reality of this character's genuine purity.

Now I must take an aside here to comment on the absolutely hilarious build-up to this incredibly touching moment. I do so, not to spoil it for you, but simply as a personal commentary on the public education system and why I can honestly believe that this film may well have been made in my home state of Pennsylvania. During sex education class, Dawn's teacher has them all staring wide-eyed at an incredibly graphic drawing of the male reproductive organs (internal and external, both flaccid and erect). He then trips over his tongue when telling them to turn the page to the female reproductive organs, unable to even get the words out, which is succinctly supplied by a male student.

"You mean the VULVA?" -Ryan

When the page is revealed the students bemoan that every book is covered with a sticker making the actual drawing nothing but a giant silver starburst. Then the teacher informs them that the state education board does not allow any representation of female genitalia to be shown to students as it constitutes pornography. Angered, the students try to rip the stickers off only to rip the page. It is later in the film that Dawn soaks her page in water so as to easily slide the sticker away and view what, until then, had never been seen. This sequence in the film as a whole was so beautifully executed for the satirical aspects of both humor and a scathing commentary on the absurdity of the American educational stance on sexuality, something which really serves as a theme throughout the film. This duality of acceptance and openness between male sexuality and female is so starkly contrasting in American society that it seems perfectly sane that a horror film about a penis-eating, fanged vagina would be made. Thank Mitch Lichtenstein, however, for making it a satirical one, and not pandering to the puritanical conservatives who would still rather spend millions on Abstinence education than allow financially self-sustaining condom machines in the boys bathrooms.

Aside finished.

"The toothed vagina appears in the mythology of many and diverse cultures all over the world. In these myths, the story is always the same. The hero must do battle with the woman." -Dawn

So in the midst of this coming-of-age story, as young Dawn begins to discover her own sexuality, there is, of course, the horror element. The film is, after all, called TEETH. It is only after a romantic swim and kissy-cuddle when Dawn's crush does what is far too often the case with young men and presumes that he is then OWED sexual gratification. The build up to this scene has the audience at several points thinking "it's gonna happen now. No? It'll happen...NOW! ...no??" So by the time it does happen and under the circumstances that the violence occurs there is a strange sense of satisfaction. Now I don't say this as some kind of misandrist proclaiming castration as the most righteous judgment to be handed down upon misguided men. It's a fictional tale, with a heroine. There needs to be some form of villain in this fantastical tale, so for the sake of catharsis: boy shoulda kept it in his pants. And indeed, it is only those who inflict themselves upon Dawn that come to suffer.

In terms of horror films, TEETH is relatively mild. There is a little blood but overall its not graphic. There is the obligatory titty shot and what would a cheesy horror flick be without teenage sex? So yes, it has all these. It is, however, a horror film that does not take itself too seriously. Lichtenstein shows an obvious tongue in cheek approach when he ends the film with a dirty old toothless man who seems to be enjoying his freedom to make lewd gestures far too much to really be intimidating at all. One must wonder though if the director's aim in making TEETH was merely to mock society's often absurd views of sexuality or if, in Freudian fashion, he purports the eternal power women hold over men-- the ability to deny a man what he so desperately thinks he wants. The myth of Vagina Dentata, as he made sure to point out however, gives hope to men of honest and goodly intention. Be the hero that conquers her heart...and you can keep your manhood intact.

Uncommon Beauty

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 17:15:00 +0000

WARNING: Spoilers...as with most of my reviews. Not as many links though.

Faerie Tales have been softened over the centuries. Our modern day Little Mermaid lives happily ever after never learning her lesson of true love through self sacrifice. Our story heroes and villains have become toys and animals to remove the human elements from the violence and suffering. We have forgotten that these stories were meant to teach, to moralize and preach to our children. Now they sell. Fantasies of princesses and stories of race cars sell dresses and toys, bed sheets and pajamas. What are we supposed to learn from the fish? What does the robot teach us? Ask the kids, do they know? Faerie tales are now synonymous with fantasy. Sleeping Beauty is hack-edited to warn against forest fires. Snow White has too much sex and violence....not enough singing birds.

Some stories can still offer us a lesson. Morality is not just for plain-clothed Anabaptists or Muslims. The power to change, to learn, to grow exists in all of us....even the monsters can still turn out to be cursed princes. What about stories told from the villain's point of view? Stories are usually told by the victims who become heroes. What can we learn from a story told by a villain? Perhaps the story of a villain already defeated, broken and weak. The stories always end there, with defeat. What happens next? What does the villain become once defeated? Do they change, learn their lesson, or move on to commit their wickedness again elsewhere? A villain's story begins with defeat.

When the wolf had appeased his appetite, he lay down again in the bed, fell asleep and began to snore very loud. The huntsman was just passing the house, and thought to himself, "How the old woman is snoring! I must just see if she wants anything." So he went into the room, and when he came to the bed, he saw that the wolf was lying in it. "Do I find thee here, thou old sinner!" said he. "I have long sought thee!"
~The Brothers Grimm, Little Red Cap

The Woodsman begins with defeat. The Villain is the Hero. And Steven Fechter wants you to feel empathy for him. You won't find many of Steven Fechter's stories on IMDb or Netflix. He mostly writes plays. Director Nicole Kassell's resume isn't very long or impressive either. She had only recently graduated from film school in 2005. Yet a collection of actors of esteem and reputation gathered for them and worked for no pay. Either Steven and Nicole are the coolest cats in Hollywood...or that's one hell of a story. As I can't speak to the first theory, we'll examine the second.

Most any film with Kevin Bacon is one that I'll gladly watch. I don't necessarily rave about them or even wholly enjoy all of them, but almost without fail I am given something to think about by the end. He doesn't always do the big budget movies, like the newly released biopic Frost/Nixon (2008), or 2003's Mystic River. He doesn't shy from having fun in films like Novocaine (2000) and Footloose (1984). I feel, however, Kevin Bacon is at his best when playing pained characters, villains, people on the fringes of society that we don't necessarily even want to like, such as Hickey in Trapped (2002) or Sean Nokes in Sleepers (1996).

This Independently recognized but largely unnoticed film, The Woodsman, is by far one of Kevin Bacon's finest performances. A powerful cast backs him up as he is partnered with Kyra Sedgewick, his real life wife, and the likes of Benjamin Bratt, Mos Def, Eve, David Alan Grier, and Bug's Michael Shannon. Filmed in my hometown of Philadelphia, The Woodsman follows Walter as he readjusts to life while on parole after a twelve year jail term. It isn't made clear right away that Walter went to prison for molesting young girls, as any dark, dirty secret takes time to draw out. And this is our story's hero....or anti-hero. Walter is our villain, whose story begins after his defeat.

WALTER
You can’t talk to me like --

SGT LUCAS
(interrupting)
Like a piece of shit? In my eyes,you are a piece of shit. Think anyone would miss you if I threw you out the window right now? I could say you jumped when I came
in. Who are they going to believe? Not you, because you’d be a dead piece of shit.

It is no joke that this film actively seeks to erase the cartoon archetypes in which many view the world, and it drags us along kicking and screaming. The story sets Walter (Kevin Bacon) up as a sad, broken man and immediately seeks sympathy for him before you know what he's done. The viewer begins to feel for him, wants to know his story and then the truth of his past is revealed. The hero of our story is a convicted child molester. By most people's definition, a monster. A wolf. Using the story of Little Red Riding Hood (the Grimm version) to illustrate the world, Sgt. Lucas, played with depth and weight by Mos Def, explains to Walter that there are no Woodsman anymore, only wolves. Even he, as a lawman feels helpless against them, and because of his helplessness he refuses to like Walter, refuses to see him as anything but a monster. But Walter isn't a monster, just a man. He is just a man who feels just as helpless and repulsed by what he is and what he has done, though part of him still tries to reason it out.

"They seduced me. At least, that's what I used to tell myself." -Walter

On parole, Walter is trying to start a new life, to be a better person and not make the same mistakes. He finds a job at the wood mill he will work under the supervision of Bob, played by David Alan Grier. It's plain on Bob's face that he disapproves of Walter's past, but he is willing to give him a chance, for reasons never explained beyond "you did good work for my father." Even when Bob defends Walter from a near riotous mob of co-workers by threatening their jobs, little more is revealed. The symbolism of the sawmill is quite obvious and in someways foretelling. It is here that he meets Vicki. Portrayed with a grim strength by Bacon's off-screen wife, Kyra Sedgwick, Vicki is a woman that can hold her own, doesn't need protecting and isn't afraid of Walter's past, though he keeps it from her for some time. Once he confesses it, upon her urging, she is more curious than repulsed and it is her lack of repulsion that frightens Walter. He sends her away. Walter still views the world in stark lines of good and evil. He is a monster undeserving of acceptance, pity or love. Repeatedly he pleads of his therapist:

WALTER
When will I be normal?

ROSEN
What is normal to you?

Over the course of Walter's journey of self discovery, as he attempts to assimilate into society and learn to "be normal," there are several figures that reflect aspects of his past life. A brother-in-law, Carlos who behaves as if the crimes never occurred, and treats Walter as if there had never been a twelve year gap in their friendship. Benjamin Bratt does well in creating this layered character, that takes on a seemingly willing role of friendship with the hint of mild obligation because Walter was not biased toward him, though all his family was bigoted against his ethnicity. Though he displays acceptance and empathy, it is when Walter finally does open up, that the man's true feelings are revealed. During a powerful scene Carlos (Bratt) describes his own troubles with temptation, claiming to 'understand' how Walter feels. He remarks that even his twelve year old daughter and her friends where clothes now that make it difficult to avoid such temptation. HE bridges the gap of empathy, yet when Walter asks if Carlos ever feels anything for his daughter, asks if Carlos TRULY ever feels what Walter feels, that barrier between "Us and Them" is crossed and Carlos becomes outraged.

WALTER (V.O.)
(in the ratatat tone of a sportscaster)
Good morning, fellow sports fans. The match is about to begin. Candy enters the arena looking sweet and trim. He checks out the scene but plays it cool. He’s definitely holding back.
(Pause)
Uh-oh, Candy’s eyes have locked onto something. Oh yeah. A cherub of a lad has separated from his friends. Candy quickly makes his move. He pats the cherub on his head, ruffles his hair. With his other hand, he offers the boy a bag of gummy bears.

Another reflection is "Candy," a man that Walter spies lingering at the school yard across from his apartment. Walter has given him this name and watches, writing in his journal as he sees the "game" play out. It is disturbing to follow Walter's thought process as he rationalizes at one point that if the child gets in Candy's car it is because the boy WANTS to get in Candy's car. Although at times Walter seems disgusted by Candy's actions and feels a need to stop him, he identifies with him too much and fears the police would not believe him, or would scape goat him. By viewing these events through a window, from the outside, he begins to see and understand the nature of "The Wolf's Hunt." Director Kassell uses a unique and clever technique at one point using voice-over narration and fast-paced editing to liken Candy's successful luring of the boy to a boxing match, to a game, which is how the old Walter and Candy view it. It does not lighten the tension of the scene but does shift the perspective entirely without the audience consciously realizing that they are viewing the events through the mindset of a predator.

Candy's abduction of the boy is a serious turning point for Walter and pushes him faster toward understanding the predator that he was. Walter faces numerous challenges throughout the story all forcing him to face his past and provide temptation to repeat or deny the same urges. The biggest catalyst in his journey toward recovery and moral salvation is Robin, an eleven year old girl that rides Walter's evening bus. For those who quickly draw the connection between the character and Sgt Lucas' anecdotal tale, it is noted that Robin carries a red coat throughout the film--but only wears it at one poignant point. Hannah Pilkes does an admirable job as Robin, allowing us to easily believe her role as she metaphorically guides Walter through the woods, innocently serving herself before Walter as a meal of moral dilemma. With Bacon's pained, at times childlike, portrayal of Walter and Fechter's masterful development of the character, the audience cannot help but reach a point where they are routing for Walter to make the right choice. He is presented with this red-cloaked beacon of morality amidst the woods and Walter can chose to be the Wolf that he once was or he can be The Woodsman.

To be The Woodsman would imply that he rescues the little girl in some manner-as is the case in the original Grimm tale- and in Fechter's stage play this is true. Unfortunately to see Walter's whole transformation as he shifts from predator--and he does enter this scene a predator--through the agony of self realization into the figure that saves the child, you must view the deleted scenes on the DVD. I can only imagine that the exclusion of these scenes was done for pacing's sake--a frequent killer of powerful cinematic moments--I feel that there are significant character development lost in these hacked scenes. The film over all is a character piece, therefore, these pieces are missed when removed although the audience may not realize and I feel that our perception of Walter is weaker for it.

"Uncommon beauty is commonly overlooked." -Walter

Many people are turned off by a slow paced film, which I do not feel The Woodsman truly is if you take the time to look beneath the surface--an important lesson being taught by this story. Far too rarely recognized upon the screen, Michael Shannon takes on the role of the moral guide, Walter's therapist Rosen. The interludes in Rosen's office serve as a vocal introspection for Walter to the audience. Rosen guides us as much as he guides Walter, managing to steer the audience away from making those stern categorical opinions of the preceding events. Rosen allows for the moral center of the film to grow from a seed, up and outward, repeatedly reminding that it takes time.

WALTER
A long time ago, I was sent far away. When they let me come back, all my friends were gone.

ROBIN
It sounds like you were banished.

WALTER
Banished... yeah.

Just as the story's moral teaches--there are shades and levels to all things--much of this film and its characters are not exploded on the screen. They are revealed subtlety, only hinted at, or a mild enigma to be worked out- just as is true with life. Walter's past crimes are often alluded to, but never dwelled on. The Woodsman is not an easy film to watch; not one to pop in when guests are over or to lighten an already tense day. It is a film that shatters the archetypes and barriers we set to isolate "Them" from "Us"; lines and divisions made to give us the illusion of safety and purity. It is easier for us to deny the darker shades of grey and see only black or white. To believe there are only Woodsman or Wolves.

"Do you believe in Fairy Tales?
...What's that one with the Woodsman?
...Little Red Riding Hood! That's it! That's it. The Woodsman, he cuts open the wolf's stomach, the girl comes out without a scratch... You ever see a seven-year-old sodomized in half? She was so small, just broken. I saw 20-year vets on that job. Hard guys, they just broke down and cried. I was there, I cried... There ain't no fucking woodsman in this world." -Sgt. Lucas

The world is not flat. It is not black and white. It is not good and evil. The world is a forest. Thick and dense, deeper than most of us will ever know. There are wolves, yes, but who better knows the villains' tricks? Where does a villain go after defeat? What does he become? A villain's story begins with defeat.

The Cost of Faith

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 16:09:00 +0000

Author's sidenote: It's been a while since last I posted, but I am still here, still watching movies, and still have an opinion. I'm doing my best.

It is not often that I am moved or delighted enough by an old movie to even bother attempting to thrust it upon my friends, most of whom couldn't be bothered to watch anything but their newest Netflix or 'The Game.' So I am thrusting it on you lucky folks. Don't you love me?

Dating a film as "old" is like calling a 1980 Dodge Aspen a "classic car". It is all very subjective and there are no REAL guidelines, just every different group/person's arbitrary ones. So please, those of you alive in 1969, take no offense to me calling "The Royal Hunt for the Sun" an Old Movie. While I enjoyed the film, I cannot in good conscience call it a 'Classic.' As a stage play, perhaps, but the film fell marginally short for me.

The film by Irving Lerner is based on Peter Schaffer's Classic play, and has historical basis in the fall of the Inca Empire. There is a good measure of accuracy in it, as far as the core facts go, but the story is not really meant to be about the socio-political destruction of a civilization. While the events of Spain's conquering of Peru is an interesting tale, Schaffer's script focuses on the dynamic struggle between the opposing leaders of the war, Francisco Pizarro and the Inca God King Atahualpa, and each man's respective faith in God and in himself.

To summarize history and the plot, in 1532 Francisco seeks to find a city of gold with which to honor his king and prove his place in court. The king refuses to fund the expedition, nor offer any men to aide it, but will gladly take his cut, of course. Francisco finds in Peru the Inca Empire of Atahualpa and with his 167 mercenaries wipes out 7000 Inca (of a population of some 80-100 thousand). Taking the God King captive he swears to free the man if Atahualpa can fill a room with Gold in two months time. Although Atahualpa succeeds and provides his own ransom, Francisco's men determine that he cannot be freed and must be executed. During the time of imprisonment Francisco and Atahualpa have formed strong bonds of friendship and mutual respect and this decision tears the General apart. There will be war if Atahualpa is set free, the death of a civilization if he is not, and either way Francisco's Faith, Loyalties and Convictions shall be casualties.

War stories are always exciting. Blood. Agony. Destruction. The proofs of man's conniving nature carefully plotted across land and sea. Brother killing brother.

The very best war stories, without doubt, are those of the men. Heroes and Demi-Gods overcoming all trials to win, be they Hercules or Lincoln. Foot soldiers battling in the mud and the trenches for the greater good, or merely for their lives, willingly or by draft. It is the men that make the difference. Without the men there are no stories. Even more compelling still are the battles we do not see, the battles twisting men's hearts and souls in the stillness between the skirmishes. Battles of Loyalty, of Conviction, of Faith.

What do you do when you capture a god? That is a question that not many people have faced in their lifetime.
- Francisco Pizarro

Our battling heroes are Francisco Pizarro, an illiterate General of the Spanish army who has lost favor with the king, though he has devoted his life to the crown. Played by Robert Shaw, with energy and passion, Francisco is portrayed as a man that came from nothing and though he feels he deserves significant honor, his peers still look at him as if he were nothing. Shaw is not an actor that many younger generations recognize easily (hence I've supplied the visual reminder below), and I admit, I find this disappointing. As with Francisco, Shaw often played roles of tormented men, men that struggled with self worth, loneliness and disillusionment. Francisco is a man abandoned at birth by his mother, raised by a pig farmer, and disrespected by his peers for his lack of education and birthright regardless of skills as a soldier and his devotion to the king. A soldier who seeks only to find further glory for Spain, his determination is neither praised, nor rewarded, forever known only as 'The Bastard.' As a result, he struggles with his faith in his God, his King, and the fundamental values upon which his entire life has been founded.

Christopher Plummer and Robert Shaw

Second, only in appearance on screen, is the captured Inca God King Atahualpa. An alternately regal and demented figure, he is the bastard son of the previous king, and murdered his brother and taken the crown. Although born of human parents, he believes without question that his True Father is the Sun and his mother the Moon. Portraying this undisguised Christ-like character is a young and sexy Christopher Plummer, who lends what at first seems to be madness to the role, but for those who follow him through the tale find a brilliance missed by many. Plummer's antics are at first amusing and bizarre, but like Francisco by Atahualpa, you are drawn in. The Inca God King is not an idiot, although the ignorant and boastful Spaniards would assume him to be, and through his foolishness he causes dissent amongst the leaders. Although history writes Atahualpa as the loser of the war, his people captured and killed, his lands seized, Atahualpa himself was always and died a God.

Another figure plays into this tale. His is a smaller role, a character used almost as a trophy to be won between the General and the God King. A youth of the court named Martin is hungry for adventure and glory and in Francisco he sees a hero to follow, from whom to learn. Although he is a student, he is enamored with the life and glory of 'The Soldier', just as young men today are eager to be an "Army of One." Martin is played by Leonard Whiting, a passionate young actor of the time, whom anyone attending high school before 1996 will likely recognize from Franco Zeffirelli's 1968 Classic film rendition of Romeo and Juliet. Martin's character grows significantly throughout the story, and learns to see past the flash and glamor of BOTH men's lies...those they tell themselves and those they subscribe to. He comes to make his own decisions, like a man, and ceases to be a child.

I was told once by a professor that in every story there is the Confident Man, the Uncertain Man, and the Innocent (or Impressionable) Man. The titles are rather loosely defined, but in this story the characters are clear. Each of these different archetypes exists to show a different outcome to the same basic concept, which in this film is truly: Man vs Self.

One thing many of my non-cineaste friends have difficulty with when watching older films is the more theatrical aspects. The extremes of the visually saturated colors or that its black and white, the bigger soundtracks, the less realistic "much too pretty" costumes, and the somewhat melodramatic acting. So many are turned off by what seems very much like over-acting to us now-- I say this wryly as I imagine Al Pacino ranting about a woman's ass. The medium/art has changed over the decades. Our tastes in dramas and certainly historical dramas now leans far more toward the gritty, dirty, perceptions of realism. Sometimes, I think, however, that we believe now that it is only realistic if it is unpleasant to look at. This isn't always true. Sometimes unpleasant is just unpleasant.

Atahualpa hears the word of God

Francisco: (to Atahualpa) So you believe if you die, when the morning sun touches you, you will live again?
Atahualpa: Yes.
Martin: A man dying then coming back from the dead is impossible, sir! It's impossible!
Francisco: What does your scripture say, boy?
Martin: But it's impossible!
Francisco: What does it say?! Christ was crucified and--
Martin: --and he did die and was buried. And upon the third day he arose from the dead. But it's impossible!
Francisco: So you say you do not believe your Christ story?
Martin: Yes! Of course I do! But....
Francisco: But it's impossible...
(note: transcribed from memory...may not be exact.)

Royal Hunt for the Sun details an engaging story of three men as Peter Schaffer imagined them to be when history converged upon the Inca. At this moment a man unwavering in his belief in the Sun was faced by those who would break him, their own faith in the Son coming into question instead. It isn't a man's beliefs that define who he is, but rather his strength of conviction when those beliefs are challenged. There is power in many things. Kings neither have nor make power, Atahualpa teaches them. Power is what makes and embodies a King. Only a God can possess power. To have faith in such things makes a man great, but no one can know the solidity of that faith but the man and God. What then is the cost to prove it?

Atahualpe faces the Garrote, Death by Strangling

God is the Director

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 16:41:00 +0000

Is this film more interesting than a documentary of the same actors having lunch? ~Gene Siskel

Not everyone enjoys documentaries. I know this. I do think, however, that is a fallacy. In a society that thrives on 'reality' television shows, the truth is we crave documentaries. We merely suffer a shortage of truly excellent ones. The word Documentary tends to induce in most auditory hallucinations of some dry Brit trolling on about the migratory habits of the Eastern European Barn Swallow, then whispering as we voyeuristically observe their mating habits. That sort of documentary has inspired many parodies and jokes, and a series of incredibly obnoxious car insurance commercials with a little lizard I would love to feed to my bird. Yes, these dry, strictly informative and educationally driven documentaries still exist. The History Channel can pan and loop across a photograph so well, you almost forget it isn't a film. There are, I assure you, far more gripping and engaging documentaries out there.

Filmmaking as a whole is a collaborative art, like a well designed machine intent upon a specific outcome. Documentary films are wholly organic, growing and forming as they are meant to and dictating to the filmmakers how things will be.

Let me introduce you to a few of my favorites. The following are documentaries you may have heard of, and if so, it is with good cause. A Documentary is not a film which often garners great praise save among the cinematic (read: artsy-fartsy) folk and perhaps a gathering of primary school teachers and college professors. This has been changing lately. With Al Gore looming over us with his doomsday scenarios of the day after tomorrow, and Morgan Freeman's parade of penguins, the Documentary is slowly, but surely creating it's own place in the pantheon of enjoyable film. Those I've listed here are ones that I felt moved me. They have earned recognition mostly through awards and in name alone, and are often ones that others have remarked "oh yeah, I heard of that...haven't seen it though." Well, here's why you need to watch.

Brother's Keeper (1992)
The Ward brothers were relatively outcast from their small New York farming community. Not very social, lacking in civil graces, and wearing their labors heavily on their faces, these four brothers were inseparable and paid little mind to the community's avoidance. When William was found dead in his bed and Delbert, the youngest, was accused by the police of murdering him, however, the entire community of Munnsville, NY gathered together and stood behind Delbert as he and his brothers Lyman and Roscoe fought to prove his innocence. The townspeople collected money to afford him a defense lawyer and routinely showed their support with banquets and dinners; events the Wards were never invited to previously. Even when the DA made accusations of incestuous relations gone wrong, and mercy killings, the townspeople remained steadfastly in support of the Ward boys. Directed by Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky, this film is well edited and draws you into this true life drama quickly. Nominated for five awards, including two at Sundance, there is little question why Brother's Keeper won the Sundance Audience Choice Award. It is an engaging tale that could have easily been told in a literary fashion, but is so much better served as a documentary. To see the real Delbert Ward, and take a tour of the true conditions and manner in which he and his brothers lived, draws you into the reality of William's death and leaves you to answer the question for yourself: Is Delbert Ward a murderer?

Buena Vista Social Club (1998)
Music is a language that everyone can comprehend. We feel it. We are moved by it. Some live for it. Wim Wenders, famed German director, made this Documentary about a group of aging Cuban Musicians who embody the truth of music, the soul of it. Due to Castro's rise, these street performers lost their fame and faded away quietly in Havana. Thanks to the Legendary Blues Guitarist Ry Cooder (check out the film Paris, Texas), they have been rediscovered and brought together to create one of the most captivating documentaries, which in turn spawned an inspiring (and dance-inducing) soundtrack. I would challenge anyone who claims not to care for blues, Latin or Caribbean music to watch this film and not, at the very least, be drawn in by the charm and sagacity of these incredible people. The film is as much an insight into Cuban history as it is a passionate homage to the lost music of Havana.

Bowling for Columbine (2002)
Yup. I put a Michael Moore film on this list. You knew it was going to happen, so suck it up and let's talk. Moore is certainly not a Documentary filmmaker in the sense that he makes unbiased, journalistic presentations of events. Oh, no. Moore always has an agenda, a plan, a firm concept with which he intends for you to walk away believing or at least thinking about. Most people would tell you that Roger & Me, his first film, is still to date his best. For Moore followers, his newest film is always his best. And for those who don't take him seriously....they favor Canadian Bacon. I have not yet seen Sicko--I will state that now. (In my queue, though.) Of those films I have seen, however...I feel that this one is incredibly poignant and remarkably ballsy. Fahrenheit 911 said all the things that everyone has now been saying for about 5 years, however, you'll find that when watching this documentary, people still cringe. Gun Control is still that issue that no one wants to talk about. Any film in which Marilyn Manson is the sound voice of reason is a serious fucking winner in my book.

Grizzly Man (2005)
Werner Herzog is a cinematic genius. Many might disagree with me and label him as simply weird. Sure, okay...he's that too. But I love him. The documentary Grizzly Man is a tribute to all that is weird about Werner Herzog. It is also brilliant. Filmed almost entirely by the focal figure of the film, Grizzly Man is about grizzly bear activist Timothy Treadwell. Killed in October of 2003 by the very bears he lived amongst and fought to protect, Treadwell was a character more troubled and inspired than Herzog could have written him to be, and as a sad result he and his girlfriend Amie Huguenar were mauled and killed on tape. Herzog masterfully introduces Treadwell through the man's own recordings and compels you to journey with him toward this inevitable moment. It is the death of a self-proclaimed hero and one is left to wonder if, perhaps, it is the only way that Timothy Treadwell could have died; while horrible, also poetic. Such an ending is in keeping with the hero and anti-hero tales of Herzog's other films and while slow-paced, one cannot help but hold on to see things through to completion; a moment I will assure the faint of heart, you will neither see nor hear.

An Evening with Kevin Smith (2002) and
An Evening with Kevin Smith 2: Evening Harder (2006)
There is no great conspiracy revealed within these collective 8 hours of film. There is no environmental disaster warned, no endangered species to be saved, and no deep look into the heart and mind of some poignant figure. This is 8 hours of film director Kevin Smith answering questions at various universities and college venues. 8 hours of some of the funniest interview responses and personal stories I've ever heard, and simply a fantastic way to sit back, laugh your ass off and forget for a little while-- or for once-- not to take yourself or life so damn seriously. Listen to Smith as he answers extremely candidly questions about his career, his work, and his personal experiences. Hear why he, a devout Catholic, was actually stunned at the church's and audiences reactions to his film Dogma. Find yourself laughing hysterically at his ordeals in trying to write and get a green light for a Superman script with a producer who had some pretty outrageous demands. It's a little nasty. It's a little vulgar. It is HUGE fun, and a great way to unwind after an 8-14hour crap shift at a crap job...like in Clerks.

Vince Vaughn's Wild West Comedy Show(2006)
The cast list runs like a tally of some of America's best comedians: Ahmed Ahmed, Peter Billingsley, John Caparulo, Bret Ernst, Justin Long, Sebastian Maniscalco, Keir O'Donnell, and of course, Vince Vaughn. Vaughn envisioned a show with the same spirit as Wild Bill's Wild West Show, only instead of sharp shooting cowboy's and Indians it was sharp shooting Comedians. Thirty Days, Thirty Cities. This show spanned from the west coast through the heartland and on its course gives a surprisingly endearing (and of course, hilarious) portrait of these comics' lives and reasons for doing comedy. The Americans they encounter along the way only strengthen these men and their tale, particularly a moving visit to a 200 person camp for Hurricane Katrina refugees (when the storm first hit landfall). I watched this film on Netflix (play online) with the intention of having a high spirited reprieve from a stressful day and I was delighted to not only be led to tears in laughter but moved to tears as well. This is a documentary of a different sort and although it starts a little slow, deserves far more praise than most have offered it. For those of you who read reviews and see the remarkably hefty number of bad ones that this film tallied, ask yourself this: Who are you gonna believe? Me or those appletini drinking dumbasses? I'm telling you...this is worth the watch. Just the small insight into the real Vince Vaughn, not the movie-clown, is intriguing. He is an insightful man with deep and varied interests, who has earned my respect in many ways. And if you can't take a flip-flop joke....well fuck, ya. I'm still laughing!

There is one last documentary that was a fun film to watch. I am not a huge sports watching fan. I love to play some field games with friends, but I don't really get into watching them on television...and certainly not watching documentaries about them. I found the indie release Big Blue - The NYC Handball Documentary to be far more engaging than I'd expected, a testament to its director Justin Sullivan. Check out my full review at Pieces Magazine!

Any you think should not be missed? Leave a note and share your favorites.

In feature films the director is God; in documentary films God is the director. ~Alfred Hitchcock

I Am The Super Mother Bug!

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Thu, 29 May 2008 15:41:00 +0000

Prologue - which means....this one's long.

Frequently I have bemoaned the absolute disaster of the advertising and marketing industry. Perhaps not here, although I can't imagine that isn't true, but I have most certainly annoyed my husband and friends with my diatribe on the evils and corrosive effects of a poorly constructed ad campaign for a film. The average viewer bases their decision to see a film upon one of three factors, in order:

Who's in it.
How engaging/intriguing the trailer is.
What friends thought after seeing it.

Personal taste governs factor one, albeit this is the reason you'll see the same faces over and over. The collective hive of the Marketing THEY know who made Them money last time. Example: Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt were both offered the role of Charlie Feinman in Reign Over Me before Adam Sandler. Factor three is also mostly out of their hands, with the exception of...I don't know- THEY COULD MAKE A GOOD MOVIE.

So this leaves us with their responsibilities with factor number two. Not only does the trailer indicate the necessary information for factor one, it is meant to relay and intrigue the viewer with the basic plot. It must convey what genre of film it is, or at least get it in the ball park. And it must do all this without telling you the entire damn movie (Christ I hate when they do that) AND without completely misleading you by not remaining true to the film's nature in an attempt to "be more interesting."

This extended Prologue is merely to present a public scolding to the marketers responsible for the advertisements for "BUG." I scold them for having presented a well-made but deceiving trailer. The trailer was very intriguing and did not give away too much of the plot. It did not, however, truthfully represent the film either. Nor did it show faith in the film to stand on its own. The 'Money Men' gripped their hooks in and tried every trick they could to make bank, as a result the film barely touched theatre screens. The actors aren't big draws, but their names are known. Although, I understand a need to let people know who William Friedkin is. Unfortunately, talented as the man is, most film goers don't readily know his name. Why not mention his more recently made films, The Hunted and The Rules of Engagement? By mentioning a film that was made thirty-five years ago, certain assumptions are made, because The Exorcist brings with it an entire culture of thought. It is easy to say that the horror classic is far closer to Bug in nature than the other films-but it lays the misleading foundation that Bug is an horror film. Tsk.Tsk.

It seems, they too, did not know how/what to market Bug as:

First they send in their drone... then they find their queen.

The Rest - Warning: There are spoilers past this point

Based upon the stage play by Tracy Letts, properly adapted by him as well, Bug does not roam far from the confines of a small apartment in a run-down Oklahoma road-side Motel. Not having had the opportunity to see the play, I cannot make any comparisons, although everything I've read praises both highly and state that Letts did not stray from the original script, only filled in some gaps caused only by the restriction of a stage. From the very start of the film, Agnes White is introduced as an anaemic woman prone to abuses, enslaved by fear and severe loneliness. Agnes is a pathetic figure trapped in a beautiful woman played with depth and energetic angst by Ashley Judd. Judd is an actress often overlooked, which I feel is often due to unfitting roles. Her strength is in her embodiment of these broken women. A perfect example, and one of my favorite off-kilter films, is Eye of the Beholder(...now there's one to analyze).

Agnes has an abusive ex-husband newly released from prison. With no self esteem, her alcoholism and drug use are not surprising. Her best friend is a lesbian, whom she works with at a lesbian bar- also not far of a reach that she feels safest in the company of less threatening people (ie. women). So when her friend, a plot tool named RC, played forgettably by Lynn Collins, brings the sheepish and child-like Peter Evans over to party, Agnes isn't the least bit threatened by him. RC leaves them and the elevator to Hell begins its descent.

Peter is played by the hard to read Michael Shannon. This is a man I wish we'd see far more of on film...and no, I'm not referring to Friedkin's unfulfilling teases at full-frontal...although, it couldn't hurt. Shannon creates a character that, while solidly written, needed a force of nature to bring to life. Michael Shannon is that force. As I said, Peter begins timid and childlike, uncertain of Agnes but not afraid of her either. Tracy Letts' script provides some incredible dialog that, as I watched, led me to guess early on that Peter was a predator.

Peter: People can say things and make you believe anything they want.

This awkward, quiet man had a way of indicating things that not long after, Agnes would very strongly believe. He worked in the manner of a confidence man. First he told her what she needed to hear to trust him, believe in him, feel dominant. In particular, he put her in a position of sexual dominance. Agnes' diminished self-view made it easy for him to build a foundation for belief. He seems quite capable of reading Agnes, without being obvious about it, such as confiding to a stranger, who coincidentally takes advice from a Magic 8-ball, that he "picks up on things."

The first night Peter stays, but he sleeps on the floor, this visit merely a kindness extended by a lonely woman. Agnes wakes to find that Peter is gone but her ex-husband is occupying her shower. Jerry Goss is a narcissistic, psychopath; a small man with little dog syndrome played with an all too natural swagger and grin by Harry Connick Jr. Agnes' weakness and fear is very quickly reminded when he threatens and beats her, waving a vague red herring at us. Jerry rants about Agnes having ratted him out over another man. This provides a motive for Jerry or this other man to have hired Peter to mess with Agnes, but the hint is far too weak and has no leg to stand upon and is therefore quickly tossed by film and audience alike. Although it is obvious that Jerry has beaten Agnes, Peter arrives but avoids any confrontations, letting Jerry leave without a fight. This moment only adds to Peter's trust-ability; a man so passive in such a situation is never likely to be harmful. The moment leaves an impression and Agnes takes him to bed. Director William Friedkin gives us our first dose of serious weirdness at this point, with unexpected images of blood cells flowing through veins and mating insects.

When the Bugs first appear Peter displays an higher level of education, but sheepishly almost as if embarrassed by his home schooling. The lack of condescension allows Agnes to keep her guard down and instead of feeling stupid, she looks to him for guidance. At this point, I still believed that Peter was a con-man, working her for a gain, but what he stood to gain was still a mystery. What did a sad, lonely woman in the middle of Oklahoma have that he could take away?

Peter: You have a centre right? A place inside of you that's just you, that hasn't been spoiled... And I think it's really important to try and keep that space sacred. In some sense, on some level, but... sex or relationships cloud that space... or, they cloud me I guess, they make it difficult to be just me and not have to worry about... being somebody else.

Peter very nearly loses her after confessing that he'd lied to her, and spills forth a story that would make any conspiracy theorist cream themselves. Trust has been broken, but by weeping these painful truths to her through the bathroom door, his hook is complete and begs him not to leave her. As she exits the door, all the world shakes with the sudden eruption of a nearby helicopter, bright lights and terrifying noises. It would seem his lies were true and Agnes is now caught up in the running game of a government bio-test escapee.

It would seem.

The next morning- government helicopters and spotlights gone- the descent picks up speed. From the start of the film, observe every small behavior and listen to every word Peter says. One can all but list what is coming. In many ways, Bug is like Fight Club and The Sixth Sense and The Crying Game. These movies did not explode with some completely unexpected ending. If you really watch and listen, they tell you everything you need to know to make those conclusions, which is why the endings are wholly believable. Bug is the same. Watch the way Peter works the pen in his mouth throughout the beginning. He's doing more than chewing on it-next thing you know...he has to remove his tooth. The man inexplicably suffers a seizure at a moment conveniently timed with Agnes and RC's argument reaches an unsettling point. Agnes emphatically choses Peter over RC as a result. In Psychology his behavior would classify him as the Folie imposée, meaning that as a dominant figure, psychologically, he is imposing his thoughts, beliefs and behaviors on Agnes, who willfully follows. The question at this point in the film is: does Peter do this deliberately, as a con-man isolating his prey; or is this a subconscious behavior of a severely disturbed man. Everything Peter presents he "finds" or provides proof of until Agnes becomes so immersed in his world, she sees her own bugs. So deeply immersed, inevitably, she begins to find her own explanations for "what is happening to them."

Peter's story? Government engineered plant aphids feeding on their blood implanted in Peter while in the military, and he infected Agnes.That isn't the entire story, however, because that doesn't explain how Agnes' child disappeared a decade before or why the police never found him. It doesn't explain the phone calls she keeps getting with no more than a breath on the other end. It doesn't explain why Agnes' best friend has it out for Peter. No, this alone does not explain why that same friend introduced them, or why they are so perfect for each other. Oh no...only one thing explains all that.

Agnes: I am the super mother bug!

...yes Ashley....yes you are.

Tracy Letts' script is so masterfully written that the audience easily follows into the funnel that leads to the only conclusion possible. It is a downward spiral sucking you deeper and faster with each turn. Each invasion of their private space, their self-imposed prison (or hive, if you will), is an escalation. RC's attempts at salvation are unwanted because they try to impose separation when Agnes has already concluded that she cannot live without Peter; that he is the best thing that ever happened to her. Jerry's possessiveness and threats take an odd shift toward incompetent expressions of caring when he too, determines that Peter is not good for Agnes. This, unfortunately, only furthers her conclusion that Peter is perfect. When Dr. Sweet, a meticulous Brian F. O'Byrne, is introduced the entire hovel is encased in plastic and aluminum foil, and with Friedkin's always well executed use of light and sound, it becomes a surreal cocoon. The exaggerated environment, already wholly unreal, only aids in furthering the couples psychological descent until people are no longer real. Agnes and Peter, themselves, are no longer people.

Peter: I am the drone.
Agnes: I am the mother queen.

The brilliance of Bug was lost under the disappointed mantle of a mis-categorized film. Letts' script is a fucking masterpiece unto itself that even lesser skilled actors wouldn't have been able to destroy too terribly, so when coupled with the powerhouses of Ashley Judd, Michael Shannon and Harry Connick Jr it simply emanates in all its psychotic glory. Friedkin, while often criticized for self-indulgence, I feel brings to this exactly the type of indulgences necessary. He doesn't weigh the film down with unneeded music or jump-effects. That music used is well inserted, and aptly written by musicians on the fringes of society. He treats the actors and story like poetry, allowing the subtleties of madness to creep in until you, like Agnes, are lost in it and can't remember when things went wrong. That is truly what this is; an expository on the psychology of madness, of abuse, or dependence and dominance. In all of Bug's brilliance, it not only makes a social statement on the constructs of our society as a whole, but leaves us with the most telling statement at the end of the film. Like a punch line in a black, twisted comedy, this Helter Skelter drops us into a metaphorical hell- or perhaps gives us insight into Mr. Letts' true idea of Hell. No where else in the story are the final words spoken, and here, they preempt a dual-suicide by fire punctuating the nature of their psychosis. For truly, do they not suffer Folie à deux; quite literally, "a madness shared by two"? Note well, the order of the speakers is not accidental.

Peter: I love you.
Agnes: I love you.

I should leave you with the last words of the script, however, I know many people do not watch film credits. Oh, you missed those...? ....tsk. tsk. I think Friedkin knows this as well, which is why I made a special effort to sit and watch them and without fail, he offered up imagery I believe was intended only to further fuck with our perceptions of reality. At the very least, they leave one wondering what he meant by them. Hmmm....

Pestilence, Plagues and Madness:The Doomsday Scenario

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:02:00 +0000

For those who frequent my reviews, the following may seem oddly polite, especially for such a crap film. However, this review was written specifically for a magazine, which requested a less flamboyant review. I am running the review here as written only because at this time I cannot bring myself to revisit a film that killed two hours of my life- and not without some agony....and because said magazine, after saying they were running it, did not print it. No hard feelings. Business is business. It is now long after the fact. Far better movies have trumped it at the box-office, and rightly so. Enjoy....

The resonant voice of Malcolm MacDowell fills the theatre with the ominous foreboding that Vincent Price once inspired. As he tells us of a future not so unbelievable, when a pestilence spreads throughout the white faced-urban lands of Scotland, images flip like forgotten news reels across the screen. The seriousness of his tone, smoothly laid out on the realist side of melodramatic, lays down enough dates and statistics to lend credibility to the story, elevating it above the 'innocuous viral-apocalypse movie.' Director Neil Marshall borrows from the potent socio-political sci-fi films of the seventies and while he tosses violence and gore into our laps, it is done with an unforgiving emotional detachment. The film Doomsday opens with the promise of a visceral portrayal of a future that is not so difficult to imagine as for years, we've watched the scenario play out on the dark-faced villages of Africa on the daily news.

This first half hour is a sharp stab at our empathy and apathy when presented the instinctual need for self preservation. It is not a powerful portrait yet, but this first half hour shows promise of a film to follow in the ranks of post-apocalyptic classics like Mad Max, THX-1138, The Terminator, The Omega Man and Escape from New York. There is a truth of our own cruelty presented with such matter-of-factness that the salvation of a young girl almost strikes the viewer as too saccharine to be true.

Sadly all promise is lost and as one character later advises: “Abandon any such hope.”

The homage to the powerful sci-fi films of past does not end with a quiet nod from writer/director Marshall. The heroine's likeness to Æon Flux, complete with funky hair cut, ocular implant, attitude and sexy wit is a more noticeable point to more recent influences as well. He hints at his 'influences' with characters named for directors John Carpenter and George Miller, amidst scenarios all too reminiscent of Escape from NY, Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, Dawn of the Dead and even a smack in the face of 28 Days Later and Aliens. There comes a point, however, when homage crosses over into giddy fan-film, and when well-crafted story-telling becomes regurgitation into an Hollywood-formula that should theoretically be quality. Nothing regurgitated is ever quality. Any pretense at originality or deliberate scripting is quickly dropped like foul-scented soap in the shower.

Neil Marshall wrote and directed Dog Soldiers, an independent film I recommend to anyone who likes unique horror/fantasy, although one who is keen on science fiction and horror will fast spot the many references and 'borrowed treasures' from other films and sources there as well. What makes it far more tolerable in Dog Soldiers is the subtlety to which it is done. Unfortunately as his budget bloated, Marshall's grip on craftsmanship was lost.

Of the three antagonists it is hard to say who has the grandest or most absurd lair. The deep-throated Scotsman, Canaris, with a fairly vague governmental role, has your typical wall of media encased in a heavily guarded militaristic compound, your run of the mill government room of evil and doom. He however, is outfitted with an entire military at his disposal and with it such wonderful toys.

The 'Kurgan-esque' tribal king, Sol, has an amphitheatre filled with can-can dancing Scotsman, x-games motor sport racers and pole dancing punk chicks on a stage outfitted with pyrotechnics and a human-sized rotisserie with which he appeases the cannibalistic hunger of his followers. The cannibalism, of course, is necessary due to lack of food, in spite of the sea of cattle that lend themselves to a gag earlier in the film.

Our final antagonist, the lost idealist Kane, has a Scottish castle. Yes...a castle. Complete with armored knights on horses, archers, gladiatorial giants in a death pit and damsels dressed in renaissance garb. I'll allow you to ponder that a moment while reminding you that this is a post-apocalyptic sci-fi film set in 2033AD.

This disjointed and weakly connected film can be easily divided into deeply contrasting parts, not unlike the evil lairs. The opening is a serious film speaking to the threats foremost on society's mind, a tribute to the storytelling methods of Marshall's heroes and idols such as HG Wells, an author who more than once wrote of the destruction of society. Then we are thrown in Thunderdome, and it is no longer about societal conflict and change, but merely the visceral blood lust of Clancy Brown wanna-bes, and an attempt to mash the pointless vulgarity of Hostel and Saw into the same film. Did I mention the Gimp?

Then with a shift of the bizarre akin to Gilliam's Time Bandits, our heroine Eden is marched toward a castle in a scene begging the declaration, “this is my boomstick!” It is after a “David crushes Goliath's skull” row in the Pit of Death, which recalls the Conan series, that a product placement is inserted with such absurdity one begins to wonder if there are commercial breaks. Eden's dead pan remark on the color of the Bentley played like a misquote of the batmobile introduction in Batman Begins.

Everything that follows that commercial break belongs in some horrible send up to The Road Warrior. The only thing left out of this final ridiculously lack-luster chase scene is the Cannonball Run crew, any level of believability and Michael Bay gushing “Awesome!” after every explosion. I've neglected to mention that during this chase scene, the flashy 2008 Bentley GT is barely able to outrun an old, rusted 1980s pony-car police cruiser. Excellent marketing boys, I'll drop $176K on one, sure thing. If Marshall was merely remarking on female drivers, I beg to argue that Sinclair's driving was about as unimpressive and dispassionate as her approach to everything else in the film. The fiery Irish lass Dierdre did a far more exciting driving job in Ronin, and with at least a little facial expression.

At the very core, the concept presented was not a new one, however Marshall attempted to make a statement. Albeit, the message came across as clearly as a political treatise written with crayons. In his representation of the break-down of society he presented us with three different social structures: the Pragmatic, “civilized” Empire; the Barbaric, urban-punk tribes; and the isolationist medieval colony. In spite of the stark superficial differences of the three groups they all exhibit the same structure, as each is ruled by a Machiavellian leader willing to exercise whatever brutality and barbarism necessary to maintain control. A fairly cynical way of saying that all governments at root are the same and all humans are barbaric no matter their level of technology or manner of dress. This very loosely made statement is quickly buried beneath the spectacle and groan-worthy scripting.

Although the cast gathered is note-worthy, (Rhona Mitra, Malcolm McDowell, Bob Hoskins, David O'Hara, Alexander Siddig) and most performed to the expectations of their role, the absolute disappointment that Doomsday presents leaves me to suggest that you forget that the excellent actors in this film were ever in this film and consider Doomsday a “Mulligan”. Because Dog Soldiers and The Descent, for what they both were, stood as a testament that Marshall has great potential, we can grant him this Mulligan as well, but any future mistakes may lead me to believe that the more money he's given the less he tries.

“If you're hungry, have a piece of your friend.”

*NOTE: If confused as to how/why this film is not as bad-ass as these images may indicate, please refer to my previous essay.

A Word on Bad-Ass

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 20:02:00 +0000

In Film there is nothing hotter than a woman in tight, sexy clothes, a set of killer boots with a weapon kicking some serious ass. Even women rush to see a woman kicking ass, and usually with a lot more enthusiasm than men. Why? Because we want to see our sisters represent! Do not mistake my heroine fandom as a one-sided lust, however. I am just as eager to see a true bad-ass on film, male or female. Alas, they are far more rare than you might think.

While struggling through my recent review of Doomsday (to be published in Trajan Magazine), a sudden spark of realization opened the floodgates as to part of why this film angered me so damn much. The utterly forced attempt at Bad-Ass and the lack of Elemental Cool. I can assure you, it wasn't Rhona Mitra, the British -born actress to portray Eden Sinclair in Doomsday. With the script she was given by Neil Marshall and his giddy, heavy-handed directing, I'd say she faired about as well as any mediocre actress could. It must have been a serious work-out for her beneath the over-laden campiness which builds at an exponential rate over the course of the film.

So perhaps to make my self understood, it is best to begin with a definition or two. One cannot come to understand the essence of Bad-ass until one truly grasps the concept of Cool-- And not just Cool, but Elemental Cool. There is a fundamental difference between them. Cool changes and shifts. What was Cool in the 1950s is mock-able now, and the Cool of now will in turn be stale in a month and dead in a year. Cool is mercurial, affected by the cultural tide and the ever present Gravitational draw of the Marketing Moon. An Element, however, is fundamental. It does not change. It is what it is and there is no mistaking it for anything else. The periodic Table is filled with Elements that are indisputable. Even the Elements of our ancestors are still hailed as such: Fire, water, earth, air. They are unmistakable and fundamental to that which is our world. So then the Element of Cool is that Cool which just IS. It doesn't change. It's a Cool that transcends culture and time. It is what makes Cool cool and not just Trendy. Elemental Cool just IS.

Bad-Ass is like Air. It is breathed in and expelled, but cannot be Bad-Ass if it does not have the Element of Cool. Bad-Ass without Cool is just gas...and therefore, only bad ass. The Element of Cool bonds in any number of combinations to create Bad-Ass, because there is undeniably Kick-Ass Bad-Ass, Wickedly Bad-Ass and Sexy Bad-Ass, to name a few.

Like many things in life, its easiest to learn by example. Throughout film history there have been individuals that are Elementally Cool wrapped in a package of Bad-Ass. The image of James Dean in his bomber jacket, cigarette drooping from his lip is an excellent representation of Elemental Cool. I say the Image of him because most people who say "James Dean is Cool" can not name the ONLY three major film roles he ever had, let alone have even seen them. But they know that photo. We all know that photo and even today with our "Truth" commercial campaigns and anti-smoking gums, people in the US and abroad see this image of James Dean and say "Goddamn he was cool."

Consider the sight of Blondie, the 'Man with no name', played by Clint Eastwood as he steps onto the screen with the front of his sarape tossed over one shoulder, his wide-brim black porkpie hat shading his face from the harsh Mexican sun. He is gnawing on a cigarillo with a gun belt slung low. Most of you already know who I'm talking about and the trilling whistle of the theme song is not necessary. This is an Italian film set in Mexico so cool that Americans claim it as their own. Just the title instills an idea of Cool: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.

Ripley. When she wasn't slicked in sweat, she was dripping with Alien ooze. With a curl-laden hair-cut sexy in the way a librarian wearing thigh highs strikes us, because Ellen Ripley isn't a sex-pot, she's a dock worker and she's there to work, not to get laid, and for once the film director isn't confusing us. Ripley prevails out of instinct. She's a survivor. She takes charge and attempts to protect symbolically representing the ultimate mother. And in the end she wears her bikini panties and bra-less tank top reminding us that getting her hands dirty doesn't remove her from her sexuality.

Strength. Irreverence. The Bad Boy who is in fact the Good Guy. The survivors. That is Elemental Cool. It transcends time and culture.

The elevation of something to Bad-Ass is not so simple as a quippy one-liner or toting a huge fucking gun, or a chick in stilettos putting a hurt on big baddies. Bad-Ass is merely an extension of what is already Elementally Cool. Its an exercise of Strength, Irreverence, Independence, Unassuming sexuality. See the thing about Coolness is that it doesn't ACT Cool. There is no curtain that goes up, no pretense. Remember, Cool just IS. So Bad-Ass is the same only amplified.

Consider:

The Matrix. When Neo walked into the lobby of the building on his way to save Morpheus and whipped open his coat loaded up with more guns than most people have ever seen collected in one place - It wasn't Bad-Ass because he was making a flourish for some audience's benefit. He was asked if he could "please remove any metallic items you may be carrying, keys, loose change..." He opened his coat. BAM-shit load of guns. "Holy Shit," was the only logical response to something like that because true Bad-Ass leaves you stunned.

When Ellen Ripley appeared in the Loader and yelled at the Queen, "get away from her you bitch!" The use of the Loader was, of course, very dramatic in effect but fitting for her character, which is a dock worker. The exclamation made isn't some witty little line with an almost comedic quality such as Terminator 2's "Hasta La Vista, Baby." It is something that you, me, any Joe-Friday would probably say in that situation. The line coupled with the brilliant use of the Mech is an extension of her Survival and Maternal instincts and equates to simply being Bad-Ass.

Having mentioned the Terminator films, recall in the first one when the Machine states in his mono-tone Austrian accent, "I'll be back." Ironically this line wasn't really written to be the iconic phrase that it has become. It is, if you watch, merely a statement. The Machine doesn't say it to be funny, or to be witty, or to get the last word (something I despise in films). The words are parroted from his observations of normal human interaction and spoken when the Machine's brain finds they are appropriate. Once again, there is no attempt to BE Cool, his irreverence just makes it so. Over-layed upon the situation of the completely destroyed Police Station, it is Bad-Ass.

Since it's inception, film has focused on its Bad-Ass men. The very first genre was the Western which prevails as an under-dog favorite to this day and gave birth to the Cinematic Bad-Ass. Hidden in the cracks and often overlooked, however, is the Female Bad-Ass. And film has over the decades provided several truly Bad-Ass women: Ellen Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), as mentioned; Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) in Terminator 2 (first one too,but not as Bad-ass); The Bride (Uma Thurman) in Kill Bill 1 & 2; Yu Shu Lien (Michelle Yeoh) and Jen (Zhang Ziyi) in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon; Miho (Devon Aoki) in Sin City; Selena (Naomie Harris) in 28 Days Later; Domino (Keira Knightley) in..uh...Domino. Jordan O'Neill (Demi Moore) in GI Jane; Catherine Deane (Jennifer Lopez) in The Cell; Leeloo (Milla Jovovich) in The Fifth Element; Matilda (Natalie Portman) in Leon, The Professional; Trinity (Carrie-Anne Moss) in The Matrix; River (Summer Glau) in Serenity; and Pearl (Lucy Liu) in Payback, which is thus far the only exception to the stilettos rule.

Bad-Ass isn't always about violence, however, so please don't only go looking in action and adventure films. Sometimes Bad-Ass can come down to the simple ability to prevail; to never let them see you coming. It is the whisper of a love-lorn Princess in a dying tyrants ear that his successor will be the child of his enemy. It is the incredible awe inspired by a bestial man rising from his self-imagined throne, a God, if only in his mind. It is a hard-as-nails whore in a Texan border town that puffs on her cigarillo then ends the film and ends the conversation with:

...."Adiós."

If I wasn't a transvestite terrorist, would you marry me?

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 14:49:00 +0000

But as Oscar Wilde said, "I love to talk about nothing. It's the only thing I know anything about."

Watching a film in which the main role is a man, who by all rights looks sexier in his pantyhose and dress than I feel on any given day, has got to be twice as aggravating for the men drawn in to the life of "Kitty" Braden. It is only the character's theatrics and cartoonish voice that prevent one from forgetting that "Breakfast On Pluto" is in all actuality the biography of PATRICK "kitty" Braden. That and because they continually remind you that Cillian Murphy is in drag. And gay. And a man who likes men who wears womens clothing. You picked up on that right? He's a puffer. But so damn cute.

Transvestite films are hardly a new genre. Made famous by Ed Wood with "Glen and Glenda" and routinely toyed with every so often by an over-masculinated actor who wants to prove their mettle in the industry, as per Wesley Snipes. Yup- look it up bitches. Wes wore a dress. More often than not a man in drag is a source of comedy, from the poorly done attempts of Jack Lemon and Tony Curtis in "Some Like it Hot" to the more convincing but pointedly reminded comedy of Dustin Hoffman and Robin Williams in "Tootsie" and "Mrs. Doubtfire", respectively. Hey, ugly and old women count too.

So how is the story of an abandoned Irish boy growing up in 1960's Ireland different than what we've seen before? Because its true? So was "Before Night Falls" and Johnny Depp worked those heels...and hid things in his ass--not literally, of course, this is acting after all. Perhaps it is the whimsical nature of the story, which borders on fantasy? I'd have to say Tim Curry's turn in garters and heels in "Rocky Horror Picture Show" DEFINITELY qualifies as Fantasy.

OK, get to the point.

The point is, that this film carries off a true story that elevates you out of the depression of the sheer depravity of it all by enveloping its viewers in Patrick "Kitty" Braden's personal fantasy. S/he views his/her life in such a manner as to maintain some brevity. Most people who are abandoned, raised in a staunch religious atmosphere in a morally unforgiving society, beaten, raped, threated at gun point by terrorists, tortured by police, alienated within society for being a freak, and reduced to working in sex-clubs where your PRIEST father eventually finds you...would probably have added a coat of hemoglobin paint to their bathroom walls fairly early on. But "Kitty" manages to keep a positive perspective through an imagination so active one must admit it borders on a complete detachment from reality and would likely, TODAY, be medicated with Risperdal or Zyprexa.

Patrick "Kitten" Braden: Oh serious, serious, serious!

I feel that trying to give a synopsis of this film would leave you all over-laden with details because there is simply no way to do the film justice without indulging in Kitty's fantasies, and there is a level of subtlety to the character that glistens like a faint sheen of sweat that one can either write off as the dewiness of Kitty's beauty or can acknowledge as the fruits of Cillian Murphy's gloriously hard work. You see...even I'm talking like Kitty now. It's infectious.

Before I sing the glories of all the actors in this film I want to lodge one complaint, because no review of mine is complete without one tiny bitch-session. I feel Neil Jordan in his roles as writer and director took a certain quality of edginess away from Patrick Braden. In Pat McCabe's book of the same title, Patrick's chosen moniker is actually "Pussy". That, I assure you is not the least of the softening done to the language and events. While the Forrest Gump of Winston Groom's same titled book was a foul-mouthed, violent, unlikable figure carefully transformed into the adorably, lovable, and far more palatable dim-wit of Eric Roth's Screenplay - I do not feel there was any need to 'Socialize' Pussy into Kitty. In fact, I think more people might have been able to identify with Patrick Braden were his chosen persona not SO saccharine sweet.

Case in point: Patrick holds out for a week of police interrogation with beatings, starvation and sleep deprivation. He's a tough person. He's solid and a surviver beneath his make-up and lace and I think there is a strength to be admired in that, one that is diminished and diluted by the rest of the story which paints him as a "kitten"....a defenseless, adorable animal pawing for attention- rather than a "Pussy" which is more self-sufficient, can kill to survive and knows YOU want IT.

The film, though well-acted, well-directed and save for my above complaint, well-written, does fall on the border of being a chick flick. While at no point does it attempt to move its audience to tears - unless, God save you, you are REALLY sappy - Patrick's brief stint with the IRA is just that, brief. You see guns, they flash guns, and there is a bombing. The story is otherwise introspective as a "coming-of-age tale", although by no means is it cliche. I cannot recall any sex scenes, though I'm not often one to keep count.

Kitty: And the other thing about the Phantom Lady was, Bert, she realized, in the city that never sleeps...
Bertie: What did she realize, Kitten?
Kitty: That all the songs she'd listened to, all the love songs, that they were only songs.
Bertie: What's wrong with that?
Kitty: Nothing, if you don't believe in them. But she did, you see. She believed in enchanted evenings, and she believed that a small cloud passed overhead and cried down on a flower bed, and she even believed there was breakfast to be had...
Bertie: Where?
Kitty: On Pluto. The mysterious, icy wastes of Pluto.

Cillian Murphy, as I said, takes a nice turn as Kitty, evolving the role into a figure that transcends gender in such a fashion that he nearly seems to define his own, unique sex. The actor, as you recall, first found fame with the incredibly awesome Anti-Zombie Zombie Flick "28 Days Later." He appeared again with regrown hair in "Batman Begins" as "The Scarecrow." Both films were huge successes for damn good reason, and Cillian was no small part of that reason. Yes, yes....Blood-vomitting zombies, Christian Bale and a huge ass tank definitely were a much bigger part...but Cillian helped at least a little. He followed those with "Red Eye", which I've not seen but it's by Wes Craven. You simply do not doubt Wes Craven. End of story.

Liam Neeson plays a somber-eyed priest (not that most of his roles since Schindler's List HAVEN'T been somber-eyed), and he carries the role with the expected amount of dignity and barely contained internal conflict. If within the first half-hour you've not figured out that he is Patrick's father then you are too dense to be watching a film that requires even half a frontal lobe to enjoy. Here's a crayon. Go draw on the wall.

Other actors of note make appearances such as the Father character from "28 Days Later", actor Brendan Gleeson, who makes a lively appearance as a costumed character from a theme park. He quickly teaches Patrick the silly song and dance needed to get him a job as one of the characters as well then takes him to a pub to get him drunk. After all, when you dance for children all day, what the fuck else do you want after work but a pint?

Waving at us from yet another transvestite film is Stephen Rea, not undeservingly infamous for "The Crying Game." No, no, he wasn't the transvestite, but he seems to have an on-screen desire for them. This certainly says nothing about Mr. Rea's personal preferences, only that he, unlike many actors, is not squeamish when it comes to on-screen inner-gender smooching. He plays a rather maudlin fellow quite smitten with Kitty who only borders on pedophilic creepiness.

A delightful surprise is the very brief role of "Mr. Silky String", a sexual predator who Kitty narrowly escapes. This nearly Cameo role was played by Bryan Ferry. Oh the kiddies are scratching their heads. Okay...age indication it is. Bryan Ferry was famous as the founder and front man for Roxy Music, a hot synthesizer-crazy band of the 1970's and 80's. Brian Eno (famous now as a record producer) and several other musicians drifted through the ranks of Roxy Music, Bryan Ferry went on to do a solo career and a few stints with Alphaville (another 80's band) and now has a healthy career as a lyricist and songwriter of the occasional music soundtrack, although, ironically, he doesn't appear on this one. Although the scene is nary there, he plays a serial killer well and adds the necessary drama to the film.

So if a story about an Irish transvestite who defies all odds to establish their identity during the political chaos of the 60's and 70's, that fantasizes about taking down a terrorist cell with a bottle of perfume and stiletto heels, and is stalked by finches with sassy attitudes who argue over Mitzi Gaynor isn't quite your thing, I get it. The film, too, doesn't seem sure of itself. But I would urge you to give it a try, have a few laughs at this darkly funny biography, and walk away saying "I had breakfast on Pluto."

Kitty: Not many people can take the tale of Patrick Braden, aka St. Kitten, who strutted the catwalks, face lit by a halo of flashbulbs as "oh!" she shrieks, "I told you, from my best side darlings."

Losing Would Suck and Winning Would be Really Scary.

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 01:37:00 +0000

What magnificence lies in a nine pound, 13 1/2 inch tall sculpture cast by the hundreds and distributed to more than 2600 people since 1929 that hundreds don dresses and jewels each equaling more than my annual salary; hundreds upon thousands covet the little figure and millions around the world wait and watch to see who gets one?

It is the ultimate gold star. It is the honor roll that goes down in history, not just on the black board. It is one of the greatest resume boosters a person could have short of Messiah. And it will end every "My dad is better than your dad" competition with a hands down win.

They call him Oscar, but it is truly the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences Award of Merit. Oscar is catchier...but Award of Merit is what strikes at the core of our egos and our dreams.

My title is part of a quote by Ben Affleck who said of the experience: "Losing would suck and winning would be really scary. It was really, really scary."

Yet for whatever fear Affleck was feeling when he and best friend, Matt Damon won their Oscars for Best Original Screenplay in 1998 for 'Good Will Hunting,' it did not show. In all the years I have watched the Academy Awards, their acceptance has struck me as the most incredibly genuine, the most true and heart felt, and brings tears of joy and empathy to my eyes every time I see it just knowing that would be me; that is how I would feel. So excited and flattered that I was giddy with laughter, teary eyed and jumping up and down all at once.

But to save face as an artist, let's just say it doesn't really matter- the awards are about politics and have no real bearing on your career. Sure, but when you are that one person standing before millions to be honored with an award that could have gone to thousands of others, I imagine it feels pretty fucking sweet. And scary. Really, really scary.

As a perpetual student of film and a *coughmumble*unemployedscreenwriter*mumblecough*, I can tell you that from the very first Oscars that I can remember seeing in 1984 when 'Amadeus' was the winner for Best Picture, I dreamed of walking that red carpet and being handed that little gold man. I wanted to be Sally Field when she won for "Places in the Heart" that year, a movie I hadn't even been old enough to watch yet, and she declared her now infamous line (more often misquoted than not):

"I haven't had an orthodox career, and I've wanted more than anything to have your respect. The first time I didn't feel it, but this time I feel it, and I can't deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me!"

I was never a fashion conscious girl. Dirty jeans and a tank top are my favorite ensemble, often accessorized by ratty sneakers or ass-kicker boots. My long hair is never coiffed in more than a 'keep it the hell out of my face' plastic clip or elastic tie. However, the organza and satin, silks and chiffons that billowed and sashayed down that red carpet year after year dazzled my eyes like a hypnotic spell beckoning me to pretty up and flash that "oh my God I can't believe it" smile. For years it seemed to be only about that. I think for many it always is and will be, although I want to think there are a great number of film artists who reach a point when it is about the work. They want to know that their work is appreciated and celebrated.

There are so many ways to see this. Box-office cash rolls are one way, sure, but many artists like myself look at that as a sad representation. So many excellent films LOSE money, and then others which I wouldn't wipe my ass on the scripts if there were no other paper around for miles make SO MUCH money as to leave me questioning the sanity, intelligence and good taste of the average person. Another way is if you stick around long enough to have schools like NYU, UCLA, USC and the Vancouver Film School teach classes about your films. 'Cus you know...that happens. Werner Herzog has accumulated more than 28 awards internationally, is the subject of numerous film course studies and yet....has never won an Oscar. Yet few film people would argue that he is a legend of the industry.

So that said, what's the big deal?

It is the film industry's grown up version of picking teams for dodgeball in elementary school. These are your peers, your classmates that make these nominations and ultimately decide who has earned that merit. So, yeah, of course it is very subjective. People are people and they pick their friends or their heroes, they do favors or just select what they liked not necessarily what was best. Politics plays into things, certain people get snubbed repeatedly for not playing by the industry accepted protocols (like Orson Wells, Martin Scorsese, or Johnny Depp).

This isn't to say these awards lack any merit of their own. Far from it. The Academy Awards do so much to benefit Film as an art form. It drives people to watch films they may not have considered before hearing it won an Oscar for....whatever. It bolsters the careers of lesser known people who might be lost in the cracks otherwise, like the recent winner Diablo Cody, a former-stripper and a first time screenwriter who won. That is every filmmaker, actor and screenwriters dream- to win on your first try. Plus to those living a less glamorous life, such as myself, there is no greater triumph than that; to see the most unlikely angel get their wings.

The Oscars also bring attention to incredible achievements, be they life-long or ground-breaking changes in the way film is done. Sometimes these achievements are overlooked, or left unrecognized until the valued person has passed on. The Academy is peopled of humans and we are fallible and at times a little thick-headed. This is one reason why so many other groups have stepped up to fill in the gaps. The Independent Spirit Awards focus solely on Independent film, and rightly so. It is a group of filmmakers who have stayed true to the origins of film, that guerrilla style of filmmaking that existed long before the studios were formed. Groups like MTV and People's Choice award films that are not 'lofty' enough for the Oscars, the comedies and action films that cathartically help us survive our daily lives; films that deserve just as much attention. Everyone thinks back on films that helped to shape and define their lives and many of them are not on an "artistic" enough level to catch the Academy's attention. Then, however, there is AFI who tend to recognize films solely on their artistic merit, and their historical impact on culture.

Normally at this time of year, I would have rolled out my critiques on who was nominated and who has won, what films deserved the attention. Unfortunately, for the first time in many, many years, I can only claim to having seen ONE of the films nominated for ANYTHING this year.

YES, that is what I said....ONE film nominated for ANYTHING. And that was Sweeney Todd.

My husband couldn't wait for me and ran off to see No Country for Old Men on his own and I've been otherwise too poor and/or busy to catch anything else. Plus, I must add the ridiculous difficulty in finding theatres near me which will play films such as Julian Schnabel's The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Even our local "art house" theatre is playing Juno, instead. It is a surreal experience for me to guess my way through the awards ceremony armed with no more than media and press editorials and opinions. Of the twenty-Five currently awarded categories, I was able to only predict ten correctly. Not bad for someone who hasn't seen any of them. Most of those predictions were based on what I know of the Academy's habits, and others just on the industry trends.

I wish I could say I were confident enough in my own craft that I do not need the approval of my peers in a show filled with enough pomp and ceremony to rival the Royal Family of England, but I know myself well enough to promise you it would bring me tears and laughter and an unbelievable wave of emotion. I do not have the poise of Grace Kelly, or the eloquence of Sidney Poitier, and few manage to truly move us. Therefore, I must echo Ben Affleck's sentiment on such a nomination and only dare to dream of ever winning.

Losing would suck, and winning would be really, really scary.

Being and Nothingness

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 00:02:00 +0000

"Hell is other people." ~Jean-Paul Sartre, 'No Exit'

Challenged by a dear friend to review the film Identity, I borrowed the movie from my father and watched it again. It was a film that I found quite enjoyable and more than a little unique when it was released in 2003, and was happy to devote the time to it again. It is another film, like many, on which my opinions seem to differ greatly from that of the "educated men" who call themselves 'Critics.'

When I was in college, my Film Production professor told us, you cannot say you have truly seen a film until you've watched at least four times. Once for the story (the acting and writing), once for the direction and editing, once for the construction (the sets, locations, lighting and costumes)....and then watch it again and see why your first impression was wrong. At first I laughed, thinking "seriously, who watches movies that many times?" Then I thought about Braveheart, Se7en, Interview with a Vampire, Brokeback Mountain, The Matrix, Edward Scissorhands, or Fight Club, movies I've watched at least three or four times, and I pondered "Why?"

Because they lure me back for each of those aspects, like savoring a wine year after year.

My general rule has become that if I enjoy a movie enough to watch it a second time, then it deserves that scrutiny. After all, how many hundred-plus people were involved in making that film? They all put hard work into it, so can I not at least take some time to admire their contributions as well...instead of sitting and jabbering until Brad Pitt's ass comes on screen? Yes, that deserves attention too...but the writer and director and lighting crew and costume designers, these people win awards because what they do matters too.

Identity is one of these movies. A movie that deserves a fourth run and your undivided attention.

If you do not like spoilers, haven't seen the movie or just don't feel like reading a REALLY LONG analysis of an excellent film...then read no further than this. It's a good movie, you should watch it. Now go away.

If you would like to know why Identity is likely Michael Cooney's best script to date, and an excellent example of James Mangold's incredible talents for direction and expressing stories of human turmoil....then keep reading.

______________________________

"Everything which exists is born for no reason, carries on through weakness and dies by accident." - Jean-Paul Sartre, 'Being and Nothingness'

Do not believe Film Trailers. Film Trailers are designed to lie to you. They are promises from people who've not even seen the movie they are making promises about and 75% of the time they are way off the mark, especially in the case of excellent films. Watch the trailers for summer blockbuster, Jerry Bruckheimer masturbatory hit films. Those are usually about right...because there is little substance and it would be hard to BE wrong. Good films usually have very VAGUE trailers.

In general, you cannot sum up the intricasies that unfold over two hours in less than two minutes and expect it to have any kind of impact. You just can't. So instead, as with Identity, you get 90 seconds of John Cusack, Amanda Peet and Ray Liotta in the rain taking turns shouting in concern, looking frightened or pissed off, flanked by images of Clea DuVall screaming in horror, a car blowing up, dead bodies and then horrified gasps that the bodies are missing!! Oh...and it takes place in a motel.

So, if any of that makes any sense to you, god bless you. The rest of us, however, need to enter this film with an open mind and not only allow the film to take you where it wants to, but to also take a moment to sit back and reflect on what it is you are seeing. Since my spoiler warning was well advanced and I'm giving you yet another opportunity to flee, I am going to tell you exactly what this movie is about.

Psychology. The exploration and ultimate destruction of the Ego. The arrival and passing of the Epiphany of Being.

This film is about "Being and Nothingness" by Jean-Paul Sartre.

Uh, what? I can hear you all from here...remember, I said: Open Mind. Pay attention. Two very easy instructions. James Mangold is not a director that "cuts to the cat." Mangold shows you EXACTLY what you need to see and nothing you see is unimportant.

The voice at the opening of the film tells us what our story will be:

When I was going up the stairs,
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today,
I wish, I wish he'd go away.

All the clues are set out on the desk before us, but like most audiences we wait to see people and action, to hear dialog and expect that these things will tell us the story. In truth, like life, it is the small details that determine the outcome of most things.

The first third of this Neo-Noir is setting our stage. introducing a large cast of characters that one by one slowly shrinks to One. A convicted murder, Malcolm Rivers, is granted a midnight hearing the night before his execution based upon misfiled evidence which his Psychiatrist believes will prove the Insanity plea he was not granted at trial. The Judge is, of course, displeased to be awakened and that this highly dangerous man is being transported during the second flood of Noah. The others are introduced in a series of chain events that inevitably leave them all stranded at a roadside Motel during a torrential storm. The flooding is more than symbolic, it is prophetic.

Ed is a Limo Driver and ex-cop who is driving the exceptionally narcissistic Caroline Suzanne, a has-been actress. They accidentally hit Alice York while she helps her husband George change their tire in the rain and their nine year old son Timmy watches from the car. The closest building is the generically signed MOTEL, which is run by Larry who is opposed to renting a room to Paris, a Las Vegas Prostitute on her way back to Florida to grow oranges. A newly married couple Ginny and Lou arrive in less than marital bliss, the new bride murmuring psychic inclinations and interests in numerology. While this crew all get settled in with Alice slowly bleeding to death, "Officer" Rhodes arrives with his prisoner transport, a multiple murder convict, whose name we do not hear. And now our stage is set.

The only way to truly break down the elements of this story is in parts. I will start with the surface story and work in...like a masseuse, loosening up your muscles then really digging into that grey matter. On the surface we have two stories being presented. The first, which is the action and excitement, is the methodical and mysterious murders of the Eleven people at the MOTEL. The second is the hearing for Malcolm Rivers, which through out the first half of the movie leads you to believe that the "prisoner" at the MOTEL is Malcolm. There are seven murders at the MOTEL by mid point and only Ed, Paris, Rhodes and Larry are still alive...then Dr. Malick springs the Jack-in-the Box: Malcolm Rivers has Multiple Personality Disorder.

It is, of course, not until we SEE Malcolm Rivers that the even moderately astute realize what is happening. The Motel is Malcolm's mind...the guests, his personalities, and they are at war. It is a very Highlander battle, to boot, as 'There can be only One.' Through out the story our Hero has been Ed. He's calm, in control and is trying to do the right thing.

Remember I said this movie was about Psychology? Where this is where the text book starts. At one point in the film, Mansgold shows us a book on the front seat of Ed's limo. There is no action taken with it, no words spoken in reference to it, just a seemingly pointless shot of the book. Why, however, would any director just suddenly show a book? If you can read the title on it, it is because they want you to. 'The Idiot' in "The Machinist" wasn't shown by accident... nor were the stack of Philosophy books in Neo's apartment in "The Matrix". Is the movie of any lesser value because you don't catch the inside joke? Not at all, but it can be greatly enhanced if you do. More of the little things will click.

The book in Ed's limo is "Being and Nothingness" by Jean-Paul Sartre, a book which has been a source of inspiration and a basis of statement for much of the Existentialist movement of the early 20th century. Existentialism, of which Sartre is often called the Father, is the belief that human beings define the meaning and worth of our lives or existence. It posits that without the presence of a transcendental force (mainly meaning a God) that mankind is then ultimately responsible for their own existence, which means...there is no one else to blame for your unhappiness and no one to thank for your well-being. This isn't to be confused with Nihilism which argues that there is no meaning to Existence.

The importance of this book in the film is that it deepens our understanding of Ed's journey. When Ed confesses to Paris why his is no longer a cop, he shows the only hint of emotion that we ever receive from Ed in mere hesitation. He explains that he was trying to talk a jumper down; a 15 year old girl with AIDS, pregnant, poor, no family or friends. His training had told him to tell her about all the people that would miss her, etcetera, but when she asked why she should bother living, he could not think of a single optimistic thing to say and in his hesitation she heard the answer she expected, and she jumped. In Ed's mind it was his responsibility to talk that girl down. He took adamant responsibility for hitting Alice. When the murders in the Motel began, he took responsibility to do what needed to be done, to do what was right. He defined these parameters, he set the guidelines for was right and in doing so defined the rules for the group.

Sartre describes the three existential emotions, anguish, forlornness, and despair, and offers us his opinion on each of them. For anguish he gives us a definition that anguish is felt by a person "who involves himself and who realizes that he is not only the person he chooses to be, but also a lawmaker who is, at the same time, choosing all mankind as well as himself." He gives us the example of Abraham believing that an angel of God has ordered him to sacrifice his beloved son, Isaac, this shows the anguish of trying to act rightly without ever being able to secure any conclusive evidence of what is the right course of action. Source

Over the course of the first two acts of the film, Ed, though he shows little but consternation, is in a constant state of anguish as the harder he works to keep everyone safe, the quicker they seem to be dying and this culminates in the moment that he orders Ginny to take Timmy and Paris and leave the Motel. He orders it and as Ginny and Timmy get in the car, it explodes. This is a completely irrational event in every way and Ed immediately attempts to assign responsibility to himself, until Rhodes points out that there are no bodies. Rhodes also tries to blame Ed but the paradigm has shifted. The rules as Ed had defined them, the rules of reality as he understood it are no longer the same. Something has changed and as this happens, he then experiences Sartre next 'Existential Emotion', that of Forlornness, or in essence, Abandonment.

The second emotion, forlornness, Sartre says that it is "very distressing that God does not exist, because all possibility of finding values in a heaven of ideas disappears along with Him; there can no longer be an a priori Good, since there is no infinite and perfect consciousness to think it." Source

Paris flamboyantly screams out at the rain, raging at their 'unseen' attacker, because surely there must be a source for their suffering that exists outside of themselves. Ed tries to calm her, not to tell her that everything is alright, but because he sees a futility in her action. It is shortly after this that Ed makes his 'Breakthrough.' Symbolically the rain collapses the roof, flooding the room and shorting out the power.

Let me take an aside to discuss the rain a moment. Ginny at one point explains the roadside attraction that the Motel uses to draw, having read a brochure in the lobby. The Motel is on lands known as "The Tribal Tombs." I will grant upon hearing that the first time I cringed with images of Craig T Nelson wading amongst coffins in his unfinished pool during a storm, but the object of this story is far more sinister than some simple "Indian Burial Ground." The land was reservation land that the Natives were forced onto, but there was no water, and according to their legend, the entire tribe died of dehydration.

It hardly takes a literary wunderkind to see the striking paradox of a terminally dehydrated tribe and the flood-trapped victims in the motel. There is nothing paranormal about it in the cheap, Fear.net grade-F horror-flick sort of way...just simple literary device.

So as Ed has his breakthrough he is suddenly not in the Motel, but strapped to a wheelchair in a Judge's office staring at a room full of lawyers and quite confused. Now reality for Ed gets really bent as Dr. Malick explains that fresh-faced John Cusack is not real, but that Ed is really just an aspect of Malcolm Rivers' mind, a heavy set man with unnerving nystagmus and no hair. It is now that we see the first smile on Ed's face and it is almost unsettling as he struggles with his disbelief. After all, the good doctor just informed him that he doesn't really exist.

The third and last emotion, despair, is the realization that we cannot ultimately rely on anyone else for anything. It is a rather disturbing realization. "But, given that man is free and that there is no human nature for me to depend on, I can not count on men whom I do not know by relying on human goodness or man's concern for the good of society."Source

Ed is told that he doesn't exist, that the violence that he's been witnessing and experiencing is as a result of Malcolm's personalities being forced to confront each other. Even more frighteningly, one of the three other people at the "motel" is a killer and that the Killer must not be allowed to survive. I find this scenario interesting as well because Sartre also wrote "No Exit," a play in which four people are trapped in a hotel which they soon discover is Hell and upon this discovery expect to be tortured. They soon find that their torture is very effectively enacted on them by each other. This play is the source of the quote: "Hell is other people."

In effect, Ed has just been told, he's in Sartre's idea of Hell. He does not exist but is being asked to take responsibility for the salvation of the man who is, ultimately, his creator. How fucked up is that?

Rhodes: I didn't do all this! You can't blame me for this! It's bigger than me!
Ed: Slightly. Yes.

What is fascinating though, is that Ed does not go back into this imagined world of the Motel with guns blazing like Neo entering the Matrix. From a logical stand point, one would think it makes the most sense to enter in with self preservation in mind, but Ed doesn't do this. He instead goes in with the intention of irradicating the one man he PERCEIVES as the threat, to - by Ed's defined rules of reality - thereby allow the most number of persons survive.

I think my only complaint with this film is that, unless you have fallen into Cooney's groove with it, the outcome is too much of a surprise. Although all the signs are laid out before you, the twisted ending doesn't strike you like Fight Club's where you sit back and say "Oh...well that makes sense..." Instead you are almost struck with a dumbfounded, "well I didn't see that coming."

I was not too startled only because there was one key point mentioned about Malcolm's mother early in the film. She was a prostitute. Through out the film, Paris is routinely disparaged by the other characters, treated well by no one but Ed. Once Ed died, any sympathy or understanding for her role - because keep in mind, she is just a character created by a traumatized little boy - once Ed died, that sympathy died with him and nothing but animosity remained.

The fact that only Timmy and Ginny's bodies were NEVER seen indicated it would be one of them, and another traumatized little boy (having seen both his parents killed) made the most logical choice to come back at the end and plant a trowel in Paris' skull, with an almost campy line of "Whore's don't get a second chance."

I do not begrudge writer or director with the slightly melodramatic touch to the ending as they spent a good deal of the movie presenting material that many average audiences would not sit through. I felt that over all, however, they did a fantastic job. Upon my reviewing of the film I actually sat and took two pages of notes that crossed the map from color analysis to the recurrence of the number 9. I don't pretend to know the exact reasons for everything in the film but I can speculate that their use of color symbolism is a tried and true psychology method in art to manipulate the emotions and impressions of the viewer. Just by simply grouping the authoritative figures all in black and the weakest figures in brown, our minds assign them status and importance, which is why Paris stands out so starkly as she is the only character seen in the color red at any point in the film. By doing that, there is no need to dress her in an overly provocative fashion as she already is catching our eye.

The recurrence of numbers is too frequent to be accidental. Ginny and Lou were married 9 hours, Timmy was 9 years old, Paris was inheriting 9 acres of land in Florida, Room 6 did that classic horror movie swing down into a 9 for no evident reason, and the bitch actress moved herself from room 8 to room 9, even though rooms 1,2,5 and 11 were all empty. Also note that if you count all 10 victims PLUS the survivor Timmy, that makes 11...there are 11 rooms at the motel.

If you want a peek into my absolutely absurd love of research and film...or researching film...I could delve into the idea that in the film there are 10 victims (not counting the already dead Larry in the freezer). The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders list exactly 10 personality disorders. Yes, 10, and I could go on for another twenty pages about how each one of the Motel Victims fits one of those disorders as described. Was this intentional on Michel Cooney's part - not necessarily. Any writer/storyteller with a firm enough grasp on human behavior would have naturally gravitated to including each of the personality types sans a disorder: Paranoid, emotionally reserved, cowardly, antisocial, borderline psychotic, histrionic, narcissistic, avoidant, overly dependent and obsessive.

Identity is a film with an incredible story, a remarkable cast, and an innovative writer and director. The construction was not the decadent Mise-en-scène detail found in Marie Antoinette, but it was planned and executed with no less care. This film is a fourth run film.

My final word is a thank you to my husband who sat and indulged me as we went frame by frame through the movie in an attempt to read the NAME of the motel on the red triangular sign, which I was so certain would add even a smidgen more meaning. At every point that the sign is shown it is mostly obscured or at a great distance. Through the power of patience and the zoom function on our DVD remote...we finally found, to my embarrassment, that it says "Air Conditioned."

No finite point has meaning without an infinite reference point. ~ Jean-Paul Sartre

I Want You Bleeders

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 19:58:00 +0000

ATTENTION: SPOILERS - as few as I could limit myself to....

This is the tale of an ordinary man, who had everything...
.......Barker, his name was. Benjamin Barker.
Until a man of power stole his freedom, destroyed his family and banished him... for life. And in his sorrow a new man was born.
.......Not Barker. Sweeney Todd, now. And he will have his revenge.

Great works of literature, stage and film are steeped with Revenge. If not the main theme of the work, then often a catalyst for action within it. It weighs heavily in almost any given Shakespearean play, most action films, classic novels such as Moby Dick, The Count of Monte Cristo, and of course we cannot forget the film classic "Star Trek: The Wrath of Kahn." Even the Bible is filled with stories of revenge, warnings against it, and even Paul's claim that the Lord hath said: "Vengeance is mine, I will repay." And God's vengeance has made for some of the grandest cinema ever! Sodom and Gomorrah. The great flood. Revelations is all about judgment to punish those who did not love him....how much more vengeful can you get than a fiery lake for all eternity?

Revenge fascinates us because it is an ethical error that we all have longed to make at one time or another, or one we have made and secretly relished or for which we publicly suffered the consequences. It is a "sin" which proves in the end to usually be its own punishment. John Milton beautifully wrote in Paradise Lost:

Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.

Violence fascinates us as well. This is evident in a stroll down the hall of the local movie house. Posters line the walls of films entitled: "Teeth", "Taxi to the Dark Side", "Rambo", "Aliens vs. Predator: Requiem"....and my favorite: "There Will be Blood" (which I have all intentions of seeing first chance I get). There can be no doubt of our blood-lust, which is how the folk tale of a barber who slew 160 men with a razor slowly blossomed into the formidable tale of Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. The story was first published in a Penny Dreadful called "The People's Periodical", in issue 7, dated November 21, 1846. A Penny Dreadful, boys and girls, was much like a comic book in their day; serial stories only, without so many pictures. They were pulp fictions written with subject matter not as refined as one might find in say...The New Yorker. And this very first printed version of the Sweeney Todd story was entitled "The String of Pearls: A Romance," by Thomas Peckett Prest who was renowned for basing his horror stories partly on factual crimes. The only similar such story of a crime, however, was out of Paris in 1825 of a hairdresser and his baker friend; not lovers, not 160 men and not out of revenge so much as just greed. This story too was never verified as fact.

What began as an urban legend grew to such proportion as to make it into print and from there, the theories and glorifications began. A fascinating article by Mark Gribben for crimelibrary.com makes the claim that he was in fact quite real and although only charged with ONE murder, was believed by authorities at the time and to this day to be responsible for upwards of 160 men and women. He contends that the straight-razor murders, the mechanical chair and the fabulous Mrs. Lovett and her meat pies are true. History, however, blurs the names of those involved and the motive. Johanna Oakley became Johanna Barker, the barber's daughter and her young champion turned from Mark Ingesterie to Anthony Hope. According to Wikipedia, Mrs. Lovett's first name has changed repeatedly over time: Marjorie, Sarah, Nellie, Shirley and Claudetta.

How does any of this matter in the tale of Sweeney Todd? Everything my children, Everything because uncertainties mean mystery and mystery is intrigue and intrigue is what makes us salivate for more.

More Murders! More meat Pies!More BLOOD!

Swing your razor wide!
Sweeney, hold it to the skies.
Freely flows the blood of those who moralize.
His needs were few, his room was bare.
A lavabo and a fancy chair.
A mug of suds, and a leather strop,
an apron, a towel, a pail, and a mop.
For neatness he deserves a nod,
does Sweeney Todd,
the demon barber of Fleet Street.
_____~from the Original play by Stephen Sondheim

The wicked tale of Sweeney Todd has appeared in print a few times in the late 19th century, but didn't start to earn world-wide fame until adapted for the stage, then later in the mid-20th century the screen as well. The infamous serial murdering barber has appeared in at least six well-received stage versions, six television versions, three films, a radio play and a song. This is an historical figure that has, at least mildly, captivated the public for more than 2oo years. I'd say that is an accomplishment of notoriety for any killer. I'm curious where Dr. Michael Stone would rank him...a 16 perhaps? The version of the story known best today is the retelling of Christopher Bond's 1973 play, which served as the basis for Stephen Sondheim's 1979 play both of the same name; Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. This will of course earn more credit vicariously through it's most recent incarnation as done by Tim Burton for the silver screen. Although the film starring Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham Carter and Alan Rickman is more or less an adaptation of Stephen Sondheim's Broadway musical - yes, folks, it's a musical - the film is written by John Logan (The Aviator, Gladiator ), who trimmed down the music by eliminating the narrating chorus pieces (thank god) and several other numbers through out. Interestingly enough, John Logan's original script presentation to Burton had even LESS music in it, and Tim, wanting to remain somewhat faithful to the Broadway musical from which they took their tale, insisted that more of it remain. Ironically he then removed two songs which he felt sounded "too theatrical."

Director's Prerogative!

So now you know it's a musical. Go to it knowing this and do not leave like the two would-be tough guys that stomped past me not five minutes in cursing a storm because they paid "like f*gs" to see a "fucking musical for f*gs." Get a little culture, people! So they sing...it's just like talking - WITH MUSIC. For you Johnny Depp band-wagoners....Cry Baby is a musical too, and it's more sarcastic than I am. Go John Waters.

Back to the bodies!

Like all Tim Burton films, Sweeney Todd is engorged with visual art from the fantastic costumes to the sets and clever directing. My only complaint is with an opening sequence that was unnecessarily done with CG. While the camera follows along a blackened skyline backed by blood red clouds, to bloody rain which falls onto Gothic statues and runs down to drip into the cogs of a machine, pooling in the gaps and eventually squeezing out to drip down....and follow this long sequence that ends with rats, the ocean and finally a ship, upon which is our first glimpse of Mr. Todd. It all sounds quite complicated and too difficult to have been shot live action, but I assure you, it is not. I have seen college film students create no less complicated sequences with only the most basic equipment (i.e. a tripod) and a rudimentary computer editing program. Their results were seamless and fantastic! So I must say, Shame on Mr. Burton for being either too lazy to film it or too much of a control freak to allow nature to add its own touch.

Admittedly, the opening sequence and the first few minutes of the introductory song make me cringe. When I watch it again on DVD...I'll be using those minutes to get my hot tea and candy bar ready. The opening song, however, was not one of my favorites of the original Broadway play either. It does, have a very theatre feel to it, which in my opinion could have been solved simply by....not using it. I was wary that it would immediately turn off my husband who is NOT a theatre person, although to his credit he did make it nearly fifteen minutes into the Broadway version on DVD. Even if it was only to placate me, it was a valiant effort - and the rest of you non-theatre people can take a lesson from that. Try it, but try it with an open mind.

Let the bodies hit the floor!!

Past that point I found the presentation of the story to be nothing less that delightful! Yes...I said Delightful, because I can find the story of a serial killer and a cannibal to be delightful. The characters were wonderfully portrayed with Johnny Depp bringing a little more humanity to the roll of Sweeney Todd than the too stoic performance by George Hearn (as seen in the televised 1983 version of the Broadway show, also starring Angela Lansbury). Not only did Depp add a certain level of blood lust that was nearly infectious, but there were moments when you could feel his sorrow. You felt his agony and you wanted him to succeed. You become just as eager to see Judge Turpin fall under the knife. This is of course aided by the absolute sliminess of Alan Rickman's characterization. An inhuman, covetous, rapist, pedophile, the Judge at no point offers any reason for forgiveness and Alan Rickman beautifully manages to strip him of any level of humanity coloring even the simple human moments with sadism and predaceous lust.

There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit,
and it's filled with people who are full of shit,
and the vermin of the world inhabit it...

Not to be denied in all this is the lovely Mrs. Lovett, portrayed with charming imbalance by Helena Bonham Carter. While Angela Lansbury's stage performance brought a quirkiness and depravity to the role that was at time humorous as it was endearing, Carter has created a character less cartoonish and more tragic. Although she still brings the necessary comedic relief to an otherwise dark and depressing tale, the role of Mrs Lovett in Burton's film is muted and far easier for the audience to identify with rather than holding aside as a jester to Todd's MacBeth. This endearment of the character makes the film's conclusion that much more of a test to the audience as we are forced to question Todd's justifications in his actions. At what point has he gone too far?

All of this is fueled, of course, by the rescue and adoption of Toby (Tobias Ragg, Sweeney's allegedly true life apprentice). Toby is played with staunch determination and remarkable maturity by the fourteen year old film newcomer, Edward Sanders. This young man has been an actor for five years but never before done film, and was perfectly cast to play the wayward Toby. A troubled child of 10, Toby is already an alcoholic, was raised on the streets and in work homes and is all but enslaved to a man who would become Sweeney Todd's first shown victim. He is adopted by Mrs Lovett and set to work in her bakery and the maternal relationship that develops is both moving and foreboding. Sanders voice is strong and sweet as he performs the tune "Not While I'm Around," an innocent love song which I must note was also brought to some fame by Perry Como on his 1980 self titled release. Although Toby is a boy, there is a deep maturity to his words and Sanders portrays the depth of the relationship between Tobias and Mrs Lovett without crossing that line from innocence into impropriety.

The love between Anthony Hope, a sweet young sailor befriended by Sweeney Todd (as much as a vengeful killer can befriend someone) after a vague reference to saving Todd's life, and the china doll perfect Johanna Barker (Todd's daughter with an almost anime like appearance) is a sweet interlude which seems more than anything like a saccharine interruption from the more believable characters and their dark dealings. Both roles played by unknowns, respectively Jamie Campbell Bower and Jayne Wisener, are portrayed with the necessary innocence to make them stand out starkly against the dark and vicious background of the murderous events taking place around them. While they are certainly more palatable than the stage performances of the 1983 televised version, they are still faerie tale-ish and difficult to identify with as an audience. Sadly, it felt as if Burton lost interest and dropped the ball when given an opportunity to truly corrupt the pure Johanna and mature her into a state of realism. Neither Johanna nor Anthony showed any development even after he is badly beaten and it is insinuated that she has suffered unnameable crimes while in an asylum. In the end I found both characters almost forgettable save for their position in relation to whatever nasty dastardly deed being exacted by the Judge, Sweeney Todd or the disgustingly smug Beadle Bumford, played with an unsurprising amount of rattiness by Timothy Spall (Peter Pettigrew in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban).

Mrs. Lovett: Mr. T, you didn't!
[looks into the chest, sees Pirelli's dead body and gasps. Shuts it]
Mrs. Lovett: You're barking mad! Killing a man what done ya no harm!
Sweeney Todd: [polishing his razor] He recognized me from the old days. Tried to blackmail me. Half me earnings.
Mrs. Lovett: [relieved] Oh, well that's a different matter then. For a moment there I thought you lost your marbles.

The first body is the infamous Signor Adolfo Pirelli, played with slyness and precision by Sasha Baron Cohen. Yes, THAT Sasha Baron Cohen. While I will not express my opinions of Cohen's previous film efforts, I will state that he is an exceptional actor and comedian and he brought his talents to this role with an ease that speaks volumes of past deficits of grace. It is difficult to picture any one else flashing that purple cape and bragging about the pope, once Sasha is introduced as the Signor. His role is almost disappointingly brief with the exception that he is the catalyst for the delectable blood rain to follow.

The film is, not surprisingly, far more graphic, gruesome and bloody than the previous efforts of stage and screen, and yet when all is said and done there is a mere body count of 12. Sadly stunted when you look at the historical claims with which to work. Why does this disappoint me? Am I truly a sadistic psychopath delighted by the sight of blood and mayhem?

Well yeah...

But it is a rare occasion when one can sit down to watch the genre of our previous generations - a musical - and with it take part in a journey of unparalleled violence and deep-seeded revenge such as that of the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Kiralfy Brothers be damned! Dress your girls in rubies and give your men a shave because I'll not sit through two hours of crooning for anything less than a Priest...meat pie.

From Prest to Bond to Sondheim and Burton, there is a genius among them that can take the darkest aspects of the human soul and present them in the merriest form of entertainment without making a mockery of it, but rather creating a sensation that has sustained for over thirty years. Tim Burton's gift to this legacy is that of accessibility. It isn't everyday that one can frequent the theatre, but a movie is nigh always on hand and he has gifted us that, and with it brought together a cast of magnificent demons to horrify an entirely new generation and awaken their blood lust as well. What better way to spend family night that to gather together and cheer for revenge...that one unforgivable sin that kills us all in the end. So entertain your dark side.

Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd!
He served a dark and a vengeful God!
What happened then, well that's the play,
and he wouldn't want us to give it away...
Not Sweeney
Not Sweeney Todd
The demon barber of Fleet Street...

The Redundancy of Repetition

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 01:05:00 +0000

The term "Formulaic" has stepped over the borders from math and science into the world of art and Cinema. Producers find a collection of variables that work well together (i.e. make unprecedented amounts of money) and then try to recreate that same set of variables over and over until finally the mass audience boycotts it completely or one of their experiments bombs so poorly they cannot risk their reputation by association. In the business world, to an extent this makes sense. If you worship the dollar, do what the Almighty Dollar's Accolytes will rush to pay homage to. In this, I can forgive the Money men. They are not unlike monkeys. They see, they do. Monkeys, however, have the good sense to move on when something stinks.

I have a greater complaint with those who are in a creative position and also bend to this inexhaustible Hollywood Machine of Shit. Sometimes it is a matter of feeding the family. Sometimes it is sheer laziness. More often than is acceptable, it is greed.

Welcome to Hollywood. That's why its called Show Business...not Show Art.

We often joke that "if you've seen one [insert genre] movie, you've seen them all." On a surface level this will always be true to an extent. Westerns will always have cowboys, horses and probably guns, Jerry Bruckheimer films will always blow stuff up while completely bending the laws of physics to do it...and romances will always have mushy tripe that bolsters stock in facial tissue companies and antacids. The latter for girls like me who would rather watch a man being eviscerated than feel the slightest interest in who Bridget Jones is boffing and snogging. Truthfully...one more movie with Meg Ryan attempting to be cute and its going to cross into a level of creepiness that will eventually make for excellent psychological horror. I already have nightmares if merely threatened with Sleepless in Seattle or You've Got mail. I tremble to think what 2008's The Women will be for the masses of women who use words like "empowerment" because a TV show talk host taught them its "true meaning."

It was once said that no idea is ever new. It has all been thought of before. And my father used to tell me that I could never write a movie in which the basic plot and theme isn't already in a Shakespearean play. Both ideas (apparently old) are available for debate, but not now. I'm focusing on those who do not even try to disprove that theory.

So what makes anything fresh, new or creative? Presentation. Jumble the Universal variables around in such a manner that the audience forgets that they've seen or heard it before. This generally will work, though we often find book reviews and film reviews, etcetera, making reference to other books or films or even authors and directors past. It is inevitable...inescapable even that this will be done. People need reference because they don't like anything TOO new...it's scary.

Yes, that was sarcasm.

When this kind of comparison becomes a death sentence for authors and screenwriters is when the comparisons are too easily made to their own past works. Authors, too often, become known as That Author. The one who writes sexually taboo horror. That author. The one who writes cyber-punk with a political agenda. That author. The one that writes Steven Spielberg movies...yes. That one.

Film writers can all too often fall into the same pigeon holes, and this, of course, perpetuated by the Hollywood Machine that demands another Blockbuster like the one in the Summer of 2006. Writers don't get weekly pay checks with a set yearly salary. They get what they get for this book or that script, and unless they are in that upper 5% echelon...they don't get much. So when a big Hollywood Head says I'll pay you this...now write it. The monkey loads their typewriter.

So why am I still bitching if I just justified my own complaints? Because I'm not bitching about John Logan writing Bats..because he went on to do something else (Any Given Sunday), something different (Gladiator), something BETTER (The Aviator, The Last Samurai) . I'm bitching about the Steven Kings and the Alex Kurtzmans. Alex Kurtzman can be pinned immediately as a sci-fi/fantasy writer. Ding! Fries are done... He wrote The Island which is easily summarized as follows:

Every excellent sci-fi movie you've ever seen re-enacted by a cast of hot bodies, (i.e. Ewan MacGregor, Scarlett Johansen and Sean Bean).

Period. No need to write that review for you, that's all you need to know. Take any fantastic sci-fi, THX-1138, Bladerunner, Coma, The Man Who Fell to Earth, and plenty more. From that mind-blowing film debut, he's gone on to write Mission Impossible 3 (because 1 & 2 simply were NOT enough), Transformers (which was decent...but based on a CARTOON which was based on TOYS)...and he's now slated to write Transformers 2!! And Star Trek is currently filming, don't we already HAVE like 15 Star Trek movies?? Do we see the pattern or shall I call an elementary school level mathematician over to point it out.

I had intended at one point to write a full length review of that film...and perhaps if pressed to I still shall, but I truly feel it comes down to redundancy of pop culture. No less offensive than The Island was the film The Secret Window, written by David Koepp and, of course, based on the novel by Steven King. David Koepp has twenty-four writing credits on IMDb. Of those twenty-four, FOURTEEN are based on pre-existing material, be it a novel, television series, a radio show (two of those) or even just the sequel to a previous film or series of films. Do not misunderstand, I do think David Koepp is an excellent writer. He wrote Carlito's Way, which for the record was also a novel adaptation. However, the point in hand is repetition. Rehashing old material, or even more dangerously, regurgitating your own over and over. In the case of The Secret Window, the biggest offender is Steven King. Within that film there are so many themes consistently found within his OWN previous novels that once again, it is as if you are watching all of them over again.

Although Johnny Depp and John Turturro are a pleasure to watch, as always they are, the film was like eating terribly dry crackers with a bit of jam. After a while, all you really want is the jam but you have to take the crackers to get it. Having also directed, David Koepp did a fantastic job, proving he can handle darker genres as he had with Stir of Echoes. Unfortunately the material (his own writing based upon a short story. Secret Window, Secret Garden, by Stephen King) seemed to be an amalgamation of all the best, and a few of the worst parts, of previous Stephen King novel-turned-films. His main character, a writer, has isolated himself during a rocky marriage to work on his book, exhibits alcoholic behavior, begins having conversations with himself and with people who do not exist, begins to believe that a sinister man is trying to kill him only to discover this person is a facet of his own personality, murders his wife and gets away with it, only after several exciting axe-wielding fight scenes, clever one-liners...oh and a novel that is really just a repeated phrase over and over. The two most obvious sources of this already played out material are The Shining and The Dark Half.

Yawn. I just want my jam.

I only single these two films out as they are recent viewings in my household. There are, most definitely other films with which I would have even more grievances. This trend to repeat material, and inundate the screens with "tried and true" formulaic cinematic detritus, is not limited to singular offenders. Often we'll see more than one film released near to each other, and often one will over shadow the other for reasons that greatly vary from better marketing, to a "hotter" cast, but not necessarily because it is better. In some cases these dual releases are deliberate, as in the case of Flags of Our Fathers and Letters From Iwo-Jima. On the surface the films seem redundant- both referencing the same battle. However, it is a pleasant thing to witness that they are in fact quite different and because this is the case, it is difficult to hold anything against Clint Eastwood, or to mark one film as better than the other. More often than not, however, we see cases such as The Matrix and Equilibrium, The Illusionist and The Prestige, Deep Impact and Armageddon, The Brave One and Death Sentence...and so on.

I do not foresee that these types of trends will end. The mirror releases like the ones I just listed are only shadowed by "the followers" like We Own the Night, which followed quickly on the tails of The Departed. In the case of these two films, however, they are both of upstanding quality and therefore are usually forgiven any attempts at market advantage. More than likely, the producers were smart enough to space them at least a little distance apart so as to avoid one losing money to the other.

In the end, I suppose this is all just me complaining about "the System" and raging against the machine that I, myself, would so desperately love to be a part of, although not for money or for fame. I have a dozen ideas for films, a handful already on paper, and I have to admit...I would risk redundancy by writing Bats II: Second Flight if it meant my scripts would be read. And this, ladies and gentleman, is why the cycle is never ending.

Never Mind the Bollocks

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 20:24:00 +0000

Sex. Drugs. Rock n'Roll. Blah, Blah, Blah...Although in comparison to our day, the height of French Decadence hardly seems "Rock n'Roll", every generation has its punk stars and rockers; extremists that stand out with hedonistic and anarchist ways. Oh yes, boys and girls, there was punk before there was Punk.

Pink hair, crazy parties, promiscuous, casual sex, drinking, gambling, and a complete disdain for authority. Sounds like a description of any given music star from the late seventies on. I am, however, actually referring to Marie Antoinette...or, since some historians now contest the reputation that history has solidified for her...at least the rumors of Marie Antoinette.

While most would answer "FRENCH!" if asked Ms. 'Toinette's nationality, she was actually born of Austrian blood and married into French court at the age of fourteen. Yes, one...four.....fourteen. Her groom was then sixteen year old Dauphin Louis Auguste (Later to be King Louis XVI) who would fail to consummate their marriage for SEVEN years. What does a teenage girl whose husband is sexually repressed but abundantly wealthy do? She shops. She gambles. She has parties and she flirts. She indulges herself in whatever she can while balancing a disdain for the gossipy French court (not exclusively a French behavior folks...) and maintaining public popularity for herself and, as a result, Austria as a whole. And although she bucks tradition and social expectation, for a good many years this punk-rock girl still manages to stay favorably in the public eye.

Then she gambles away the treasury's money, engages in inappropriate (and strictly Austrian) behavior which shames the King, and turns a deaf ear and a blind eye to all those French peasants that she was previously renowned for so benevolently aiding. Marie slips French money to her Austrian brother Emperor Joseph, adulterates herself with Swedish Count Ferson, and conceived at least two of her children with him, had sexual affairs with both men and women, poisoned her own son whom she also sexually molested....or so the French rumor-mills claimed. It is debatable now how much of her reputation was unfavorable gossip (or outright lie and slander) and how much was truth, but truth did culminate in the storming of the palace at Versailles, the King and Queen and their children being taken to prison. Louis was executed, Marie's health failed due to self-imposed starvation, tuberculosis and possibly cancer until she was then also executed at the Guillotines on October 16, 1793.

This summary only scratches the surface of a wildly complex woman with a rather scandalous life. Wikipedia manages to delve even deeper. So why then, does a film that uses modern rock music, a movie poster far too reminiscent of a sex pistols album cover, and sporting an American actress not even attempting an Austrian accent fail so MISERABLY at truly conveying just who this young Queen was both in court and in private? It truly plays out as if a better title would have been The Virgin Suicide: 1793.

Let me tackle my grunts of dissatisfaction one at a time. Music. This, just like the completely ignored accents of Marie and Louis XVI, impresses upon the audience more a sense of laziness and wilted creativity in an attempt to be avante-garde. True creative genius would have been conveying a modern feeling of rock n'roll while staying within the relevant themes of the time period. Sophia Coppola, while a proven director, only manages to continually draw us out of the French Court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette over and over with anachronistic lines and soundtracks. This use of modern music in period pieces isn't new, therefore not avante-garde, and did not work any better for me in A Knight's Tale. Inevitably it only dates the film causing it to lose its relevance to "modern audiences" when that "modern" is no longer chic...until, of course, it becomes "retro."

Rock n'roll?? The intensity of this film is more like listening to an old radio that only intermittently picks up a Top 40 Pop station and starts every day with an hour of white noise. This is no critique of the music selections, although those too were lacking. I speak of the passion, the energy, the sense of abandon and rebellion. While the cold handling of Marie's ingress to not only French life and married life, but the socially challenging politics of the French Court, would have been over-all considered well-done if there was a progressive build of tension which crescendo at some greatly dramatic denouement. What follows instead is a watered down, self-indulgent, wistful play-then-pout session that ultimately lacks the dramatic fire of such a rebellious woman, and pales in scandal to even the weakest of soap operas. The aforementioned Wikipedia article is a more exciting read than this film and wasted far less of my time while giving the added benefit of easy to follow character names. Other than Marie, Louis and the oh-so-sexy Count Ferson, my viewing partner and I resorted to referring to characters by their traits. The red-head chick. The gay guy. The Ambassador of Mercy guy. The King's whore. Etcetera.

The lack of character identification is a key indication of the lack-lustre performances of the cast. How one could collect such a brilliant group of people and fail to succeed is a mystery. Kirsten Dunst has only a handful of scenes in which she truly shines, most of which when she is NOT speaking. Danny Houston's appearances are sparse and far too brief. Rip Torn, Jason Schwartzman, Asia Argento, and an almost awkward insertion of Molly Shannon all fall short of inspiration. With such talented people, the question falls to material, direction or simply waning interest? Indeed, about the only emotion that Kirsten Dunst brings across quite clearly is deep frustration.

I identified completely.

The greatest tragedy of this film is that it fails to even portray the greatest tragedy of this woman's life! The French Revolution, for what it was, proved to be like any political uprising. Bloody and chaotic. Any war-induced governmental shift will result in the loss of lives and a string of political scape-goats waved to appease the masses and bolster favor for the new leaders. Marie Antoinette and Louis were exactly that. The absolutely outrageous accusations made against the woman during her two-day trial were SO harsh that even the very people who had stormed Versailles craving her blood fell on the side of sympathy for her. Ultimately, however, as history scripts, she was executed.

Sophia Coppolla's insipid biopic of the Queen went far past sympathetic to being completely uninspired and unsatisfying for its audience. One reviewer on IMDB so perfectly likened the film to "a movie about the Titanic that stops short of the sinking and all that nasty death at the end." And I think that description is more than adequate. While Sophia's other films, Virgin Suicides, Lost in Translation are hailed for their under-stated delivery, and rightly so, Marie Antoinette was a woman of excesses in a time of decadence, understatedness seems an almost absurd tact to attempt and the tale falls more in line with her whimsical "woe-to-be-a-girl" films such as Lick a Star and Bed, Bath and Beyond.

While I try to commit myself to any film I watch, seeing it through to the end just as one would look at every corner of a painting before deciding it was crap...I admittedly only continued to watch this film for the sake of my viewing partner who had far more interest than I...and because I really wanted to see some fucking blood and a head roll by the end of the movie. It would have at least vindicated some of the two-hours spent gaping at the poorly researched presentation of a historical figure's life in the cinematic equivalent of paper dolls. No one in this film struck me as a three-dimensional human....just pretty paper dolls dressed up as the roles of a little girl's fantasy in which no one understands her, no one loves her, and she just wants to have fun. If written by a 15 year old, this film may seem insightful and mature. For a thirty-six year old writer and director, however, it is self-indulgent and vapid.

When one considers that at thirty-eight years old, the real Marie Antoinette had lost everything dear to her, including her head, the film does nothing to convince us that this was a great loss to France or Humankind. With one snip of my scissors...this two-dimensional Marie Antoinette loses its head. The charge? Failure to perform.

Libertine

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Thu, 22 Nov 2007 01:05:00 +0000

"I don't mean to upset people, but I must speak my mind. For what's in my mind is far more interesting than what's outside my mind."

Arrogant words to be certain, spoke by an arrogant and defiant young man. There is much debate among those who know of the man John Wilmot; scholars mostly for, truthfully, who else cares about a more than two centuries dead poet, pornographer and satirist? The debate boils down to not IF he was a genius, for facts abound to verify that he was, but if he WASTED his genius. I say the answer to that depends entirely upon what the young boy Johnny wanted for his life, for if true Libertinism was his goal then he spent himself well. By every estimation, those who saw him as a literary genius felt he wasted it upon pornography and the theatre, which to some were synonymous at the time. Those who saw him as a political mind felt he wasted that with his Hedonistic behavior and aggressive actions to appall the Court. Those who would call themselves his friends, as John Wilmot himself would have said he had none, a handful of people who would themselves to him for his rebellious nature and Libertine Genius. Wilmot might have quarreled that they could never admit that they enjoy the company of one so vulgar as he and must hide it behind pseudo-intellectual socio-political movements established so that men might do what comes naturally to men and seem ingeniously amoral because they buck the constraints of an all too ostentatious society.

The opinion that Wilmot held of himself, however, is something that seems readily determinable as Highly by a brief review of his work. I think, however, by looking at the man's life and more deeply at his works, what you find, instead is a sad young man, unchallenged, unmotivated and uninspired in much of his life. He never denies his own genius, indeed I think he was inundated by the compliments of others and, feeling unchallenged in the attainment of this lofty title, John behaved instead to the absolute contrary of what his Puritan mother, highly respected, political father and royal admirers expected of him in an attempt to foster the hatred that he felt for himself, and perhaps, in doing this, create the resistance that true genius needs to excel.

Wilmot's life, though brief at only 33 years, was quite amazing by most standards. Born to a staunchly religious mother and an heavy alcoholic-Military Hero father who spent most of John's childhood in exhile, by the age of twelve, young Johnny had enrolled at The University of Oxford. Yes, that Oxford. At fourteen he received an MA. By the age of seventeen he was deemed a war hero. He married Elizabeth Malett, at age twenty, whom he had unsuccessfully attempted to kidnap at age eighteen. The next thirteen years of his life were a volley game between he and the king, in which he was frequently banished to his country home and his wife and immediately upon reprieve would flee to the city, the theatre and any number of his many mistresses and lovers, including the famous actress Elizabeth Barry. At age twenty-seven he fled the outrage of the king only to impregnate any number of women as a sperm donor under the guise of a fertility doctor "Dr. Bendo," with reputedly grand success. As an Earl, he lived a life of debauchery intermingled with an outspoken and willful life in politics only to die at the age of thirty-three from a far advanced Syphilis, and liver-failure from his drug and alcohol use. And throughout he left an immense impression upon the society of his time, and a remaining body of work that shows his own personal whimsy as well as the eloquence with which he could argue or present any point at parliament. He was as in love with life as he held a hatred for himself and the mockeries of civilization made by mankind. Stephen Jeffreys' opening speech for The Second Earl of Rochester speaks to exactly that. At the start Rochester insists you will not like him, but truth is found in the last line when he states that he does not want you to.

"Allow me to be frank at the commencement. You will not like me. The gentlemen will be envious and the ladies will be repelled. You will not like me now and you will like me a good deal less as we go on. Ladies, an announcement: I am up for it, all the time. That is not a boast or an opinion, it is bone hard medical fact. I put it round you know. And you will watch me putting it round and sigh for it. Don't. It is a deal of trouble for you and you are better off watching and drawing your conclusions from a distance than you would be if I got my tarse up your petticoats. Gentlemen. Do not despair, I am up for that as well. And the same warning applies. Still your cheesy erections till I have had my say. But later when you shag - and later you will shag, I shall expect it of you and I will know if you have let me down - I wish you to shag with my homuncular image rattling in your gonads. Feel how it was for me, how it is for me and ponder. 'Was that shudder the same shudder he sensed? Did he know something more profound? Or is there some wall of wretchedness that we all batter with our heads at that shining, livelong moment. That is it. That is my prologue, nothing in rhyme, no protestations of modesty, you were not expecting that I hope. I am John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester and I do not want you to like me."

This is the John Wilmot that was written by Stephen Jeffreys. This is the 'Johnny of the Merry Gang' portrayed brilliantly by Johnny Depp. This brilliantly devised tale that endears a man who stands for everything that our society routinely rejects with an intense level of turmoil and polarizing contrast is not, however, what is depicted by Laurence Dunmore in 2004's The Libertine.

Let me preface the following with a single statement: The Libertine is an excellent film, well worth watching. Visually beautiful, if not so monochrome and drab as to nearly be a gold tinted black and white, and well performed on the part of every actor.

Understand, especially if you are American, that this is not an "American" film. Nothing blows up. Very little catches fire. Most of the film depends upon dialog. Oh yes...and you must pay attention. Although the sex scenes are not prudish, nor are they worthy of the pornographic and hedonistic lifestyle of the man they portray. They are, in fact, down right boring. Am I one to watch pornography. No...not really. I view porn as I view sports - something I'd far rather be doing than watching others do. For the purpose of this film, however, the level of sexual and socially vulgar behavior was nothing I would be ashamed to sit beside my grandmother and watch. THAT, is directorial cowardice.

In a story about a man who would DARE to write a play for King Charles II to be performed before foreign dignitaries and choses to make it about the King's obsession with cock, let alone produce it - complete with a GIANT phallus upon which actors and actresses ride - this is a man whose story is owed far more than a few mild visual inferences to anal sex and hints at homosexuality so faint your personal fantasies about Johnny Depp or Rupert Friend would completely distract you and the moment would be lost. Again, do I seek pornography? No. Do I think this film may have been done far more justice in the hands of Ang Lee, Sam Mendes or Johnathan Demme? YES.

Throughout the film the dialog and the acting is engaging. The presentation is lacking in meek camera work and lazy editing. Although long, uncut segments of film can serve a purpose at times, entire scenes one after the other to go un-cut or only mildly snipped leaves the power of the moments impotent. While on a stage the audience is easily caught up in the energy of the actors, there is a palpable, tangible energy being conveyed. We have only a cold screen before us and it is the director's duty to make sure that the actor's energy conveys and connects to us. In The Libertine that energy and vitality was greatly lacking.

Another element that is used to help further the environmental energy is the soundtrack. When you study film, you learn that sound is all important. You can have a crappy visual image so long as the sound is pristine. A perfect experiment would be to send ten people into a room with only one outlet. They have a tv monitor with no speakers or they have a radio/stereo unit. Of the two items, the stereo will almost without question be the item they chose to plug in for entertainment. SOUND is more stimulating. A poor soundtrack or a distracting soundtrack can destroy a movie, just as the perfect soundtrack (i.e. Jaws, Star Wars, Close Encounters of the Third Kind) can solidify a film so deeply in an audience's mind that the sound alone will conjure that film forever.

In this, Michael Nyman failed. The Composer has more than seventy-five films to his name. Of them, I can only make claim to having seen The Piano and Gattica. Both were unassuming soundtracks, nothing that stands out, but nothing that destroyed the film either. His compositions for The Libertine were rote, repetitive and overwhelmingly dull. I can say the film may have faired better with no music at all, as the continual recycling of the same refrain over and over grew to be an irritation more than any form of mood bolstering symphony. Harsh? Perhaps...but at nearly two full hours, a film with the same 1 min song on repeat would drive a person insane. In fact, I do believe that is a contemporary torture technique. While this soundtrack is still preferable to anything written by Brittany Spears or Avril Levine, it grated my nerves no less.

Again, I must say that this is a film worth watching at least once. The value of the performances and the writing well outweigh the misdirection of the overall project. Re-edited with a richer soundtrack and I think this film would be worthy of a menagerie of awards. It was nominated for seven British Academy Awards, of those it won one, and of them they were all earned save, in my opinion, the two nominations for the director. Sorry Laurence, nothing personal; but you have no other films to your name and as a producer, I would be hesitant to give you money. As a graphic designer, commercial and music video director, Lawrence Dunmore's work is not only incredible, but also quite prestigious . He is a member of Ridley Scott Associates, and to me, anything with Scott's name attached is hail-worthy.

At the risk of losing my focus, I will leave you with the same lesson exchanged from Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester, to his young new companion, Billy Downs.

Rochester: And yet you do not draw the moral of the incident.
Billy Downs: Which is?
Rochester: That any experiment of interest in life will be carried out at your own expense. Mark it well.

And so we shall, at 114 minutes expended.

Silent Hill, Holy Plot....

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Wed, 14 Nov 2007 20:17:00 +0000

This particular review was written by my best friend. I've interjected a few comments of my own (in orange) as I too saw this film and...well I give her credit for putting so much effort into this. For me, the film wasn't even SO BAD as to warrant my time. Oh Sean Bean, how you sadden me....

- - - -

I’m a gamer. Yes, I’ll admit it. I’ll even admit the fact that I’m somewhat of a casual gamer (an insult among gaming circles), not one of these hardcore fanboys (or, girl as the case is) who waits in line for months for the newest gaming platform. But, I enjoy a good game nontheless.

Silent Hill was a very good game.

However, it was a very BAD movie.

Though released in April of 2006 I just saw this movie the other night. I’d heard frightening things about it. Disturbing things from other fans of the horror genre, and I’d put off watching it. I shouldn’t have bothered putting it off. I shouldn’t have bothered WATCHING it to tell you the truth.

Directed by Christophe Gans and written by Roger Avary (Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs), I was most certainly expecting something…more. But apparently, even Avary has days where he drains a few too many tequilas, giggles maniacally at a typewriter, then wakes the next morning to a semi-truck of a hangover going ‘oh my heck, what on EARTH have I done?’. This movie is proof of that.

I must interrupt to point out that Avary did not WRITE Pulp Fiction OR Reservoir Dogs. He is credited with helping to conceive the STORIES of Pulp Fiction and writing the RADIO DIALOG that is featured in Reservoir Dogs. That's it. He's not some secret mastermind behind Tarantino's chair whispering him lines. Less misleading credits would be 1994's Killing Zoe, with Eric Stoltz, and 2002's Rules of Attraction with that Dawson's Creek kid...In all honesty, seeing his name attached (as a co-writer with Neil Gaiman) to the upcoming release of Beowolf curdles my blood, as i was rather looking forward to it and now I'm terrified to see what he's done to a literary classic after seeing how he handled a pop-gore video game movie.

I’m very aware that movies based on video games most often do not work, for numerous reasons. Plots on video games tend to be first person…they include you as an active participant in the storyline so there is a level of immersion not available while simply watching a story. People don’t really expect computer animated beings in a video game to act and make us believe them as much as they expect it of their actor and actress counterparts on the screen. And, if one hasn’t played the video game in question, the movie version tends to feel incomplete and confusing, as most writers and directors seem to bank on the audience at least having a fundamental understanding of what’s going on before the movie even starts.

Such a phenomenon has brought us disasters such as Doom (and Bloodrayne, and Mortal Combat, and Super Mario Bros.) and lukewarm films such as Tomb Raider (and Final Fantasy, which served as more of a novelty than an actual film since most people are hard pressed to recall the plot but quick to remember Donald Sutherland's liver spots). However even knowing this, I was optimistic for Silent Hill. It had the potential to be great. Unfortunately, it did not live up to its potential.

Even for someone who played the game (such as myself) the movie was confusing at best, and the continued actions of the main character that left at least me wondering what the heck she smoked in the 70s did little to salvage it. I found myself utterly unable to sympathize with the heroine and let’s face it…if you can’t sympathize with the protagonist in the story, then what’s the point? (Sheer mockery worked for me...)

The movie opens with Rose (Radha Mitchell) frantically searching for her daughter Sharon (Jodelle Ferland) who it seems has wandered off in the middle of the night. This also, it seems, is not the first time this has happened. Little Sharon has a habit of sleepwalking. Frantically, and in one of the only moments of feeling I actually GOT from the character, Rose searches for her daughter who she finds on a clifftop about to fling herself off. Rose saves her just in time, and Sharon writhes on the ground a bit, locked in her nightmare and screaming about a place called Silent Hill.

So of course Rose and her husband Christopher (Sean Bean...oh Sean....*sigh*) take her to all the best psychiatrists to find out why their daughter is suffering from horrific nightmares and dangerous sleepwalking.

No, I’m sorry…that would have made sense. Instead, Rose decides the best way to treat her daughter’s psychological trauma is to take her to this town of her nightmares, Silent Hill. Makes you wonder how she’d treat a bout of the flu. Anyway, this is a real town, abandoned for thirty years due to a coal fire burning beneath it that is releasing toxic gases into the air.

Sounds like a perfect place to bring your child. (Sounds like New Jersey, but was amusingly based on a town in my homestate of Pennsylvania. Go figure.)

Christopher is against this (the Dad is the smartest one and hot) but Rose takes Sharon anyway, packing her in the car and driving off to find this town. Along the way, they stop at a gas station where Sharon discovers her happy crayon drawings have all been altered into nightmarish figures. As she cries about this to her mother, spouting “Mommy? Mommy, who did this??” she draws the attention of motorcycle cop Cybil Bennett (Laurie Holden, best remembered as Marita Covarrubias on X-Files...unless you actually REMEMBER the Father Dowling Mysteries).

With her young daughter (who acts about five or six but we later discover is actually nine years old) frightened and confused, Rose does the understandably maternal thing and leaves her alone in the car in the dark in a strange place and goes inside the gas station market. Naturally. That’s what I would do. She cracked the window!

If I were some sort of psychotic weirdo. (...ahem...?)

While Rose is in the market asking directions to Silent Hill (because Googling directions to the place before leaving would have made sense and she’s not allowed to do that) Cybil the cop approaches the car and starts speaking with Sharon, who spurns her with a quick, “I’m not allowed to talk to strangers” and swiftly shuts herself up in the car. Here, we get a glimpse into Cybil’s kind nature as she responds with an affectionate smile and a ‘good girl’.

Cybil glances around the car. Rose notices. Rose returns to the car and they continue on their way.

Shortly before they reach the turn off for Silent Hill, the cop pulls her over. At first there seems to be no reason for it…but later it is explained that a wacko once kidnapped a boy and took him to Silent Hill to drop him down a mine shaft. Cybil, our cop, was the one who found the boy and stayed with him until rescue came. So, I accept this as a flimsy reason the cop is suspicious of a woman and a girl bearing no physical resemblance to her heading toward Silent Hill, but even so, there was nothing stopping Cybil from confronting Rose at the gas station. Instead she chooses to wait and pulls her off the road. But, as I’m in a generous mood, let’s just assume the cop wanted to be sure first that this lady was heading to Silent Hill and not, say, Disney Land.

At any rate, Rose pulls over but upon seeing a sign indicating Silent Hill, decides that instead of staying and seeing what the cop wants, reassuring her or even downright lying to her, she decides the best course of action is to take off. Apparently Cybil can’t believe she’d do this either, given the way her jaw drops.

But then, Rose is already a nominee for Mother of the Year, why not indulge in a little high speed chase on dark, slick, unpredictable mountain roads with your child in the car and a policewoman in hot pursuit? (Uh...YEAH...I so would.)

Makes sense to me.

And so, long story short, there’s a ghostly figure in the road and Rose wrecks. She doesn’t hit anything that we can see, yet feels the need to smash her face against the steering wheel and go unconscious.

Upon waking, she discovers she’s alone in the car, stopped in the road at the edge of a town wreathed in mist and constantly falling grey ash…symbolic, I suppose, of the burning coal fire under the city. (And a really friggin cool effect that is DIRT Cheap to do.) She sets off into the town to search for the now missing Sharon, giving the impression not of a frantic, terrified mother searching for her child but rather someone seeking out a possession that has simply been misplaced. This attitude is revealed later with the almost jealous way she snatches her locket back from Daliah (Deborah Kara Unger...She was in The Salton Sea--you must see it.), a grey haired hag-lady who mistakes the image of Sharon for her own child.

Very shortly into Rose’s search she discovers the town is not nearly what it seems to be, as she’s attacked by the Smoke Children, who look like sculptures of babies made out of burning cigarette ash. Inexplicably the Children vanish and her first reaction is not to promptly find a weapon, a phone, or ‘get the hell out of Dodge’ but to figuratively shrug her shoulders and go wandering about, drawing attention to herself by yelling for her daughter.

Eventually we learn that Cybil, the cop, is also in Silent Hill. She has fouled her bike and as a result, is in an equally foul mood. Rose has returned to her car, discovering an angrily drawn demonic picture labeled with a ‘school’…and by that, determines that her daughter must be there. (Naturally...the whole movie is like watching a friend play a quest game - "Oh look! A key! Pick it up, maybe you'll need it!") Cybil finds her, confronts her, and arrests her, determined to march this crazy lady back down the road by foot if she must. Instead, they find the road is simply gone, and we have our first…and only…encounter with the Lying Men.

Now, I liked Cybil. She was the only character which, in my mind, made anything watchable about this movie (You forgot Sean...Oh, Sean...*sigh*). But even I had to gape in startlement when, seeing a deformed, armless, faceless creature with a big acid-spitting hole in its chest, her first reaction is to tell it to halt as if it was a looter scooting out of a Best Buy with a stolen VCR. I’m sorry, but if I saw one of those things walking toward me, my reactions would be three-fold. Scream, shoot, and wet myself. Not necessarily in any order and most likely simultaneously. Instead, Cybil orders it repeatedly to halt, and waits for it to get into spitting range before opening fire. As a result, she gets acid spit on her and ends up having to shed her helmet, glasses, and nice leather jacket. Oddly enough, none of this acid got on her face…apparently, the Lying Man is a picky shot. (Cybil's blonde...blondes don't get fucked up in these movies, only brunettes. Pay attention Becky!)

Rose of course takes full advantage of this confrontation to run. Yeah, you read that right. Run. Away from her only ally. Away from the person holding a gun. WITH her hands handcuffed. Oh, and Cybil’s got the keys to those, too.

I was chanting at her to die at this point. The character was just becoming painful. (Well, she DID hit her head....)

So Rose wanders around town for the next ten or twenty minutes with her hands cuffed, seeking out inexplicable clues to where Sharon might have gone. On a side note, doesn’t it seem odd that a small coal mining town has a huge elementary school, a multi-level hotel, and a six floor hospital? Hmm…

Rose tries the school where she discovers a huge ring of various sized keys. Rose stays in character by trying the keys on a variety of drawers, lockers, and doorways instead of, oh, I don’t know, finding one small enough to undo her cuffs. She also finds a flash light that, despite having sat in a otherworldly limbo for thirty odd years, still has working batteries. Go Duracel!

Rose is now chasing a childlike figure that keeps darting around corners and up stairways. She thinks this is her daughter. I think she should be wondering why Sharon would continuously run away from her. I mean, a child in a scary place like that…wouldn’t they run TOWARD their parents? Then again…if Rose was my mother I’d probably run from her too. Amen.

Each time she chases this child, Rose ends up in some mess with gross things happening. So naturally, when the child runs into a restroom Rose’s natural inclination is to peek in stalls.

Does no one but me think this is a bad idea? The room is a dead end. The kid has to come out sometime. Why open yourself up to a faceful of raw sewage or a dirty pipe monster?

No raw sewage monster. Instead, she discovers a grotesquely bent body tied up with barbed wire and eviscerated. (So fucking sweet people...you gotta see it. This guy does backbends my Yogi can't do). She then decides to turn off her only light and put down her only weapon (given all that’s happened, she oddly doesn’t seem concerned with arming herself, not even with a stick or bludgeon of some kind) and go poking around in the corpse’s mouth. There she finds a bit of wood from a nearby hotel. Of course, this must mean that Sharon went to the hotel, rather than the fact that this guy must have choked to death after indulging in a weird fetish having to do with barbed-wire bondage and pica. (Pica is an abnormal appetite for earth and other non-foods...yeah, I had to look it up. Bite me.)

Eventually we learn some things. Firstly, that whenever the town’s warning siren sounds, the walls peel, metal rots, and icky things start happening. Rose runs away from these, gapes at them, or watches them in almost dispassionate, detached interest. She does eventually arm herself almost idly with a butter knife she later uses to attack…a painting. Because there has to be a door back there. Duh.

Cybil finds her and shows the only real true human reaction to what’s happening by freaking out and screaming ‘what the fuck is going on’ in a way that made me want to cheer. Finally, some ACTING. Cybil then oddly decides to protect Rose and help her out, rather than…oh, I don’t know, bludgeoning her unconscious while screaming ‘what the hell possessed you to drag me here you stupid bint??’

They find a girl named Anna who apparently lives in the town along with a group of cultists. This strikes neither Cybil nor Rose as odd, because deserted, poisonous towns always have occupants.

Some exposition is given, Rose arms herself, the siren goes off and they all run toward the only place that would not be touched by evil…the church. Even though the darkness is coming and the town is falling and rotting away behind them, Rose decides the church steps are a good place to hold a conversation. And oddly enough, Cybil doesn’t scream ‘f-you’ and run inside herself, but indulges this conversation. I liked Cybil, but at this point I’d have knocked them both on their butts in my haste to get inside.

Sadly, Rose did not die, but Anna does at the hands of Pyramid Head. Who, by the way, is a major villain in the games but in the movie only makes two cameo appearances that do nothing for his character. It’s like watching a version of the Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe where the White Witch just wanders on screen a moment, waves, and leaves again, never to be seen more. He deserves his own fucking movie. He has the potential for creepiness that the Pale man of Pan's Labyrinth epitomized.

There’s another attempt at exposition. I’m distracted at this point watching Christabella (Alice Krige) and yelling ‘resistance is futile, you shall be assimilated!’ Her acting was impeccable as always, but then, she always did well at megalomaniac cultist leaders. (She was in Barfly, written by Charles Bukowski...kick ass movie with Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway-a goddess)

They go to the hospital to confront the beast. On the way, Cybil tells Rose that Sharon is ‘lucky to have a mother like you’. Yeah, the way the Germanic Jews were ‘lucky’ to have Hitler. It’s small wonder to me now why Sharon was trying to pitch herself off a cliff in the beginning of the movie. You would too if you were stuck under Rose’s care.

At the hospital there is a confrontation. Cybil shoves Rose into the elevator after killing one of the cultists and tells her to find her daughter. Even though there is plenty of time to enter the elevator with her, she doesn’t do this for some strange reason. For an even stranger reason, as soon as the elevator departs, Cybil puts down her weapons and seems to submit herself to what we used to call ‘a major ass-kicking’ by the cultists. I’m thinking at this point she’d rather just die than continue to be in the movie. ( 'OO-RAH Sistah!)

After running a gauntlet of blind nurses that seem unable to walk yet are meant to be terrifying (they can’t see you or chase you! Ooh, spooky - yet oh so buxom and sleazy) Rose finds the truth of the goings on. At least, I think it’s the truth. A young girl was terribly treated and eventually torn from her mother and burned alive for being ‘a sin’, the cop helping the father to try and locate his nutso wife and daughter is shown rescuing her though oddly enough, he hasn’t aged at all in thirty years, and this all comes down to the fact that this kid is really uber-pissed and wants revenge, and Sharon is all the ‘good’ that had been left in her, abandoned on an orphanage doorstep. Apparently, since Sharon is only nine (and acts three) and since Alessa was burned thirty years ago, it took her twenty-one years to spew out the good. But, whatever. I’ve learned not to ask.

We then have a prolonged climax in which the cultists burned the only character even somewhat worth anything alive (Cybil, I was mad), plan on burning Sharon alive, and instead get their come-uppance when burned chick enters and tears them all apart.

Ok, no...you cannot skim over this part. Spoilers be damned. We are talking giant tentacles of barbed wire that lash out and rip people into pieces, or impale them and leave them hanging in mangly meaty bits from the cathedral ceilings of the church. And then- like a live action, sadist's version of The Brave Little Toaster, Dark Alessa rises up from the bowels of the church- IN HER BED -barbed wire tentacles waving frantically to impale Christabella - not through the torso or head....through the GROIN...VERTICALLY. Seriously the entire movie is a waste of time except watching that three minute cinematic perversion. It isn't Bruce Campbell spewing worms and entrails in her face but...its up there.

Now, while all this pointless running around on Rose’s part is going on, her husband and a town cop are searching the ‘real’ Silent Hill trying to find his wife and daughter. Their car and Cybil’s motorcycle have been discovered abandoned but there is no sign of them. It is through Officer Thomas Gucci’s (Kim Coates) exposition that we learn of Cybil and the boy that was dropped down the mine shaft. After Christopher breaks into an orphanage and hall of records, Gucci displays his burned hands. We learned these were caused when he carried the horribly burned but still living Alessa to the ambulance, despite the fact he looks not a single hour older than he did then, despite the fact thirty years have gone by. Ah, if only I could age so well. I’d still look two years old.

After the death of Christabella and her cult, Rose and Sharon are allowed to leave Silent Hill, but not before Rose first gets to toss off the line ‘To a child, Mother is God’ to Daliah, as an explanation as to why Alessa didn’t kill her as well (and a complete rip off of The Crow). The words themselves as well as her attitude when saying them once more suggest that she views Sharon not as a mother should view a child, but as a possession, something that belongs to her, and worships her utterly as a pet might worship an owner. Never do you feel a true mother-child bond between the two of them…at least, I did not. When Sharon is in immediate danger of being burned alive Rose’s vehemence is almost identical to that a person would show when someone is threatening to kick in the corner panel of their new car, or pitch a rock through their plate glass living room window.

And so Rose and Sharon leave town, driving all the way home but still encased in the thick mist of Silent Hill. Her husband is there but does not see her, nor does she see him. Asleep, he catches a whiff of her perfume and rushes to the front door to see if she has come back…and thus ends the movie, leaving the audience with the feeling that they’ve been lightly beaten with the WTF bat.

I started this movie with the anticipation that it would at least be interesting and left with only the feeling that I was glad Rose wasn’t my mother, and how on earth could I get my money back, even though the movie was free.

Silent Hill should have remained silent.

Waiting Beneath the Surface

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 21:10:00 +0000

The previews flashed rapid, action-packed images of a vigilante killer; a woman fed-up and fighting back. They portrayed a story that glamorized violence because it was justified, for a cause. Set to exciting music with awesome graphics and Jodi Foster's sexy, svelte 40-something body, the trailers sold us a story that boasted all the worst ideas that a young woman could take from words like "Empowerment" and "Reclaiming Oneself" and "Bravery." To me, the previews were the ultimate in "trailer trash," because they didn't sell you the story- they sold ideas that the money men thought would hook an audience in and sell seats. They sold bullshit.

My fiance's cousin wanted to go see this movie called "The Brave one." I'd seen all the previews and was loathe of the very idea of seeing it- for what the previews claimed it was. So me, being the Reigning Goddess of Research ...decided to hunt down the script and read THAT first. So yes, I admit, I screened a movie for a 20 yr old woman as if screening Transformers for an 8 yr old, but with good cause. Not that I am some sage old woman, but at twenty I was still very much formulating my ideas of what it was to BE a woman. Hell, I still have soft-spots that need solidity; and not that I imagine she looks up to me as some kind of role-model, but I did not want to advocate an idea that I do not believe in by showing support and paying for her ticket. Call it an ineffectual liberal-esque protest, but that was simply my point of view.

The script I read moved me. What I found in the story was a woman- not hell-bent on murdering men or even scum-bag men- but rather a woman who struggles with how to survive when she already feels dead. Overly poetic? Perhaps, but wholly true. Ever step this woman makes is part of a progression, one that- in the director's perspective- has an ultimate end, an unavoidable end. Reborn of fear, this woman- losing her fiance to a senseless act of violence and herself being beaten nearly to death- takes a step, which many are led to believe is a logical act toward protection: she buys a gun. Having that weapon gives her a sense of security and yet, when first she uses it- in desperation- and she does take the life of another human being, she does not feel proud or vindicated or even justified. She is horrified by what she has done, yet the fear persists. This event only solidifies in her mind the NEED for that protection. If she hadn't had it, she would be dead. This is how the progression begins, and with each act her detachment from these men as Human Beings becomes less and less, making her decision to act easier and easier. Yet the woman's rational mind knows that what she does is wrong, it is her fear that compels her. She feels that she must do this, she must complete this progression of violence that was begun or she cannot rest. She must see it through to the inevitable end.

I have read so many reviews of this film that my head is filled with the trite, quippy dismissals that are regurgitated in one after the other. I do not know what critic or journalist was the first to make a comparison to 1974's Death Wish with Charles Bronson but every wanna-be hack writer since can take their tongue out of his/her ass and learn to think for themselves. The similarities are strained at best and if someone wants to make a comparison to another film, let's try something more relevant...and recent. Why not this year's Death Sentence with Kevin Bacon which comes complete with the "sympathetic Homicide Detective" and a gentle, mild-mannered vigilante protagonist pushed to the strained limits of their abilities to cope. Let us be honest people...we are hard-pressed to ever see any role played by Charles Bronson as anything other than a bad ass with a gun. I think it highly unlikely that we'll be seeing The Brave One V: The Face of Death coming out anytime soon. See, I can use IMDb too - only I've actually seen Death Wish and I'm not just relying on the one paragraph, poorly written synopsis. The Brave one has something that Death Wish lacks severely: credibility.

Every reviewer who walked into this film and came out to write that it was some "Girl-power" feminist version of Death Wish either didn't watch the movie and instead was the asshole sitting two rows in front of me with his lap top open and his cell phone on, or walked in already bound and determined to hate the film. And why not, it has Jodie Foster, one of the greatest threats to the good ol' boys: An intelligent, deliberate, and powerful woman. I dare you to find anything that qualifies as a "fluff film" on her resume after she turned sixteen. What appalled me when seeing the previews was the idea that the woman who so powerfully portrayed Sarah Tobias in The Accused would participate in a film that looked on the surface to be so painfully shallow and misguided. I should have trusted her judgment and never questioned the script. A Valedictorian of her French-speaking prep-school and magna cum laude of Yale, this woman wouldn't make such a senseless and irresponsible film as the one being advertised. Therein was the key. She didn't. And it is those who draw comparisons to films that senselessly glorify violence and revenge...like Death Wish...that perpetuate the false peddlings of the trailers for this film.

Jodie Foster does not carry this film alone, however, and I must speak out for Terrence Howard. His character is powerful in that he represents the conscience of the film and of Foster's character Erica Bain. As Erica and Det. Mercer develop a friendship it is his rational voice that acts as the only thing grounding her in the reality of the now and not allowing her to recede so far into the dark of her grief and fear that she is lost completely. Lesser actors may have portrayed Mercer as a straight up Clark Kent-type, so clean and innocent of mind that he has to be from another planet. Howard finds an excellent balance of idealism, soul-weariness and a legal means to be The Punisher. There is no doubt, when watching the Detective that he is driven toward ensuring that bad people pay their toll and it is when the question is posed to him of which is better, which is right and more effective- the legal system...or any means necessary, it is then that we truly see Terrence Howard shine as he is divided within himself.

The idea of justice is one that has for centuries weighed heavily on civilized cultures. The question is not only what is the most effective- eye for an eye, life for a life- but also what is RIGHT. And what is right? Do you know? I don't know that I do. I'm certain that our society as a whole has no real clue. One of the biggest fallacies in the promotion of this film is the description of Foster's character as a Vigilante. A vigilante is "one who takes the law into one's own hands." That is not where this journey begins for Erica Bain. She doesn't leave the hospital after being brutally beaten and decide she is going to kill evil men. What Erica's journey is lies more in the realms of self discovery. Do not scoff, I'm quite serious. In buying that gun, she did not make a conscious decision that she was going to kill people.

The gun has become a symbol in our country (ours especially) of security. Policemen have guns and they protect. Security guards have guns, their very name suggesting their purpose. Our military carry guns and they have been elevated to a status of sainthood in America. We have our right to bear arms - to protect ourselves. Its as if the idea that bad men carry guns died out with the advent of film, when cowboys with guns became the new heroes, and anti-heroes like Dirty Harry redefined our society's concept of cool. The more guns you have the more bad ass and indestructible you are. Look at our pop-culture icons. Neo in the Matrix...he had a fuck of a lot of guns.

So this is where her journey starts with this need for protection, to not feel afraid, to not feel vulnerable and weak....it isn't with the notion that she intends to kill anyone. The first time she uses it she is defending herself and had she stayed at the scene, the worst she would have suffered was likely a charge for carrying an unregistered weapon without a license. But Erica was still overcome by her fear...and now there is new turmoil because she broke the biggest taboo of human nature: she killed another human being. Each step along the path that she takes, Erica sheds more and more of her fear, but what she finds through Det. Mercer's friendship and counsel is that she is also shedding pieces of Erica Bain. He asks her at one point, when someone has suffered what she has, how do they cope and then carry on. Her reply is poignant to Erica's struggle.

"You don't. You become someone else."

Anyone who has experienced any sort of violent crime can identify with the passage that Erica must make. To cope she had to become someone else, and bit by bit the real her was slipping away. A piece dying with each act of violence that she then exacted in turn. Her rational mind, that part of her which was still Erica Bain and was a friend to Det. Mercer, struggled with the questions of justice. Although these victims were violent men, men who left victim after victim in their wake, was it justified to kill them when the legal system seemed incapable of holding them accountable for their crimes? This is truly a question that defines societies as civilized or barbaric. Erica Bain and Detective Mercer held this same question in their hands each representative of one aspect; the civilized and the barbaric. Unsurprisingly the balance between two stark halves grows more and more blurred and the end of this film leaves that question in your hands. What is justice? Is it possible to weigh barbaric acts with a civilized system or must the civilized, at times, act barbarically in order to define justice?

Unfortunately many of us wait to ask ourselves these questions until we are faced with the choice and must act. It is easier to give the weight of the world to another to carry, and lay such decisions on others because to make a decision forces you to be accountable; not just for you and your own actions, but for the ultimate effect they hold over another. Day to day we face struggles which play upon our fears at some level. Our society, with its politics and the media, reflect how much of a grip we have allowed fear to have on us and if you look closely more are dying as a result.

I was given a different definition of 'Vulnerability' at a recent seminar. The speaker explained that Vulnero, in Latin means "to wound", and an 'ability' is the strength or skill to do something; you are able to do it. Vulnerability then is not that you are susceptible to being wounded, that implies weakness. By true definition it is "the ability to be wounded," or more meaningfully, it is that you have the ability to be wounded AND SURVIVE. Vulnerability is proof of ones strength. "The Brave One" does not reference Erica Bain's "ability" to stare down her attackers and to kill them...it references Erica Bain's ability to recognize her fear and to not lose herself to it completely. It shows that she is vulnerable, but not defeated. Bravery is not the act of not being afraid, it is the perseverance of being afraid but going forward anyway.

"I always believed that fear belonged to other people. Weaker people. It never touched me. And then it did. And when it touches you, you know... that it's been there all along. Waiting beneath the surfaces of everything you loved." ~Erica Bain

The poster doesn't show a Charlie Bronson-type bad ass with a gun, or a cold-blooded killer,
but rather a woman with her head in her hands. Not much of a vigilante to be seen.

The Road to Awe

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Thu, 11 Oct 2007 22:13:00 +0000

Convergence.

Three stories converge, overlapping in time and space. Two lives, intersected, converge into one most unexpected. A man's fears and desires converge in one moment. Life and death become one. Love means letting go. Eternity is finality in repetition.

This is a description which would never make the back of a DVD box. Its a summation that, while thematically accurate, is merely the surface of the layered cake. That cake is bittersweet, with a story both tragic and inspiring, an ending both painful and beautiful, a meaning both literal and metaphorical. That cake is The Fountain by Darren Aronofsky. The name Aronofsky may not be familiar to you, unless you are a seeker of deeper fictions. He is most well known for his 1998 film π (Pi) or his more recent Requiem For a Dream (2000). It would be six years before he released his next film and to little acclaim. The Fountain, sadly, was not widely accepted and labeled "a pretentious, unfocused, and fussy mess" and "an artsy-fartsy disaster." One reviewer went so far as to compare it to Zardoz, a 1974 b-rated sci-fi catastrophe with Sean Connery, which does more for resurrecting the themes of The Time Machine than comes anywhere near touching The Fountain and leading me to wonder if the critic and I watched the same movie. All of Aronofsky's films are heavily laden with meaning. He's not a fluff-filmmaker. If you want fluff pick up a Nora Ephron film. Not to say her films aren't good, but you can watch them half asleep and still keep up. Aronofsky is aiming for something requiring full-consciousness and perhaps even a step beyond that.

π (Pi) analyzed man's pursuit of God, those who seek to understand the universe out of a desire for understanding and those who are filled with hubris and charge forward wanting only to control. Requiem For a Dream, however, explored the abysmal black of the human soul and the nature of addiction. The Fountain steps outward, out into realms that exist outside the human condition, outside the very shell of humanity to something far more universal: The nature of life and death.

Each of these three films has a common theme: Obsession. π (Pi) is a man's obsession over knowledge, over the key to unlocking the mysterious of the universe written indelibly in the codex of mathematics-that which some call God. Requiem For a Dream is not just about the obsessions of addiction, but the obsessive nature of mankind's desires- the lengths it will take us in depravity in an attempt to obtain an unattainable, intangible 'something better.' Without question, The Fountain is man's obsessive quest for eternal life. What makes the ultimate story of the Fountain stand apart is the conclusion that Aronofsky finally offers up; one so simplistic and innocent in its formation that we should be stunned to have not grasped it before that moment. To those critics who proclaimed this film 'melodramatic', 'pretentious', 'snidely pseudo-spiritual', and 'too flawed to be more than film-cuttings for music videos' I can only shake my head and sigh, though I think that Artist and Filmmaker Julian Schnabel sums my feelings well when replying to Sydney Pollack in Sketches of Frank Gehry (2005):

"I wouldn't. I wouldn't criticize him. That would be like flies flying around a lion. Its like watching a movie like 'Apocolypse Now' and saying that Robert Duvall is over the top." - Julian Schnabel, on Frank Gehry (architect)

The story of The Fountain is a fairly simple one. A man's wife is dying and he is desperate to save her. The story is then divided into three, one in which Dr. Tom Creo is a doctor researching with monkeys to find a cure for Izzy's brain cancer. The second is Tommy, a man traveling through space in a sphere containing only a dying tree, which he is taking to a dying star. Finally there is Tomas, a conquistador entreated by the Queen of Spain to find the Tree of Life spoken of in Genesis to put an end to the blood shed and all too swift fall of Spain. In truth the conquistador is the hero of Izzi Creo's novel "The Fountain," and Tommy a wonderful parallel to the Mayan story of The First Father, their life-giver. As Dr. Creo struggles to come to terms with his wife's death and she comes to accept her own fate, she helps him to reconcile their connection through her novel and telling him to write the ending. This simple act not only forces him to come to terms with her inevitable death, but helps him to understand the eternal cycle (convergence and repetition) of life and death as she herself has come to understand it. Through it all the star Shebulba awaits her, where a dying star will absorb her dead soul and in turn give forth life.

"For every shadow, no matter how deep is threatened by morning light." ~Izzi Creo

Rachel Weisz, Darren Aronofsky's wife incidentally, gives a wonderful performance as Izzi Creo/Queen Isabel. There is a child-like wonder about her as Izzi begins to understand her existence in a new way. As Isabel she is more sure of herself, her goals. Yet she does not portray this dying woman without fear, without soul-weariness. And beside her, the hero of the story, the Conquistador on so many levels, is Hugh Jackman. He carries himself with the desperation, fear, and soul-consuming love of a husband forced to face the loss of his wife and in doing so, his own mortality. Although each of the three men in these stories faces a slightly different challenge, while ultimately seeking the same end, they are different men. The doctor fights against time to find a cure, allowing his anger and fear to rule him. The conquistador fights against those who would hide the secret to everlasting life from him, as his aim is to succeed for his Queen and win her love. The traveler fights against himself, his own hope and need crippling him as he struggles to conclude his journey to its rightful end.

Each story, written so movingly, weaves about one another with ease until finally coming to a unified point. Throughout the film there are circles...symbols of eternity as they have no beginning or end, this very idea solidified in the end as each man accomplishes the mission they started, its ending finding success in a fashion true to their goal, but unexpected and contrary to what they believed they wanted, contrary to what they more superficially desired.

Izzi: Remember Moses Morales?
Tom: Who?
Izzi: The Mayan guide I told you about.
Tom : From your trip.
Izzi: Yeah. The last night I was with him, he told me about his father, who had died. Well Moses wouldn't believe it.
Tom : Izzi...
Izzi: [embraces Tom] No, no. Listen, listen. He said that if they dug his father's body up, it would be gone. They planted a seed over his grave. The seed became a tree. Moses said his father became a part of that tree. He grew into the wood, into the bloom. And when a sparrow ate the tree's fruit, his father flew with the birds. He said... death was his father's road to awe. That's what he called it. The road to awe. Now, I've been trying to write the last chapter and I haven't been able to get that out of my head!
Tom : Why are you telling me this?
Izzi: I'm not afraid anymore, Tommy.

The circle of life. Nature's Way. The road to awe. Whatever we chose to call it, Eternal life exists but not as man would have it, not as we would suppose it to be. And the reconciliations which must be made when our time of convergence comes is a question of letting go of those perceptions, those misunderstandings, ideas and preconceptions, letting go of that which we would control or possess to understand that we are all part of a whole; a continually flowing fountain which falls only to nourish that which will rise in our place. Darren Aronofsky understands this and through a philosophically stirring film with spiritually stimulating imagery of light he carries his symbolism effortlessly through from start to finish with a fluidity worthy of the film's name.

So, what's the 'symbology' there?

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Sat, 29 Sep 2007 21:30:00 +0000

Don't Cross the road if you can't get out of the kitchen.

I liked Boondock Saints before it was cool.

Correction: I LOVED Boondock Saints before most people ever heard of it. It's true. There are few things in my life that coincide with what's "cool". This, however, I can safely say I was ahead of the curve. In fact, I may even so boldly make the claim (accurately so) that everyone I know who has seen this film, saw it upon my urging. I found it on a back shelf at a "Ballbuster" video store when they only carried ONE copy. Go there now and there's four or more. It was staring back at me, the brothers, ominously poised with their guns and Willem Dafoe's face hovering in the background. I recognized Sean Patrick Flannery from the "Chronicles of the Young Indian Jones" TV series (yeah...I used to watch it). It was Willem Dafoe, however, that made me pick it up and eagerly read the back for a description. I was instantly intrigued. Less than fifteen minutes into the film, I already KNEW it was going to be one of my modern favorites. A 'cult' favorite if you will.

For those who haven't see the film, let me give you a rough estimation of the story. Two young men, through a random act of violence find themselves compelled to rid their neighborhood of Evil Men. Their breed of vigilante justice has a higher calling as it is God's Work that they believe they are doing, reciting a family prayer over each victim and even blessing their souls once they are dead. They are pursued by an FBI Agent sent in because all of their victims just happened to have hefty dossiers. He is a highly educated, astute detective that cannot wrap his mind about the motives of the killers and finds himself envying them as they, in effect, rid the streets of the very men he has pursued for years but been unable to put away because of legal bureaucracy.

"You know, you Irish cops are perking up. That's two sound theories in oneday, neither of which deal with abnormally sized men. Kind of makes me feel like Riverdancing." - Agent Paul Smecker, who then dances a jig with a smile

For a bare bones explanation that will do, because the details make it so much more interesting - and unique. Each character is so real and alive, none of them fit a stereotypical persona at all. On the surface, perhaps, you see Russian mobsters, the mysterious cut-throat assassin, three dumb Irish cops...but each character fills out so much more than those cookie-cutter rolls. For example, our super-FBI Agent Agent Smecker listens to Opera on his CD walkman (that was before the iPod, children) while examining his crime scenes, dances to it openly as he thinks and is a not so closet homosexual with a hatred for "fags," not a self-hating homosexual, mind you, but a "Real Man" that dislikes the effeminate nature of some gay men; not the kind of characterization that you find in most action/dramas. He's intelligent, and knows it, often smugly mocking the amateurish mistakes of Boston's Best. When he fails to connect all the dots, however, he falls to dramatics like temper tantrums and all-out hissy fits in public - outraged at feeling outwitted. This character of Paul Smecker is truly our narrator. The story is mostly propelled from his point of view as he tries to find these vigilantes and reconcile his feelings of admiration with his sworn duties to the law.

"I put evil men behind bars, but the law has miles of red tape and loopholes for these cocksuckers to slip through." -Agent Smecker, Drunk in church confession

The MacManus brothers, Connor and Murphy never seem to question the validity of their choice to kill. They are holy men by nature, devout and god fearing, attending early mass everyday before going to work at a meat-packing plant. They speak English, Russian, Italian, French, and being catholic, it is possible, Latin as well. They both are exceptional marksmen, just happen to know IRA arms dealers, and have a friend with connections to the very Russian mob that they are killing. Oh...and their father is Il Duce. The Duke. The most revered and feared hitman in Boston history, hired by the mob when it was other mobsters that needed to be killed. The family tradition seems to be the killing of 'Evil Men,' as well as a family prayer which brings to mind the angels of death, a reference made by the father of the brothers MacManus.

"Never shall innocent blood be shed, yet the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river. The Three shall spread their blackened wings and be the vengeful striking hammer of God." -Il Duce

And shepherds we shall be, for thee my Lord for thee, Power hath descended forth from thy hand, that our feet may swiftly carry out thy command, we shall flow a river forth to thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In nomine patris, et filii... [they cock their guns] ...et spiritus sancti." - the brothers MacManus

An interesting technique employed by Troy Duffy, sadly a never-to-be-heard-from-again-debut director, are the news segments interspersed throughout the film to transition as well as the 'Man on the street" interviews that run during the credits asking people what they think of the vigilante killers dubbed "The Boondock Saints." They seem to be fairly genuine reactions that one would encounter on a subject as controversial as vigilante-justice. As a writer and director, Duffy shows a wonderful ability to capture people - real ordinary people in situations not so ordinary. The three Boston cops assisting with Agent Smecker's investigation are men one would not be surprised to encounter working the police department. Det. Greenly, a young, cocky detective whose enthusiasm for the job greatly overshadows any actual ability he has and only seems to highlight his lack of observation and basic logic. Det. Dolly, an older detective whose lost interest in his work,is street smart but not book smart, and is equally intimidated by Smecker's intelligence as he is the man's homosexuality. And Det. Duffy, who could be so much more than he is, but he's grown comfortable being more than the other two with ease, so does not strive to do better. All easily identifiable people, but in no way stereotypical.

Agt. Smecker: [walking through the hotel room] How many bodies, Greenly?
Det. Greenly: Eight.
[Smecker gives him a look]
Det. Greenly: Ah, shit! I forgot about that one! Nine! Nine?
Agt. Smecker: While Greenly's out gettin' coffee, anybody else want anything?
Det. Greenly: Shit.

The relationship that the Brothers have with 'Rocco' (interestingly played by David Della Rocco) not only enables them to commit their crimes of justice, but also hinders them in the act. While Rocco, "The Funny Man", is known for his wonderful sense of humor and witty jokes, he is also often the butt of those jokes due to his uneducated,trusting and sometimes belligerent manner. He's 'just one of the guys,' only he's pushing 45 and they are barely 30. He has a junkie girlfriend that takes advantage of him, works for a mob boss that still has him running packages (traditionally a kids' job), and is mocked by kids young enough he could have fathered them. Seeing the route that Connor and Murphy have gone, he misunderstands the directive behind it and follows suit committing a crime of passion as he outlets his anger and hatred for being mistreated for so many years. He's the loser that everyone knows, and pities. And it is Murphy's pity for him that nearly gets he and Connor killed.

Rocco: Don't shoot, don't shoot. We're on the same side. Boss must've sent me in as backup. I'm Rocco! I'm the funny man. That ain't my name. [His name tag says Jaffar]
Murphy: Where's your gun? Where's your gun!?
Rocco: I'm the fuckin' funny man! It's right here. Right here. That ain't my real name.
Connor: What the fuck? Jeez! [to Murphy] It's a fuckin' six-shooter!
Murphy: there's nine bodies, genius! What the fuck were you gonna do, laugh the last three to death, funny man?

The villains of the story, while given their own individual quirks, are almost immaterial. They are painted as bad men, and no one need question that fact. The mob boss is racist and kills people. His henchman is played by Ron Jeremy...imagine what you will from there (and yes...there is a masturbation scene, though blissfully we see NOTHING). His cronies are large, violent men that would hurt an old man with Tourette's Syndrome and a stutter. They are not stereotypical in only the sense that they are shown in their less scary moments, but regardless they are unquestioningly Bad Men. Troy Duffy makes an interesting point in the film, whether deliberately or not, that while society on a whole can agree whole-heartedly upon what makes men evil...we cannot agree on what justice is and therefore, if what these men do is right, or if they to are evil - even if they do no harm to innocents. This is the very question that plagues our narrator, Agent Smecker....the question that unsettles his well kept persona...and drives him to seek God's guidance for the first time ever.

Are Connor and Murphy doing God's work, or merely justifying homicide? When does the Justice System fail to do justice? When do good men cease to be good: through acts of vengeance, or acts of indifference?

So I leave you with the opening of the film, and irony which is more than symbollic in itself.

[the brothers rise from their pews and boldly walk past the Monsignor as he preaches to kiss the feet of Christ on the cross]

Monsignor: [as he sees them] And I am reminded, on this holy day, of the sad story of Kitty Genovese. As you all may remember, a long time ago, almost thirty years ago, this poor soul cried out for help time and time again, but no person answered her calls. Though many saw, no one so much as called the police. They all just watched as Kitty was being stabbed to death in broad daylight. They watched as her assailant walked away. Now, we must all fear evil men. But there is another kind of evil which we must fear most, and that is the indifference of good men.

Connor: [as the brothers exit the church] I do believe the monsignor's finally got the point.

Murphy: Aye

...what's your heaven?

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Tue, 11 Sep 2007 21:56:00 +0000

I - I ain't got no mama now
I - I ain't got no mama now
She told me late last night, "You don't need no mama no how"

Mmm, mmm, black snake crawlin' in my room
Mmm, mmm, black snake crawlin' in my room
Some pretty mama better come and get this black snake soon

Ohh-oh, that must have been a bed bug, baby, a chinch can't bite that hard
Ohh-oh, that must have been a bed bug, honey, a chinch can't bite that hard
Ask my sugar for fifty cents, she said "Lemon, ain't a child in the yard"

Mama, that's all right, mama that's all right for you
Mama, that's all right, mama that's all right for you
Mama, that's all right, most seen all you do

Mmm, mmm, what's the matter now?
Mmm, mmm, honey what's the matter now?
Sugar, what's the matter, don't like no black snake no how

Mmm, mmm, wonder where my black snake gone?
Mmm, mmm, wonder where this black snake gone?
Black snake mama done run my darlin' home

Black Snake Moan, recorded by Blind Lemon Jefferson, 1926
_____________________________________________

If there aren't spoilers, then its not a review, its a summation. We got spoilers here. BIG ONES.

One of the most underrated films of this past Summer is without question, Black Snake Moan. The fault for this little diamond being overlooked lies in the advertising. Now, while the advertisers were smart enough to keep Justin Timberlake OUT of the previews, they made the mistake of trying to sell this film as "Pulp Fiction in the South", which is a quote. Let us look at what the preview sells us:

Samuel L. Jackson.
Christina Ricci nearly naked, with nymphomania, chained to a radiator, in all her bottled-blonde, under-nourished, bobble-headed glory.
Samuel L. Jackson.
Did I mention the nymphomania?
And Samuel L. Jackson.

All of the above is correct. It is all in the movie...yes, even Samuel L. Jackson. HOWEVER...we are left with the impression that this is a hip, black-comedy (black as in dark humour, not black as in Samuel L. Jackson), just writhing with a naked Christina Ricci having sex with everyone. This impression is only a "partial print", as the CSI folks might say.

What this film is truly falls more into the realm of redemption, salvation, the battling of personal demons, the definition of true love versus self love, and an understanding of what "The Blues" truly means. Black Snake Moan, is not a film about sex. It is not a story about religion or social stigmas, or breaking down any barriers, or any of the other ridiculous pseudo-literary tripe the media may try to silver-spoon feed you to get you to watch this movie. This movie, like all great movies, is more than a fucking tag-line.

Written and directed by Craig Brewer, the man who wrote and directed "Hustle & Flow", the story is a different kind of love story. It is prefaced by Eddie James "Son" House, Jr., one of the Old Boys of Blues in a film clip of him explaining the origin of the Blues.

Ain't but one kind of Blues
and that consists between male and female that's in love
Sometimes that kind of blues will make you even kill one another or do anything, that kind of love.
It goes here, on this side, that's where the blues started
It ain't on this side, it's over here...

When i say that this is a different kind of love story, I mean to say that, unlike most which focus on the emotions between two individuals...or sometimes a tangled web of a few people, this story is really one about the kinds of love that exist. Within it there is new love, expired love, friendship-love, family-love, God's love and what proves to be the most important in the tale, and in truth--life, is that of Self-love. Black Snake Moan focuses on three characters in particular, and more so on only two of those three. It shows their journey together to reach a place where they can truly express their love to each other, and feel the love from others by learning to love themselves.

Now this all sounds very fine and Hallmark-Special like, but I assure you, it is not.

Samuel L. Jackson plays Lazarus (or 'Laz' for short), a blues man who put aside his guitar when he'd found love and contentment no longer 'feeling them blues.' All of this changes when first his wife Rose leaves him for his younger brother, Lincoln. It is shortly after this that he meets-- or rather, finds Rae, played spiritedly by Christina Ricci. Now I must first point out that the film opens with the introduction of Rae and Ronnie (Justin Timberlake). The opening is a sex scene, close angles and very intimate. This then goes on to actually introduce us to Ronnie and Rae. The scene is awkward and difficult to judge for emotional range merely because the audience has no understanding of the characters yet and it is not written to be revealing. All that is shown to us is that Ronnie is going away in the armed services, buying into all the usual sales pitches they give young men: make money, go to school, etcetera; and he believes that by this he will be able to better provide for Rae. He doesn't seem entirely sure of himself however, as he promptly vomits in the toilet before leaving. In a sweet moment, which figures quite well into the story, he gives her a digital watch which matches his own, and both are set to beep at synchronous moments so that at least once every day they will be thinking of one another at the exact same moment. Rae's own insecurities of being left behind seem clingy and needy, but not out of the ordinary for a young woman in love....until the truck pulls away and she seems to react with a very physical sort of pain, which borders on a psychological fit.

Enter Samuel L. Jackson. He meets his now ex-wife at a restaurant in the hopes of begging her back, but she rather harshly humiliates him and leaves. He reacts in the only way he knows how and secludes himself at his farm with multiple bottles of liquor and his guitar. Through a series of events, which serves to build an easy-to-judge perception of Rae in the audience's eye, the girl ends up at the end of Lazarus' drive way drunk, drugged, raped and beaten wearing only a shirt and her panties. Now a black man, in the south, finds a drunk, drugged, raped and beaten unconscious white girl half naked in his drive way and he has two choices: 1) call the police and pray to GOD they believe that he didn't do it....or 2) try to help her on his own and at the least she'll be grateful and not call the police.

Lazarus is a good, god-fearing man who is sad, lonely, and feels that he needs to be redeemed for his life. In the short time that he has Rae, it becomes quickly evident that the girl is troubled. Deeply troubled. Between fevered sweats, nightmares that send her running out of the house screaming and delirious, and bizarre fits of moaning, shrieking and writhing on the floor, Lazarus is all but certain the girl is possessed. He believes that God has put her in his path that he should help her...cure her of her demons...and he aims to do that. When she awakes to the infamous chain which he hooked about her waist to tether her to the radiator- in all honesty, for her own good-- she of course fights his decision with spitfire.

LAZARUS
I ain't gonn' be moved on this. Right or wrong, you gonn' mind me. Like Jesus Christ said, "Imma suffa' you. IMMA SUFFA' YOU!" Get yo ass back in my house!

RAE
Or what? Or what? [spits in Lazarus' face]

She proves to him early on that brutality will not break her. She used to that. Lazarus, of course, doesn't really intend to hurt her- not in any way. His entire goal is to bring her salvation from her troubles so that he may find some form of peace or redemption. Through every trial they face, in any scenario that would so easily be perverted into some sexual fantasy for the hundreds of men in the audience scratching at their crotches each time Christina Ricci's bare breasts are flashed on screen (which is a few), Lazarus is never anything less than paternal. Even when bathing her in cold water and ice to lower her fever, he is delicate and tender, but never sexual in his manner. It is this unusual dynamic which often confuses Rae, as she has never felt to be anything but a sexual object to men. She finds her greatest frustrations when she TRIES to seduce him and Lazarus, not immune to her wiles, but in control of himself, refuses her and demands to know why she lets men treat her as she does. When she reaches out to him with salacious intent, his response is to walk away, and soon...like a dog on a leash, Rae begins to learn how to treat others and how to behave. In many ways, he treats her like a dog, so long as she insists on behaving like one. And when she begins to behave like a young woman, he buys her dresses.

At a moment's thought, this all seems like a rather slave-like method of treatment. Confined to a house, kept on a chain...but truthfully, its more parental love than she's ever been shown and- harsh as it may seem on the surface- it is effective and exactly what she needs. In a way, it is no different than the way that Helen Keller is educated by Annie Sullivan. When Annie first meets Helen, the girl is like an untrained animal. She doesn't speak with any articulation (and not because she cannot, but because no one has tried to teach her), she steals food from other's plates, she screams, she throws fits. it is all a very infantile way of expression. When babies need something (food, diaper change, affection) they cry. They have a very limited form of expression. For Rae, it is just such a case. We are introduce at one point to her mother- a very detached woman who has written off her daughter and speaks of her, and to her, in the same ridiculing manner as the teenagers in town. So we can see plainly that Rae received little or no love from the woman. Rae was an irritation, an inconvenience and she was treated as one. So this is her model of behavior for others, in particular women. She learns to be distant, detached and critical. Throughout the film we catch snatches of the fever dreams that Rae has and it becomes very clear that she has suffered some nature of sexual abuse. The events were very traumatic and, as this person was one of the father figures she had (as its insinuated that there was more than one), this leaves an impression upon her which then models her behavior and relationships with men. No one had ever tried to tell her differently...except for Ronnie.

Ronnie returns from the service less than three days from when he left. He is given a medical discharge due to severe anxiety- a condition he has suffered since high school and was only able to control when Rae was there. She knew how to calm him and ease him out of his panic attacks- so without her he was a mess. When he returns, however, Rae has been missing for two days and his best friend Gil isn't all that willing to help find her...three guesses who was responsible for the beating that left her on Lazarus's doorstep. Gil, being the asswipe that he very early in the film seems proud to be, does little to help his best friend and goes out of his way to humiliate him by revealing that he and Rae had been cuckolding Ronnie behind his back and painting descriptive pictures of the vents and the other men with which Rae had also been. All of this sends the high-strung, military trained, young Ronnie into a rage...and he owns a gun- because he's in the military and they're in the south. I mean...come on, people. Safer to piss off a center city Philly boy...only half of them have guns. White boy in the south? They give them one at birth. So Ronnie goes looking for Rae.

I am fairly against disclosing the resolutions to films, unless there is such a poignant point made that I simply must, for my own giddy pleasure, discuss it. In this case, I feel that the poignancy of all that takes place is really not for me to tell. The tidy way that all the loose ends are gathered is beautiful because they are gathered - not perfectly trimmed. No one character walks away from this story a perfected human being, their problems are not even truly resolved. Instead what is offered up is a small serving of hope and understanding. Hope for every person by seeing that even the most severely fucked up individuals in this story find a way to make life go on without undue suffering....but an understanding that, there will always be suffering. The ultimate lesson in the film, if it has one, is not that people can be fixed...but that people can be mended but never without help.

REVEREND R.L.
I'mma tell you something and it's just gonna be between you and me. I think folks carry on about heaven too much, like it's some kind of all you can eat buffet up in the clouds and folks just do as they told so they can eat what they want behind some pearly gates. There's sinning in my heart, there's evil in the world but when I got no one, I talk to God. I ask for strength, I ask for forgiveness, not peace at the end of my days when I got no more life to live or no more good to do but today, right now... What's your heaven?

Tá sé mo mhíle grá...(He is my thousand loves...)

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Mon, 03 Sep 2007 01:32:00 +0000

A Slipping-Down Life

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 19:34:00 +0000

A Slipping-Down Life *A few minor spoilers.

You think you're invisible, but I see you. You break, you bend, you disappear, and everybody here stares. Maybe you should just go farther. ~Drumstrings Casey

There is a very short list of people in the film industry whose taste I trust without question. To see their name attached to any project, no matter how absurd it may seem, I will still swallow my misgivings and commit to seeing it because I trust that writer, director, or actor almost implicitly. This is the rarest show of admiration I display, that if Faye Dunaway announced she were going to make a live-action version of...Herself the Elf....I'd watch it because the woman just fails to disappoint me.

It is this small Council of Esteemed Artists to which Guy Pearce was long ago elected. The moment I see his face or hear his name in attachment to any film project, I immediately salivate with interest- all lustful fantasies aside- his talent and discernment for quality stories and remarkable films is rivaled only by his own magnificent gifts displayed within them. This English born Australian actor captivates the screen. His ever slight build manages to emanate and completely encompass every millimeter of the screen, making even the longest silences fascinating. He is one of the rare actors that acts with more than just his face, and defines the often poorly tacked on compliment of having "presence." My most recent viewing of a little known film called "A Slipping-Down Life" is absolutely proof of this.

The true protagonist and Hero of the film, is actually a Heroine "Evie" portrayed magically by Lili Taylor. Taylor, whose own resume is spectacularly diverse and worth watching, depicts a sad, lonely woman who obsesses over a local musician when his spoken word poetry and lyrics touch her. The musician, played by Guy Pearce, is Drumstrings Casey, a Jim Morrison-esque moody young man who has his own social oddities to work out. Naturally when Evie carves his name in her forehead with broken glass...the two fall in love in an under-expressed and not well articulated fashion. (No, that isn't redundant...read it again.)

While other films would have their leads panting and grinding on one another like high-schoolers without a condom, writer-director Toni Kalem does a magnificent job of being restrained without lacking passion. As Lili Taylor's character falls on the side of silent and timid, Guy Pearce's portrayal of Drumstrings does more for the strong silent types. To a less observant viewer, his moody pout and penetrating gaze would seem as if Pearce is trying to will Taylor to take off her clothes, a more focused watcher would see the rise and fall of his chest increase as he becomes breathless so near to the icon of his affection. One may easily dismiss his lifted focus or closed eyes as a musician intent upon his music, but the slightest shift of his body language shows a level of self consciousness, a fear of rejection. My only disappointment is that toward the end of the film, you find that not enough time was devoted to allowing the audience to engage in Drumstrings' evolution as was given for Evie.

Understandably, Evie Decker is the main character - but I feel, in a way this is a fallacy created by the director. Having not read Anne Tyler's original novel, on which the film was based, I cannot be certain, and perhaps when I have I shall revise my next statement. I feel that the characters of Evie and Drumstrings are meant to evolve as a whole being. I felt that what you had in these two characters was the proper weighting on each side of every scale. Where he was bold, she was timid. Where he lusted, she was was patient. Where she was driven, he was fearful. Where she was committed, he needed guidance. I think that Drumstrings, not yet fully understanding this, tried to express his intuition in a line spoken early on when introduced to Evie in the hospital to see her scars and have his photo taken with her for publicity.

Its like meeting up with your own face somewhere, you know like in a dream?

Evie, of course, thinks that he means his name on her brow, and even Drumstrings seems convinced that it is this permanent scarring of her face that both draws and repels him. As he feels more fond of Evie, he pushes her away and declares:

You don't know what it is to play with those letters staring back at you!

It isn't the scarring that frightens him, it is his growing dependence upon Evie's presence and affection. He tells her she cannot come to his shows anymore, discussing her as if she were a mascot pet, and in retaliation she tells him that no one understands his "Speaking Out" but her, and that his music and lyrics were meaningless if she was not there to hear them. Prophetically...his next concert he is met with disapproval from the audience. they wish only for his music and reject, and mock his poetry. As a result the band is fired by the club. It is in this moment that Drumstrings understands that she is who he has been playing for, and goes to her, sleeping on the porch swing of her father's house when she tells him he cannot sleep upon the couch.

Frustratingly, Drumstrings mercurial shifts from strong silent and mysterious to pained, devoted and needful are not explained until long past when they should be. Or, more correctly, they are not properly explored once it is explained. The "Artist's mentality" as a blanketing cause only last so long before the character would seem trite and 2 dimensional, if not saved by Guy Pearce's meticulous performance, and his alluring vocals throughout the film. It is not until his parents are shown together at a celebratory dinner that a deeper understanding is allowed.

Drumstrings' father is well, and briefly, played by Marshall Bell. In one scene, Bell adeptly shows all one needs to see the life-long cycles of abuse within the family. An angry, alcoholic who shows a great level of resentment toward his wife for having once been of "importance" and toward his son for even attempting to be anything other than a miserable young man in a bad job and on route to being a miserable old man, like he is. Mrs. Casey, well characterized by Veronica Cartwright (also to see in the upcoming 'The Invasion'), is a beautiful woman who was once a singer of minor fame, who seemed to have willingly chosen her family over her career, but shows no lack of pride in her glory days as she touches that fame briefly once again through her immensely talented son.

In this one scene we are given a snapshot of a snow-globe life; that a boy, named Bertram Casey was inspired to sing about the spaces between the snow that settled before his life was over and over again shaken into emotional chaos. Through-out the film, Evie is quite different. Her mother passed away when she was born and her life with her father has always been calm; calm, steady and predictable. She needs to feel the snow shaken up around her.

The resolution, the finding of that balance between them is very powerful, but for me, far too unsatisfactorily brief. Perhaps it is the intent focus upon Evie and a sort of askance glimpse of Drumstrings' life that leaves me unsated. The trouble in defining this is that both Lil Taylor and Guy Pearce are wonderful in their portrayals and performances, and the story itself is beautifully subdued and whispers of the remarkable moments of unremarkable lives. Perhaps what nags at me is not what wasn't given, but rather what isn't offered...as you are left truly wanting to know these two beautiful people. We are left with hope for them, with a sense that everything will be fine, that they have found their balance and will have joy...but we want to be a part of it.

Or at least...I do.

But I promise, I won't cut anything into my forehead.

Theater of CrueltyNOH AZsacra

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 20:30:00 +0000

And now for something completely different....

While those words generally precede the off-center, seemingly random humor of the Monty Python troop, today they are introducing something far darker...and far less funny. I make it a habit on the few occasions that I take the time to wander through the swampy bog of art that is DeviantArt, to never accept that someone else's "favorite" or a "Daily Deviation" is the very best that artist has to offer. Not only is art so incredibly subjective, but unless the person whose opinion you are relying upon is an artist whose own work blows you away, but even then sometimes you can be left whispering "what the fuck were they thinking??" While I stand whole heartedly behind the idea of an international art community...I find that the level of education and appreciation for art on that site as a whole has all the depth of my toilet bowl.

A brief flip through the DD's early this afternoon introduced an image, which at the 1" x 2" thumbnail size looked promising as an (at the least) glimpse-worthy photograph, pointed me toward a photographer who I later learned is in fact, a large group of people: models, photographers and performing artists known as AZsacra. The spotlighted image was nice. An artistic nude of a woman straddling a piano bench with a lovely antique effect to age the sepia toned photo. It has all the elements of a glamour image: naked woman, flowers, pearls, a foppish hat, romantic piano and sheet music and a soft focus.

BORING.

It's exactly the kind of image that would make a man tuck tail and RUN if he saw it on his girlfriend's wall...right next to her stuffed animal collection and Unicorn statues.

This is, however, a prime example of why I take the time to look through an artist's gallery and NEVER take the awarding person's opinion that this is the best an artist has done. Upon opening the gallery of zw6 I was astounded. That fuzzy, wine and roses ass shot is so misrepresentative of the artist's work it's like posting a billboard with a photo of the Eiffel tower, the words Bienveniue à Paris! just outside Paris, TEXAS. The gallery is flooded with what can be most aptly described as "Fetish" photography - but not the glossy girls tied up in latex and gas-masks kind of fetish....I mean the sexual representation of PAIN. The glorification of the intangible darkness of the human soul.

'Angel of Death' by LOKI

But the art goes even deeper than that. It isn't merely images of naked women licking the boots of a man in an executioner's mask, or shots of a feral man carving on himself with knives, some of these images manage to tap into something even darker. Particularly, for me, the images below.(*) While they are not represented as being part of an exclusive series, they stand apart from the others as something wholly different. The collection they belong to is called "The Doctrine and Meta-Concepts: AZsacra ZARATHUSTRA." The photographer is LOKI. I adamantly recommend viewing these images in larger format in the gallery...the girl's eyes are chilling.

Left to Right:

'Silence of Execution'

'Will For Power'

'Maximum Truth For Game'

The group is known as AZsacra, but oftens represents itself as Theater of Cruelty NOH AZsacra. The AZsacra stands for Sacral Arizona...beyond this, I cannot explain what it means. Theater of Cruelty is a reference to Antonin Artaud, a french playwright, poet, philosopher actor and director. Artaud created the Theater of Cruelty, professing that theater should be as realistic as possible and affect the audience as wholly as possible. Anne Rice's Theatre of Vampires in 'Interview with a Vampire" is more or less a demonstration of the same concept. His use of the term 'Cruelty' was not to singularly mean torture or sadism, but rather in a four-fold approach.

Firstly, it is employed metaphorically to describe the essence of human existence.

Secondly it is to mean discipline. Artaud aimed to reject form and incite chaos, but similar to an army inciting war- they must be regimented in their approach.

Thirdly, the use of the term was ‘cruelty as theatrical presentation’. Artaud's aim was to "hurl the spectator into the centre of the action, forcing them to engage with the performance on an instinctive level. For Artaud, this was a cruel, yet necessary act upon the spectator designed to shock them out of their complacency." (wikipedia)

Finally, it is to represent his philosophy that reality is merely a consensus of accepted perceptions; meaning imagination, dreams, and delusions are no less real than the 'outside world' when shared with a theatre of people. They are made real by the audiences participation in the acceptance of their reality.

AZsacra has latched onto his theories and philosophies and branched into realms of ritual torture, sadism, and even "playing at death." But as evidence by their milder images shown here, they embrace the romantic and spiritual, but only in that they too are wrought with underlying suffering. Artaud saw suffering as essential to existence, and thus rejected all utopias as inevitable dystopia.

Most of the sites that The Theater of Cruelty AZsacra have are in Russian, or have only the same repeating description of their troupe in English (quoted below):

Theater of CrueltyNOH was found in 2005 by a well-known esoteric philosopher and meta-extremal AZsacra / also known as Master of Death, Emperor of Suicide/. Theater of CrueltyNOH is aesthetical and philosophical synthesis of a French “Theater of Cruelty” of Antonin Artaud, medieval Japan ritual and magic theater NOH and Russian Magnetize Wordmatograph of AZsacra.

All Photos by LOKI
Left to Right:

[title unknown]

'Reunion'

'Shout'

Here is a comprehensive list of the sites that their work can be found on. Most are just galleries that all feature the same work. The only real benefit to the DeviantArt sites is that there is some awkwardly translated poetry and essays in the journals and most of the photographs list both the book or CD series that it is from and the photographer that took it. Unfortunately I could not get any of the translation sites to translate their main page into English. If someone does...please, post the link or send it to me.

MAIN SITE: http://www.azsacra-zarathustra.ru/

AMERICA
zw6.deviantart.com
assakra.deviantart.com

www.pbase.com
www.photopoints.com
www.yessy.com
www.photosight.us
www.fanartreview.com
www.myartspace.com
www.artwanted.com
www.spartandog.com
www.photoblink.com
www.usefilm.com
www.photosig.com
www.absolutearts.com

GERMANY
www.fotocommunity.com
en.artring.net

ENGLAND
www.fotopic.net
globalphotosite.co.uk

JAPAN
www.fotologue.jp
photography-unlimited.jp
www.cyberwit.net

SOUTH AMERICA
www.voodoochilli.net
www.fotolog.com

CANADA
derekaudette.ottawaarts.com

And to illustrate the diversity of images:

'In Expectation of Chaos' by PYATININ

If nothing else, I find AZsacra fascinating in that they celebrate an aspect of life that most of us shun. What is most appreciated by me, however, is that they are genuine in their respect for it. These are not people dressing up to go to fetish clubs or painting themselves "goth" and droning vapidly on about death and suicide. These are some dark, scary cats to be sure. Maybe that's a bad thing, to delve so deeply into the aspects of suffering, pain and death. I have a healthy respect for them, however, because they do not put on pretenses. Its a little more than just a show for them...and that's more than I can say for 75% of the Suzie Homemakers and Johnny Goths out there.

_________________________
*I deliberately didn't post images too extreme since my blog is public and there are no "mature filters" for any surfing kiddies...I want to know who I'm corrupting. Call me sentimental.

Expecto Patronum

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Thu, 12 Jul 2007 23:03:00 +0000

I am not going to lie. I've only read the first chapter of the first book of the ENTIRE series. But that doesn't make me any less of a fan...maybe a less obnoxious one, however. (Kidding Becky.) I will say this much with absolute seriousness: I wish I'd known harry Potter when I was fourteen.

Before you go twisting that into some pedophilial-sexual accusation, understand that I mean the story and the character - not Daniel Radcliffe. Although, I amend that statement immediately to say that I did not, in fact, know many boys like him when I was fourteen and probably would have been shy of the cute lad if I had. What I DO mean by that statement is that I feel I suffered a sever lack of heroes as a child. Realistic heroes, with whom I could readily identify. The idea of feeling different only takes one so far with the X-men as they were grown ups with blue skin that could fly. And the only other fictional character I can recall having looked up to at some point in my teenage years was Ellen Ripley, from Aliens...and that's a whole psychiatric session right there.

Harry Potter and his friends and enemies at Hogwarts School of Wizardry offers up a hero that a fourteen year old can understand. He's geeky, he's awkward, he's cooler than he thinks he is, and he doesn't always get it right. There is an element of realism in that simple fact alone that is so strong, it is in itself, one of his greatest appeals.

There is no denying that the magic and wizardry is exciting and even I've perused the online catalogs of the now abundant selections of magic wands to find my own. But the greatest battles that Harry fights are not with magic, and that is what makes him a hero. Although the 10 o'clock news has desensitized many of us with stories of children being beaten to death, smothered, buried alive and dumped in trash bins, one must take a moment and truly think about the environment that the character Harry is returned to when he is not in school. He lives with an aunt and uncle who systematically tell the boy how worthless he is, treat him as a house servant, and at the beginning of the series, even make him sleep beneath the stairs in a closet. These acts are not as terrible as ritualistic beatings, but they are cruel and without cause. So to see Harry learning that he is a worthwhile person, to see him empathize with Dobbie the house-elf, and to finally stand up for himself...these are much greater and more important acts than learning a stun spell with his wand. The fantastic thing about this series is that the films, with all their flash and spectacle, still manage to make this point.

I have not read the book series, but I DO intend to buy them for my niece. Every damn one of them. The movies too. Because I think that if I'd had a hero like Harry Potter that some things would have been different for me. It isn't silly to think that a fictional character can make a large impact on someone's life, or on their self-image. It can be immensely influencing for children who were like me, ones that were truly afraid of others...that hid themselves in the closet under the stairs; having someone in that fantasy world that they retreat to be courageous enough to show that the evils of neglect, ridicule, and hatred can be overcome no matter what level they surface at be it schoolyard enemies, unfit parents or vicious serial killers. Harry has faced them all, and he's learned from it- but he doesn't know everything. Like us, he is hurt, angry and afraid. He shows us that looking to friends for help is important. Having faith in yourself is important. Learning and understanding the power of love and friendship is invaluable.

Harry Potter: ....I just feel so angry, all the time. And what if after everything I’ve been through, something’s gone wrong inside me. What if I’m becoming bad.
Sirius Black: I want you to listen to me very carefully Harry. You’re not a bad person. You’re a very good person, who bad things have happened to. You understand?
[Harry nods his head]
Sirius Black: Besides, the world isn't split into good people and death eaters. We have all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the power we chose to act on. That’s who we really are.

I remember laying in bed at night and fantasizing that I was a Jedi Warrioress- better than Luke (because a girl Jedi would be)...or putting myself into the Wolfrider pack as their elven leader....or slaying the dragon in the dungeons of Golrath....but in the end, these fantasies faded because there was nothing- no tentative thread- connecting them to reality. Those heroes could only exist in their world. There is no room for them here.

Harry Potter, however, he is the boy that sits next to you in history class. He's the boy that is sitting alone on the bench when everyone else goes on the field trip. He's the boy that seems like he can't get anything right...yet emanates an aura of magic and power that we are drawn to but don't understand. And I was Harry Potter. I am Harry Potter. And so are you.

Lots of Suffering, Little Substance

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Sat, 07 Jul 2007 15:17:00 +0000

Pontius Pilate: What is truth, Claudia? Do you hear it, recognize it when it is spoken?
Claudia Procles: Yes, I do. Don't you?
Pontius Pilate: How? Can you tell me?
Claudia Procles: If you will not hear the truth, no one can tell you.

I have in my lifetime, already born witness to two films which caused greater controversy before they even made it to the can, than Oliver Stone could ever hope to stir over the course of his entire career. Both films focused on the life of a Galilean from Nazareth; a man who is to some a prophet but to a great deal of people is the flesh incarnation of their living God. They call him Christ, Messiah, The Son. He is Jesus.

The first film, The Last Temptation of Christ, was released in 1988. Directed by Martin Scorsese and featuring a blond haired, blue-eyed Willem Dafoe as Jesus, the film was based upon a fantastic book of the same name by Nikos Kazantzakis. The book, which is a very moving treatise of the life of Jesus from his perspective is still regularly banned due to the Cretan author's humanizing portrayal of the man. Though it does not call into question or deny the widely consentient Divinity of Jesus, the treatment of him in such a human manner, showing him no less subject to the wants of the flesh and tempted toward sin is an uncomfortable distance from the perception of his unhindered holiness that many cling to.

Although I am not a Christian now, I was raised in this religion, and even now with my atheist beliefs I hold a great deal of respect for the man who was Jesus. I found that Kazantzakis' and Scorcese's portrayals of him actually elevated my respect merely by showing a deeper struggle to be righteous, one far more identifiable and familiar. The idea that Jesus had no difficulty leading a holy life rid of sin, as many believe, for me lessens the power of his ultimate sacrifice of his death.

While this film's main points of contention spurred outrage at the sight of a fully naked Jesus, again far too human an image, the indications of a sexual relationship between he and Mary Magdalene preceded the controversial claims of Dan Brown's DaVinci Code (2003). Kazantzakis' book came out in 1951, a full 52 years prior to the scandalous claim that Jesus and Mary wed and had children, as Brown's book indicated.

When the film was released I was only twelve years old, and forbidden to see it as it was rated-R; a ranking my mother disapproved. I read the book years later when I was in my late twenties and then saw the film. Not one known for my mild-mannered beliefs, I was not surprisingly unaffected finding nothing offensive in either context. So when Mel Gibson announced the filming of The Passion (Later changed to The Passion of the Christ), I merely shrugged and sighed, rolled my eyes and muttered 'here we go again.'

I was intrigued by all of the controversy and protests, mostly because they outrage was once again coming from people who had not seen the film - and refused to - informed people to be sure. After a while, and by the time the film was finally released, I was so tired of hearing about it, I didn't WANT to see it anymore. It did not help that at the time of its release I was living with Elliot in a borrowed room at his parents home. His Mother regularly points out her disapproval of my Buddhist beliefs, or more accurately- my lack of Christian ones. Elliot and were often solicited to attend church, which we had no interest in, and which only seemed to upset her further. So nearly every Sunday, she came home ranting over the outrage that was The Passion. Her opinion suddenly shifted 360 degrees when their church was GIVEN free tickets to the film. Suddenly their opinion was more favorable. I will point out, however, that while she currently owns the film (the copy that I just now viewed myself) she has - to this day - NEVER seen the movie.

Only recently, after a discussion with my father over Mel Gibson's directorial career and talents, did I decide that I should- for the sake of being able to say I did indeed see it- sit and watch this allegedly painfully difficult to watch portrayal of Jesus' last days. I had been repeatedly warned about its overwhelming emotional weight and the excessively bloody violence. So being the pioneer of self-punishment that I am...I watched it during a brief hiccup in my stabilizer meds...meaning, I wasn't on them. I fully prepared with a box of tissues, kept the remote close to pause or stop as needed. I found the 127min film to be overwhelmingly.....disappointing.

I had much the same reaction to seeing Silence of the Lambs a full 6 years after it came out. The controversy, publicity and continual hype built around the film a temple of ruin. It placed it on an impossibly high pedestal that suddenly seemed absurd once I settled in to appreciate the heralded film. My first viewing of the classic tale of Clarice and Hannibal left me feeling no less cheated than a virgin on her wedding night with Johnny Jackhammer. I, of course, watched the film again and have a far greater appreciation for it now that my mind has been swept clean of its preconceived notion of greatness. And just like Silence of the Lambs, The Passion of the Christ IS a great film...but not for the reasons that most claim.

Jim Caviezel, undoubtedly, offers a fine performance as Jesus. My only complaint is that Gibson does not offer up a meatier character to truly win the "inspired performance" title denoted to Caviezel. Between the extremely graphic scourging and crucification scenes, only the vaguest snippets of the inspiring moments that made this man so great are even offered for appreciation. I find this to be a major downfall for the film because it makes two assumptions, the first being that the audience already KNOWS who Jesus of Nazareth is. The second, and truly more irresponsible of the two assumptions, is that the audience has the same passionate adoration for Jesus that the writer and director Mel Gibson has. While I do not, in any way disparage his faith and adulation, I must point out that in doing this he alienates a great number of viewers- those who know nothing of Jesus or have no basic admiration to begin with. It is an ineffectual testimony of Christ from a religious stand point, and it is a major Achilles' Heel in the strength of the storytelling.

The focus of the tale was very much on the undue suffering of Jesus before his final hour. The film opens with no credits or title, only the hunched weeping figure of Jesus praying upward at the moon as if it were the face of God. His words are not translated from the Aramaic which he speaks, leaving the audience aware only of a physically gripping fear in the man. He addresses his apostles, waking them, and the subtitles begin as he warns them that the hour of his betrayal is at hand. He then returns to the woods to pray further at which point an androgynous corpse-like apparition of Satan appears to taunt and plague him. The scene shifts to Judas being paid his silver, seeming far more reluctant in his act than is usually portrayed, then returns to show the soldiers seizing Jesus. It is at this point that one of the only two miracles shown in the film is depicted in which Jesus heals the severed ear of one of the soldiers; an ear severed by the apostle Peter. The only book in which I recall reference to this minor miracle is in St. Luke, a passing reference summed in less than three verses. (Please correct me if I am mistaken). The other miracle is that of the 'floating cross' during the crucifixion, an event I have only ever heard the Catholics profess and have yet to see scriptural evidence of. Hints anyone?

While this scene strives to leave a deep impact of Jesus' compassion for even those who would deliver him to his death, it is filmed with a very dream-like quality which left me thinking more of a toned-down version of the cinematic stylings of 300, than the surreal and dramatic events that I think Gibson was aiming to portray. I was rather impressed with Caviezel's delivery of the line: "You would betray the Son of Man...with a kiss?"

The line, direct from scripture, is most often delivered with great sadness and a sense of betrayal- all of which is perfectly acceptable on the scope of human emotion, but Caviezel manages to add an undertone of anger and sarcasm that is so feather light that it is almost easy to miss. Gibson attempts to build some level of sympathy for Judas' betrayal and consequent suicide through a series of out-of-place demonic manifestations. In a film that is otherwise very gritty and focused upon realism, the demon faces upon the children and a snarling beast of darkness, stand out starkly as contrived. While the apparition of Satan moves about through the crowds and on the outer edges of the scenes in a silent strut with a surreal stare, the figure calls to mind Death from Ingmar Bergman's Seventh Seal. The character seems more symbolic than actually present, and this treatment is only further affected by an unexplained vision of Satan holding what appears to be a child but is revealed to be a creepy, fat little old man. while their posturing is reminiscent of the classic "Madonna and Child", its ultimate meaning is quite unclear and I fear may have more personal significance to Gibson than can be conveyed through the film. (Again, correct me if I am mistaken.)

Mel Gibson's personal beliefs, both religious and racial, were greatly called into question during the making and release of this film. He is, to this day, accused of having extremely Anti-Semitic views. The film makes a strong point that it was the Pharisees who ultimately condemned and martyred Jesus, that even the localized government representatives of Rome and King Herod of Galilee wanted no part in the crucifixion; portraying a very literal 'washing of the hands' by Pontius Pilate. the film does seem to ignore that according to more than one book of the bible, it was Pilate who in fact wrote the infamous plaque that was hung upon the cross, mockingly labeling Jesus as 'King of the Jews.' Though factually, Pontius Pilate wanted no part in the activity of killing Jesus, he could have released him after the scourging but determined that the pacifist followers of Jesus were less likely to cause bloodshed than the blood-thirsty Pharisees, who were in essence the self appointed government of the Jews at the time.

Though I felt that the portrayal of Pilate, and Claudia Procles were equally over-sympathetic and cowardly, I DO feel that Gibson included a fair mixture of sympathizers and aggressors on both the Roman and the Jewish sides. He was not without judgment, from what I could see, that it was ALL who were culpable for the sacrifice; some more so in certain ways than others. when all checks and balances are weighed, however, it seemed fairly even as to responsibility.

Benedict Fitzgerald, the co-writer of the script with Gibson, has a history of scribing heavy material. With the exception of Zelda, his 1993 tele-biography of F. Scott Fitzgerald (relation unknown), Benedict's screen work has all been adaptation . Along with Moby Dick, In Cold Blood, and Heart of Darkness, Benedict was perhaps best known for the John Houston film Wise Blood. Given that these films (and novels) all focus heavily on character and the internal struggles of man, I am greatly disappointed in the lack of INNER TURMOIL presented in The Passion of the Christ. His physical pains are more than well presented. Caviezel, in fact, left this film with a 14 inch scar on his back from an accidental contact during the whipping scenes as well as having his shoulder separated by the weight of the cross falling on him AND having been struck by lightening TWICE during the filming of the sermon on the Mount. It almost makes one wonder if there was not a divine influence trying to tell them something.

Aside from an eerie proposition as to the natural divinity of women throughout the film, and the continually spacey and inspiring stare of Mother Mary, the films characters- Jesus especially- actually seem to lack a great deal of personality. John speaks only once, and that is to say "Mother." Mary Magdalene's role is limited to weeping. Peter is portrayed as a violent and later an unforgivably cowardly man. Simon shows more depth of character in his small role than was allowed for many of the others; first being opposed to bearing the cross then later giving Jesus heart felt encouragement and sympathy. While I understand the necessity of the violence- as obviously fromt he title it is proclaimed that is what the film is about- I do not feel that such a watery, paper-doll portrayal of the characters was necessary. In the end, it was this very shallow insight into the people involved which let me down.

Cinematically the film is beautiful. The use of the music and sound effects, coupled with the visual effects of slow motion tend to make it more visual poetry than prosaic. This, is not unappealing unto itself, save to continually remind us that this is a film built upon and proclaiming the Divinity of the man and the event. For those who do not believe, it can be accepted as merely a beautiful and sad tale infused with surrealism and symbolism.

I am glad that I watched the film, and I would not shy from seeing it again- especially since the coding for the subtitles was rather distorted making some lines hard for me to read- but I cannot say that this is one of Mel Gibson's better films. This film, while captivating, failed to move me on an emotional level save for one scene in which the two Marys mop up Jesus' blood from the scourging on hand and knee; Magdalene using her own head scarf to do so. A reputed weeper at films, this film, sadly, failed to dampen my eyes. I do feel that I was much more moved by Braveheart and Apocalypto, two films which seemed to strive harder to paint a full picture of their hero rather than just a surface level halo of greatness through sacrifice. Were all names changed and this story presented without the cultural history and knowledge of the man Jesus, I think most audiences would be left wondering why we should care so deeply for this man's suffering, outside of basic humanity.

Anti-who.the.what.now?

noreply@blogger.com (Kahl) — Sat, 30 Jun 2007 15:09:00 +0000

"Don't tell me what you're against. Tell me what
you're FOR." ~Unknown

Although three out of my (sometimes) four readers are American, I feel like preaching to the choir anyway, simply so I can feel like my voice is in some way being heard. This isn't important as some form of ego-stroking, but rather my way of putting an individual's voice out where the world can hear it, because truthfully here in America I can only do so much and talking is like shouting at a wall.

Many news sites and blogs (such as bbc.com) have been tackling the newly coined term "Anti-Americanism." The meaning is not as universally understood as one would think. If you were to plug the name of any other national entity into it people would scratch their heads and utter inarticulate vowels. To some it is a cry against the world perception of America as a symbol, to others- American culture, but usually and more correctly, I feel, it is a charge against US Foreign Policy. Even more correctly: The Bush Administration's handling of Foreign Policy. So it can be universally agreed that very few approve of the Bush Administration, not surprisingly, us included.

The "beauty of our government" is that it represents the will of the people. America, though, has gotten fairly ugly lately. The will of the people is really, the will of the 'representatives.' In many ways, it is like asking a good friend in school to go tell the exchange student you think they're pretty, only your 'friend' goes over and purposefully tells them that you think they're ugly. They get angry and next thing you know you are in a popularity war with the foreign kid. Because WE chose this representative, we now have to suffer with what actions they've taken. This extremely simplified metaphor falls short here: in school you could have gone over and smootheed things out by explaining that your friend lied, and made nice. When the two groups at war are governmental entities, things are a bit more complicated.

I'm not going to spout any theories about non-existent elections. I don't think its necessary because even when a President and Congress are elected, from that point until the end of their term the citizens only have so much that they can do to change things. Our hands aren't tied; there are methods, but it is a lot like sitting on your hands until they go numb and then trying to play a piano. You might manage Chopsticks, but what we need is Rachmaninov's 3rd concerto.

Quick study:

The way our system works, to remove a person from office, once elected, there are only a handful of options. First, wait them out then don't re-elect them. Obvious, but time consuming, and they are free to wreak havoc in the meantime. Second, Impeach them. This has only been done twice and they have to do something illegal first. Andrew Johnson was impeached but congress kept him in office. Clinton didn't do anything bad enough to be ousted from his seat. Third, a coup...which is generally only accomplished with military backing and since this nation's military is more than well-funded by the government, they don't have too many complaints. The few that do have "retired."

Many may entertain ideas of Americans "storming the castle" but this is unrealistic for more than one reason. The first obviously being, after the protests of Vietnam, the National Guard is well equipped and able to hold off roudy nay-sayers. The second being- fundamentally our governmental process is sound. Sure there are a few problems, as there are with any governmental processes, but generally speaking, we've got a pretty good one. To suddenly throw are arms to the air and go marching in like a 17th Century mob, intent to ride them out on rails, truthfully goes against the very constitution that we hold up as gold.

Perhaps this sounds absurd to many, this idea that the individuals, the citizens feel as subjugated by this administration and as outraged as much of the rest of the world. If you consider, however, that an act of revolt institutes a momentary state of anarchy, it would be difficult for the nation to reclaim a stable government. Once a precedent of that kind has been set, there is a lingering threat that it can again. Many times- it does. If you look throughout European history, Middle Eastern History, African History-- oh gee, well GLOBAL HISTORY, this is evident. Most notable is the Roman Empire to which so many compare the US Government.

It is the fundamental theory of all the more recent American law...that the average citizen is half-witted, and hence not to be trusted to either his own devices or his own thoughts.
~H.L. Mencken (1880-1956)

This is not to say there has been no public outcry for impeachment. I assure you there has. Again this is where voicing displeasure is thwarted, as it is in the hands of Congress to call for an impeachment. Although it seems that nearly everyone agrees that many illegal actions have been taken, those with the power within the system to call them out on it, seem unwilling. In spite of the general publics' joy that we voted in a Democratic majority in Congress, that same congress has so far proved to be ineffectual. The majority, too, if you note, is very slight meaning the country seems split nearly 50/50 differing in opinions on how things should be handled. But these men and women were not elected for their foreign policy views alone. Often it is necessary to chose s/he that represents most of what you agree with, and compromise on a few things you don't. This is the nature of the beast.

It is also important to remind Americans and the rest of the world alike, that while Congress and the president were elected by the people- this is a minor falacy. They were elected by those who chose to vote. There are a great number of those who utter outrage, but chose not to or were unable in some way to participate in the voting process. It is a fault in our Democratic Republic which is simply: mankind. Because the very nature of our system is to rely upon the individual's voice, if the individual is not included- be it by choice or otherwise- then the election is therefore skewed and the system is already flawed as it is no longer representative of ALL its people, rather only a selected group. The fundamental right of Freedom, however, gives those people the right not to participate, and therefore also the right to later voice complaint. My point being that just because the congress and president were elected, it was not necessarily by a TRUE majority of the American people.

Without question, an organized and motivated minority can easily overcome a disorganized and unmotivated majority.

Democracy is not something you believe in or a place to hang your hat, but it's something you do. You participate. If you stop doing it, democracy crumbles.
~Abbie Hoffman

While those around the world are startled to find that many Americans do not fit the demonized characture that the actions of our government has so firmly rooted in their minds, I want to also remind them that although the ratio of good things to bad that this nation extends beyond its borders has shifted some, there are still many good things that the US does. The extended limbs of this nation will make mistakes and not always do what is right in the global eye, but other nations are not without faults of their own. Their slates are not pure or without mistake. To those who wag their finger, look to your own governments and think back to the last time you truly were heard, or do you have to give as much trust to your leaders that they shall make wise choices? Someone else will soon take the seat to represent our nation. It is only just to have faith that the American people will be motivated enough to elect a wiser person.

Until then let our actions be not to point fingers...someone might lose and eye.