Disappear Here

Irate and Crabby?

2007-09-22T15:25:00.000-07:00

I desperately wanted to like Ira and Abby. Pitched as a follow-up to the fluffy, yet entertaining Kissing Jessica Stein, Ira and Abby had all the signs of being a mindlessly fun film that would lighten my day. When I decided to see the paradoxically described "divorce comedy," I figured it would inspire a quick, enthusiastic review for this blog. At worst, I figured I would have to include some caveats on my approval (i.e. it's still a "chick flick", it's sometimes formulaic, et cetera). Yet weeks after seeing the movie, I am still at a loss for words. That fact alone should be some indication of my mixed feelings about the film. On the one hand, writer-actress Jennifer Westfeldt can have an inviting, if quirky, presence and her comedic dialogue is regularly sharp and witty. Still, I can't fight the feeling that Ira and Abby is too trite and ultimately too depressing to be anything other than mediocre.

Ira and Abby explores one couple's forays into marriage, love, jealousy, and psychoanalysis. As you can guess, the film centers on the eponymous protagonists—Ira, the neurotic product of psychoanalytic parents; and Abby, a free spirit who has never set foot inside a shrink's office. Their story begins when Ira and Abby meet serendipitously in a New York gym. Hours later, they decide to get hitched. That's right, only hours later, they decide to get married.

Now, maybe I'm just a cynic. Maybe I'm not all that spontaneous (admittedly true). Regardless, the concept is a bit hard to swallow. Mostly, it seems unrealistic because Ira and Abby's initial interactions are so awkward and bizarre. Unlike other "love at first sight" films, like Before Sunrise, where the two immediately hit it off and ponder the depths of their souls within a short time frame, Ira and Abby decide to make a go of it after abrupt, off-kilter statements and interactions. Take this example. You tell me whether or not this is weird. During one of their first encounters, Abby asks Ira if she can see his stomach. After Ira begrudgingly lifts his shirt, Abby proceeds to nuzzle her head into his belly. Now, trust me when I say that Abby's actions in this scene don't play as "cute", they play as crazy (luckily her eccentricities become less bizarre and more endearing as the film progresses).

But, fine. We've gotten over how impetuously the characters have behaved. They got married quickly and under some weird circumstances. It may seem a bit sudden and unrealistic, but hey, some people are actually uninhibited enough to follow a similar trajectory (ahem, Danny Bonaduce). We'll suspend our disbelief. So we keep watching. The two end up falling in love and the audience gets to witness the bliss for awhile. Then, Ira finds out Abby has been married twice before and things takes a turn for the worse. Jealousy consumes their relationship. To tops things off, Ira's mother and Abby's father begin an extramarital affair of their own.

Suffice it to say, a significant portion of the film concerns relationships in disrepair. Though the conflicts are not on par with the virulence exhibited in other divorce/split up comedies like War of the Roses or The Break-Up, Ira and Abby does still grapple with the central problem that these movies face. How do you take the edge off of something as inherently unpleasant and disheartening as a break-up? The answer is, with tremendous difficulty. In Ira and Abby, for instance, the majority of the comedic punchlines involve cynical views on marriage. Even though the humor derives from the outlandish nature of the cynicism, the pervading pessimism can still leave a bad taste in your mouth.

Aside from these faults, the film is also riddled with platitudes and trite commentary. The generalized discussions about marriage are unoriginal and pessimistic. The commentary on today's overreliance on psychiatry feels tired and contrived. Fortunately, for all the lack of novelty in these discussions, at least the characters themselves are novel. Westfeldt has managed to create unique, dynamic characters that intrigue the viewer. Truth be told, I was rooting for Ira and Abby. Maybe not when the initial proposal scene happened, but I was definitely in their corner for the rest of the film. More than that, I can say I was actually entertained by the film, even if it did seem weirdly depressing to me (in a very subtle, aftertaste sort of way). At the end of the day, Ira and Abby isn't a "bad" movie. It isn't horrible. Was it good? I'm not sure. So for now I'm torn. Maybe in two years I'll have a definitive statement on the matter. Just don't quote me on that.

Get Your Geek On

2007-09-09T17:55:00.000-07:00

It's a world rampant with megalomania, shady characters, general connivery and (gasp) celebrity. No, not Hollywood. Or Vegas. Surprisingly, it's the microcosm of competitive video gaming—a curious, insular community that has been captured by the wildly entertaining documentary, The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters. In the film, the celebrities of the gaming world prove they can be equally as self-involved as other famous figures, only instead of flaunting classic features and emaciated physiques, these revered icons sport mullets and speak in Star Wars analogies.

Now, I'm not a self-professed gamer. I may have played my share of "Goldeneye" shoot-em-ups and was, admittedly, engrossed by calculator games in high school (lo-fi bowling, anyone?). But that hardly qualifies. Fortunately, you don't need to play video games, you don't need to like video games, hell, you don't even need to understand video games in order to love The King of Kong. In fact, it's entirely possible that we non-gamers may enjoy the film on a much more visceral level than the quarter-pumping arcade-aholics. I say this because much of the pleasure and comedy of the film derives from the absurd contrast between the gaming microcosm and the macrocosmic world at large. The "outside looking in" perspective effectively frames the narrative.

But there's another reason why joystick dexterity isn't a prerequisite for loving this film. The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters isn't just about gaming. It's about the people immersed in the gaming competition. The film follows two central subjects—Billy Mitchell, the defending Donkey Kong champion, and Steve Wiebe, the high-scoring challenger hoping to trounce Mitchell's long-held record. Though they may be united by mutual goals of earning acclaim in Donkey Kong, the two competitors could not be more different. Where Mitchell is an underhanded narcissist obsessed with his own dominance, Wiebe is a kind-hearted, devoted family man who just can't catch a break. Granted, the film has been carefully constructed to cast Mitchell and Wiebe in their archetypal villain-hero roles. I'm sure there's unseen footage of Mitchell being the nice guy. But regardless, it makes for a good story.

As you can imagine, these personality profiles provide a significant majority of the film's entertainment value. Some of the most hilarious (and, perhaps tragic) moments of the film concern Mitchell's interminable delusions of grandeur. If you didn't know better, Mitchell might convince you that he is one of the most potent figures in America (or maybe even in the world). By contrast, some of the most poignant moments of the film concern Wiebe's long fought efforts to gain recognition, the resilience he exhibits, and his emotional candor. But Mitchell and Wiebe are not the only sources of entertainment. Other video-gaming "characters" such as the referee, Walter Day; the Donkey Kong enthusiast, Brian Kuh; and the over-the-top "Mr. Awesome" bring the film to a new level of hilarity.

The true accolades, however, should go to Seth Gordon, the filmmaker behind The King of Kong. Gordon has expertly crafted a non-fiction narrative that is so enthralling and so well constructed it begs viewers to run back for another showing. The pacing never lags (thanks to the economical editing), the story structure flows well, and the visual plane never gets stale, since Gordon intersplices the standard interview shots with images and other footage. As hard as I try, I cannot find anything wrong with this movie, and frankly, I don't want to. When the movie ended, I felt completely satiated. And judging by all of the applause in the crowd, so did my fellow filmgoers. So what I recommend to you, is embrace your inner geek. Become one with the yoda inside you. I officially and wholeheartedly endorse this film and urge everyone to do the same. Now turn around while I push up my glasses and adjust my pocket protector.

Deux Jours, Deux Heures

2007-08-26T19:04:00.000-07:00

Time to bust out the berets and the croissants. Time to don striped shirts and traverse the Seine on a cloud of your own arrogant nationalism. Time to master all those guttural sounds...that's right, like you're stockpiling all of the mucus in the back of your throat and harvesting it. Are you ready to make a run for France and become a self-loathing American?

If so, I recommend commencing your journey into ex-patriotism with a film. 2 Days in Paris is a mostly comedic though sometimes dramatic flick that makes light of long-standing Franco-American preconceptions, largely validating the perceived differences that exist between the two nations. The film, written and directed by Julie Delpy (the French actress of Before Sunrise fame), chronicles the tribulations of a couple visiting the City of Lights. Delpy and Adam Goldberg play Marion and Jack, a once thriving couple from New York whose relationship is tested when they visit Marion's French family (and some ex-boyfriends) in Paris. Jealousy, embarrassment, and miscommunication begin dividing the two lovebirds from the outset, all building toward a somewhat muddled climax.

By and large, the film is funny and entertaining, playing on the French reputation for sexual lasciviousness (at the core of most jokes). The disparity between French sexual openness and American sexual modesty is presented humorously enough; but fortunately, these punchlines are exacerbated by Adam Goldberg's spot-on delivery. Goldberg does play his prototypical role—the cynical, neurotic Jewish guy—but regardless, he truly makes the film. For her part, Delpy is also charming as Marion and well suited to straddle the French and American worlds given her own real-life experiences in both countries.

Regardless of the overall comedic success, the reliance on voice over and the bizarre twists toward the end of the film are, in my opinion, the dark spots on an otherwise clever and entertaining script. Did Delpy not know that voice over is one of the most difficult cinematic devices to successfully utilize? There are occasional films that liberally and effectively use voice over—among them, Memento and Adaptation—but on the whole, voice over is a tough beast to tame. In 2 Days in Paris, the beginning and end were particularly mired in voice over, which effectively diluted the potential of the film. Delpy commits the main sin of voice over: divulging unnecessary details that should surface organically through plot, through action, through subtext. Many extraneous explicative lines, such as, "Jack is an interior designer," gave no real expository insight into the characters. Rather, these interludes only brought the viewer out of the scene. This was particularly disheartening since the dialogue worked so effectively when not stifled by narration.

Aside from voice over, the ending also had its issues. As the relationship between Jack and Marion began unraveling, so did the narrative. The ending was punctuated by a slew of outrageous characters, such as a pedophilic ex-boyfriend and a soft-spoken, pervy stranger (whose weirdness was comical, but somewhat out of place). Although occasionally amusing, their roles (and necessity) within the story were questionable and detracted from the central focus of the couple. To make matters worse, the final confrontation between Jack and Marion was detailed, once again, through voice over (come on! really? why'd you have to do that?).

Despite all these failings, I still enjoyed the film. Formally, Delpy doesn't break any new ground, but she does make some valiant attempts at incorporating different techniques. It may have its problems, but in the end, it does get a good laugh et ça c'est l'important.

*To any readers concerned about the French bent of this blog. I can't even deny it at this point. I realize that yes, an inordinate amount of the articles posted on this blog have been devoted to (or have obliquely referenced) France. French-made movies, French-set movies, French film history, etc. Call me Frenchy, if you must. Tell me I'm consorting with enemies that hate our freedom, if that's your deal. But seeing that my Francophilia shows no signs of dissipating, all of you Disappear Here readers are just going to have to deal. I know you can stomach a bit more français. Besides, I promise this blog will not impart any red wine headaches or delusions of self-importance. And in the meantime, I'll try and temper my proclivities with something a bit more palatable. À bientôt, mes amis.

Pretty Girls Make Graves

2007-07-30T16:46:00.000-07:00

Palm trees stretched elastic shadows across the crespuscular sky. Shades of puce, violet, and peach infiltrated the Los Angeles horizon. The dense smog anchored at the base of the sky seemed hardly an object of disgust, but merely one element of the near-perfect night. We were surrounded by graves, but it only made the sunset more poignant. This was how our Saturday night unraveled. My husband and I watched Cary Grant projected onto a large blank wall, Grant's superimposed image looking more like a god than an icon. We drank our wine and ate dinner on an outstretched blanket, surrounded by throngs of other people. In the middle of Hollywood, the dead were resurrected on screen.

This scene is not an uncommon one. Past the obalisks and sarcophagi, Angeleno cinephiles have created a haven of filmic spectatorship in the heart of Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Located on Santa Monica Boulevard and Gower, Hollywood Forever transforms its quad-sized lawn into a cinematic exhibition arena over the summer, screening movies every Saturday through a foundation called Cinespia (www.cinespia.org). The Hollywood Forever screenings boast a hip schedule of black-and-white and modern-day classics, offering a range of films from Vertigo and His Girl Friday to Taxi Driver and Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Of course, it's only fitting that mere feet away, you can visit famous interred stars from the Silent and Golden Ages of Hollywood Cinema, such as Douglas Fairbanks and Peter Lorre.

To be fair, the Hollywood Forever screenings are not as morbid as I may be letting on. You do not sit directly on any gravestones or go around stomping on sympathy bouquets and a DJ provides music before and after the showing. Far from scary or bizarre, the mood is generally relaxed and laid back, ideal for both picnic-carting families and alcohol-ingesting twentysomethings. Although my one complaint is that the sound quality of the speakers is not wonderful, the experience is still worthwhile. However, don't expect to see me at the next screening. I'm not a big Pee Wee fan.

For more info, check out the Cinespia link.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

2007-07-14T17:22:00.001-07:00

The loaded and somewhat ambiguous term, "dark comedy," has been applied to rather disparate films - movies that range from the relatively tame to the relatively disturbing. Sure, you can delineate the boundaries of the "genre" (if you can call it that), but on a whole, "dark comedies" tend to be a bit of a grab bag. Perhaps its my macabre palette, but whenever the D.C. descriptor is used to classify a film, I am shamelessly drawn to the box office, even though I'm never quite sure whether or not the film will amount to my expectations. Thus was the case with You Kill Me, the latest flick in the aforementioned trend, which stars Ben Kingsley as Frank, a hit man whose alcoholism inhibits his on-the-job performance. Forced to move out of Buffalo while he dries out, Frank begrudgingly relocates to San Francisco, where he attends AA meetings, works at a mortuary, and meets his romantic match in sharp-tongued ad exec, Laurel (Téa Leoni).

Narratively, You Kill Me sticks to the genre conventions. The hit man. The corrupt organizations involved with the hit man. The humorous take on dead bodies. The impending reform. The final show-down. We've seen this before. Though the concept is not particularly novel, the film is (mostly) entertaining and the dry, dead-pan humor is well-executed. But for all these merits, the film leaves something to be desired. My biggest gripe is that the character development of the smaller roles is relatively shallow. For instance, Tom (Luke Wilson), a character who serves as Frank's AA sponsor, fell particularly flat (a narrative problem, not an acting issue). In a befuddling character choice, Tom is quickly identified as a gay man in the film, yet this aspect of his character seems almost like an afterthought; it is so incredibly incidental one wonders why it even made it into the script. In fact, the disclosure of Tom's sexual orientation is so unnaturally staged that it does nothing more than call attention to how undeveloped his persona really is. It only leaves me asking, "where's the subtext?" Dave (Bill Pullman), the bullying real estate agent who monitors Frank's progress in San Francisco is likewise poorly developed. The underlying motivations, emotions, and personalities of these characters are sketchy at best. Fortunately, Kingsley redeems the film, delivering a solid performance as the comedic "straight man" and bringing new life to the character. What's more, Leoni's portrayal of Laurel compliments Kingsley's character quite well and her equally "straight" performance works within the parameters of the movie.

As far as the cinematography is concerned, director John Dahl regularly fills the screen with saturated colors and contrast lighting, which imparts a visual boldness that is in contradistinction to the downplayed, virtually stoic affect of the characters. For my part, I found the interplay between these two elements compelling and necessary. Had Dahl opted to use drab, desaturated colors (which would have more closely mimicked the morbidity of Frank's various professions and the weight of his depression), the film would have been hard pressed to keep the comedic edge. With the visual crispness of the shots, nothing felt static or heavy.

Although I did mostly enjoy the film, You Kill Me just didn't blow me away. Perhaps I'm being overly critical because I compare it to the assassin-driven dark comedies of the past. I will say that if you're looking for a fantastic dark comedy about dysfunctional hit men, please, please rent The Matador, starring Pierce Brosnan and Greg Kinnear instead. It's absolutely brilliant. The nuanced character development and the striking visuals will show you what you can really do with this type of plot. Ah, I'm getting excited just thinking about it. The Matador was one of my favorite films of 2005 and well worth the price of a 5-day rental. Plus late fees.

Once Upon a Rhyme

2007-07-07T09:28:00.001-07:00

The pared-down Irish "musical," Once, has been universally praised by critics since its stateside debut in May. Though not widely advertised (or widely released, for that matter), a little research will unearth an abundance of enthusiastic reviews of the film. I mean, Jesus, the rotten tomatoes rating (www.rottentomatoes.com) is practically unparalleled. Even otherwise vitriolic critics have resorted to using adjectives like "perfect" to describe the film. I won't go quite that far. The one-and-a-half-hour, music-packed movie is certainly "charming" (a frequently used, but right-on descriptor) and a refreshing break from the over-written, over-developed, over-the-top blockbusters; but I will put a couple of caveats on my endorsement of the film.

Technically speaking, Once is an artful work of subtlety that recalls the realist movements of years past, with its long take/deep focus, entirely hand-held camera work, minimal use of post-production sound, location shooting, natural lighting and salt-of-the-earth characters. It could almost be an Italian neo-realist flick, or perhaps more fittingly, a Dogme '95 film (that is, if you don't consider it a genre film). While I do generally like the long takes, they can get a bit excessive at times, especially during many of the performance scenes. Director John Carney does use some beautiful cutting during the crowd sequences, where the passersby wipe the screen (a technique I always love) and the takes are much shorter. But regardless, the film is marked by a lot of continuous shots, which for the attention-deficit-afflicted viewer, may make the film seem slow.

Narratively, the film sticks to its minimalist tendencies. Part "musical," part romance, the film follows an aspiring singer-songwriter (Glen Hansard of Irish band, The Frames) and the relationship he forges with a female pianist he meets on the streets of Ireland. The dialogue throughout the film is sparse and natural. The desaturated colors and minor-key melodies paint a Dublin worn by the pervading sadness of the brokenhearted, a haven for the wandering, hopeful lost. Many shots are expertly staged, exposing poignant moments of the characters' quotidian lives. For instance, a crowd gathering around the protagonist becomes a sad statement on his inability to make money playing his original songs. A beautiful, moonlit shot of his father working through the night on menial tasks denudes their slightly (only slightly) bleak reality. Generally, the film imparts a sense of hope and tenderness infused with the smallest bit of melancholy, which I find more realistic than the maudlin sentiments of many other films today.

But despite its best attempts, Once is mostly about the music. Anyone who claims otherwise is, in some sense, fooling themselves. While the plot is not a mere artifice, it does take a backseat to the guitar-and-piano-accompanied crooning that predominates. Going into the film, I was legitimately apprehensive about its "musical" nature, especially since the songs were said to be in the vein of Coldplay (not my music of choice). Fortunately, to my surprise, I was taken in by the simple, haunting appeal of the music. The harmonies between Glen Hansard's gruff vocals and Markéta Irglová's ethereal style are enchanting. The soundtrack is playing even as I write. Of course, the music will not be appreciated by all. I will say that those who do not like the music will more than likely not like the movie. It is the cornerstone of the piece. But even if the music doesn't sound like your cup of tea, give it a chance. It's well worth it.

*Going off topic for a moment, I did want to briefly discuss the movie-going experience. I went to see this film with my husband at the recently constructed Landmark Theatres located in the annexed section of Westside Pavilion and let me say how fantastic it was. All of you indie-film-loving, Los Angeles residents need to get up on this theatre. Boasting a fantastic wine bar, the newest technology, stadium seating, ushers, plush leather seats, and a broad range of concessions (wasabi snacks and vegan cookies, anyone?), it's without question the place to be. My one suggestion is to be prepared. Show times sell out quickly (I found out the hard way) and the sooner you buy tickets, the sooner you get to pick out your assigned seats. So ditch the Arclight and its exorbitant ticket prices. You'll thank me for it.

How to Be a Film Snob, Pt. 1

2007-06-29T10:59:00.000-07:00

One up your pretentious academic colleagues!
Out-reference even the most meta-referential!
Casually name drop esoteric cinematic movements and their self-proclaimed gods!

You can do it all with the brand spanking new "How to Be a Film Snob" compendium. Intended as a companion column to the "How to Be a Music Snob" articles posted on Yes+ affiliate, "Los Angeleez, I'm Yours," these blogs will plunder the cinematic archives in search of the ultimate in film snobbery material.

To some film-savvy readers, the topics may not seem obscure enough to qualify as film snob material. I won't deny that if you roll with the elusive breed of self-important film students, you've probably heard these phrases and movie titles thrown around as casually as yo' momma jokes. But stick around anyway. You may learn a thing or two, you disaffected film expert. And for those of you more familiar with blockbusters, hopefully this column will provide some insight into the canon of lesser known, historically relevant films. Today's need-to-know subject: Jean-Luc Godard and the French New Wave.

The French New Wave, or La Nouvelle Vague, is arguably the chicest of all the film-snob-approved movements. Its Modernist aesthetic, 1960s insouciance, and Parisian je ne sais quoi lend an element of cool that film-loving hipsters find hard to hate. To put it this way, if you want to mack on the uber-chic, art-house hotness eyeing you from across the Nuart movie theatre, open with a line about the French New Wave and you'll be golden.

The French New Wave began at the end of the 1950s when disciples of the famed film critic André Bazin began making their own films. The films of one such Bazin disciple, director Jean-Luc Godard, took a marked turn toward self-reflexivity, occasionally breaking away from the staunch realism that Bazin himself had advocated. While other filmmakers like Francois Truffaut and Jacques Rivette were also instrumental to the movement, Godard ranks as a personal favorite, so he'll be the primary subject of this thread.

Most Godard-o-philes will cite the film Breathless (Á bout de souffle) as the pinnacle of his career. While Breathless is a cinematic gem, there are other oeuvres that better showcase his playful experimentation with the medium. Sure, Breathless is replete with Godard's signature jump cuts, unmatched eyelines, and musings on the nature of love (approached in an ambiguous, non-committal sort of way, of course). Don't get me wrong, it's top-notch.

But for those of you looking for something a little more "out of the box," my Godard recommendations include Contempt (Le Mépris) and A Woman is a Woman (Une femme est une femme). These two films underscore Godard's groundbreaking formal techniques, which effectively subvert Classical Hollywood conventions. Both are unabashedly self-reflexive. Both are almost shocking in their assault on standard narratives. True to form, Godard always keeps us aware of the artifice of film. He always reminds us that we are watching a contrivance. Whether he's shouting out the film credits instead of listing them, cutting off the film's sound mid-scene, or allowing his characters to talk directly to the camera (not frequently done before his time), Godard never ceases to "show the strings."

For those of you French New Wave virgins, Breathless may be the safest place to start. But if you're willing to accept the challenge, Contempt and A Woman is a Woman are fun choices (if you don't tire of the meandering dialogue, which admittedly is my one Godard gripe). Besides, if you do opt for Contempt, you'll get to see Brigitte Bardot in all her glory!

And for all of you French New Wave experts, why not try this on for size? One of Godard's primary influences was an earlier French surrealist filmmaker/poet/playwright named Jean Cocteau. If you're looking for a new arcane reference to throw down, check out Cocteau's play Les Parents Terribles or his flick, Beauty and the Beast (La Belle et La Bête). Another noteworthy influence to investigate is the manifesto-spinning, Russian director Dziga Vertov (though he mostly influenced Godard's later, more politically charged films). Leaving his Marxist writings aside, the Vertov classic, The Man With the Movie Camera, is probably my favorite silent film of all time and an amazing work of art. Reference the reference, people!

Not Hollow, Man

2007-06-21T19:55:00.000-07:00

Since his expatriation from the Netherlands, Dutch director Paul Verhoeven has garnered a reputation as the prototypical Hollywood, studio filmmaker, generating titillating, if lackluster films with a predilection for unabashed T&A and violence. Criticized for pandering to base sensationalism and producing films devoid of profundity, Verhoeven has never been the crowned king of the art house film. His collaborations with notorious screenwriter Joe Eszterhas have spawned such cinematic gems as the much ridiculed Showgirls and the infamous Basic Instinct, known primarily for its salacious money shot. Though his film Starship Troopers will be spared my snarky comments (since its satirical and self-reflexive tone actually appealed to me), it's difficult to endorse many Verhoeven films as anything more than mindless entertainment.

In a surprising turn, Verhoeven recently returned to his native land (and native tongue) to film the uncharacteristically tame (relatively speaking) and more mature World War II saga, Black Book (Zwartboek). To briefly summarize, Black Book follows Rachel Stein, a Jewish woman who dyes her hair blond and changes her name in order to pass as a gentile during WWII. In her newfound identity as "Ellis," she uses her feminine wiles to infiltrate powerful Nazi circles and spy on their military operations for the good of the Resistance. Does the film have violence? Yes. Does the film have sex? Oh, hell yes. But the sexuality and violence are of an arguably different nature than Verhoeven's previous work would suggest.

Instead of fetishizing nudity in a prurient manner, Black Book is filled with what I'll call "matter-of-fact" nudity. What I mean is that nudity is neither shied away from nor exploited in the film. Nudity occurs where it would likely occur in real life. When German soldiers strip the bodies of dead Jews for their jewelry, we see them strip the bodies. When Rachel dyes her pubic hair blond as a final touch in her "gentile transformation," we actually watch her applying the dye to her crotch. When soldiers let loose and harass lascivious women at their parties, the buttoned blouses are ripped off. There is even a full frontal shot of a male walking around naked after a sex romp. Though some modest viewers might find the ubiquitous nudity excessive, I find this approach a refreshing change from the conventions of American cinema. Still stuck between puritanism and exploitation, most American films either preclude nudity from scenes where it would naturally occur (a particular downfall of Spielberg), or employ nudity for the sole purpose of producing sexually gratifying, enticing shots. Nudity is rarely just a state of being. These dichotomous tendencies in American film tend to either coddle us like children who are unequipped to handle the realities of the human body or invite us to perceive our bodies through a sexualized, objectified lens. I was glad that Black Book steered clear of these tendencies to produce a more mature, if still somewhat sexually explicit film.

Despite showing nudity where it would typically occur, the spectacle of the human body was still idealized through the use of glossy cinematography and "romance" lighting. Although there were a couple notable exceptions (the quick male nude scene, for example), virtually all of the instances of nudity were framed by an unmistakably Hollywood aesthetic, where glowing, highly saturated, warm lighting washed out the imperfections, dulled the harsh edges, and generally beautified the scenes to unrealistic proportions.

Verhoeven's oft-criticized use of violence was likewise moderate. Undoubtedly, the violent acts were appropriate given the horrific violence of WWII. There was, however, one scene toward the end that felt like a directorial "cum shot" (a huge vat of human excrement poured onto one of the characters in painstaking detail). Though the shots in the scene were very well composed and the scene was admittedly necessary, I got the sneaking suspicion that Verhoeven included the degrading sequence primarily for spectacle's sake.

Moving beyond the micro to the macro, Black Book has overall redeeming values as well as areas worthy of criticism. Notably, Verhoeven elicited top-notch performances from Carice van Houten and Sebastian Koch. Their acting was truly riveting, especially that of Van Houten, whose convincing portrayal of Rachel/Ellis was at times poignant, at times restrained. The narrative itself was largely entertaining and generally well-structured, though the plot twists toward the end seemed a bit excessive at times. As far as the characters were concerned, Verhoeven tried to blur the lines between good and evil (with varying degrees of success) by giving us a sympathetic Nazi character and fallen Jewish freedom fighters. While the Nazi head honcho, Muntze, did become a subject of endearment, the character roles remained manichaean. The good guys were indubitably good, the bad guys, indubitably bad. There was the veil of subtlety without the actual subtlety.

Moving onto the formalistic elements, the cinematography was well-executed, but many of the shots left something to be desired. There were some great compositions scattered throughout the film, but these took a backseat to more straight-forward and safe shots, which dominated the film. In some ways, the lack of experimentation made it feel like a Hollywood film, until the occasional innovative composition would rear its head and I would be impressed for the moment. The editing was likewise standard, seamless and logical with Classical cutting. But for all its faults, Black Book still kept me entertained. It was certainly leagues above Verhoeven's studio flick, Hollow Man, and for that, I'm thankful.

Netflix This: The Philadelphia Story

2007-06-05T09:56:00.000-07:00

Get those fingers typing all the way to your Netflix account. Get those eyes scouting out your local Blockbuster. In honor of my June 1st nuptials, I'm providing a rental recommendation of the connubial persuasion. The Philadelphia Story is a comedic foray into the world of marriage and re-marriage and a relic of Classical Hollywood Cinema. The Philadelphia Story epitomizes the romantic screwball films of the time - complete with physical gags, love triangles, dramatic irony, and of course, a happy ending. In the film, protagonist Tracy Lord (Katherine Hepburn) decides to marry a wealthy, yet unremarkable socialite after her first marriage to charismatic C.K. Dexter Haven (Cary Grant) dissolves. When a reporter documenting the ceremony gets thrown in the mix (Jimmy Stewart), Tracy finds herself torn between three potential suitors, despite the imminent wedding.

I will say upfront that I have a few biases to take into account. Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart can do no wrong in my eyes and I'll watch anything that lists them in the credits. The director, George Cukor, is a fellow Hungarian - more bonus points. But despite my proclivities, it's hard to knock The Philadelphia Story. It's been crowned one of the top 100 American films by AFI. It's a feel-good flick with heart. And most importantly, it avoids the pitfalls of recent wedding-centric rom-coms, like Runaway Bride or My Best Friend's Wedding, which offer histrionic sentiment instead of genuine emotion. And unlike many of today's chick flicks, which (as their titles suggest) cater almost exclusively to a female demographic, The Philadelphia Story hits a wider audience. If you're a guy, I say, embrace this film. It's not just for the ladies.

***A note to the legions of fans (or select friends) who read this blog. The posts may dwindle for the next week or so, as I'm on my honeymoon. Now excuse me while I finish my mai tai.

Paris, Je T'Aime (Well, Sometimes)

2007-05-24T17:02:00.000-07:00

There is an art to the short film. Obviously, shorts share the same cinematic medium as their feature-length counterparts. But don't be fooled. The difference in length is not purely cosmetic. It's not just a detail. In order for a short film to be successful, the narrative conventions, the overall structure, and the pacing must accord with the restrictions (or some might say, liberties) of its truncated duration. If a réalisateur sets out to make a short film, but tries to squeeze in storylines more suitable for an epic, the director short changes the characters and ultimately, short changes the viewer. Better off taking a snapshot, a mere instance, and turning it into a rich, defining instance.

Wednesday night, I ventured into my Westwood 'hood to see Paris, Je T'Aime, a two-hour-long "compilation" of short films about l'amour that all take place (where else) in Paris. As a hardcore francophile, I had been dying to see this film ever since I heard about it over a year ago. At the time, I scoured the internet for a U.S. release date and when all the results came back "unknown," I accepted that Paris, Je T'Aime might never see the light of day in America. I even considered ponying up some serious scrilla for the expensive DVD import. Fortunately, First Look decided to handle the U.S. distribution and I got to pay the more moderate expense of a standard rate movie ticket.

You might be wondering why I tried to track this movie down so desperately. You might be thinking, "short films about Paris? I could take it or leave it." Did I forget to mention the biggest allure of Paris, Je T'Aime? Silly me. All of the shorts were shot by internationally acclaimed directors, many of them auteurs in their own right. Household names like the Coen Brothers, Alexander Payne, and Gus Van Sant all got behind the camera for some Frenchy, French action. Just check out the imdb credit listing. It's a veritable clusterf*@! of cinematic who's who. You can almost imagine a million film students salivating over the list. Unfortunately, like most clusterf*@!s (even well-reputed clusterf*@!s), you have to separate the wheat from the chaff. Paris, Je T'Aime features a number of flawed shorts. Many are trite, maudlin, or over-written. Many try to accomplish too much and collapse under the weight of their aspirations. But amid the rubble of mediocrity, there are a couple of killer shorts.

In total, Paris, Je T'Aime includes eighteen short films (only three of which I comfortably label "excellent," a handful of which I consider "good"). Fortunately, there is some variation between the films. To get the most bang out of the Parisian buck, each of the eighteen shorts takes place in a different arrondissement (or "district" to les américains). If you've ever been to Paris, you know that these districts are about as multifarious as the subsections of Los Angeles. The 16th arrondissement (champagne at the tennis club) and Pigalle (strippers and booze) are about as disparate as Beverly Hills and the Sunset Strip. Like the featured locales, the films themselves run the gamut from comedic to tragic to absurd, all with varying degrees of success.

The best short, hands down, is "Tuileries" by Joel and Ethan Coen. I hate to speak in such superlative terms, but the scene is perfectly orchestrated. The narrative itself is hilarious—an American tourist (Steve Buscemi) misinterprets the bizarre intricacies of French metro decorum and pays the consequences. But beyond the mere concept, the execution heightens the comedic effect. The Coen brothers utilize off-camera action and deceptive framing to keep the audience in the dark until they decide to pay off their well-conceived comedic set-ups. And trust me, the punchlines are fantastic. The jokes are mainly visual, just as they should be. The sharp cuts between extreme long shots and extreme close ups are positively witty. Buscemi's wordless performance is brilliant. Even the closing shots hit the right notes. A mountain of Mona Lisa postcards fall all over Buscemi while a snot-nosed French kid looks on. Fantastic. This film is the reason to see Paris, Je T'Aime. I laughed the whole way.

My choice for runner-up is Alexander Payne's short, "14th Arrondissement." The central character of "14th Arrondissement," is a lonely, unmarried, 40-something American woman. As you can imagine, she's reminiscent of Payne's middle-aged anti-heroes from other flicks, like Miles from Sideways and Mr. McAllister form Election, but I would almost say she's more sympathetic than the rest. Unlike Miles and McAllister, she's not cynical and she's never an asshole. Instead, there's a profound sadness and relatability to her character. The plot of the film centers around her much anticipated trip to Paris, which she describes in first-person narration, in broken French. By using this method of exposition, Payne smartly reveals exactly who this woman is. She takes French lessons for the love of it, but no matter how earnest her efforts, she never progresses beyond the level of textbook, French I sentences. The simple dialogue comes across like a beginners' essay, because that's exactly what it is. At the end of the day, she is quintessentially American. In one scene, we see her ditching the native French cuisine for a room service cheeseburger. In another, her strained attempts to speak French elicit responses in English. She never can catch a break. And while this portrait sounds depressing, "14th Arrondissement" is punctuated with comedic moments. The film is a tragi-comedy in the true sense of the word. All in all, it succeeds. The closing lines, like "Je suis vivante" and "je me sens vivante" ("I am alive" and "I feel alive," respectively) are perhaps a little hackneyed, but after witnessing this woman's journey from start to finish, the lines feel genuine.

The last short film that I will comment on is called "Loins du 16ème" (or "Far from the 16th"), shot by Walter Salles and Daniela Thomas. From a formalist perspective, this was one of the most interesting. The camera work was wonderfully reflective of the thematic content of the film, which chronicled a Spanish nanny who must leave her own child in day care to watch after a rich woman's baby. As the nanny frantically rushed to her job, the directors utilized fast, rough, hand-held work to mimic her stressed frame of mind. When she first entered the expensive apartment, the extreme long shot with open door after open door after open door created rich layers and an unmistakable sense of distance between the nanny and her place in the apartment. To top it all off, as the nanny cared for the rich woman's child, her inattention and disinterest was palpable. Not only was she looking away from the crib, but the child's face was obscured by a blurred shot. Although the story was simple, I give this short props for its innovative and experimental camera work, which truly stood out.

It's hard to sum up Paris, Je T'Aime as a single film, because it really is a mixed bag. I would see it again, solely to watch the Coen brothers' short. I can't, however, vouch for the entirety of the film. As I said before, many of the shorts fall flat. But I will say this. There is variety. Whether good or bad, it is still a film for the A.D.D. mind that can only handle 5-10 minute segments at a time. So if you decide to see the film, do so at your own risk. Bonne chance.

A Grindhouse Divided

2007-05-20T18:17:00.000-07:00

When two behemoths of postmodern cinema collaborate on a double-feature, it’s inevitable that the back-to-back films will be compared. Such is the case with Grindhouse, the self-consciously hip, exploitation fest that begins with Rodriguez’s zombie flick, Planet Terror, and ends with Tarantino’s take on the slasher movie, Death Proof. Can you appraise each film individually? Of course. But when it comes down it, if you’ve seen the films, you have a decision to make. Are you in the Rodriguez camp or the Tarantino camp? Before seeing the movie, I had asked a number of friends their opinion, and at every turn, I heard nothing but resounding endorsements for Rodriguez’s Planet Terror. In my case, all the hype surrounding Planet Terror created expectations that the film could not measure up to. But I think that even if I had not gone in with preconceived ideas about the films, I would have still ultimately fallen into that other camp, the less popular, less accepted Tarantino camp.

The Rodriguez joint does have the irrefutable cool factor—machine gun extremities, glossy overtures of violence, Bruce Willis cameos. The tight editing only amplifies the titillation level of the film. Quick cuts heighten the gun-slinging, knife-wielding, general badass-ery. As far as spectacle is concerned, Planet Terror delivers. But beyond the striking visuals, it fails to engage. I'll admit that Planet Terror resembles the bygone exploitation films much more closely than Tarantino’s Death Proof. Exploitation films are, first and foremost, defined by titillation and not by their substance. But I was hoping for something more. Instead of playing with the conventions of exploitation films and challenging the paradigm, as I wish he had done, Rodriguez merely created a new, more exaggerated exploitation flick. I could go on about other aspects that bothered me—biggest among them being the over-sexualization, visual dismemberment (through camera work) and flat affect of the female characters, which as a girl, felt instinctively misogynistic—but if I were to go into every point, I would be typing all day to the detriment of all else. When it comes down to it, my biggest gripe is that Planet Terror relies on its outlandish (though often ingenious) visuals to mask flat characters; and for a genre film, it doesn’t bring anything new to the table.

By contrast, Tarantino’s motorist killer film changes the rules of the game. Unlike the dime-store, slice-and-dice murderers featured in most slasher films, Tarantino chose a different kind of killer—a maniacal driver who stalks and gruesomely mows down beautiful girls. To be fair, the car-as-antagonist concept behind Death Proof isn’t the first of its kind. We’ve seen it before in Spielberg’s early film Duel and even, to a lesser extent, in arguably worse movies like Joyride. But regardless of how novel the concept may or may not be, the car enables Tarantino to experiment with his characters by erecting a necessary distance between the victims and the pursuer. The barrier of the car—this mediator between the killer and the victims—frames the story through the lens of sadistic voyeurism. Unlike, Rodriguez's film, where women are objectified for the viewer's pleasure, Tarantino objectifies women to expose the killer's twisted perspective. The viewing experience and the objectification are not about pure arousal, but about understanding the characters. Aside from all this, Tarantino's women are also much richer than Rodriguez's women. Tarantino's female victims are not slasher film archetypes. They are not flat, but rather dynamic. And it's not just the girls that are dynamic. The victim/predator relationship is not starkly defined, but is rather muddy and changeable. Tarantino is more concerned with nuance, less concerned with the obvious. But just in case you needed something that would really hit you, Tarantino gives you a killer closing shot, one that is nothing short of satisfying. I know this might make me unpopular, but at the end of the day, Tarantino gets my vote.