The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou
December 27, 2004)
Wes Anderson’s vanity project finds him regressing from the perceptive dissertation on American families that was “The Royal Tenenbaums” to the arch callowness of its precursor “Rushmore” and the result is a slight, intermittently amusing picture that dares you to get it but smugly predicts you won’t. It’s droll to a fault, with no real perception behind its drollness; in fact, there seems to be little worth examining behind its mellow cynicism. Bill Murray (cashing in on the world-weariness that made him so sympathetic in “Lost In Translation”) plays a fading Jacques Cousteau-like documentarian who rounds up his quirky crew for a voyage to find the mysterious “jaguar shark” that has killed his partner (Seymour Cassel); joining him is a young man who may be his bastard son (Owen Wilson) and a journalist (Cate Blanchett) on whom both father and alleged son develop designs. Anderson is content to let this loose framework remain unexplored in order to push his loopy characters and offbeat sidebars to the forefront and while some of the performers are admittedly funny (especially Willem Dafoe, who, from “Wild At Heart” to “Shadow Of The Vampire”, always seems to be able to bring the audience in on the joke; and Anjelica Huston, whose deadpan is truly in sync with Anderson), whole sections of the film—such as an assault on the ship by Filipino pirates and the rescue of hostages—appear to be crafted as mere indulgences to be celebrated for their homage-filled zaniness. Anderson has a good eye for staging what he wants and, given something to say, it’s clear he can make an impact. But it’s also possible his time to leave a mark may have come and gone. The cute underwater effects are by Henry Selick and Robert D. Yeoman’s cinematography is quite good, moving from exquisite, colorful clarity for the interpersonal scenes to gritty and grainy for the mockingly-staged “action” sequences.
The Polar Express
Novemeber 15, 2004)
Robert Zemeckis’ self-indulgent, narcissistic masterpiece is entirely computer-animated and the enormous expense is all right up there on the screen, every penny of it. It’s consistently in your face and (at least when seen on an IMAX screen in 3-D) frequently overwhelming—it’s presented in a relentlessly showoffy manner. But it’s also completely heartfelt and as moving as Zemeckis’ best work, the sublime “Cast Away” (itself one of the finest American films of the decade). The specialized CGI bravura is clearly the thing here, with well-thought, exciting and cleanly realized set pieces that take the nascent technical form to the limit. (A short section involving a floating train ticket is one of the most brilliantly realized examples of animation—any animation—ever created.) Based on the cherished children’s book by Chris Van Allsburg in which a young boy who has ceased to believe in the magic of Santa Claus is whisked away on the titular train to the North Pole to restore his faith, it will delight and dazzle children of all ages and religious persuasions. But Zemeckis has become one of cinema’s most sincere seekers and he concludes the film with a bittersweet questioning of the faith he has asked his audience to accept, noting that time—his primary passion in “Cast Away”—and adulthood require the magic of innocent conviction to fade and be recalled simply as one of the components necessary to shape a life. Tom Hanks plays five roles that have been animated and they’re some of the best he’s played in quite a while, particularly the loving, no-nonsense Conductor that allows him to layer a humorously transparent veil of gruffness over the honest compassion he has styled his career upon. The magnificent Deco grandeur and elegance of the Polar Express itself and the North Pole workshops, by Rick Carter and Doug Chiang, fits effortlessly into Zemeckis’ design of remembrance of things past. “The Polar Express” should have no trouble being accepted as a holiday classic but time will reveal it to be what it truly is: the efforts of a master craftsman not only at the forefront of scientific methods to create art but with a yearning to explore the timeless qualities of being human.
Hero
September 16, 2004)
Enormously entertaining, Zhang Yimou’s dazzling epic manages to revel in all sorts of stylistic delirium while maintaining at all times a controlled sense of dignity. Part martial arts actioner, with enthralling, satisfying fight sequences, and part Chinese history lesson, Zhang paces his story (written by Zhang, Feng Li and Bin Wang) with a rushing torrent of sharp images sure to keep today’s distracted audiences locked in (it makes sense that the film is “presented” by Quentin Tarentino; it’s precisely the type of movie he admires—subtle yet exciting—and could probably never make) while delicately unfolding the mystery surrounding the motives of a nameless loner (Jet Li) summoned by the King of the Qin province (Daoming Chen) to be rewarded for bringing down the King’s three greatest threats. Aided by the peerless cinematographer Christopher Doyle, there isn’t a wasted shot and the perfect symmetry of visuals and sound editing (a myriad of sound editors are employed) is as captivating as the story being told. Zhang has a great love for his country’s history and its ritual—he seems proud to present the tale of the unification of China as well as the compassion and pragmatism of the people who forged that unification—and he trusts his content, rather than the emotions of his characters, to be his means of expression; yet when the performers do put themselves across, even the most minimal inflection (the slightest smile, for example) is devastating. With Maggie Cheung Man-Yuk and Tony Leung Chiu Wai, the soul mates from Wong Kar-Wai’s sublime “In The Mood For Love”, as two of the three threats to the King; again, they’re perfect. “Hero” is a film to surrender to—you’re aware of the joyful look on your face even as you’re hypnotized by it.
Collateral
September 16, 2004)
This year’s submission in the Tom Cruise Oscar grab is a stylized noir thriller from director Michael Mann, whose previous entries in the genre (“Heat”, “Thief”) were bloated and derivative. Things aren’t much better now: Mann’s still derivative, though this time less of the subtle noir of the Forties than of modern gangster epics such as Brian DePalma’s “Scarface” with their razzle-dazzle nightclub shootouts. He might think he’s making a small, intimate picture built on performances, but by encouraging underacting, he’s actually oversizing the effect, with Cruise’s megawatt star power unable to keep a lid on things; the movie gets louder and less interesting as it progresses. Cruise plays a hired assassin who employs a reticent cabbie (Jamie Foxx) to squire him to five various hits around Los Angeles. In writer Stuart Beattie’s hands, there isn’t much tension—you can see the structure of his screenplay from the first scene and the action set pieces seem baked in solely for Beattie and Mann to advance the dull interplay between Foxx and Cruise which spirals into conversations that inevitably boil down to the dreaded “existential” despair that made “Thief” and “Heat” so unbearable. The film’s meant to showcase the city’s dark side but doesn’t (Ken Russell’s “Whore” and Quentin Tarentino’s “Pulp Fiction” do a better job of that) because of Mann’s fussy concentration on fitting Cruise into his visual scheme: he sports a short salt-and-pepper haircut and wears a gray suit, in line with Mann’s sleek, blue-steeled, fluorescent building interiors (though certain scenes incorporate the neon that was emblematic of Mann’s TV series “Miami Vice”). Cruise is competent as usual, doing everything he can to keep his Vincent enigmatic, yet he only sporadically compels the audience’s curiosity about his backstory. Foxx, as the driver, is better, though he’s saddled with Beattie’s caricature: his docile dreamer Max gets to be an outraged black man when he’s able to seize the opportunity, which has the unfortunate effect of making what was supposed to be a brooding noir seem more like a self-actualization course.
The Ladykillers
August 16, 2004)
Tom Hanks is technically proficient, I suppose, in this update of the 1955 British comedy, but it’s perhaps his most indulgent role to date; whatever humor he attempts is lost in stylized tics and windy verbiage that never seem to expire. His role as the Southern-gentleman mastermind of a riverboat casino heist should flow effortlessly but isn’t particularly engaging—there’s no sense of amusing malice in his Professor G.H. Dorr, though he’s portrayed, unconvincingly, as some sort of absolute evil—and he doesn’t seem to want to connect with much of the cast (though there is some decent interplay with his nemesis, Marva Munson, the landlady whose home he uses as his base of operation, played in oversized fashion by Irma P. Hall, bucking for an Oscar). The upshot is that Hanks’ obstinacy actually slows the rhythms of the film to a crawl and you find yourself increasingly impatient. As for the film itself, it’s another empty academic exercise from the Coen Brothers, with elegant art direction by Richard Johnson and clever cinematography from Roger Deakins (the camera angles get skewed as the situation gets darkly violent) but also a misanthropic theological overview: though characters fall from grace (into a garbage barge), the heaven they’re cast from is an empty, ghettoized deep-South parish that appears unclean and undesirable. They also possess a cluelessness as to what’s funny, smarmily assuming jokes about irritable bowel syndrome are audience-pleasers; and their attempts at surrealist humor (most notably the varying expressions of a portrait meant to comment on the proceedings) falls dismally flat. With a sour Marlon Wayans, Tzi Ma (whose tricks with cigarettes contain the film’s most entertaining moments), J.K. Simmons (from “Spider-Man”) and Ryan Hurst as Hanks’ partners in crime; they’re severely let down by the Coens’ indifferent treatment.
Ararat
August 16, 2004)
Writer-director Atom Egoyan’s complicated, heavily-plotted melodrama about the making of a film illuminating the Armenian Holocaust of 1915-18 at the hands of the Turks dares you, with its important yet obscure topic, not to admire it. But it’s a mixed bag. Egoyan is a victim of his own ambitions: so many stories tackle so many entwined conflicts—historical, familial, cultural—with such a broad swirl that it frequently drowns the viewer in overkill. Egoyan messes with your head by pulling all sorts of theatrical manipulations, with heavy cross-cutting between various plots and revealing motivations piecemeal; but he primarily operates by extruding a feeling of helpless horror from you—the atrocities committed by the Turks include the torture of children, rape and the act of being set on fire. Yet he lets you off the hook by allowing you to distance yourself from the horrors: they’re depicted as graphic scenes from the film, not actual events. The effect, while powerful when you’re watching it, is something of a cheat: you walk away devastated but a little angry at being controlled. Egoyan invests a lot of personal emotion in his film yet it’s frequently obscured by fragmented storytelling; and his outrage at the end that Turkey has never apologized for its atrocities has the feel of a non-negotiable demand that he insists the viewer share simply by having viewed his film. It’s tastefully made, with impressive set design by Kathleen Climie and solid performances by the prodigious cast (including Elias Koteas, Arsinee Khanjian, Christopher Plummer and Charles Aznavour), but it’s talky without seeming conclusive (except in its political stance) and overly reliant on Mychael Danna’s intrusive score.
Spider-Man 2
July 30, 2004)
Perhaps it was Quentin Tarentino’s intention all along to present “Kill Bill” in two parts—how else can you explain the elaborate correction he performs on the first film’s know-it-all attitude towards women? Where “Volume One” seemed to want to explain and ultimately dismiss women, “Volume Two” finds Tarentino in awe of them, especially his heroine “The Bride” (Uma Thurman), who, by the film’s conclusion, has ascended to the throne that the director holds dearest: motherhood. It’s an arduous path to that throne, going, as she does, from “natural-born killer” to loving parent but the respect that Tarentino gives the female mystique is as sincere and reverent as the respect he gives his cinematic and literary sources and it’s part of what makes this film a masterpiece. The second volume is meatier than the first, with far more attention paid to the story and the richness of the relationship between “The Bride” and Bill (David Carradine, a perfect performance) which alternates between father-daughter, mentor-pupil and husband-wife. (Early scenes between them feature stunning close-ups bathed in warm sepia backlight and the chemistry is intuitive, palpable and instructive.). It’s also somewhat less insistent on its revenge motif (though the battle between “The Bride” and Daryl Hannah’s Elle Driver and its denouement is both films’ high point). But the director turns up the psychological assault a notch and his ability to manipulate and terrify his audience is on a par with Hitchcock’s. (Thurman’s living burial is intense and agonizing.) As a filmmaker, Tarentino shows a remarkable mastery of his medium, employing, as he does, techniques that establish him as a scholar and not an imposter—the single-take reverse crane shot that frames the massacre in El Paso where the story has its’ center is worthy of Ford and Peckinpah—and it confirms he’s a true auteur who walks the walk: by culling from so many sources he’s created a distinctive style that seems fresh and honest. He’s also the only one who can execute it.
Spider-Man 2
July 8, 2004)
A long-awaited return to form for Sam Raimi, his best film since “Darkman”. This sequel to his hyperkinetic, indifferently made entry into the comic book adaptation genre is far more pleasing than the first, perhaps because the first’s success has relieved Raimi of the stress of delivering a hit; he seems more relaxed, more focused on bringing craft (though the special effects still seem a little spotty) and depth to the project. He delivers an adult feature this time around, with scenes a bit more sadistic (one set piece in an operating room is particularly intense—and effective because it momentarily abandons Danny Elfman’s very fine score) and a grown-up perspective on the goopy romance of the first film. The organic conceit of the drama isn’t new, carrying the basic psychological construct of an awkward adolescent’s search for a place in the world into young adulthood as Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire) finds difficulty reconciling his outsider status with everyday responsibilities; but in fact, by the end of the film, the main character is revealed to be Mary Jane Watson (Kirsten Dunst) who has gone from the confused uncertainty of her relationship with Parker to a complete understanding of her role in it. (The actors, given more to do, are appealing here, though Dunst and Maguire are still too slight to solidly impress.) There’s some genuine humor in Alvin Sargent’s dependable script (this time there’s a gentle ribbing of arrogant New Yorkers as opposed to the last film’s post-9/11 reverence of them) and Alfred Molina’s Doc Ock is an effectively conflicted villain; but Raimi’s real connection is with one of the story writers, Michael Chabon, whose novel “The Amazing Adventures Of Kavalier And Clay” affectionately recreates the golden age of comic books and whose unique insights are in harmony with Raimi’s love of that era’s art and horror film genre (this film and “Darkman” are passionate homages to Universal Pictures’ creature features), while Bill Pope’s photography of the Manhattan skyline evokes a yearning for the innocent era Chabon’s book so exquisitely captured. Visually and emotionally satisfying, it’s good to see such traditional movie-making as Raimi’s in this day and age.
Once Upon a Time in Mexico
July 19, 2004)
Call it the post-“Spy Kids” effect, perhaps, but Robert Rodriguez’ return to the action genre he cut his eyeteeth on, while colorful and fun, doesn’t appear to carry as much interest for him as it once did. Though you can still imagine the smile on his face as he made the film, Rodriguez doesn’t seem to respect the genre anymore and the project, on the whole, really can’t be taken seriously. But that doesn’t mean it’s meant to be taken seriously and damned if it isn’t roaringly entertaining. Working, as has become his custom, as his own cinematographer, editor and film composer, Rodriguez may be consciously seeking to distance himself from his family movies (even though his guerilla mise en scene is evident in everything he does) by ramping up the nonchalant violence and craziness; he’s not as imaginative here as he was making the “Spy Kids” series, though he continues to be equally as inventive in his staging. Replacing the setting-sun cinematography that made the “Spy Kids” films so distinctive with a neon that plays up the film’s hipness (the soundtrack contributes staccato bursts of electric guitar to underscore the point), there seems more John Woo’s influence than Sergio Leone’s, with delightfully edited gunfights and explosions and off-kilter cinematography designed to carry you into the maelstrom. But there’s a sharply felt lack of depth that suggests it’s time for Rodriguez to put the genre behind him; he has a richness of talent to exploit in other directions. The extremely large cast of heavy-hitters appear to be in it for the fun of it though the primaries are well-cast: in addition to the returning Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek (from “Desperado”) are Johnny Depp, Willem Dafoe, Mickey Rourke, Ruben Blades and Eva Mendes. Of all of the actors, though, it’s Depp who truly gets into the wacked-out spirit of things—he’s tailor-made for Rodriguez’ tongue-in-cheek filmmaking.
Seabiscuit
July 8, 2004)
The first third of “Seabiscuit” is quite good—though writer/director Gary Ross’ cops Ken Burns’ documentarian style to illustrate the deadening despair of the Depression (he even appropriates historian/PBS host David McCullogh for narration)—with an earnest attempt at creating an interpersonal family drama between father-figure horse owner Jeff Bridges and tempestuous surrogate-son jockey Tobey Maguire. But then Seabiscuit appears and the film loses whatever momentum that’s been generated. Starting out as a perceived underachiever, the horse’s personality quickly evaporates as Ross insists on building it into some sort of crowning symbol of hope for the downtrodden. The director seems barely able to contain his glee in discovering an obscure American icon (at least until Laura Hillenbrand’s biography, unread by this reviewer) he can exploit for his movie in order to create a myth he hopes will deliver it into classic status. But the resonance just isn’t there for the modern audience. It’s a modest entertainment with good performances by a gracefully aging Bridges, Maguire, Chris Cooper as Seabiscuit’s trainer and an underused William H. Macy in comic relief as a goofy radio announcer, but tender though it is, its measured grasps for profundity come up short. The film does feature an outstanding sound design with excellent sound effects by Christopher Assells.
Lost in Translation
July 8, 2004)
Sofia Coppola’s efficient yet quirky romance is a very good engagement of two mediums, the short story and cinema. Using the technique of linking her converging story (two abandoned souls meet and form a gentle relationship while adrift in a foreign country) with short yet open-ended scenes, Coppola stays on course and doesn’t descend into the dull trap of exposition—she succeeds in capturing the essence of a budding relationship, not the deep, complex flavor of it. Her script finds a popular American action film star (Bill Murray) in Tokyo to do some advertisements for a whiskey company; he meets the stranded young American wife (Scarlett Johansson) of a photographer (Giovanni Ribisi) and together they stumble into a relationship borne partly of their isolation and partly out of growing frustrations with their respective marriages. For all the usual observations and forced absurditities about foreign countries (naturally, the Japanese are seen as odd and other-worldly, pale imitations of Americans), Coppola’s script is smart: she has insights that belie her youth and she circles the awkward relationship, allowing it to sneak up on you; by the end, even though it’s still awkward, it’s become accessible and you can easily infer what she doesn’t want to tell you. Coppola gets an excellent performance from Johansson and a superior one from Murray; she seems to have captured him at a vulnerable point in his life—he’s so in tune with his character’s alienation that it appears to reflect his current point of view and not merely a function of the role. It also helps that he’s frequently hilarious: his deadpan confusion gives the film a cinematic boost that makes Coppola’s film seem less weighted down by its prose. It’s a gently lulling picture, with unhurried rhythms; you never suffer the demand to feel that so many modern romantic films constantly thrust upon you and though there’s an ambiguous, huddled ending, Coppola openly invites you to share your interpretation with her
In the Cut
June 24, 2004)
While not impossible, it’s unlikely that a world-class director such as Jane Campion could make something unwatchable and while “In The Cut” is a disappointment, no two ways about it, it’s still an interesting disappointment. Perhaps it’s the flaws that make it so. Campion’s approach, intentional sloppiness, with Dion Beebe’s handheld camerawork all over the place (much like an episode of “N.Y.P.D. Blue”) mingled with a saturated color scheme, is quite agreeable, but she never really finds her focus and though it’s kind of fun to see her dip her toes into lurid melodrama, the film’s intentions are never declared. Campion works hard to downplay her artier tendencies in this sweltering tale of sexual transgression mixed with serial murder but, try as she might, her studied visual sense mingles a bit too easily with her apparently instinctual feel for New York City; she effortlessly captures the sensuously steamy claustrophobia and indiscriminate grime that defines both the lure and repulsion of the city. Meg Ryan stars as a professor who gets involved with a detective (Mark Ruffalo) who may or may not be a killer of young women; like Diane Lane in “Unfaithful”, Ryan works overtime to shed her good-girl film persona (while enhancing her own scandalous off-screen behavior), but unlike Lane, she seems fearlessly entranced by the possibilities (no doubt brought on by working with a director of Campion’s stature) and she’s convincingly sexy. With Jennifer Jason-Leigh (wasted) as Ryan’s half-sister and an uncredited Kevin Bacon. It’s a shame this film can’t be recommended because it has a lot going for it. But it just doesn’t feel right.
Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World
June 24, 2004)
Peter Weir’s early-19th century sea drama (based on the work of beloved writer Patrick O’Brien) feels like a movie that has no real beginning or end—it’s as if you’ve been dropped into the middle of an eight hundred page novel and that the story being told is perhaps more of a subplot. Actually, it seems surprising that there’s a plot at all—the novelty in this day and age of a project about early-19th century seafaring is certainly odd enough to forego a storyline. Weir himself appears to recognize the novelty and spends a lot of his time doting on the ship’s stateliness or detailing the inhabitants’ everyday world (much of which seems to have been lost in the cutting room; there’s a scattershot feel to the picture, as if there were too many digressions to fit). Russell Crowe plays the hero, Captain Jack Aubrey, as he chases a French vessel around the South American coast during the Napoleonic era. Crowe plays it safe here—he’s on the verge of becoming the new Harrison Ford, a colorless hero who’s traded his acting chops for audience adulation. This being a Weir film, there has to be some kind of class warfare and the simmering, antagonistic relationship between the ship’s crew and their officers (most of whom are adolescent aristocrats) is examined, although only in fits and starts. (In one of the film’s more ethereal moments, one of the young officers is actually driven to suicide.) But Weir somewhat confusingly co-opts his normally sympathetic views of the working class by making Crowe’s character loved blindly by his men, a champion they pledge undying loyalty for, even though his obsessions put his crew in harm’s way more often than not. Though it’s difficult to shake the film’s slightness and its lack of focus—it’s hard to figure out what it’s about, really—it’s still worthwhile: in spite of its aspiration to epic greatness, it does manage to retain a sense of intimacy that allows for plenty of opportunities to take it all in and simply observe.
All the Real Girls
May 23, 2004)
Nothing even remotely real here. David Gordon Green’s pretentious, threadbare “small” picture about love in a North Carolina mill town is preternaturally arty with its self-conscious underacting, fragmented narrative and postcard-pretty cinematography all designed to con you into thinking it’s sophisticated, thoughtful and suggestive. The story provided by Green and his lead actor Paul Schneider finds supposed lothario Paul realizing his newfound love for his best friend Tip’s sister Noel (Zooey Deschanel) and having to defend that decision to the overprotective Tip. But somewhere midway Green loses interest in his story, preferring instead to meander through his over-intellectualized version of small town living (his screenplay is filled with arch dialogue coming incongruously from the mouths of working-class stiffs); when he decides to return, he does so with an illogical twist that bares the film’s superficiality. The performers appear far too old for the romanticized notions of young love Green seems to idealize and he consistently undermines them by making them flawed into unlikability. (Paul turns out to be an unresponsive, selfish lover and Noel suddenly becomes incapable of making well-thought decisions). Though there’s more drama in the second half and some touching moments of closure, the film by then has managed to cross the line into a preening silliness from which it cannot recover. With the insufferable Patricia Clarkson, who has managed to make a career for herself as every independent filmmaker’s definitive mom. You can tell your kids that the voice of Strong Bad on homestarrunner.com plays a character called Strong Bad—they’ll know what you’re talking about.
Mystic River
May 7, 2004)
Perhaps Mel Gibson should be crying foul at all the negative attention he’s gotten when he can easily point to Clint Eastwood’s “Mystic River” as a film with perhaps a dimmer view of a religious culture, this one Catholicism. Expertly using a variety of sacred icons, Eastwood’s harrowing tale (based on a Dennis Lehane novel, unread) of the interaction between three childhood friends who cross paths after the murder of one of their children finds its true culprit in the systematic repression and abuse of children and women by their faith. Perhaps unsettled by current events, Eastwood, through Tom Stern’s careful cinematography, can barely conceal his rage: the gliding camera consistently pans upwards to the sky, seemingly searching for answers but coming to the conclusion that love in the Catholic Church has been perverted into cruelty and discrimination (presided over by an indifferent God). Usually Eastwood the director exerts direct control over his emotions but here it’s impossible not to be aware of the moral revulsion of a man shaken of his convictions and his anguish as he reacts to the world around him. The performances are nothing short of astounding: as the grieving, vengeful father of a murdered daughter, Sean Penn is alternately moving and terrifying and delivers an emotionally thorough performance; Tim Robbins, as the abused child grown into a shattered adult—and the instant natural suspect—abandons his usual smugness and, by deliberately underplaying, galvanizes; and Kevin Bacon, the friend who has become the detective on the case, is intelligent and complicated as a man haunted by memories of a childhood altered by a single, horrifying act and how that act has affected his ability to connect with the wife who has left him; the women, played flawlessly by Marcia Gay Harden and Laura Linney, represent both extremes of where their faith has relegated them, with Harden rejected by it and Linney brainwashed by its male supremacy. The script by Brian Helgeland is a model of concision. A masterpiece—perhaps, when all is said and done, this decade’s most potent commentary.
Monster
April 17, 2004)
Charlize Theron and Christina Ricci excel in their respective roles as serial killer Aileen Wuornos and her lover in director/writer Patty Jenkins’ imagining of the circumstances that would drive Wuornos to commit the murders of seven Florida men (most of them thinking they were picking up a streetwalker). Jenkins’ theories are all over the map and include pretty much the garden variety of possibilities (Wuornos’ abuse as a child, her lack of education precluding her getting reasonable employment, her brutal rape at the hands of her first victim, etc.) but, fortunately, she’s less interested in dwelling on her sociological positions than in letting her performers dissolve into their characters. Theron, in particular, is stunning: she seems to connect with Wuornos in a primal, subconscious manner and you get the feeling Theron is living the part, not merely acting it. Always an intriguing performer (she was quite good in “The Devil’s Advocate”), here she refuses to hide behind her sun-scarred makeup and weight gain and succeeds in letting emerge Wuornos’ entire personality rather than simply her barbaric need for revenge. Ricci is also excellent, as usual, smoothly underplaying a role that could have easily evolved into a histrionic attempt to capture the picture; like Theron, she seems attracted to the darker side of her nature but is able to use her complex powers of suggestion for definition rather than signal her conflicts. Together, the performances lift “Monster” above its overall routine disposition (though there is some nice late-afternoon cinematography by Steven Bernstein and the font used by Elton Garcia in the title, the same one used for Marlboro cigarettes, is a nice touch). With Bruce Dern as Wuornos’ homeless ally and Pruitt Taylor Vince as the pathetic stuttering john intended by Jenkins to emblemize Wuornos’ misguided compassion.
One From the Heart
April 17, 2004)
Still a bust, even two decades later. Francis Ford Coppola’s Las Vegas fantasy is not so much an attempt to reimagine the movie musical as it is to modernize it, but the results are carelessly half-formed, dreary and with barely any consideration for its audience. It’s the last word in filmic chutzpah. Shot entirely on a soundstage, Coppola’s artificial Vegas has a cramped, stifling hothouse look to it and seems little more than a variation of the sets from “West Side Story”—you half-expect the Sharks and Jets to stage a rumble in the middle of the Strip. Coppola further attempts to stylize his film by framing the story with a suite of songs sung (lethargically) by Tom Waits and Crystal Gayle; they’re all downers that spotlight the unflattering white-trash aspects of the protagonists and their seemingly pointless dreams. The protagonists are played by the miscast Teri Garr and Frederic Forrest, a townie couple whose romance has faded and who turn to their fantasy ideals (played by Raul Julia and Nastassja Kinski) as a means of escaping their oppressed lives. Perhaps it’s the characters’ disconnect or the performers’ overall lack of execution (the exception being Julia’s charming low-rent playboy, handled like a true professional) but so little happens to suggest there’s any depth to be on the lookout for. Instead, the film seems arbitrary, especially when the script (co-written by the director and Armyan Bernstein) allows digressions such as crazed dance numbers that seem appallingly improvised. Outside of Gregory Jein’s miniatures of the famous hotel neon signs in the opening credits, there’s less than meets the eye: Coppola’s experimentation with the then-nascent video technology is not very impressive, with trickery that seems obvious in its cleverness.
Solaris
April 8, 2004)
Steven Soderbergh’s Americanized remake of Andrei Tarkovsky’s Soviet 1972 science-fiction/philosophical space opera is a bold project, given that the material he’s adopting—taken from the novel by Stanislaw Lem but directly inspired by Tarkovsky—is subdued and grim, with plenty of inertia (even though more than an hour of the tedious original is lopped off). Here, Soderbergh departs from the source material and wisely concentrates on the relationships between his characters rather than the philosophical concerns that grounded Tarkovsky’s film. But the material remains perhaps too daunting for modern audiences, with George Clooney (rapidly becoming one of our most introspective actors) as a psychiatrist who travels to a space station surrounding a mysterious planet that sends emissaries representing the troubled pasts of the station’s inhabitants; in Clooney’s case, it’s the apparition of his suicide wife (Natascha McElhone) that rekindles his dormant but conflicted emotions. Although it’s clearly a personal film for Soderbergh about the ephemeral nature of interaction, it’s unfortunately not compelling enough to be little more than another experimental challenge for him (as studied and careful as “Full Frontal” was spontaneous and indulgent), albeit a beautifully shot one (filmed, as usual, by the director under the pseudonym Peter Andrews; he also edited the film as Mary Ann Bernard) with a production design by Philip Messina that pays subtle homage to Tarkovsky’s original.
Intimacy
March 30, 2004)
Like most films either adapted from Hanif Kureishi’s fiction or having screenplays written by him (“My Beautiful Laundrette”, “Sammy And Rosie Get Laid” as well as this film, which lists Kureishi as a co-writer along with Anne-Louise Trividic and director Patrice Chereau), “Intimacy” circles its subject in an indirect manner, never declaring what it’s truly about but leaving a distinct impression. This can make for difficult viewing, requiring an inordinate amount of concentration to keep up (and which wears you down after a while) and it only sinks in long after it’s over. But that’s the film’s strong point: the writers prefer to have you draw your own conclusions, with dialogue that forces you to read between the lines of an affair in which both participants seem to be using it to address their individual demons. Chereau and Kureishi are more interested in their characters’ circumstances than their actions but it’s precisely their circumstances that make their actions compelling. Mark Rylance and Kerry Fox are the lovers (and they’re excellent, even though the fact their trysts are presented in explicit detail may overshadow their performances), with Rylance as a bitter bartender who has spontaneously abandoned his family and Fox as a drama teacher stifled in her marriage to a cabbie (Mike Leigh favorite Timothy Spall, also very fine) whom Rylance befriends in an attempt to understand her; it’s the tensions that build around the trio that drives the narrative. It’s an unhappy yet sensitive film that may distance some audiences and push others into uncomfortable areas they may not want to visit, yet there’s no denying its inquisitive, intelligent presence.
Modvern Callar
March 17, 2004)
Lynne Ramsay’s small picture seems designed solely to impress critics and art-house aficionados but it’s empty and enigmatic for no real purpose. Samantha Morton plays the title role, a Scottish grocery store clerk who steals her boyfriend’s unpublished novel after his suicide and uses his burial money to take a drug- and sex-filled vacation in Spain with her best friend (Kathleen McDermott). That’s really about all that happens. Ramsay is out to make a character study but with Morton delivering a blank and passive performance (she quietly observes all that goes on around her but comments infrequently), there isn’t much to study. Instead, there are long, lingering takes of Morvern coming to terms with a lifeless body or wandering lost through the Spanish countryside or having meaningless sex. It ends pretty much as you expect but since you’ve been observing a bystander, you’re not much interested in the story yet to be told. Everything seems indifferent, from the screenplay (written by Ramsay and Liana Dognini, based on Alan Warner’s novel, unread by this reviewer) to the cinematography by Alwin H. Kuchler.
Along Came Polly
February 27, 2004)
Ever since his breakthrough in “There’s Something About Mary”, Ben Stiller has been playing it very safe by reprising his signature role, the put-upon, wary nebbish (an exception being “The Royal Tenenbaums”) and while in “Along Came Polly” he doesn’t try anything even remotely new, the vehicle still serves him well. The film, as a whole, also benefits from some graceful comedy direction by John Hamburg (who also wrote the script and was one of the writers on Stiller’s “Meet The Parents”). Stiller plays an insurance actuary who discovers his wife’s infidelity on their honeymoon and tries to loosen up by getting involved with free spirit Jennifer Aniston (herself regressing after a promising performance in “The Good Girl”) but their differences threaten the relationship. Actually, there’s not as much chemistry between Stiller and Aniston as the plot requires but Hamburg deflects this by placing his characters in interesting settings. (The film’s emotional center—an argument—is in the cabin of a boat roiling in a storm and the shifting furniture is an interesting commentary on the dialogue.) As is now expected with most Stiller comedies, there are plenty of gross-out gags but most are actually laugh-out-loud funny, particularly a scene in Aniston’s bathroom with an overflowing toilet. The supporting cast is unusually good and they’re used, for the most part, to their best advantage; they include Debra Messing as Stiller’s unfaithful bride, Philip Seymour Hoffman as his best friend, a faded teen actor reduced, as an adult, to amateur revivals of “Jesus Christ Superstar” (a role Jack Black would’ve played before he upgraded to leading man status); an amusing Hank Azaria as Messing’s fling; and Michele Lee and Bob Dishy as Stiller’s parents. (The likable Dishy is silent through most of the movie; when he finally speaks, he’s provided with Hamburg’s least convincing dialogue.) But it’s Alec Baldwin, as Stiller’s insurance agent boss who steals the show, getting his character’s mix of Judaism and insurance shmooze down pat to hysterical effect—it’s a pity Hamburg isn’t able to blend him into the picture more.
Heaven
February 22, 2004)
Though the screenplay was written by the late director Krzysztof Kieslowski with his collaborator Krzysztof Piesiewicz and advances their common theme of the duality in human nature, the compelling visuals are purely those of director Tom Tykwer, who continues to cement his reputation as one of the most interesting European filmmakers working today. Since his breakthrough, the hyper techno-driven “Lola rennt”, Tykwer has been moving towards a more studied, balletic mise en scene and here his subdued combination of remarkable aerial photography (the cinematographer is Tykwer’s gifted longtime colleague Frank Griebe using a Spacecam, a descendant of the Steadicam) and tempered, deliberate pacing provides the film with a gliding, effortless feel that gives you the sense you’re in a dream. Kieslowski’s and Piesiewicz’ oddball story has Cate Blanchett as a British schoolteacher in Italy plotting revenge on an industrialist she believes runs the drug cartel that caused her husband’s fatal overdose; when her plan goes awry, killing innocents in the process, she’s arrested but is helped to escape her interrogators by a police stenographer (well-played by Giovanni Ribisi) who has immediately fallen in love with her. Strangely enough, Tykwer’s smoothly measured cadences make it all seem plausible, even the ponderous philosophical aspects of the script, which are somewhat hazy. But the material itself is not the director’s primary focus; he prefers to let the dazzling skyborne images of the Italian countryside sing to the viewer and the sense of being rhythmically lulled into a lilting, floating euphoria is what lingers long after the film is over.
Win a Date with Tad Hamilton!
February 22, 2004)
A very, very low-key comedy that tries to convince its target audience—new teens—on the virtues of chastity and while that audience will most likely get the point, they won’t be particularly persuaded by it. It’s a good opportunity wasted, probably because the filmmakers involved—Robert Luketic (“Legally Blonde”) is the director and Victor Levin is the writer—don’t seem that interested, or perhaps don’t believe, in the values the film ostensibly puts forth. Kate Bosworth stars as a wholesome West Virginia grocery store clerk who wins a date with Hollywood superstar Tad Hamilton (Josh Duhamel), the contest being an effort to clean up his bad-boy reputation; in reality, he develops designs on his unsuspecting date but the twist is that her virtuousness forces him to rethink his caddish ways and he woos her while her pining friend watches helplessly. (The pining friend is played by Topher Grace, from television’s “That 70s Show” which is, judging by this performance, where his future lies.) The characters are essentially mouthpieces for what appears to be Hollywood’s sudden moral awareness but they’re so under-developed that you have to wonder about the film’s sincerity. Hamilton’s confusion about his newfound principles is nebulous: you don’t get the feeling that he’s sincere in his attraction or that, by the end, he’ll actually put his resolutions in place; and Bosworth is so impossibly beautiful that she seems more of a film studio creation than an actress, which makes her virtuous Rosalee seem too good to be true—she’s not quite convincing as a virgin. Nathan Lane and Sean Hayes appear from time to time as Hamilton’s sleazy manager and agent; they symbolize decadent Hollywood but there’s very little for them to do and what there is isn’t very funny. All in all, a glaring example of Hollywood wanting its cake and eating it too.
Something's Gotta Give
February 4, 2004)
There’s less than meets the eye in Nancy Meyers’ romantic-comedy-cum-ageist/feminist-polemic about a roué (Jack Nicholson) who has an affair with a successful, self-reliant playwright (Diane Keaton), the mother of one of his attempted conquests. Nicholson and Keaton provide a bit of good chemistry but it isn’t enough to overcome Meyers’ whiny tutoring on what women really want, which is apparently to turn men into women. (Meyers’ blunt script makes no bones about it—Nicholson even shouts it out at the end.) As a director, Meyers barely has any presence, preferring to let Jon Hutman’s stale production design carry the load. (It’s also hard to believe the faded cinematography is the work of the great Michael Ballhaus.) As a writer, she seems to think placing erudite Easterners in glamorous locations such as the Hamptons automatically bestows substance on her stilted dialogue, but she reveals herself to be shallow and filled with unpleasant spite: Keaton’s supposedly acclaimed playwright is unmasked to be little more than a hack who finds her revenge in humiliation. Keanu Reeves plays the younger man who comes between Keaton and Nicholson; it would have been nice to see him getting back into the comic form he was so comfortable with in “Parenthood” and “Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure” but he’s given very little to do and ends up being an unneeded straight man. With wasted, underwritten performances by Frances McDormand and Jon Favreau; Meyers has also found a way to do something other directors could not: sap the delightfully aloof sexuality out of Amanda Peet.
Lord of the Rings: Return of the King
(January 21, 2004)
In this final, extremely satisfying installment of “The Lord Of The Rings” trilogy, Peter Jackson confirms himself as the Cecil B. DeMille of our time, a master purveyor of entertainment and showmanship with superior storytelling skills. Jackson throughout has set out to make his own movies and not become a slave to J.R.R. Tolkien’s books (awful as they are—this reviewer could not make it through the last one) and this episode particularly benefits from his cinematic vision and the refitting by the writers (who, in addition to Jackson, include Fran Walsh and Phillipa Boyens) of major plot points and the deepening of the character motivation so sorely lacking in Tolkien’s prose; there’s a lot of emotion on display and it’s frequently overwhelming. Jackson gives the audience what it wants and gives himself the pleasure of having created a work of art that is deeply personal as well, embodying, as it does, notions of chivalry and honor that go all the way back to “Heavenly Creatures”. In order to bring the massive story to closure, Jackson is forced to concentrate more on plot and battle (the film’s centerpiece, the oversized battle at Pelennor Fields, is enthralling, with plenty of swaggering action drawn from the Warner Bros. swashbucklers of the thirties) and have his cast shoulder the responsibility of maintaining interest in the characters—but fortunately everyone is up to the challenge, with Sean Astin (as Sam, for whom the story is ultimately about) and Elijah Wood (as Frodo, sensitively handling the supporting role to which he has been relegated) being the moral centers. Jackson and production designer Grant Major, for the finale, have combined the best design schemes of the previous two films, the warm, colorful textures of the “The Fellowship Of The Ring” with the rocky monochromatic landscapes of “The Two Towers” and the result is a breathtaking, moving cinematic experience that delivers the trilogy into movie legend; the fact that it’s now over means that audiences will feel an acute loss at Christmastime from hereon in.
Confessions of a Dangerous Mind
(January 21, 2004)
In his directorial debut, George Clooney succeeds brilliantly in taking the challenges that an audacious Charlie Kaufman screenplay provides and actually doing something cinematic with it. He uses Kaufman’s bending, shifting, decidedly visual work based on game show impresario Chuck Barris’ autobiography to create an extremely well-crafted, controlled delirium with a haunting rhythm and allows the performers to work in a highly theatrical manner without ever seeming showy or self-indulgent. Barris contends that while producing some of the Sixties’ most iconic television (“The Dating Game”, “The Newlywed Game”) he moonlit as a CIA hit man; while the notion seems incredulous, Clooney never plays it for laughs, instead presenting it as either plausible fact or the delusions of a tormented subconscious that equates the life-long search for sexual gratification with the ability to exterminate real or imagined enemies (including his public). Clooney is aided by inspired work from his gifted crew, including production designer James D. Bissell (whose evocation of the Fifties, Sixties and Seventies is letter-perfect), cinematographer Newton Thomas Sigel and editor Stephen Mirrione; combined, they evoke a cluttered, stylized world identifiable both in a historic and psychological sense and who deftly realize Kaufman’s shadings. As an actor, Clooney the director frees his cast to dive into the material with glee but he knows when to show restraint as well: as such, Sam Rockwell, as Barris, has the flailing, intoxicated mannerisms we recognize from the host of “The Gong Show”, yet he’s never an imitation, preferring to focus all his effort into developing the oversized yet immature pathos that Barris’ id seemingly comes to demand; there are also fine performances by Drew Barrymore, Clooney himself and, in her best performance since “Erin Brockovich”, Julia Roberts. Clooney shows chops as a director and he demonstrates a real gravitas that belies his lightweight commercial acting assignments; he’s passionate about this material and his concerned thoughtfulness is steeped into each frame.
Russian Ark
(January 7, 2004)
Though you can’t help but admire the ambition and precision of a film consisting of one uncut tracking shot through the Hermitage of St. Petersburg and featuring hundreds of extras each owning their own synchronized moment, a more-than-passing knowledge of pre-Bolshevik Russian history is probably desirable to more easily follow Aleksandr Sokurov’s paean to an institution that embodies Russia’s long-lost past. Without that knowledge, “Russian Ark” can have something of a soporific effect, dwelling as it does on individual artworks and engaging in long, ambiguous conversations between an unseen narrator (the director himself) and a contentious nineteenth-century European intellectual (Sergei Dontsov). Fortunately, Sokurov has the good sense to portray his vision as either a dream or coma-induced hallucination (the film begins with the narrator suggesting having been part of a shared cataclysmic accident with echoes of nuclear devastation—possibly Chernobyl?) which allows everyone to be included in the opportunity to experience the overwhelmingly in-depth journey into a Russia that most modern viewers have ceased to recognize and which the director clearly pines for. The conclusion is itself undeniably moving: a beautiful ball that ushers out the era of royalty (spanning the reigns of Peter the Great and Catherine the Great through Czar Nicholas) that Sokurov displays such deep melancholy affection for. The Steadicam cinematography is by Tilman Buttner (he also shot Tom Tykwer’s “Lola rennt”) and it’s astounding as it painstakingly details a landmark so abundant with art and a haunted history that it seems almost ethereal.
The Matrix Revolutions
(December 14, 2003)
Probably the best of the trilogy for the simple reason that it’s the easiest to follow: the Wachowski Brothers finally dispense with the philosophical claptrap that marred the first two pictures and rush-deliver a dumbed-down conclusion (love conquers all, believe it or not) in order to focus on two epic battles: one between humans and machines (a battle for the underground human city of Zion) and one between a human and computer program (Keanu Reeves’ Neo and Hugo Weaving’s Agent Smith). Or something like that. The two battles comprise essentially that last two-thirds of the movie, which means that it’s perfectly all right to sit back and not have to think, and the relief, you realize, allows you to enjoy it as a movie-movie. The special effects, while far from innovative (there seems to be a lot of cribbing from James Cameron’s “Aliens” and “Terminator 2: Judgment Day”), are diverting enough and the monumental martial arts fight between Reeves and Weaving is so long that you start to feel kind of giddy midway. These are emotions not often realized in the first two films; though there was plenty of awe at the effects, design and, initially, the concept, there never has been much joy in watching them. Here, while you realize that, overall, you’re not watching anything particularly joyous, at least you’re reasonably entertained. (Note: like its predecessor, this film was viewed in the IMAX format, which is proving to make a difference in fantasy and animation presentations; the clarity and depth of color is helping make this the preferred choice for these genres. Hopefully, the success of the format will convince studios that there is a market for oversized presentations of technically sophisticated films.)
School of Rock
(November 23, 2003)
Like Steven Soderbergh, Richard Linklater has proven capable of working within the studio system while remaining a presence in the avant garde and though “The School Of Rock” seems a bit too compromised (it is a Paramount picture, after all), it still serves as a contemporary family film featuring a fine, exciting performance by Jack Black. He stars as a heavy metal musician masquerading as a substitute teacher at a tony prep school who recruits his class of adolescents to form a rock band. Though it’s ultimately satisfying, there seems to be quite a bit of movie left on the cutting room floor (most of the supporting characters played by such talented performers as Joan Cusack, Sarah Silverman and Mike White—who also wrote the screenplay—are reduced to caricatures) and the filmmakers play it safe by selecting heavy metal—easy parody material—as the music of choice. Though Linklater clearly likes this project, he doesn’t invest a lot of emotion in it; it could have been much more significant than the knock-off it is. Black is often compared to John Belushi with his raucous, exaggerated mannerisms but he infuses his Neanderthal freneticism with a spontaneous articulation that highlights the versatility Belushi lacked and is vital to the picture’s success. Together with “Shallow Hal”, this proves Black can almost single-handedly carry a film and his future bodes well—a good thing for mass audiences.
Kill Bill: Volume One
(November 12, 2003)
Quentin Tarentino’s insanely violent homage to exploitation cinema is, after the irrelevant, self-important “Jackie Brown”, a welcome return to the filmmaking he does best (though he seems to be narrowing his audience to film school students and video store geeks). The first half features the shockingly graphic Americanized violence we’ve come to expect from him as he sets up a brutal fantasy about a woman (known as “The Bride” and played with relish by Uma Thurman) beaten and left for dead on her wedding day; after four years in a coma, she returns to exact her brutal revenge against her aggressors. In this first of two planned pictures, she battles two of the five (although, in typical Tarentino fashion, not chronologically). It’s in the second half, where she travels to Japan to commission a samurai sword from Hattori Hanzo (the legendary Sonny Chiba in a terrific performance) in order to confront O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu), that the violence goes into overdrive, turning into a stylized chopsocky fever dream with each over-the-top situation outdoing the previous. (At one point, Thurman single-handedly takes on an army of nearly one hundred yakuza.) Though there’s plenty of the sadistic misogyny that defines Tarentino as a cold-hearted egotist who seems immensely gratified seeing women tortured (you’re reminded of his glee with his captive in “From Dusk Till Dawn”), there’s also an overt desire to explain them—he gives each of the first part’s major female characters the baggage that comes with being a woman. (Thurman grieves over the child she carried at the time of her attempted murder; Vivica A. Fox’ young daughter interrupts their confrontation; and Liu’s childhood character—in a chilling anime sequence—sees her parents slain and is a victim of pedophilia.) It’s a bid for a pass that doesn’t work: he can’t help but dress up his observations with clever stylizations and he throws them into the mix as juicy tidbits merely to provoke discussion among his acolytes. Still, the film is great fun to watch, a nerd’s passionate desire to regurgitate every exploitive action scene he’s ever watched within the context of his art and surprisingly it comes off as sincere and reverent.
Irreversible
(October 13, 2003)
Though it may strike some as exploitive (with some justification) and gimmicky (not only is it presented backwards in real time, each scene is shot in one take) and has perhaps the most astonishingly realistic portrayals of violence in cinema, Gaspar Noe’s technically audacious film is, unexpectedly, also an insightful character study. The first half is a harrowing recreation of the lust for revenge after a brutal anal rape and beating that truly requires the viewer’s ability to handle viewing these acts in remarkably explicit detail. But it’s in the film’s second half—where the events leading up to the tragedies devolve—that Noe’s gifted direction of some very talented actors (including Monica Bellucci, from “The Matrix Reloaded”, Vincent Cassel, the voice of Monsieur Hood in “Shrek” and Albert Dupontel in perhaps the film’s most fascinating performance) is brought to the forefront and the superbly loose, semi-improvisational performances help define the characters in subtle ways that clarify the causes and effects of the events to follow. Noe has his flaws—he signifies a little too bluntly (Bellucci recounting a telling dream seems a little too prescient) and the opening scene takes so long a bit of the dread wears off—but he has far more affection for his main characters than his shock counterpart Michael Haneke does for his in “The Piano Teacher”. While Noe may have his aggressive, unpleasant side and mercilessly insists on pushing his audience’s buttons, he also gives them an intimate portrayal of relationships constructed much more carefully than anticipated.
Good Morning
(September 9, 2003)
It may have the skimpiest of plots—two young brothers take a vow of silence until their parents buy them a television—but Yasujiro Ozu’s 1959 picture is anything but slight, taking on the subject of language (ironic, considering the story) with attentiveness and intelligence. In his deliberate, contemplative manner, Ozu presents a wry commentary on the ways even the most innocuous words can harm (gossip) or become the building blocks of a relationship (a budding romance is confirmed by a conversation about the weather); he also notes Japan’s growing fascination with the English language (the older boy studies it) and the increasing obsession, now with fourteen years of distance from the war, with American technology—the suburban landscape is peppered with aerial antennas as television begins to permeate the culture. It’s subtly beautiful: each shot is perfectly framed (the camera never moves) with an excellent use of depth that highlights exactly what the director wants you to see and giving you plenty of space to focus; it’s easy to see how a master of today’s Asian cinema such as Wong Kar-Wai would be profoundly influenced by Ozu’s languid yet carefully observed filmmaking. A delight; it’s also a fine introduction for younger viewers to the magnificence of international cinema.
28 Days Later
(August 23, 2003)
Danny Boyle’s post-modern update of George Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead” is more chilling than scary, but it’s still a pretty effective apocalyptic nightmare—even though it never quite becomes the nightmare you want it to be. The film is filled with disturbing images of a devastated Britain that stay with you long after it’s over. (A long shot of the town of Manchester seen going up in flames is particularly haunting.) Boyle has shot the film in digital video (the camerawork is by Anthony Dod Mantle) and it’s a good choice, bringing a grainy immediacy to the narrative and allowing Boyle to indulge in some flashy but useful shock editing whenever zombies infected by a “rage” virus are onscreen. But the director and his screenwriter, Alex Garland, aren’t content to let the concept of a country (and, presumably, a world) destroyed by infection be what the film is ultimately about and the second half changes direction, introducing a plot of lesser value about a crazed army major (well-played by Christopher Eccleston) whose goals for the future of mankind are intended to be as outrageous as the more gruesome elements of the story but are not, unfortunately, nearly as interesting. Still, much like “Trainspotting”, Boyle brings his indefatigable energy to the proceedings and the intensity never flags even when the ideas get shuffled around. The young, eager-to-please cast includes Cillian Murphy, Naomie Harris and Megan Burns and they’re up to a difficult task.
The Truth About Charlie
(August 15, 2003)
Jonathan Demme’s unfortunate updating of Stanley Donen’s minor comedy-thriller “Charade” lacks the only thing the original had going for it, namely the obvious chemistry between leads Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. “The Truth About Charlie” features a self-serious, one-dimensional Thandie Newton and a wooden Mark Wahlberg, showing no interest in either each other or in lightening up—Demme has apparently asked them to take the proceedings entirely too seriously and they’re only too happy to oblige. Demme’s obvious intention to deliver lighter fare after the somber “Beloved” and “Philadelphia” is in principle a good idea and this should have been a fun romp. But it’s isn’t and it’s easy to see where Demme goes wrong: the unfortunate casting is perhaps the worst in several years and not even the international supporting cast (including Christine Boisson, Ted Levine, Joong-Hoon Park and a smug Tim Robbins) or the French New Wave cameos (Agnes Varda, Charles Aznavour and Anna Karina) can save it. It’s a whimpering bore and a waste—coming from a director of Demme’s stature, it’s also a major disappointment.
Spirited Away
(August 3, 2003)
Hayao Miyazaki’s animated masterpiece is a very foreign film—and not simply because it comes from another country (Japan); there’s an imagination at work that’s so organic and remote that it seems to spring from an individual’s subconscious and as such feels as if it has no immediate relation to a single culture. But it connects universally, speaking as it does in a language that suggests anything’s possible and children of all cultures will respond to it instinctively. (And it will touch the inner child of adults.) There’s a stunning clarity in Miyazaki’s hand-drawn animation and it’s clear that a painstaking effort is made to detail every frame. His use of color is striking and gratifying: rather than depend on the bright, flashy pastels that seem to be the choice of computer animators, he uses a rich but muted palate that emphasizes the dreamlike aspects of the story (a young girl must rescue her parents who have been turned into pigs by angry spirits and in turn discovers her capabilities for self-reliance; in this regard, it’s not unlike most Disney films) and finds its pleasures in the darker aspects of the settings and the characters. The story takes its time to develop and though some may find it more arduous than entertaining (and, admittedly, its mildly humorous moments are few and far between), as it builds the rewards become more and more evident until, by its simply beautiful conclusion, it’s overwhelmed you and left you dazed. Unique, infused with wisdom and love.
Frida
(July 30, 2003)
Salma Hayek may be the ostensible star of this biography of Mexican artist Frida Kahlo but director Julie Taymor is the real driving force, triumphantly displaying an astute eye that crams each frame with as much information as possible and boldly exposing the viewer to a variety of artistic experiments—the project seems as important to Taymor as it does to Hayek, whose sincere passion, as producer, for the subject is honorable and reverent. It’s a bit of an about-face for Taymor, whose feature debut, “Titus”, a graphic adaptation of Shakespeare’s “Titus Andronicus”, was filled with time-warps and sparse sets. Here, Taymor tells the story with simplicity, the use of some picturesque pastels that create an authoritative mise en scene, and some fun animated moments (she employs delightful dioramas to indicate shifts in settings and time; a garish hallucinatory sequence was created by the Quay Brothers, whose work has always been permeated with Kahlo’s influence) presented with an unabashed fervor that pays homage to Kahlo’s art while enhancing her own. Taymor works aggressively, approaching Kahlo in an almost masculine manner; as a result, she seems to respond better to the male aspects of the performances and though Hayek does a decent job as Kahlo (herself exhibiting many mannish tendencies), she’s acted off the screen by Alfred Molina, as husband/mentor Diego Rivera, with an exuberant yet smoothly modulated performance that shows up Hayek’s histrionics, heartfelt as they are. There are a number of interesting supporting performers, including Roger Rees (as Kahlo’s father), Valeria Golino, Geoffrey Rush and, briefly, Diego Luna (from “Y tu mama tambien”) as well as cameos from Ashley Judd, Antonio Banderas and Edward Norton as Nelson Rockefeller. Taymor shows that with this and “Titus” under her belt that she can deftly navigate between commercial and alternative narratives and that her natural creativity can only enhance any project she chooses to work on; hers is a rare and welcome talent indeed and it’s employed to great effect here.
Hulk
(July 20, 2003)
Ang Lee’s attempt to create a brooding melodrama while trying to stay true to the live-action comic genre generally works but, typical of Lee’s endeavors, there’s a lack of depth that renders everything static and half-formed. It tries to be soulful but ends up humorless and blurry. On the upside, Lee is probably more successful than anyone has been in actually recreating the kinetic rush and intensity of comic-book art: he moves a number of multi-panels of shifting sizes on and off the screen; he freezes various shots, giving them a drawn look; and he ingeniously uses depth of vision in the action scenes (often to humorous effect: a tank thrown like a discus crashes with a poof in the background). On the downside, Lee and longtime collaborator, writer James Shamus, aren’t sure how they perceive their subject. They position Hulk as the rage-filled opposite of mild-mannered hero Bruce Banner (Eric Bana, the Australian actor whose obvious attempts to hide his accent actually adds to his intensity), who claims to enjoy the mass destruction; yet he becomes the monster only as an act of self-defense and only seeks to protect himself. They also take their own sweet time on developing the relationship between Banner and his scientist father (Nick Nolte, delivering a lazy, shapeless performance) with too much of it told in flashback; it ends up indistinct and unresolved. (Lee and Schamus also try, late in the film, to make a supervillian out of Nolte but they jettison that idea almost as quickly as they introduce it.) Still, though there could have been more of the effective computer effects designed to highlight the various emotions displayed on Hulk’s face, it’s pretty well made, an attempt to provide an adult perspective that goes beyond the usual sophisticated production design and yet provide reasonable entertainment value—it may not be the righteous effort Lee is striving for but it’s not without its pleasures.
Finding Nemo
(July 7, 2003)
Pixar assumes the responsibility of gently leading children on the path to adulthood from Disney (itself busy trying to attract adolescents with more mature animated and live-action films) and delivers a beautiful, exciting animated feature about a neurotic clownfish who must rescue his kidnapped son, trapped in an aquarium in a Sydney dentist’s office. Albert Brooks is the voice of the phobic father and it’s a perfect fit, so much so it seems to have been designed around his persona—he’s quite clearly part of the creative process and makes it as personal for him as it does for Andrew Stanton, the director (who also developed the story). It’s in perfect harmony with Brooks’ body of work as a filmmaker, showcasing his desire for familial overprotection that was at the heart of his “Mother” (but with none of the smug self-righteousness that marred it). His Marlin is joined on his journey by a hilarious Ellen DeGeneres as a short-term memory-challenged bluefish named Dory and she brings the simple verbal vaudeville of Gracie Allen in endearing herself to the audience. We’ve become quite accustomed to Pixar’s dazzling visuals and this film is no exception, with its exquisite painter’s palette of sea colors (particularly the shimmering, watery shades of teal and the sharp pastels that comprise the landscape) but the story is the design’s equal, a balanced, clear-eyed view of father-son relationships and the recognition of personal growth by one another—it’s moving and meaningful at the same time.
The Matrix Reloaded
(July 7, 2003)
Though merely competent overall, “The Matrix Reloaded” is a better movie than the original, probably because this time out directors/conceptualists the Wachowski Brothers have no tolerance for the muss and fuss of explaining themselves to their audience—they just go about their business of crafting a universe in which they can stage all the martial arts fights and epic car chases they want and doll it up with prohibitively dense metaphysics that have meaning only to themselves and those that want to pretend they’re in the know. There’s apparently no need to bother with what appear to be major plot holes (such as whether Neo, played by Keanu Reeves, whose woodenness makes him weirdly perfect for the lead, is human or not—everyone keeps reminding him he is, even though he can fly) or characterization (the actors either under- or overact and some are caricaturized—most notably Lambert Wilson as the campy Frenchman Merovingian—to the point of embarrassment). But what the Wachowski Brothers do well, they do exceedingly well: those martial arts sequences (choreographed once again by the legendary Woo-ping Yuen) and the climactic fourteen minute freeway chase are thrilling in their carefully analyzed revisiting of shopworn action scenes; they don’t know when to quit, but for some reason, it’s impossible to not be fascinated. (Note: this film was viewed in the IMAX format and it’s a wonderful choice for such an elaborate production. But the seemingly high-definition format also points to the struggle makeup artists will have to deal with in the future: every zit and facial imperfection is highlighted for the entire world to see and if I were Laurence Fishburne, I’d have that thing above my forehead checked out.)
I Am Trying To Break Your Heart
(June 37, 2003)
Documentarian Sam Jones is in the right place at the right time as he captures the Chicago-based alternative country band Wilco as they struggle both internally and with their record label. The result is a reasonably compelling look at how a band grows through the process of creating and negotiating, if not necessarily in the ways anyone associated with the process had envisioned. Those only casually familiar with Wilco might be surprised to find that their ostensible leader, singer-songwriter Jeff Tweedy, is far more collaborative than he has appeared and that the band is comfortable sharing input in a loose, respectful manner; but multi-instrumentalist Jay Bennett seems to want to diffuse the camaraderie by getting hung-up on semantics, involving Tweedy in long, drawn-out debates that point directly to Bennett’s insecurities and apparent desire to over-communicate. (After Bennett leaves the band, the group seems prepared—even eager—to move on and it’s apparent that Bennett had trouble connecting with the other band members as well.) The enmity between Wilco and their label, Reprise, is more cut-and-dried, with a story you’ve heard a million times before: profit-minded record label declines to release album by forward-thinking, critically acclaimed musical group; there isn’t much new here and the drama plays itself out rather quickly. Where the film truly shines is in capturing the essence of Wilco’s live performances. Slow, difficult and somewhat antiseptic on record, in concert they display a sparkle and drive that brings a vibrancy to Tweedy’s esoteric, often half-formed musings.
Bruce Almighty
(June 18, 2003)
This should probably be a fine vehicle for Jim Carrey—a hard-luck soft-news anchor is given the reins while God takes a vacation—and his enormous comedic skills are very much in evidence (which alone makes it worth recommending) but there seems to be a bit too much restraint and tidiness on display, a classic example of Universal Studio’s sanitized version of America; ostensibly set in Buffalo, it could be Anywhere U.S.A. as long as it’s the spotless, W.A.S.P. Anywhere U.S.A. the studio insists on force-feeding the world. (The fact that God is played by African-American Morgan Freeman seems meant to throw us off the track but doesn’t—God may be black but He apparently has little interest in anyone other than His white followers.) Carrey throws himself into the project, capitalizing on the apparent desperation he’s exhibiting while trying to recover from his disappointing serious work (“The Truman Show”, “Man In The Moon”) and his physical comedy has never been better; but while it’s a pleasure to watch a master craftsman at work, the material he’s given works only sporadically, most notably in extended scenes such as an on-air meltdown at Niagara Falls and his tormenting of the anchor who’s passed him over for the top job. (The anchor is nicely played by Steven Carell, displaying the same crack timing as Carrey.) While Carrey makes the movie worthwhile, the overall pacing is slack, thanks to the lackluster direction by Tom Shadyac, who, as in films such as “The Nutty Professor”, prefers to just point the camera and let his stars bring him the glory.
American Graffiti
(June 12, 2003)
The striking visuals and sound collage point to the collaborative genius of director George Lucas who had the good sense to involve brilliant stylists (here, editors Verna Fields and Marcia Lucas, sound recorder Walter Murch, and Haskell Wexler, listed as “visual consultant”, though the cinematography is credited to Jan D’Alquen and Ron Eveslage) and the immensely talented professionals working in harmony gives you the feeling of watching a lovingly creative family as they innovate. Lucas and co-scenarists Gloria Katz and Willard Huyck have fashioned a sweet-tempered ode to the end of adolescence as played out on the last night of summer vacation for Camelot-era high school graduates planning diverging life paths in the morning; they precisely capture the rueful melancholy and idealism that teenagers about to step into the void feel and combine them with a graceful slapstick that makes the touching symbolism easy to identify with. The performances are equally inspired, from Richard Dreyfuss’ sensitive confliction to Paul Le Mat’s easygoing charm infused with despondency to Ron Howard’s all-around nice guy/pushover and Charles Martin Smith’s painful grabs at acceptance. It’s a film with a male point of view but this time around, that’s not a bad thing—there’s a naïve misunderstanding of women that seems deliberate and affectionately wrong-headed and it dovetails perfectly with the overall wistful sense of young aimlessness. The soundtrack alone makes this worth seeing. Toni Basil did the choreography, most notably a memorable sock hop that takes up an early portion of the picture. Whatever drubbing Lucas has taken since “Star Wars”, at least he can point with pride to this critical Seventies masterpiece.
Adaptation
(June 4, 2003)
Charlie Kaufman’s hyperactive imagination is on full display in this, his second collaboration with director Spike Jonze (the first was the bemusing “Being John Malkovich”) but this time there’s so much fertility in Kaufman’s musings that the little technique Jonze brings to the project is obscured. Kaufman’s theme (actually more of an obsession) about a cell dividing into complete opposites is used in virtually every aspect of his script which veers in so many directions that it’s almost dizzying trying to keep up. It’s based on Kaufman’s attempt (true, one supposes) to adapt an unadaptable piece of non-fiction (Susan Orlean’s “The Orchid Thief”) but moves exponentially into fantasies about a twin brother who writes pulp screenplays snarfed up by agents (while he’s trying to write a serious one) as well as Orlean herself and the relationship that evolves between her and her subject, an enigmatic but brilliant Florida horticulturist. The Kaufman twins are played by a well-cast Nicolas Cage who manages to straddle the line between farce and reality and does so with a surety that only confirms his commitment. Orlean is played by Meryl Streep who displays an unexpected sexiness that she pushes to her limits and Chris Cooper is wonderful as John Laroche, the eccentric white trash horticulturalist around whom the story really revolves. Unfortunately, Jonze provides Kaufman’s controlled lunacy a pedestrian, literal approach, suggesting that he may not be the best interpreter of this particular type of material. Still, thanks to Kaufman’s prodigious writing talent and some very fine performances, “Adaptation” is a must-see.
Barbershop
(June 2, 2003)
A warm, endearing comedy about a day in the life of a barbershop owner (the genial Ice Cube) who operates his business on Chicago’s South Side. The film takes pains to identify the barbershop as a cornerstone destination for black men where they can speak their minds without fear of retribution. The discourses are led by the overly opinionated elder barber Eddie (Cedric the Entertainer, using his character’s age to baffle you with his loose comic timing) who spouts nonsensical, incendiary remarks about twentieth-century black historical figures (Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks) but who, late in the film, becomes the film’s conscience. Though it isn’t nearly as uproarious as it tries to be and there’s not enough dramatic tension until the end, there’s a casual likeability that’s hard to resist, with actors that are eager to please and director Tim Story keeping things interesting with some unusual framing. The screenplay, by Mark Brown, Don D. Scott and Marshall Todd, has enough profanity and innuendo to give caution to parents of pre-teens but the film’s core values are wholesome and dignified.
Open City
(May 22, 2003)
Though directed with a documentarian’s immediacy by Roberto Rossellini, “Open City” is hardly an objective look at life in German-occupied Rome; in fact, it’s filled with a rage that grows feverishly, culminating in a frank and harrowing second half, delivering shock after shock until you’re left in stunned silence at its conclusion. Made in 1945 after the Allied liberation, it feels cathartic, as if the torrent of anger and emotion that’s built up during the war is finally able to be unleashed, but rather than the joy that usually comes with release, there’s an exhausted despondency that finds its only hope in the pristine faith of its children. Rossellini and his writers, Sergio Amidei and Federico Fellini, don’t bother to disguise their intense hatred for the Germans (and, in snide asides, their Fascist brethren), viewing them as pathetically proud monsters with a perverted tunnel vision, but they do allow them to have a conscience in the form of a drunken Nazi officer (Joop van Hulzen) denouncing his race’s barbarianism. With the galvanizing Anna Magnani representing both the fury and despair of a repressed people, it’s a classic example of film’s importance, when required, as the voice of a traumatized cultural psyche.
Far From Heaven
(May 15, 2003)
Todd Haynes combines the swooning melodrama of Douglas Sirk’s Fifties CineamaScope “women’s pictures” with issues that were sublimated then and the result is a fascinating and powerful indictment of a repressed Eisenhower-era society that has an unfortunate direct connection to our own. Although it’s ripe for parody, Haynes treats the source material with dignity and finds ample opportunity to employ Sirk’s highly stylized technique to provide a shocking immediacy that speaks to his contemporary themes. Julianne Moore (in a performance far subtler than in “The Hours”) portrays a suburban housewife whose picture-perfect world begins to crumble when she uncovers her advertising executive husband’s homosexual tendencies (her husband is played by Dennis Quaid, excellent as always) and becomes involved with her black gardener (a sensitive, endearing Dennis Haysbert) at the height of segregation. Collaborating with ace cinematographer Edward Lachman, art director Peter Rogness and costumer Sandy Powell, Haynes creates an iridescent world of spectacular neon greens, blues and reds that lushly define the period and provide texture and commentary even through the intentionally stilted perspective. It gives the appearance of being a closed, distant environment yet the mirror Haynes holds up forces us to acknowledge a troubled bond that refuses to entirely break. A superior example of a film made with a cineaste’s love and care.
Holes
(April 25, 2003)
In its ongoing effort to maintain relevance with today’s young moviegoers while trying to appeal to their parents, Walt Disney Pictures continues to pair talented filmmakers with compelling projects and while action director Andrew Davis (“The Fugitive”, “Under Siege”) is no David Lynch (who directed Disney’s “The Straight Story”), he does show a strong commitment to making his film the best it can be. “Holes” is based on Louis Sachar’s beloved children’s novel (he also wrote the screenplay) about Stanley Yelnats (Shia LaBouef, a Disney Channel favorite), sent to a camp for wayward teenage boys forced to dig holes in the Texas desert as punishment (but, unbeknownst to them, really looking for a buried treasure for warden Sigourney Weaver). There’s a curse on the Yelnats family name that’s directly tied to the story, much of it told in hundred-year-old flashbacks concerning events in both Texas and Eastern Europe. For its target audience of adolescents, it’s a fairly convoluted plot but Davis and Sachar don’t condescend in their storytelling and there shouldn’t be any problems understanding it. Davis gets some entertainingly outsized performances from his adult actors—in addition to Weaver, there’s Eartha Kitt, Henry Winkler, Patricia Arquette, Tim Blake Nelson, the always welcome Siobhan Fallon and, most notably, a funny Jon Voight in a delightful bouffant wig—and the kids seem eager to prove their chops, particularly LaBouef, whose likeability stems from his subtle underplaying in the face of all the exaggeration. Recommended.
Talk To Her
(April 3, 2003)
As a writer, Pedro Almodovar has evolved from an off the wall scenarist with serious themes to a serious scenarist with off the wall themes and both styles have managed to complement him as a filmmaker. The screenplay for “Talk To Her”, with its effortless transition from entertaining character study in its first half to moving treatment of love in the second, is furthered by Almodovar’s exquisite, sensitive use of camera placement and lighting, allowing for a richness of emotion that sneaks up on you in a dazzling, heartfelt finale. The unusual (to say the least) plot is about two men who form a relationship while the women they love are both in comas; but Almodovar refuses to play it for laughs, instead using it to inquire about the male approach to both sexes, suggesting, in a myriad of ways both literary and cinematically, that there is very little to differentiate between them. Almodovar has always been an actor’s director and this is no exception, but the sublime performance by Javier Camara as the film’s central character, a male nurse who has taken the job just to be near the comatose dancer he loves, is especially inventive; long-faced, with a continual hangdog expression, Camara’s gentle appeal subtly grows on you as the film progresses so that when he commits an act you know is virtually unthinkable, he—and the director—are forgiven when they use it as a catalyst for the blossoming life affirmation at the end. While it’s hampered (only slightly) by some slow sections midway that threaten to lull the film to a halt, there’s a rhythm that the director establishes that makes the story flow seamlessly. “Talk To Her” certainly cements Almodovar’s reputation as a world-class filmmaker who seems nowhere near his peak. Highly recommended.
Spider
(April 1, 2003)
David Cronenberg’s very good minimalist drama features Ralph Fiennes, who plays a schizophrenic returning to his hometown to replay important childhood events in his mind. It’s a very dark film, intentionally underlit, with dialogue that’s sparse, subdued and difficult to follow, yet it’s reasonably accessible to the average viewer. Cronenberg and his scenarist, Patrick McGrath, upon whose novel (unread) it’s based, create an enigma based on the rhythms of a disturbed mind, refusing to capitulate to traditional narrative conventions (indeed, one could argue that the entire film is imagined—and not necessarily by Fiennes’ adult character) and choosing instead to have their character work in ways that discretely disarm the viewer, making the ambiguous conclusion easy to absorb. Fiennes works exceedingly well with the filmmakers’ conceits: he’s completely unknowable, a lurching shadow of a man, making no eye contact and whose dialogue consists of mainly one-word responses, mostly unintelligible. He’s as removed as any figure you’ll see in a film, yet he somehow manages to connect with the viewer on a primordial level without having to resort to the histrionics that other actors might feel are necessary to illustrate mental illness—you develop an affection for him without ever truly understanding him. Miranda Richardson (excellent in the critical dual role of Fiennes’ mother and stepmother), Gabriel Byrne (as his father, imagined to alternate between barbarism and sympathy), Bradley Hall (fine as young Spider) and Lynn Redgrave (as the landlord of the halfway house Fiennes lives in) are the other primary players. Because of the director’s mastery of shifting mindscapes, he’s able to bring his usual theme of sexual abhorrence to the forefront; while never having to explain or detail it, the lure is there nonetheless. Peter Suschitzky, Cronenberg’s usual cinematographer, delivers his usual brilliance. Coming off the disappointment of the halfhearted “eXistenZ”, this marks a return to form for Cronenberg and though not as audacious as his previous masterwork “Crash”, it’s a compelling, well-crafted piece that lingers with you long after it’s over.
Head Of State
(April 1, 2003)
The real, angry Chris Rock doesn’t put in an appearance until the final moments of this political satire (directed and co-written by Rock) but it’s not enough to rescue what has come before. Rock’s fantasy of being the first African-American to achieve the White House (although he’s initially set up to fail by spin doctors Dylan Baker and a surprisingly funny Lynn Whitfield) is somewhat toothless by Rock’s own standards. The problem is his altered perception of himself as a film star (as opposed to the established HBO black equivalent of Dennis Miller): he phonily positions himself from the onset as cuddly, concerned for the constituents of the ward he’s an alderman for and reasonably ignorant of national issues; he’s finally allowed to become self-aware only when his older brother (the always welcome Bernie Mac) intercedes. You keep waiting for Rock to change but when he does, it’s first into a playa that comes up with glib quips in response to standard questions. (With barely a mention of foreign policy, they seem a bit stale). Only in the final debate against his opponent (Nick Searcy) does he let loose with some honesty and only then do the jokes carry some weight. Rock, making his directorial debut, opts for the equivalent of a made-for-TV movie with a flat look, very mild gags (there are not nearly enough white fright jokes but there is a fundraiser that turns into a dance party with elderly WASPs doing the electric slide, and opening credits that state Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, George Bush and Hillary Clinton, among others, “are not in this movie”) and very little interest in being taken seriously. Warren Beatty covered this turf far more handily in “Bulworth”. With Tamala Jones as his love interest, Robin Givens (cleverly cast as a gold digger) and, unfortunately, only a couple of bits from Tracy Morgan.
Chicago
(March 25, 2003)
Alexander Payne’s follow-up to his raucous, furious “Election” couldn’t be more different. It moves at a deliberate speed, placidly shot (James Glennon’s camera barely moves) and will surely test some audiences. There’s a pervasive melancholy in Payne’s narrative (written with Jim Taylor and based on Louis Begley’s novel, unread by this reviewer) of a recently retired actuary (Jack Nicholson) who finds himself newly widowed and begins to question his life and place in eternity; this prompts him to travel throughout the Midwest, visiting places from his past en route to his daughter’s wedding in Denver. Though it’s good to see Nicholson finally playing a character his age, his performance also illustrates the film’s thorniest problem: deliberately underplaying the role of a simple man whose greatest fear is that of being forgotten long after he and anyone who has known him are gone, you can’t help but feel it’s Nicholson acting—this is an internal struggle Jack Nicholson will never have to deal with. It’s in the film’s supporting roles, fortunately, that Payne’s observations are beautifully driven home, particularly Hope Davis’ as Nicholson’s daughter, long ignored and unwilling to allow her father further access. Davis is stunning, a complex, emotional woman with full understanding of the control she exercises and an unwillingness to sublimate that control to that of her father’s; she underscores the shrinking significance of Nicholson’s character that is at the heart of the film. The other fine performances are from Dermot Mulroney (as the ne’er do well groom), Kathy Bates (somehow sensual as the groom’s earthy mother) and Howard Hesseman (as Bates’ pathetic ex-husband).
Chicago
(March 25, 2003)
“Chicago” barely qualifies as a movie—it’s a filmed presentation of a Broadway musical. Somewhere there’s a script (Bill Condon wrote it) and some characters (John C. Reilly plays one) but in the end it’s a series of loosely strung together numbers intending to insult the audience, sneeringly identifying it as a scandal-loving, celebrity-mad, indiscriminate horde. Choreographer Rob Marshall turns his directorial debut into a slavish homage to Bob Fosse but where Fosse had the good sense to surround non-dancer Roy Scheider in “All That Jazz” with Ann Reinking and Ben Vereen, Marshall surrounds non-dancer Renee Zellweger with the equally lead footed Catherine Zeta-Jones and Richard Gere and suddenly editor Martin Walsh is everyone’s best friend. It’s all a trick; none of it’s credible: you spend the entire film guessing where the dancing doubles are inserted (though the credits trumpet the fact that when you see the leads dance…they’re really dancing—which is the same as saying whatever beef is used in an all-beef hot dog really is all beef). There’s probably only about twenty minutes of actual dialogue and the material is so thin (two murderesses turn their crimes into a media circus in Chicago’s immoral twenties) that the film must depend on its musical staging to keep you interested; but even there you’re presented with an unoriginal patchwork of fantasy sequences (you’ve seen this kind of stuff on PBS’ “Great Performances” hundreds of times) intended to move character development along but in reality only stalls what little plot there is. The film is way overpopulated with songs by John Kander and Fred Ebb and they’re relentlessly similar—loud, brassy and bearing very little of the sardonic wit and pointedness of their “Cabaret”. Let’s not even get started on the leads’ singing voices. With Taye Diggs (a direct imitation of Joel Grey in “Cabaret” and Ben Vereen in “All That Jazz”) and Queen Latifah, both of who seem out of place in this white-bread world. Somewhere in there is Chita Rivera.
Agent Cody Banks
(March 17, 2003)
MGM delivers its entry into the “Spy Kids” sweepstakes but the studio’s own James Bond series is the real influence in Harald Zwart’s adolescent spy picture, crammed as it is with explosive destructions of secret lairs, ski chases and cool gadgets. Yet, like the later Bond films, what it doesn’t have is a whole lot of heart or care put into it—which is precisely where it differs from the warmth and originality of the family-focused “Spy Kids” series. Everything seems slapdash and rushed, designed to do little more than cash in. Frankie Muniz (of television’s “Malcolm In The Middle”) is the title character, a teenage CIA operative mentored by sexy ball buster Angie Harmon and assigned to develop a relationship with the daughter of a scientist (Hilary Duff, the Disney Channel’s “Lizzy McGuire”) being held by the bad guys. There’s really nothing much to offend or involve anyone (which is odd because two of the writers, the team of Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski, are responsible for some smart, funny screenplays, including “Ed Wood” and “The People Vs. Larry Flynt”) and there are virtually no good laughs—it barely seems to want to take advantage of even the single obvious running joke, namely teenage ogling of the voluptuous Harmon. Muniz and Duff are likable enough and Keith David, as Muniz’ and Harmon’s boss, provides hammy support but they’re hardly reasons to plunk down nine bucks at the megaplex.
The Hours
(March 13, 2003)
Three loosely related stories dealing with varying degrees of depression are handled with exactly the same relentlessly somber tone in Stephen Daldry’s adaptation of Michael Cunningham’s novel (unread by this reviewer). Each story takes place in one day during different eras: the first deals with Virginia Woolf (a very fine Nicole Kidman who keeps an appropriate distance) in 1923 as she works on “Mrs. Dalloway”, the novel that serves as the film’s framework; another, taking place in 1951, deals with a young, pregnant housewife (Julianne Moore, a bit too mannered) whose husband (John C. Reilly) is oblivious to the struggle that is keenly observed by her young son; the third is set in modern times as a woman (Meryl Streep) tends to her AIDS-stricken ex-lover (Ed Harris) for whom she is planning a party to celebrate a major award for his poetry. Daldry directs with too much limp sensitivity and restraint; for much of the running time, it’s flat and frustrating, forcing you to pick your spots of interest while subjecting you to long stretches of monotony. But Daldry and screenwriter David Hare find their way to a graceful conclusion, with its eloquent thoughts about happiness and a subtle yet dignified case for suicide. The powerhouse cast also includes Toni Collette, Stephen Dillane, Claire Danes and Jeff Daniels, convincing in a brief role as another of Harris’ ex-lovers. The score is by Philip Glass and it’s one of his most accessible works, to the point of being overdramatic.
Atanajuat - The Fast Runner
(March 6, 2003)
Though it’s impossible to criticize something as noble as a film made by and about the Inuit tribe of the Arctic Canadian Nunavut territory, the major beneficiaries stand to be anthropology majors; the rest of us will appreciate, but not necessarily exult over, this telling of an Inuit myth that goes on about two and three-quarters hours. Shot in digital video, which lends an authoritative immediacy to a bleak, barren, dangerous landscape, the film tells an ancient story of a feud between two tribal families; when one man is murdered by a hothead spurred by jealousy and shame, his gentle brother is forced to seek revenge. There’s plenty to admire about the Inuit people’s perseverance in such adverse conditions and the performers certainly act with heartfelt sincerity but it’s hard to see the film as more than a curiosity. Still, it’s worth seeing once, if only because of its uniqueness. The director is Zacharias Kunuk; he seems to have no discernible talent but plenty of good intentions.
The Pianist
(February 25, 2003)
Perhaps because he generally works in a direct, naturalistic style and in a variety of genres, Roman Polanski could quite possibly be the most underrated filmmaker working today—which makes a film like “The Pianist” all the more startling. It’s unexpected filmmaking, a complex yet measured account of Jewish life in wartime Warsaw, both in the ghetto and outside of it, filmed, as always, in Polanski’s clean, simple style with beautiful camerawork (by Pawel Edelman) and evocative lighting. Though it may appear cold and methodical, Polanski’s passion is subversively striking. Based on pianist Wladyslaw Szpilman’s memoir (unread by this reviewer) and adapted in an admirably economical fashion by Ronald Harwood, his story probably serves as a counterpoint to Polanski’s own: the end titles reveal Szpilman remained in Poland until his death in 2000 whereas Polanski has essentially exiled himself from his native land and there’s a sense of wistfulness in his recreation of the time; Warsaw is displayed as a peaceful urban center disrupted only by the advent of Nazism and, with one notable exception, the Poles are depicted as concerned citizens given to either helping or at least ignoring the Jews. Although it’s as brutal to watch as “Schindler’s List” (there are some short images that are truly troubling) the comparisons are not quite apt: whereas “Schindler’s List” concerned itself with the Holocaust as a topic in and of itself, “The Pianist” seems intrigued not only with that subject but also with art’s critical importance in a crisis society: not only is it a savior in troubled times but it’s the bridge that bonds victim and barbarian; Polanski seems intent on providing a no-fuss definition of art that can have meaning to any audience. Adrien Brody plays the title role, subtly moving from cocksure artist to emaciated blank canvas for the director to project his fears and wonders. Absolutely outstanding, the work of a true cinematic genius.
Full Frontal
(February 19, 2003)
While Coleman Hough’s screenplay may be too cutesy and tricky for its own good, Steven Soderbergh’s arty Dogma 95-style experiment finds its pleasures in the freewheeling, improvised ensemble acting he encourages to shape what would initially appear to be a formless mess about a day in the interconnected lives of people both within and on the fringes of the L.A. film community. The performances themselves range from the mildly interesting (Blain Underwood and Julia Roberts) to the decent (David Hyde Pierce and Catherine Keener) to the very good (Mary McCormack and Nikky Katt, very funny as a modern-day Hitler in the stage play “The Sound And The Fuhrer”) but everyone gets credit for taking part with a relaxed, happy-to-be-there manner. After a couple of minor crowd-pleasers in “Traffic” and “Ocean’s Eleven” that found him to be working perhaps a bit too familiarly within the studio system (“Erin Brockovich” and “The Limey” displayed the ability to actually get something personal done inside that system), Soderbergh seems intent on going to a non-conformist extreme using studio money (the film is a Miramax release with Jeff Garlin of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” playing “Harvey, Probably”, a direct reference to Miramax head honcho Harvey Weinstein) and while he doesn’t quite get there—it’s a mannered and self-conscious piece, a bit afraid of the freedom provided it—there’s enough serious intent to make it a worthwhile effort.
Contempt
(February 13, 2003)
Though it’s a film about making movies, there very little actual movie-making in Jean-Luc Godard’s melodrama about a writer (Michel Piccoli) hired to rewrite the script of a troubled international production of “The Odyssey”; this, in turn, causes his marriage to veer off in a catastrophic direction. That Piccoli happens to be married to Brigitte Bardot would suggest a more salacious approach but this is Godard, after all, and the result is anything but. In fact, it’s pretty melancholy: Godard’s disillusionment is not with the act of making movies but the reasons why people make movies and his conclusion—ultimately it’s done for the money, it’s a job undertaken to provide creature comforts for family and can only be repudiated when a cataclysmic event disrupts the family—is contrary to the world he wants to inhabit; but even that fits in perfectly with his theme, articulated in the beginning with a quote from Andre Bazin (“The cinema substitutes for our gaze a world more in harmony with our desires.”). There’s quite a bit of circular talk (the centerpiece of the film is a thirty minute argument between Piccoli and Bardot in which they debate endlessly whether or not there’s still love in their marriage) and philosophical discussions about Homer but, unlike, say, Tarkovsky, where the dialectic obscures—and ultimately negates—the cinematic aspects of the work, Godard is passionately in love with film: whether structuring some lovely tracking shots on the famous Cinecitta lot or framing the strategic placement of specific movie posters on walls or capturing some stunning long shots of the Mediterranean filmed in Capri, you never for a second forget that he’s a born auteur perfectly aligned with his chosen media. As abstract, testy and foreign as “Contempt” may be, it fits our notions of cinema as comfortably as a pair of old loafers. With Jack Palance, startling as the American producer who plays Zeus to Piccoli’s Ulysses and Fritz Lang, playing the director “Fritz Lang”.
Election
(February 6, 2003)
Sheer misogyny knocks down a notch this otherwise brilliant satire of high school teacher-student relations—it has an unusually vitriolic attitude towards women, down to even the minor female characters, and is quite content to lay the lion’s share of blame on them, even while lampooning the men. (It can’t really dodge its hostility towards women by claiming to be seen from a fearful male’s point of view—the narrative is driven by multiple voiceovers of both sexes.) Reese Witherspoon, who manages to retain her dignity even while director Alexander Payne shoots her in the most unflattering ways possible, stars as an ambitious senior running for class president who finds opposition from a genial jock (Chris Klein, playing essentially the same decent guy he would in the “American Pie” series) goaded on by a vindictive teacher (Matthew Broderick) and the jock’s lesbian sister (Jessica Metzler), running on her own agenda. Payne brings a seemingly snappy irreverence towards his subject’s surface, with a take-no-prisoners attitude about the pathetic little individuals he so detests, but he has the smarts to create a universe fraught with serious consequences that carries a power enough to unify an audience. The screenplay, by Payne and Jim Taylor, based on a novel by Tom Perrotta (unread by this reviewer), is witty, perceptive (in spite of its dismaying tendencies) and articulate; the ensemble acting is outstanding, especially Broderick’s, whose recent endeavors find him becoming quite adept at finding challenging roles (in films such as this and “You Can Count On Me”) that allow him to dig beneath his all-American charm and uncover some unexpectedly quirky truths about the characters he plays.
Gangs of New York
(January 27, 2003)
Dante Ferretti’s overwhelmingly detailed production design (with set decoration by Francesca LoSchiavo and costume design by Sandy Powell) and Michael Ballhaus’ masterful tracking camerawork helps push Martin Scorsese’s passionate revisionist history of gang wars between Irish immigrants and Americans into greatness. It’s one of the few times (his minor period piece “The Age Of Innocence” is another) where Scorsese has relied so heavily on sets and costuming to advance his New York themes (here it’s about the city’s amalgamation) and it’s also one of his most commercial efforts to date: with its big names (Leonardo DiCaprio, Daniel Day-Lewis and Cameron Diaz) and familiar plot (it’s another story of revenge) to attract a mass audience, Scorsese tones down the graphic nature of the tale; while there’s plenty of bloodshed, it’s far less shocking than the knife-in-the-hand images of “Taxi Driver” and living burial in “Casino”. The story is by Jay Cocks, but the script seems pieced together with individual contributions from Cocks, Steven Zaillian and Kenneth Lonergan and while it does at times meander from incident to incident, it never bores over the course of one hundred and sixty-eight minutes because the violent tension that keeps mounting is mixed with the characters’ poverty-stricken despair and the effect, while it comes close, doesn’t desensitize you. The performances by the principals are excellent (DiCaprio has an unreadable look in his eyes and makes a great mythic hero and Diaz does well in a role that’s underwritten yet touching); and in fact the film’s best moment is a quiet conversation in which Day-Lewis describes to DiCaprio his respect for his enemy/counterpart, the noble warrior (DiCaprio’s late father, played in the opening section by Liam Neeson). Day-Lewis’ penchant for overacting here serves him well; his misguided isolationist anger is balanced by his respect for the rules of combat and he seems to be as concerned with his character’s philosophical motivations as much as the violent ones. Scorsese has never overly politicized but he does here and while his sympathies towards the newcomers is obvious and a bit cloying, the indignation he feels about how these peoples were used, relegated to the periphery and then discarded while laying the foundation of today’s New York seems a reasonable, justified response. At this point in his career, Scorsese seems to believe he has to make an epic statement about his town and country to give value to his career—he needn’t; his body of work speaks for itself—but while this may not be the crowning achievement he wants it to be, its’ technical virtuosity makes it quite an impressive achievement in a class by itself.
Kangaroo Jack
(January 21, 2003)
Producer Jerry Bruckheimer adapts his buddy formula for the adolescent set and the result is pretty much what you’d expect from him: an attempt to push the envelope by delivering enough sex and violence to titillate the pre-teens who are likely to be the primary audience and who will know something funky’s going on even if they don’t get it. Other than that, there’s really nothing left to comment on in this chase comedy about a kangaroo that’s holding fifty thousand dollars worth of mob money in the Australian outback. It’s not bad, necessarily (the kids will love it and the digital effects as far as the kangaroo is concerned are okay), but it’s not good either: everything wallows in mediocrity, from the unfunny script (by Steve Bing and Scott Rosenberg, one of the writers of “High Fidelity”) that can’t even provide decent scatological humor to David NcNally’s faceless direction to the blank performances by leads Jerry O’Connell, Anthony Anderson and Estella Warren. Even the chase scenes drone on and on. About the only things of interest are wondering how low Christopher Walken can go for a paycheck and marveling at Dyan Cannon’s remarkable sixty-five year old body (even though she’s only in the movie about fifteen seconds).
The Good Girl
(January 17, 2003)
< |
