Monday, August 28, 2006
This is my second time seeing The Fallen Idol this year, and actually in my entire life. The first time I caught a glimpse of this 1948 black and white beauty from director Carol Reed was at Film Forum, but on this occasion the film was enhanced by its surroundings. The best traditional movie venue in the city of Chicago, The Music Box Theatre, made this already great movie even better. My companion remarked that he enjoyed the film, but that he thought Reed's subsequent, and classic flick, The Third Man (1949) is better. It's a good argument, though I'll reserve judgement on that subject for another day.
The way I think of this film is like a collage of moments. Sharp cuts of comedy: the prostitute at the police station who reacts in surprise to the little boy, Phillipe (Bobby Henrey), who reveals his father is the Ambassador to England, "I know your father!" Or the whimsy of the boy himself as he trails after his butler, affectionately whining his name, "Baines? Oh, Baines?" Intercut with moments like these is the terror of Mrs. Baines (Sonia Dresdel), hovering above Phillipe's pillow, disheveled and demanding the whereabouts of her husband; her stringy black hair streams down at the boy as he wakes terrorized from sleep, and the cold, thin thud of her hairpin hitting his soft white sheet is the only image we initially see to know she's there; a singed moment of adrenaline through our viens.
All of this amidst a fantastic story of deceit and infidelity, mystery and curiosity, and the most fascinating moments of French dialogue between Baine's mistress (Michele Morgan) and petite Phillipe where no one amidst the crowd of cops and investigators can understand a word, not even us, as the film provocatively rejects subtitles.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Match Point - 2005 - DVD
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Coming off the high that was Allen's latest film, Scoop (2006), it was difficult to watchMatch Point, with the serious mindset it deserved. Besides the fact that it is such different material from his usual films, that is, the Comedy is played marginally to the volatile affair among a young executive and his seductress (played by Scarlet Johannson), there is an intrigue to the film that stuck with me even after it had ended. In part, I think this is because I can't shake the memory of Allen at his goofiest from my head. Of course there are serious moments in his previous films; Allen certainly has a sense of tragedy. Ironically, that is the source for his most brilliant humor (e.g. the deafening breakups in Annie Hall (1977) and Manhattan (1979).
Perhaps it was the setting that set me awry. The majority of Allen's films are conceived and brought to fruition in New York City; that cityscape is often an integral player in his narratives, so its absence replaced by London and the surrounding countryside might account for my displacement. Though, I think this is the part that I like the most; the fact that I have lost my bearings and sense of direction, that the atmosphere is foreign. It's mysterious, intriguing, especially from the perspective of a director who rarely lets us see beyond the borders of the 5 boroughs (note: I do speak from a position of mild ignorance; I have not seen all, or even most of Allen's 42 films). In that respect, perhaps Allen is learning the new geography in the same way; a threatening story in a place that has no sense of his identity. But that's conjecture. Suffice to say for now, in this post that is taking place more than a month hence the film's viewing, I'd like to see it again to (without Scoop fresh in my mind) for more complete thoughts.
Coming off the high that was Allen's latest film, Scoop (2006), it was difficult to watchMatch Point, with the serious mindset it deserved. Besides the fact that it is such different material from his usual films, that is, the Comedy is played marginally to the volatile affair among a young executive and his seductress (played by Scarlet Johannson), there is an intrigue to the film that stuck with me even after it had ended. In part, I think this is because I can't shake the memory of Allen at his goofiest from my head. Of course there are serious moments in his previous films; Allen certainly has a sense of tragedy. Ironically, that is the source for his most brilliant humor (e.g. the deafening breakups in Annie Hall (1977) and Manhattan (1979).
Perhaps it was the setting that set me awry. The majority of Allen's films are conceived and brought to fruition in New York City; that cityscape is often an integral player in his narratives, so its absence replaced by London and the surrounding countryside might account for my displacement. Though, I think this is the part that I like the most; the fact that I have lost my bearings and sense of direction, that the atmosphere is foreign. It's mysterious, intriguing, especially from the perspective of a director who rarely lets us see beyond the borders of the 5 boroughs (note: I do speak from a position of mild ignorance; I have not seen all, or even most of Allen's 42 films). In that respect, perhaps Allen is learning the new geography in the same way; a threatening story in a place that has no sense of his identity. But that's conjecture. Suffice to say for now, in this post that is taking place more than a month hence the film's viewing, I'd like to see it again to (without Scoop fresh in my mind) for more complete thoughts.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Bombon, El Perro (Bombon, The Dog) - 2004 - Film
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Bombon, El Perro is directed by Carlos Sorin, an Argentinian director whose film was originally released in September 2004 at the San Sebastian Film Festival, and two years later made its way to Chicago for a two-day retrospective at Facets Cinematheque, a venue that looks a lot like New York City's Film Forum.
Juan Villegas (played by Juan Villegas) is an out of work auto mechanic in his fifties, abandoned by his wife for twenty years, and otherwise alone. To fill up time in his day he does repairs to his daughter's house, and one day while on the road helps a stranded motorist. Juan has a round, smile-wrinkled face that makes him sweet and sympathetic just by looking at him, nevermind his kind nature. He tows the motorist's car to her home where she gives him her late father's pure bred dog as compensation, a token of gratitude meant to give Juan some companionship. Along the way, however, Juan meets different people who are drawn to his pup. Mostly he runs into business owners who could use the dog as a security system, but one of those folks is a regular participant in dog shows, and finally the dog provides Juan an outlet for employment more so than friendship.
The film moves slowly as Juan meanders among locales with (and without) his dog. Almost all of the camera work is hand-held, so there's a dizzying close-up home movie feel to a lot of the action. On one hand, the cinematographic style works well because there is such a keen focus on the expression of Juan's face; there are more shots of him and his calm reactions to his environment than anything else, and he is always composed, always seems content just to be witnessing life. On the other hand, the camera work, very bluntly, makes you dizzy.
There is one shot towards the end of the film where, at long shot, Juan turns a corner and walks along a dust-blown path in search of his dog. Gusts of wind blast and swirl clouds of dust as Juan squints his eyes in the sun-dried heat. He seems to move in slow-motion, but that could be a result of the contrast between the dizzying close-ups before hand. For me, this shot had the effect of taking him out of his real-life character and turning him into a figure that is purely cinematic. For the first (and only) time in the film I looked in awe of his character, and I wanted more of it. The moment passed as quickly as it arrived, just like Juan's intimate exchanges with the dog.
The title of the film leads you to believe that the narrative is central to the actions and effects of the dog, but the story is really about the unpredictable circumstances in which Juan finds himself. He has no long-term plans for himself other than to find work; the places where he ends up are all accidental. Sadly, Bombon, the dog is an accidental companion who plays a secondary role to Juan. The dog's character is never illustrated and he remains a blank figure who accompanies Juan throughout his journey, but perhaps is the only one who gives his travels form and destination.
Bombon, El Perro is directed by Carlos Sorin, an Argentinian director whose film was originally released in September 2004 at the San Sebastian Film Festival, and two years later made its way to Chicago for a two-day retrospective at Facets Cinematheque, a venue that looks a lot like New York City's Film Forum.
Juan Villegas (played by Juan Villegas) is an out of work auto mechanic in his fifties, abandoned by his wife for twenty years, and otherwise alone. To fill up time in his day he does repairs to his daughter's house, and one day while on the road helps a stranded motorist. Juan has a round, smile-wrinkled face that makes him sweet and sympathetic just by looking at him, nevermind his kind nature. He tows the motorist's car to her home where she gives him her late father's pure bred dog as compensation, a token of gratitude meant to give Juan some companionship. Along the way, however, Juan meets different people who are drawn to his pup. Mostly he runs into business owners who could use the dog as a security system, but one of those folks is a regular participant in dog shows, and finally the dog provides Juan an outlet for employment more so than friendship.
The film moves slowly as Juan meanders among locales with (and without) his dog. Almost all of the camera work is hand-held, so there's a dizzying close-up home movie feel to a lot of the action. On one hand, the cinematographic style works well because there is such a keen focus on the expression of Juan's face; there are more shots of him and his calm reactions to his environment than anything else, and he is always composed, always seems content just to be witnessing life. On the other hand, the camera work, very bluntly, makes you dizzy.
There is one shot towards the end of the film where, at long shot, Juan turns a corner and walks along a dust-blown path in search of his dog. Gusts of wind blast and swirl clouds of dust as Juan squints his eyes in the sun-dried heat. He seems to move in slow-motion, but that could be a result of the contrast between the dizzying close-ups before hand. For me, this shot had the effect of taking him out of his real-life character and turning him into a figure that is purely cinematic. For the first (and only) time in the film I looked in awe of his character, and I wanted more of it. The moment passed as quickly as it arrived, just like Juan's intimate exchanges with the dog.
The title of the film leads you to believe that the narrative is central to the actions and effects of the dog, but the story is really about the unpredictable circumstances in which Juan finds himself. He has no long-term plans for himself other than to find work; the places where he ends up are all accidental. Sadly, Bombon, the dog is an accidental companion who plays a secondary role to Juan. The dog's character is never illustrated and he remains a blank figure who accompanies Juan throughout his journey, but perhaps is the only one who gives his travels form and destination.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Scoop - 2006 - Film
Friday, August 18, 2006
Scoop is Woody Allen comedy revival. I credit Scarlett Johansson, probably the most gorgeous figure and face to grace the screen in recent years, and truly a lively, honest and brave actress that brings out the kid in the now elderly actor-director Allen.
This is the best comic energy to grace an Allen film in years. I think of my favorites: Annie Hall (1977), Manhattan (1979), Hannah and Her Sisters (1986), and the soft spots I have for Bananas (1971), Celebrity (1998), and even Small Time Crooks (2000), and Scoop is up there with them. Maybe in my top 5 or ten of Allen films. That's to be decided later (i.e. after the Woody Allen movie marathon!)
I am posting this entry over a month after I saw the film in theaters, so I will end this quick to avoid error in narrative and shot description. In short, however, know that I adored watching Allen play the father/grandfather role to Johannson, whose performace was steady and strong enough to act as the foil for Allen's neurotic blend of humor and make it seem new. These two are fantastic together.
Scoop is Woody Allen comedy revival. I credit Scarlett Johansson, probably the most gorgeous figure and face to grace the screen in recent years, and truly a lively, honest and brave actress that brings out the kid in the now elderly actor-director Allen.
This is the best comic energy to grace an Allen film in years. I think of my favorites: Annie Hall (1977), Manhattan (1979), Hannah and Her Sisters (1986), and the soft spots I have for Bananas (1971), Celebrity (1998), and even Small Time Crooks (2000), and Scoop is up there with them. Maybe in my top 5 or ten of Allen films. That's to be decided later (i.e. after the Woody Allen movie marathon!)
I am posting this entry over a month after I saw the film in theaters, so I will end this quick to avoid error in narrative and shot description. In short, however, know that I adored watching Allen play the father/grandfather role to Johannson, whose performace was steady and strong enough to act as the foil for Allen's neurotic blend of humor and make it seem new. These two are fantastic together.
My Architect - 2003 - DVD
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
My Architect received a lot of praise following its release in 2003, including a nod for an Oscar nomination, but it falls surprisingly short of these expectations because it neglects to tell the most obvious and compelling story within it, the mystery of architect Louis Khan's professional and personal inspirations.
The documentary is directed by his son, Nathaniel Kahn, who is on a quest to figure out his identity by searching for details of his father's enigmatic past. Growing up, his father Louis was absent for extended periods of time, only reappearing in his mother's home sporadically without warning. Nathaniel learns later in his life that he has siblings from his father's two relationships external to the one among he and his mother.
The story begins with a lot of curiosity, and a lot of sincerity for his father's architectual contributions, but as the minutes pass the curiousity turns impatient with (I dare say) a touch of self-pity. He approaches subjects who knew his father with a subtle bitterness that borders on contempt, as if these people are keeping the truth of his past from him on purpose. The fact of the matter is that no one truly knew his father, or what he expected to gain from his fractured personal relationships. It is perfectly honest and reasonable of Kahn's son to be curious about these questions ("Who am I?"), but he asks them in such a confrontational way so as to put up an affront.
The most interesting parts of the movie take place with the stock footage of his father, both at work and in conversation with collegues. A string of influential architects are interviewed for the film, each of whom are living pieces of architectual history; architects like Frank O. Gehry and I.M. Pei are interviewed, but are never referenced in regard to the meaning and influence of Kahn's work. Nathaniel uses them to explore pieces of himself, but without a finite answer he exhausts himself. There is one particularly nerve-grating scene at the end of the film in which Nathaniel grills his mother for answers to more of his questions. The poor lady stands there, on the verge of tears, unable to satisfy him, and he holds the camera on her--he won't let us look away, he won't leave her alone.
I wished for a deeper exploration of Louis Kahn's work; I wanted longer scenes that threw perspective upon the architect's structural designs, and a deconstruction of how his work influenced architectual history and form, all of which could have been discussed with Nathaniel's fantastic list of connections in the industry. It seems the answers to his personal questions could have been answered with a lively discussion of the above factors, it would at least have given him something more to think about, and maybe interject himself into. Perhaps he could find meaning there.
My Architect received a lot of praise following its release in 2003, including a nod for an Oscar nomination, but it falls surprisingly short of these expectations because it neglects to tell the most obvious and compelling story within it, the mystery of architect Louis Khan's professional and personal inspirations.
The documentary is directed by his son, Nathaniel Kahn, who is on a quest to figure out his identity by searching for details of his father's enigmatic past. Growing up, his father Louis was absent for extended periods of time, only reappearing in his mother's home sporadically without warning. Nathaniel learns later in his life that he has siblings from his father's two relationships external to the one among he and his mother.
The story begins with a lot of curiosity, and a lot of sincerity for his father's architectual contributions, but as the minutes pass the curiousity turns impatient with (I dare say) a touch of self-pity. He approaches subjects who knew his father with a subtle bitterness that borders on contempt, as if these people are keeping the truth of his past from him on purpose. The fact of the matter is that no one truly knew his father, or what he expected to gain from his fractured personal relationships. It is perfectly honest and reasonable of Kahn's son to be curious about these questions ("Who am I?"), but he asks them in such a confrontational way so as to put up an affront.
The most interesting parts of the movie take place with the stock footage of his father, both at work and in conversation with collegues. A string of influential architects are interviewed for the film, each of whom are living pieces of architectual history; architects like Frank O. Gehry and I.M. Pei are interviewed, but are never referenced in regard to the meaning and influence of Kahn's work. Nathaniel uses them to explore pieces of himself, but without a finite answer he exhausts himself. There is one particularly nerve-grating scene at the end of the film in which Nathaniel grills his mother for answers to more of his questions. The poor lady stands there, on the verge of tears, unable to satisfy him, and he holds the camera on her--he won't let us look away, he won't leave her alone.
I wished for a deeper exploration of Louis Kahn's work; I wanted longer scenes that threw perspective upon the architect's structural designs, and a deconstruction of how his work influenced architectual history and form, all of which could have been discussed with Nathaniel's fantastic list of connections in the industry. It seems the answers to his personal questions could have been answered with a lively discussion of the above factors, it would at least have given him something more to think about, and maybe interject himself into. Perhaps he could find meaning there.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Spaceballs - 1987 - DVD
Saturday, August 12, 2006
I am going to get in trouble for admitting it, but this is the first time I've seen Spaceballs. While I was at work one day two of my coworkers where snickering after saying the line "We ain't found s***!" I knew something was up, so I asked "What's that from?" They told me, Spaceballs. Then proceded with the classic exclamatory question, "You've never seen Spaceballs? I thought you were into movies!"
Based on that line alone I knew I was going to like this thing. My favorite moment, as brilliant as the "combing the desert" scene is, is when the evil Dark Helmet (Rick Moranis) is catapulted across the command center of his spaceship into the panel wall, and comes to in a concussive stupor babbling a la Louis Tully of Ghostbusters(1984). Brilliant.
Someone somewhere has already written about this with a lot more heart and wit than I probably could. And I don't have a penchant for reciting punch-lines as well as others, so suffice it to say for now that, Yes, I have finally seen Spaceballs.
I am going to get in trouble for admitting it, but this is the first time I've seen Spaceballs. While I was at work one day two of my coworkers where snickering after saying the line "We ain't found s***!" I knew something was up, so I asked "What's that from?" They told me, Spaceballs. Then proceded with the classic exclamatory question, "You've never seen Spaceballs? I thought you were into movies!"
Based on that line alone I knew I was going to like this thing. My favorite moment, as brilliant as the "combing the desert" scene is, is when the evil Dark Helmet (Rick Moranis) is catapulted across the command center of his spaceship into the panel wall, and comes to in a concussive stupor babbling a la Louis Tully of Ghostbusters(1984). Brilliant.
Someone somewhere has already written about this with a lot more heart and wit than I probably could. And I don't have a penchant for reciting punch-lines as well as others, so suffice it to say for now that, Yes, I have finally seen Spaceballs.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby - 2006 - Film
Friday, August 11, 2006
Will Ferrell has perfected the art of running aimlessly while flailing his arms, clothed in saggy underpants and a racing helmet. This is what Talledega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby is about, and it is genius.
Ferrell and friends, namely Steve Carell, Vince Vaughn, Ben Stiller, and even "serious" actors like Paul Rudd and John C. Reilly, are the least controversial of Hollywood personalities, and time and again we get the sense that this group of chums entertains one another by their own silliness. In movies like Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy (2004), Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story (2004), and Zoolander (2001), they inflate a caricature with so much exaggeration that the film becomes a platform for these guys to out-maneuver each other with their comic skills. Whoever yells louder, or more likely, whoever has the better gay lispy lingo (Ferrell in Zoolander), better macho mannerism (Stiller in Dodgeball), or raunchiest redneck dialect (toss up between Ferrell and John C. Reilly in Talladega Nights) wins. And yet, their humor manages never to be condescending or mean-spirited. They tell jokes based on stereotypes, and the more exaggerated those stereotypes get the more asinine they look. So their movies are more about these guys making fun of themselves (or each other), no one gets hurt, and it's f@*!'ing funny.
Robert Wilonsky at The Village Voice, on the other hand, had this to say about Talladega Nights:
But the tale of Ricky Bobby (Ferrell, of course), an abandoned kid who grows up to be a famous NASCAR driver, is beside the point. It's just the watered-down glue that keeps the movie from playing like a series of sketches in which grown-ass men do dumbass-kid stuff for nearly two hours. There are two kinds of scenes here: the short ones that advance the storyline, and the prolonged sequences in which Ferrell and/or John C. Reilly (as Ricky's best friend, the whitest-trash Cal Naughton Jr.) and/or Sacha Baron Cohen (as Ricky's rival, French fancy boy Jean Girard) make shit up and crack each other up and stop the cameras and start all over again. There's no difference between the movie and the end-credit outtakes.
And though he may not like it, the unrestrained goofiness and de-emphasis on a lame moral-tagged tale is the movie's punch line. I am also not sure what the term "grown-ass" means.
You can read A.O. Scott's thoughtful review here, who also thinks Talladega Nights's imprecise narrative weakens the experience. Nevertheless, he clearly appreciates and enjoys the comic antics.
And a quick final note: Anyone who thinks the yelling match in the hospital scene between Ricky Bobby (Ferrell) and Lucius Washington (Michael Clarke Duncan) is not funny has no sense of humor. Period.
Will Ferrell has perfected the art of running aimlessly while flailing his arms, clothed in saggy underpants and a racing helmet. This is what Talledega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby is about, and it is genius.
Ferrell and friends, namely Steve Carell, Vince Vaughn, Ben Stiller, and even "serious" actors like Paul Rudd and John C. Reilly, are the least controversial of Hollywood personalities, and time and again we get the sense that this group of chums entertains one another by their own silliness. In movies like Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy (2004), Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story (2004), and Zoolander (2001), they inflate a caricature with so much exaggeration that the film becomes a platform for these guys to out-maneuver each other with their comic skills. Whoever yells louder, or more likely, whoever has the better gay lispy lingo (Ferrell in Zoolander), better macho mannerism (Stiller in Dodgeball), or raunchiest redneck dialect (toss up between Ferrell and John C. Reilly in Talladega Nights) wins. And yet, their humor manages never to be condescending or mean-spirited. They tell jokes based on stereotypes, and the more exaggerated those stereotypes get the more asinine they look. So their movies are more about these guys making fun of themselves (or each other), no one gets hurt, and it's f@*!'ing funny.
Robert Wilonsky at The Village Voice, on the other hand, had this to say about Talladega Nights:
But the tale of Ricky Bobby (Ferrell, of course), an abandoned kid who grows up to be a famous NASCAR driver, is beside the point. It's just the watered-down glue that keeps the movie from playing like a series of sketches in which grown-ass men do dumbass-kid stuff for nearly two hours. There are two kinds of scenes here: the short ones that advance the storyline, and the prolonged sequences in which Ferrell and/or John C. Reilly (as Ricky's best friend, the whitest-trash Cal Naughton Jr.) and/or Sacha Baron Cohen (as Ricky's rival, French fancy boy Jean Girard) make shit up and crack each other up and stop the cameras and start all over again. There's no difference between the movie and the end-credit outtakes.
And though he may not like it, the unrestrained goofiness and de-emphasis on a lame moral-tagged tale is the movie's punch line. I am also not sure what the term "grown-ass" means.
You can read A.O. Scott's thoughtful review here, who also thinks Talladega Nights's imprecise narrative weakens the experience. Nevertheless, he clearly appreciates and enjoys the comic antics.
And a quick final note: Anyone who thinks the yelling match in the hospital scene between Ricky Bobby (Ferrell) and Lucius Washington (Michael Clarke Duncan) is not funny has no sense of humor. Period.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
World Trade Center - 2006 - Film
Wednesday, August 9, 2006 (opening day)
The September 11, 2001 attacks on the Twin Towers are a tough subject for a Hollywood picture to tackle. There are two ways a filmmaker can approach this event: First, by retelling it, minute by minute with all historical facts intact; or second, by examining the historical facts and creating a frame of reference within which to understand it. Oliver Stone's World Trade Center, which opened today, falls into the former category, neglecting the five years of emotional and historical distance we have from the event. It's told from the perspective of the two Port Authority police officers, John McLoughlin (Nicolas Cage) and Will Jimeno (Michael Pena), who were trapped beneath the Trade Center's rubble, and were among the mere twenty people pulled out alive from the disaster site. Based on the true events of these two officers' experiences, the film is meant to work as an homage to their service and subsequent suffering, as they lay paralyzed beneath innumerable tons of shredded steel and concrete.
The opening act of WTC is the city coming to life. It is a time lapse from the moment the officers rise from bed until they are called to the terrorized scene downtown. The streets and landmarks are familiar; the sun filters through the screen of silhouetted buildings; webs of wires that outline the Brooklyn Bridge, the studded steel of the Williamsburg Bridge; a soft flow of traffic trickles through the abandoned streets at dawn into the honking horns of gridlock in the bright morning sun. New York is peaceful, perhaps more than it has ever appeared on film. The city wakes into consciousness with calmness and grace.
The beauty of the morning is interrupted by the infamous historical event we all know by heart. A shadow of the first airliner blips across the sunny face of a midtown building. We know what happens. The event that is five years in our memory is slowly pulled out of us with a thin string of emotion. Tears that we forgot slowly build behind our eyes. Knots in our stomach, strangled throat, clenched teeth; it's happening again. We walk through it shot by shot, aware of our devastation, of our destiny. This time we have an inside view from that of the two officers. You might expect it to move faster, to hear more screams or fights out of panic. But the officers and their squad push slowly and methodically through the Trade Center lobby, and it's difficult to watch because we know within minutes that building is coming down. Maybe they didn't imagine it could collapse. Communication among emergency crews and the media was sparse; the officers had no warning; their fate was sealed and they did not know it. This is our story.
What happens in the latter portion of the film dilutes the intensity and meaning of what preceded in the former. The remains of our frayed emotions after the first overwhelming minutes of the movie are meant to be directed towards the two trapped policemen. The problem is that there is no forward-moving dialogue to help us grieve, and then reflect on the men's actions with a historical eye. The men are trapped, and like them we watch with no changing angle or perspective of history. Excepting the opening act, the impact of the attacks is told to mean the same thing now as it did five years ago, but time did not stand still. We are in an incremental process of understanding what happened that day; the frame around 9/11's dizzying events is still under construction, and progress in coherently telling its story has been made. Conversation and deconstruction of the events have happened.
The Trade Center site is now free of debris, but WTC's image of it is not. As a historical picture, the movie's purpose, then, is thin; the two brave officers who almost died that day are acknowledged so that the audience is aware of their existence and service, but no more. With five years of reflection and time passed Oliver Stone's picture is not a fraction as brave as the two officers whose stories it depicts in its refusal to help conceptualize the event beyond the thin outline of a first-response news report. By virtue of the story's of-the-moment setting it could be argued that the film is not at fault for neglecting to incorporate historical perspective. The fact remains, however, that this film is a product of the time beyond 9/11 and must inherently references that time passed to avoid regressive sentimentality. The concluding barbeque scene, where the surviving officers and their rescuers are reunited, takes place three years after the attacks. The sun is high in the sky, kids are playing, and everyone is happy; a bond among these people has been forged. But there is no silver lining to this storm cloud. 9/11 did not have to happen for these parties to find happiness.
There is a concentrate of emotion that defines the heart of 9/11, and it lies in those initial moments of its occurrence. We should not forget the painful details of that day, but we should also expect to grieve and progress to a point of better understanding it. Unfortunately, for all of World Trade Center's heart, it refuses to help us heal.
The September 11, 2001 attacks on the Twin Towers are a tough subject for a Hollywood picture to tackle. There are two ways a filmmaker can approach this event: First, by retelling it, minute by minute with all historical facts intact; or second, by examining the historical facts and creating a frame of reference within which to understand it. Oliver Stone's World Trade Center, which opened today, falls into the former category, neglecting the five years of emotional and historical distance we have from the event. It's told from the perspective of the two Port Authority police officers, John McLoughlin (Nicolas Cage) and Will Jimeno (Michael Pena), who were trapped beneath the Trade Center's rubble, and were among the mere twenty people pulled out alive from the disaster site. Based on the true events of these two officers' experiences, the film is meant to work as an homage to their service and subsequent suffering, as they lay paralyzed beneath innumerable tons of shredded steel and concrete.
The opening act of WTC is the city coming to life. It is a time lapse from the moment the officers rise from bed until they are called to the terrorized scene downtown. The streets and landmarks are familiar; the sun filters through the screen of silhouetted buildings; webs of wires that outline the Brooklyn Bridge, the studded steel of the Williamsburg Bridge; a soft flow of traffic trickles through the abandoned streets at dawn into the honking horns of gridlock in the bright morning sun. New York is peaceful, perhaps more than it has ever appeared on film. The city wakes into consciousness with calmness and grace.
The beauty of the morning is interrupted by the infamous historical event we all know by heart. A shadow of the first airliner blips across the sunny face of a midtown building. We know what happens. The event that is five years in our memory is slowly pulled out of us with a thin string of emotion. Tears that we forgot slowly build behind our eyes. Knots in our stomach, strangled throat, clenched teeth; it's happening again. We walk through it shot by shot, aware of our devastation, of our destiny. This time we have an inside view from that of the two officers. You might expect it to move faster, to hear more screams or fights out of panic. But the officers and their squad push slowly and methodically through the Trade Center lobby, and it's difficult to watch because we know within minutes that building is coming down. Maybe they didn't imagine it could collapse. Communication among emergency crews and the media was sparse; the officers had no warning; their fate was sealed and they did not know it. This is our story.
What happens in the latter portion of the film dilutes the intensity and meaning of what preceded in the former. The remains of our frayed emotions after the first overwhelming minutes of the movie are meant to be directed towards the two trapped policemen. The problem is that there is no forward-moving dialogue to help us grieve, and then reflect on the men's actions with a historical eye. The men are trapped, and like them we watch with no changing angle or perspective of history. Excepting the opening act, the impact of the attacks is told to mean the same thing now as it did five years ago, but time did not stand still. We are in an incremental process of understanding what happened that day; the frame around 9/11's dizzying events is still under construction, and progress in coherently telling its story has been made. Conversation and deconstruction of the events have happened.
The Trade Center site is now free of debris, but WTC's image of it is not. As a historical picture, the movie's purpose, then, is thin; the two brave officers who almost died that day are acknowledged so that the audience is aware of their existence and service, but no more. With five years of reflection and time passed Oliver Stone's picture is not a fraction as brave as the two officers whose stories it depicts in its refusal to help conceptualize the event beyond the thin outline of a first-response news report. By virtue of the story's of-the-moment setting it could be argued that the film is not at fault for neglecting to incorporate historical perspective. The fact remains, however, that this film is a product of the time beyond 9/11 and must inherently references that time passed to avoid regressive sentimentality. The concluding barbeque scene, where the surviving officers and their rescuers are reunited, takes place three years after the attacks. The sun is high in the sky, kids are playing, and everyone is happy; a bond among these people has been forged. But there is no silver lining to this storm cloud. 9/11 did not have to happen for these parties to find happiness.
There is a concentrate of emotion that defines the heart of 9/11, and it lies in those initial moments of its occurrence. We should not forget the painful details of that day, but we should also expect to grieve and progress to a point of better understanding it. Unfortunately, for all of World Trade Center's heart, it refuses to help us heal.
Wednesday, August 9, 2006
Miami Vice - 2006 - Film
Wednesday, August 2, 2006
Without any opening credits, expository dialogue, or introductory establishing shots, Michael Mann's latest Miami Vice begins with its characters already in motion. Detectives Ricardo Tubbs (Jamie Foxx) and James Crockett (Colin Farrell) are at a nightclub caught among rays of light and reflections as they search for the suspects in their case. They move outdoors where the Miami skyline hangs in the background as an establishment of location, and as another face itself that makes their hunt more difficult. The detectives' obstacle is the simple movement of people and objects as it is figuring out the logistical narrative of the case. They map their way through the space of the city where angles of light and shadow on the face of buildings and streets are as much a part of the story as the criminals they are after.
About a week ago I heard a public radio segment called "Two Minute Reviews" by Bob Mandelo, who described the film as "over-stylized." As you can imagine his two minutes were up quick, and he devoted the bulk of his time lauding the actors' performances, and didn't once comment on what it meant that the film was so style-heavy. Then I came across Sean Burn's review from the Philadelphia Weekly, and he helped flesh-out some of that abstract Mann style. My favorite description is this:
You don't so much look at the screen as peer into it, mesmerized. Miami Vice's best scenes border on painterly abstractions—propulsive mini-symphonies of motion and color, punctuated by shocking bursts of violence.
He gets it. And you can read his entire review here, if you like.
Watching Miami Vice reminded me of Mann's 2004 summer flick Collateral, which employed much of the same "painterly" style, though of the Los Angeles skyline rather than Miami's. In both of these films Mann keeps the audience occupied with setting as much as characters, he makes us aware of how a space influences a character's actions, how a person's colorings change as a result of their environment. The narrative of the story is synchronized with the kinetics of action within the city; flickering lights on the skyline, reflective surfaces of cars and streets, and the immovable figures of Tubbs and Crockett as they stand within a perpetually moving environment set the movements of their world to one beat.
Dialogue is sparse within the narrative so that it de-emphasizes Foxx's and Farrell's star presence, and the audience's eye is instead relied upon to see the overall action taking place in the cityscape. There is heaviness to the picture that creates a real sense of anxiety. Crockett and Tubbs don't smile much (if at all?), and they utter no marketable one-liners that are traditional to most action movies. The two agents complete their job, they finish a transaction of business and justice prevails. The payoff for their work is the job's termination, and we get a sense that bigger things loom in the agents' off-screen life. As the final shot fades to black the first credit appears and reads, "Miami Vice." It is a word succeeding its definition, and the film ends like it began, like a sequence of action that has no finite beginning or end.
Post-Publishing Note, (08/28):
Michael Anderson at Tativille also has a lot to say about this movie, and he is very specific in describing the cultural colorings within Miami and its surrounding countries and cities. He also references Howard Hawks, Wong Kar-wai, and Budd Boetticher to substantiate his deconstruction of this so-called "over-stylized" film. Check it out.
Without any opening credits, expository dialogue, or introductory establishing shots, Michael Mann's latest Miami Vice begins with its characters already in motion. Detectives Ricardo Tubbs (Jamie Foxx) and James Crockett (Colin Farrell) are at a nightclub caught among rays of light and reflections as they search for the suspects in their case. They move outdoors where the Miami skyline hangs in the background as an establishment of location, and as another face itself that makes their hunt more difficult. The detectives' obstacle is the simple movement of people and objects as it is figuring out the logistical narrative of the case. They map their way through the space of the city where angles of light and shadow on the face of buildings and streets are as much a part of the story as the criminals they are after.
About a week ago I heard a public radio segment called "Two Minute Reviews" by Bob Mandelo, who described the film as "over-stylized." As you can imagine his two minutes were up quick, and he devoted the bulk of his time lauding the actors' performances, and didn't once comment on what it meant that the film was so style-heavy. Then I came across Sean Burn's review from the Philadelphia Weekly, and he helped flesh-out some of that abstract Mann style. My favorite description is this:
You don't so much look at the screen as peer into it, mesmerized. Miami Vice's best scenes border on painterly abstractions—propulsive mini-symphonies of motion and color, punctuated by shocking bursts of violence.
He gets it. And you can read his entire review here, if you like.
Watching Miami Vice reminded me of Mann's 2004 summer flick Collateral, which employed much of the same "painterly" style, though of the Los Angeles skyline rather than Miami's. In both of these films Mann keeps the audience occupied with setting as much as characters, he makes us aware of how a space influences a character's actions, how a person's colorings change as a result of their environment. The narrative of the story is synchronized with the kinetics of action within the city; flickering lights on the skyline, reflective surfaces of cars and streets, and the immovable figures of Tubbs and Crockett as they stand within a perpetually moving environment set the movements of their world to one beat.
Dialogue is sparse within the narrative so that it de-emphasizes Foxx's and Farrell's star presence, and the audience's eye is instead relied upon to see the overall action taking place in the cityscape. There is heaviness to the picture that creates a real sense of anxiety. Crockett and Tubbs don't smile much (if at all?), and they utter no marketable one-liners that are traditional to most action movies. The two agents complete their job, they finish a transaction of business and justice prevails. The payoff for their work is the job's termination, and we get a sense that bigger things loom in the agents' off-screen life. As the final shot fades to black the first credit appears and reads, "Miami Vice." It is a word succeeding its definition, and the film ends like it began, like a sequence of action that has no finite beginning or end.
Post-Publishing Note, (08/28):
Michael Anderson at Tativille also has a lot to say about this movie, and he is very specific in describing the cultural colorings within Miami and its surrounding countries and cities. He also references Howard Hawks, Wong Kar-wai, and Budd Boetticher to substantiate his deconstruction of this so-called "over-stylized" film. Check it out.
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