July 2007: 20 Mini Reviews, Part II
July 26, 2007
The last twenty films I’ve seen.
Calcutta (’69): A pastiche of overcrowding, poorness, suffering, and everyday life in India’s biggest city, courtesy of Louis Malle and his great cinematographer Etienne Becker. No plot, and very little narration to this documentary, but like all of Malle’s cinema verite documents of civilian life, the images make up for the lack of narrative focus, and a few here, like the religious cremation of a wife by her husband, or children playing in streets littered with animal feces and other filth, are overwhelmingly effective.
The City of Lost Children (’95): Jean-Pierre Jeunet and Marc Caro’s sepia tinged nightmare boasts the creators’ usual visual inventiveness, but its sprawling fantasy story, about a mad scientist who abducts little children to steal their dreams, is at times distant, unemotional, and bizarre. Of course in Jeunet and Caro’s films bizarre is the norm, and once you can get into their rhythm of flamboyant visual tricks and somewhat Dickensian storytelling, with characters as strange and unusual as their very settings (Paris as seen through a futuristic dystopian kaleidoscope), than the film’s stylistic accomplishments become all the more impressive to behold.
Transformers (’07): Say what you will about Michael Bay, and I usually do, this certified blockbuster is the best movie he’s ever made, not just because it’s about fighting robots (and who could screw up fighting robots?), but because even the human characters (always such a fatal flaw to any Bay action epic) pass the grade by nominal summer entertainment standards, led by Shia LaBeouf, who is quickly becoming one of Hollywood’s most charismatic young actors. It has been suggested that a critic should check his skepticism at the door when he goes into a movie like this, and usually I’d agree with such a cynical statement, but at times I thought this aggressive piece of pure adrenaline was smart enough, and funny enough, to pass as something more than just blow-em-up popcorn fare; and it is, one of the most entertaining films of the summer.
Sicko (’07): Michael Moore takes on the American health care system, with his usual mixture of whimsical comedic filmmaking and heartbreaking real life interviews with victims, and finds out what most of us already know, that HMO’s are terribly troublesome, the red tape is impossible to understand, the health care industry values it’s money over the welfare of it’s patients, and France, England, Canada, and Cuba have the goods with their universal coverage plans. Moore doesn’t outright suggest how to fix the problems with America’s health care insurance structure, but he does present more than enough of a case to suggest that we’re still living in the Stone Ages when it comes to protecting our citizens when they get sick or injured, and through his interviews with subjects who have been railroaded by the finer points of their coverage plans, his portrait is at times devastating, and downright frightening.
Don’t Look Back (’67): Where “Monterey Pop” can be considered the first true concert festival film, D.A. Pennebaker’s earlier “Don’t Look Back”, following Bob Dylan on his famed 1965 tour of England, could easily be considered the first true rock documentary, with performances, interviews, backstage material, and Dylan’s off stage leisure time all filmed with fly-on-the-wall precision. At the time, soon to release the semi-electric masterpiece “Bringing it All Back Home”, Dylan was the most influential and important rock musician on the planet this side of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, and his arrogance with the press bleeds through in the interview segments, but the performances make up for his abrasive attitude, and Pennebaker’s non-intrusive verite filmmaking literally helped create the genre.
Delicatessen (’91): The first exceptionally imaginative product of filmmakers Jean-Pierre Jeunet and Marc Caro, this incredibly dark comedy about a dingy apartment house in a totalitarian Paris that has to result to cannibalism to survive, has a brilliant sense of humor (absurd as it may be) to go along with it’s decidedly macabre storyline. One character lives with frogs in an amphibious basement, another was a former TV clown whose partner was a dancing monkey, resistance fighters troll the sewers beneath Paris like mole people, and as weird as that all sounds, throw in the unsavory thought of human stew with lentils, it’s all absolutely hilarious, a one-of-a-kind treat from a team of visual fantasy masters whose partnership, sadly, would last only two movies long.
Drunken Master (’78): One of Jackie Chan’s earliest comedies, featuring possibly his most famous role, as a young martial arts student who learns the ancient art of the Drunken Masters to fight his enemies and save his father from assassination. Very silly, with little sophisticated cinematic language, this film exists almost solely to showcase Chan’s considerable martial arts moves and his sense of humor, both of which are in top form.
Seabiscuit (’03): Laura Hillenbrand’s non-fiction page-turner, about a misfit horse on the west coast who lifted spirits and captured the nation’s attention during the Great Depression, is adapted to the big screen with a considerable amount of nostalgia, Americana, and just enough trimming to fit the complex story into a manageable running length. At times Gary Ross’ film feels too important, like the voice over narration by David McCullough, which makes it feel less like a heart-warming sports film and more like a Ken Burns documentary, but the story is undeniably effective, the race scenes are arguably the best ever staged, and you can’t go wrong with a film that posits the talents of Chris Cooper, Jeff Bridges, and Tobey Maguire as equal leads, next to the stunning horse, of course.
Tokyo Twilight (’57): The darkest film of Yasujiro Ozu’s career, with dire subjects ranging from infidelity and child abandonment, to unwanted pregnancy, abortion, and suicide, told in the dead of winter with an unusual amount of low lighting and shadows. Ozu would adopt color filmmaking with his next film, the much warmer “Equinox Flower”, perhaps to appease the critics and audience who shunned this one, but seen today it’s one of his bravest examinations of post war Japan and the modern family unit, cracked and almost unfixable.
Stranger than Fiction (’06): Fans of Will Ferrell’s exaggerated man-child shtick didn’t much take to this more dramatic turn, as a lonely IRS agent whose boring life is seemingly narrated to him by the voice of a female author, causing a slight surreal mental breakdown, but it at least gives Ferrell the chance to stretch his acting talents, and opposite the likes of Dustin Hoffman, Emma Thompson, and Maggie Gyllenhaal, he holds his own. The witty script by Zach Helm draws favorable comparisons with the more accomplished work of Charlie Kaufman (especially “Adaptation”), and director Marc Forster utilizes snazzy screen graphics to highlight both Ferrell’s mundane existence, and the freedom he feels when his narrator casually tells him he’s going to die, but not before falling in love with Gyllenhaal’s feisty baker.
Jurassic Park (’93): 1993 was a good year for Steven Spielberg (though being Steven Spielberg, isn’t every year good?), what with “Schindler’s List” winning multiple Oscars, and this dinosaur epic breaking new ground in CGI technology, while raking in nearly a billion dollars on the open world market. The blockbuster status of the film was well earned, not just because the dinosaurs actually looked real (as opposed to previous film dinosaurs which looked like the clay – or latex – they were made of), but because Spielberg’s adventuresome filmmaking was still as exciting and frightening as it was from the days of “Jaws” and “Raiders of the Lost Arc”, culminating in the amazing T-Rex attack scene, and the raptors-in-the-kitchen scene. As the Rex squishes his big foot into the mud, and the raptor arcs his head to the kitchen window and breathes his menacing snort on it’s reflection, the thrill is instantaneously sent down our spines as we behold what is a cinematic magician utilizing all the tricks in his ever expanding toolbox. Awesome.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (’07): Harry and his friends at Hogwarts are confronted by Voldemort, and the expulsion of Dumbledore as headmaster, in this fifth and darkest tale in the successful Potter film franchise. Directed by British TV vet David Yates with the series’ usual plethora of special effects, wizardly duels, and a new amount of teen angst (the kid stars are growing up nicely), this film suffers a bit from the fact that we know nothing drastic is going to happen, given two more films in the pipeline, but that doesn’t mean what we see isn’t exciting, and with a cast of adult veterans, from Gary Oldman and Imelda Staunton, to Emma Thompson, Michael Gambon, Helena Bonham Carter, and Ralph Fiennes (to name a few), the proceedings are entirely professional and well executed.
Pitfall (’62): I’ve been a fan of Hiroshi Teshigahara ever since I started studying Japanese cinema, but his films are hard to come by, so credit the Criterion Collection for finally introducing the great director to the DVD era by releasing his first three films with brand new prints, and a new critical appreciation. “Pitfall” is Teshigahara’s stunning debut, a psychological ghost story – about a poor miner who is killed for political reasons, whose ghost rises from his body to watch, and comment on, the ensuing madness surrounding the murder – that employs a remarkable amount of unconventional, somewhat surrealistic aesthetic tricks to cast its enthralling spell. Teshigahara’s next film, “Women in the Dunes”, adapted from a novel by “Pitfall” writer Kobo Abe, is just as visually impressive, and its claustrophobic nature and frank sexuality made it an art house hit of the day, but for a more free form example of the director’s unique style (a mixture of everything from Bunuel to Imamura, but entirely original just the same), than this first in a series of early masterpieces is a good place to start.
Rescue Dawn (’07): Christian Bale and Steve Zahn give Oscar worthy performances as prisoners of war during the Vietnam war, held in deplorable conditions by their captors, until they plan a daring escape and brave the deadly jungle, in this familiar yet harrowing drama from Werner Herzog, perhaps the most universal film he’s ever made. Herzog, notorious for putting his actors through the rigors, doses Bale, Zahn, and a handful of others, including Jeremy Davies, with all they can take, from starvation and mudslides, to the thickest of jungle brush and pesky leaches, to create the proper effect of suffering, and what comes through, like in Herzog classics of the past, such as “Aguirre, the Wrath of God”, “Fitzcarraldo”, and “Grizzly Man”, is a journey by a singular determined man to brave the jungle, and wicked mother earth, in order to survive.
Evil (’03): A troubled teenager with anger management issues stands up to a pack of older bullies at his prestigious boarding school in this somewhat entertaining, somewhat clichéd drama from Mikael Hafstrom. When the boy gets his revenge on the evilest of the bullies it’s sweet redemption, but getting there is filled with violence and mildly dangerous torture, most of which becomes tiresome after a while.
Alien 3 (’92): Sigourney Weaver is back as Lieutenant Ripley to kick some alien behind, this time with virtually none of her original shipmates, just one of the problems befitting this unnecessary franchise extension, directed by first timer David Fincher with visual flair, but not much else. The original cut on the DVD fares better than the garbage the studio deemed releasable in ’92, but it’s still a mess, with the same scare tactics, and virtually the same alien puppet (this time with a little CG thrown in) as the previous, much better films.
Paprika (’07): Animation genius Satoshi Kon’s fourth feature is a masterpiece of imagination and unpredictable science fiction aesthetics, delving into the fruitful realm of nightmares and dreams with an almost childlike curiosity, yet never too far from complete apocalypse. When a top secret device for recording personal dreams gets into the wrong hands, a dream hacker named Paprika is called upon by the scientists to help retrieve the device, but when dreams and reality start becoming one, the realm between life and the dangers of fantasy becomes almost impossible to differentiate. A strong contender for the best animated film of the year, and another brilliant addition to the strong, and relatively young canon of one of the world’s great animation auteurs.
Amelie (’01): Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s romantic vision of Paris, as portrayed by a beautifully chaotic and fluid camera, reds, greens, and yellows, and a star turn performance by the adorable Audrey Tautou as a shy girl who manipulates coincidences to make people around her happy. To watch Jeunet’s previous films, all dark and expressionistic (yet bitterly funny) you’d never think he’d have such a lighthearted romantic romp in him, but still, beneath Tautou’s lovely brown eyes, bob haircut, and Audrey Hepburn-esque smile, lies a sinister streak for breaking the rules, something her talented director seems to do with each successive film.
A Wedding (’78): On a lark, Robert Altman once told a producer that his next project would be to film somebody’s wedding, and from that comes this sprawling satire, a nearly 50-character piece that destroys the concept of friendly familial wedding celebrations by employing a level of sadness and dread that flies above the obvious trappings of wedding satire. Like a lot of Altman’s films post “Nashville”, the director feels a need to cram as many talking parts as possible into his two hour time frame, and at first it’s dizzying just trying to get each party straight, but by the end, remarkably, we come to get a good grasp on who we’ve just met, their motives, stories, and futures, and like any family gathering, realize that if we see them again next year, nothing much will have changed the course of theirs, or our existence.
Band of Brothers (’01): HBO’s epic ten part miniseries, running nearly 11 hours long with painstaking attention to detail, tells of the distinct bond between soldiers before, during, and after they fight together on the front lines in Europe, as each man’s actions, often split second decisions in the heat of battle, comes to represent the line between life and death. Adapted from a book by historian Stephen Ambrose, the series, executive produced by Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg with the same look and emotion of their earlier “Saving Private Ryan”, focuses on the men of Easy Company, a regiment of paratroopers in the 101st Airborne Division, who were present for most of the key moments of the European Theatre, from D-Day, through Holland, the Battle of the Bulge, and the capture of Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest in Austria, suffering enormous hardships and casualties, but remaining a core unit throughout. The series is heavy on action, especially during the D-Day invasion, and the brutal barrage in the Ardennes at Bastogne, but it’s the singular character studies of each episode (a nervous young soldier suffering hysterical blindness in Part 3, an overworked company medic in Part 6), and the historical landmarks (like the discovery of the so far unseen Nazi death and concentration camps in Part 9), that makes it so memorable, and at times, heartbreaking and devastating. Masterfully acted and directed, with an enormous scope almost unmatched by anything that’s ever been presented on television, this is one of the defining works of war filmmaking, an emotional powerhouse, and a fitting tribute to the greatest generation.
by Adam Suraf