March 2008, Part II: 15 Mini Reviews
March 27, 2008
The last fifteen films I’ve seen.
Drums Along the Mohawk (’39): Henry Fonda and Claudette Colbert star as newlyweds who move to rural upstate New York just prior to the sounding bell of the American Revolution, where the community assembles a ragtag militia to fight off Indian and British attacks. Of the three films released by John Ford in 1939, this slice of patriotic will is the most pleasant of the three, compared with “Stagecoach” and “Young Mr. Lincoln’s” sometimes cynical look at heroism and American society, and the use of Technicolor, Ford’s first, is a stark contrast to the prior two films’ black and white lighting.
The Karate Kid (’84): One of my favorite films of the ‘80’s is still a pleaser today; though the first half hour is slightly embarrassing, when our hero (Ralph Machio) begins to train with his janitor, Mr. Miyagi (Pat Morita), and fight back against the school bullies, the formula is undeniably inspiring. Director John G. Avildsen uses the same tactics that won him a couple of Oscars for “Rocky” eight years earlier, presenting us with an underdog story, this time geared for a younger audience, that utilizes genre clichés to maximum effects, and in the sweet and funny performance of Morita as the stoic, lonely Mr. Miyagi, the film has it’s Obi-Wanian heart and soul.
Pierrot le fou (’65): Six years after he defined modern filmmaking with “Breathless”, Jean-Luc Godard would do the same for post-modernist filmmaking with “Pierrot le fou”, essentially taking the bones of the same story, two disillusioned lovers on the run, add painstaking swaths of color, reference everything from Vietnam to Sam Fuller, and make arguably the most personal film of his career. That he was currently in the middle of a break-up with his wife/leading lady Anna Karina is of the utmost importance to the film, for not only is it a love letter to Karina’s beauty, it’s a farewell to the free spirit she brought to her husband’s perplexing theories on love, individuality, and popular culture. Criterion’s double disk special edition has a beautifully produced television documentary about the on and off screen relationship between Godard and Karina, as well as an archived on-set interview with co-star Jean-Paul Belmondo, who at the time was one of France’s biggest actors, thanks in no small part to the genius of his idiosyncratic director.
The Conversation (’74): If Francis Ford Coppola has the distinction of having directed the best film sequel of all time (“The Godfather Part II”), than he may also have the title of having directed the best European rip-off of all time, because even he acknowledges on the DVD commentary that this masterpiece is little more than an American version of Michelangelo Antonioni’s “Blow Up”, with still photography replaced by high tech audio machinery. Gene Hackman gives the most quietly devastating performance of his career as Harry Caul, a San Francisco wiretap expert whose most recent job has him tracking a potential murder plot, leading to an ethical dilemma, and eventual outright paranoia. Coppola’s long shots and seemingly immobile camera eavesdrop on the story like Caul and his masterful equipment eavesdrop on private conversations, while the empty spaces of Harry’s apartment and work studio suggest a man with few attachments, but a contradictory regard for personal privacy.
One Wonderful Sunday (’47): A heartfelt portrait of post-war struggles from Akira Kurosawa, about a young couple that finds it hard to survive the weekend with the paltry scraps in their pockets. Kurosawa’s admiration for Italian Neo-Realism, especially “Bicycle Thieves”, would reach its peak with this lesser known gem and the following year’s “Drunken Angel”, utilizing war-torn backdrops for emotional and symbolic effect, and even though the story gives way to fantasy near the end (prompting some critics to dub it “Capra-esque”), like De Sica would do in “Miracle in Milan”, the devastating poorness of the two characters (memorably played by Isao Numasaki and Chieko Nakakita), who can barely afford a few rice balls for lunch, is both touching and an important commentary on the slowness of Japan’s post-war economic recovery.
Magnolia (’99): Paul Thomas Anderson’s sprawling, Altman-esque film of fate and coincidence, about one day in the lives of 10 or so different characters in the San Fernando Valley, is so intricately plotted and fascinating that you hardly feel the 180 minute running time. Coming off of the big success of “Boogie Nights”, Anderson was given a big budget and total editing control to indulge his wild imagination, and what he came up with is a film of varying themes, from loneliness and isolation, to the often scarring effects of negligent fathers upon their children, culminating in an almost biblical splurge of acceptance and healing. The impossibly talented cast includes Tom Cruise, Julianne Moore, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Philip Baker Hall, John C. Reilly, William H. Macy, and Jason Robards, just to name a few. Released on Christmas in 1999, a great year for movies, topping critic’s lists along with “Being John Malkovich”, “Three Kings”, “American Beauty”, “Election”, and “The Insider”, this creative triumph could logically be considered the last important film of the ‘90’s, and still one of the best of the past ten years.
Bad Religion: Live at the Palladium (’06): For Bad Religion fans only, for which I have been for ages, this lengthy concert doc showcases the legendary Southern California punk outfit playing a hometown gig at Hollywood’s Palladium Theater, rattling through a set composed of songs from classic albums like “No Control”, “Generator”, and “Suffer”, while featuring prominently material from the then new “The Empire Strikes First”. The interspersed interviews with the band members tackle their 25-year history together, including when founder and co-mastermind Brett Gurewitz took a three-album hiatus in the ‘90’s to run Epitaph Records, while the camerawork and fine production values show proper respect for BR, one of the best punk rock bands of all time.
One Hundred and One Dalmatians (’61): Disney finally gives the deluxe DVD treatment to its beloved early ‘60’s classic, with a new print, bonus trivia track, and about an hours worth of featurettes detailing the production of the film, from new techniques in animation that rendered cel artists obsolete, to the modernist animated look that Walt Disney originally hated. It’s a proper release for what is one of the key turning points in Disney history, shying away from the lush, painstakingly detailed fuller look of “Cinderella” and “Peter Pan” and adopting a more natural, free form style that would make better use of the original animator’s line drawings, a charming production switch that gives the film a modern art style to complement its textbook stolen dog plotline. Also of note, besides the revolutionary new artistic style, is the comedic wickedness of Cruella De Vil, who plans on turning the hoarded puppies into an overcoat, one of Disney’s most outlandish villains, and like Captain Hook, full of hilarious gestures and misdeeds.
Some Like It Hot (’59): A peerless script by Billy Wilder and his new writing partner I.A.L. Diamond is just one of the artistic triumphs of this sensational American classic, starring Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis as 1920’s jazzmen who go undercover in an all-women’s band to hide from the mob, only to get all hot and bothered by the band’s troubled singer, Marilyn Monroe. Legends abound about the difficulties of the shoot, in particular Wilder’s frustration with a constantly late and befuddled Monroe, and the DVD extras touch somewhat on the troubles, but for all that supposedly went wrong during the shoot, the final product is a masterpiece of comedic timing, thanks in part to the skilled turns by Lemmon and Curtis, playing off of Monroe’s sexual gifts, and each other, like vaudevillian masters. It’s a testament to Wilder and Diamond’s witty and racy script, a staple of screenwriting courses, that after a dozen or so viewings, like “Portnoy’s Complaint” or “The Simpsons”, it still surprises us with its genuine and endless laughs.
The Informer (’35): Victor McLaglen won a Best Actor Oscar for his role as Gypo Nolan, a poor Irishman who sells out his best friend to the British for 20 pounds during the Irish rebellion, in this moody masterwork, what many consider to be the first truly perfect film of John Ford’s amazing career. Utilizing stunning shadows and wafts of light that he learned/stole (lovingly) from F.W. Murnau during their late silent days at Fox, Ford and cinematographer Joseph August symbolize Nolan’s Catholic guilt by drenching him in light and fog, turning the once proud freedom fighter into a drunken mess of contradictions, lies, and devastating paranoia. Ford also won an Oscar for his direction, the first of a record four, yet August’s cinematography, comparable to “Citizen Kane”, “Casablanca”, and “Double Indemnity” as textbook examples of lighting studio sets for maximum symbolic effect, wasn’t even nominated, one of the biggest snubs in Academy history, though today the work is justly hailed.
The Shop on Main Street (’65): A bumbling Slovakian man is empowered the rights to run a Jewish button shop, housed by a senile old widow, by the new Fascist powers at the onset of WWII in this funny and ultimately wrenching study of compassion and survival, made in Czechoslovakia at the height of the New Wave. Jozef Kroner plays Brtko, who sees an opportunity in running the beat down textile shop, but when he finds friendship and compassion for the old widow (Oscar nominee Ida Kaminska), and the Jewish leaders of the community, he’s presented with a moral dilemma when the Nazi’s begin rounding up for their concentration camps. Directors Jan Kadar and Elmar Klos mix elements of fantasy and farce into their powerfully dramatic story, including a lovely epilogue after the heartbreaking finale, that finds the two central characters waltzing through town without a care in the world, touching this all-too-real modern classic, an Oscar winner for Best Foreign Film in ’61, with a bit of fantastical magic.
Orpheus (’50): Jean Cocteau’s famous interpretation of the Orpheus legend finds the mythical wanderer (Jean Marais) traversing Left Bank poet cafes and being hounded by a Death Princess (Maria Casares) wearing dominatrix black leather, just two of the modern touches that makes Cocteau’s vision a fashion standout. Collected by the Criterion Collection in the “Orphic Trilogy” box set, along with “The Blood of a Poet” and “The Testament of Orpheus”, this is easily the best of the three, with charming and minimal special effects and with Marais giving possibly his finest performance, though those that suggest this is Cocteau’s best film forget the power and charms of “Beauty and the Beast”, which is both less precious and artfully pretentious as “Orpheus”.
Two-Lane Blacktop (’71): The sparse dialogue and scenic beauty of old Route 66 highlight Monte Hellman’s cult classic, an existential journey of wanderlust, alienation, and fast cars, about two guys in a ’55 Chevy who pick up a young hitchhiker and challenge a lonely drunk in a GTO to a cross-country road race. James Taylor and Dennis Wilson, both amateur actors from the music world, play the drivers of the Chevy, whose only existence seems to be racing their beloved black car for 300 dollars a pop in drag races, until hitchhiker Laurie Bird comes along and slightly steals their attentions. Warren Oates comes along in his store-bought GTO and accepts the cross country challenge, giving the film’s best performance as a rundown middle aged hipster whose crumbling life fits perfectly with the younger character’s passivity towards speed and destruction. A flop when it first appeared in July ’71, doomed primarily because Universal boss Lew Wasserman didn’t understand it, today Hellman’s realistic film is often mentioned in the same breath as “Easy Rider” as quintessential road movies of the time, and thanks to Criterion’s gorgeous new two-disk edition, with two commentary tracks and over two-and-a-half hours of documentaries, its place is properly preserved.
12:08 East of Bucharest (’07): Another highly acclaimed film from Romania, the current It country for New Wavian diatribes, this time taking the standard minimalist approach (natural lighting, long takes, unflattering interiors) for a satire on television politics and the importance of the 1989 Romanian revolution. At a shabby independent television studio in a small town East of the capital (hence the American title), a pompous talk show host interviews two poorly chosen guests - a drunken professor and an old man whose only known job is as Santa impersonator - on the 16th anniversary of the communist overthrow, debating if their town participated or just accepted after the fact (when Ceausescu fled at eight past noon on December 22nd). Corneliu Porumboiu’s first feature is precise in its satire, especially the hilarious production values of the no-budget TV studio, but the outside lives of these three characters, all struggling with either poverty, infidelity, or alcoholism, represents a modern cynicism handled so perfectly in the show’s suggestion that the revolution may not be as important today as it was nearly two decades ago.
Margot at the Wedding (’07): Noah Baumbach’s films are either therapy sessions gone wrong or precise examinations of selfishness in intelligent upper middle class bohemia, either way, in their Rohmerian look at family troubles, they are fascinating to watch. Following the much admired “The Squid and the Whale”, Baumbach switches focus from a crumbling marriage to the rivalry between two estranged sisters (marvelously played by Jennifer Jason Leigh and Nicole Kidman), reunited when the former invites the latter, a famous, self-absorbed New York author, back to their childhood home for a wedding. What transpires is a mixture of bonding, psychological gamesmanship, and acidic putdowns, filmed and performed in theatrical long takes reminiscent of such master directors as Eric Rohmer (Baumbach’s noted inspiration), Mike Leigh, Ingmar Bergman, and to a lesser extent, Woody Allen during his Bergman-esque period. Baumbach isn’t quite proficient enough to join the ranks of such revered writer-directors, but his formula is solid, mature, and perfectly squirm inducing.
by Adam Suraf