Clapboard Jungle

Cavalcade of Holiday Fun!

2006-12-23T23:33:00.000-05:00

Why, you might ask yourself, is the only Jew on staff here at Clapboard doing the Christmas season review? That is a good question, but one that easily answered. As a person of the “Jewish persuasion,” I may be the ideal person to do a run down of my favourite Christmas movies. Why?

First, because I have had 28 years of holiday movie watching relatively uninterrupted by family or religious obligations in late December. Unlike most other North Americans who claim to rest and enjoy themselves over the holiday break, I actually can.

Second, like, oh say, Neil Diamond singing “Silent Night” over the loud speakers in every mall on the continent today, Christmas is something I just have to work with. I cannot ignore Christmas pictures any more than any other film reviewer – they make up their own genre, so far be it from me to shirk my responsibility to know them simply by playing the religion card.

Third, I actually like Christmas movies, to be honest. It is not that I believe all that baloney about the magic of Christmas bringing out the best in everyone, yadda, yadda, yadda. Rather, it is that I enjoy the mythology of Christmas films, as well as that crisp hope that radiates from some, or that callous spite that rolls off others. Truly, there are few movie seasons like Christmas, so I find myself jumping at the chance to pick and choose my favourite ones.

Now, a word before we continue. First, I will not be including Eight Crazy Nights (though that wasn’t a bad movie) or any other rare Hanukkah film simply to round out the word “holiday” in some farcical attempt to show I don’t mean Christmas. That is a privilege I claim on the grounds that people can’t accuse me of forgetting that non-Christians exist in December.

Second, I am not terribly traditional in my definition of Christmas movie, but there are some limits. Unlike ABC, I refuse to believe that My Fair Lady (which I believe takes place in Spring) or The Sound of Music (which, aside from the words “crisp and white, clean and bright” is not all that Christmassy, really) or, even worse, Fiddler on the Roof (!!) are Christmas films. Therefore, I will try to give brief reasons why each film is a holiday film in my book.

Now, people try to pin romance on Valentine’s Day, or possibly lazy summers by the lake, but, for my money, those last weeks of December and those first nights of January really make up the Season of Love. This is why every Christmas, I start leaning towards the rom-com genre, which, luckily, has a good crop of Christmas crossover appeal. A sure fire bet, and one of the best romantic comedies ever made, is When Harry Met Sally…. Sure, purists may deem this not a holiday movie, but when Harry runs into that New Year’s Eve dance to find the woman he has just realized he loves, and says those great words… You get the idea. (Love + magic + decorations = Holiday, ok?) This movie always tops my holiday viewing list – enjoyable story and good characters, and, let’s face it, Billy Crystal has never been more loveable before or since.

Of course, if your mood for romantic comedies requires a larger portion, you can’t go wrong with Bridget Jones’s Diary, or its bastard cousin the much maligned (though not as horrible as it is cracked up to be) sequel, or the rash of hip British winter-themed romantic comedies that followed it, including About a Boy (“Santa’s Super Sleigh” kills me) and Love, Actually. Still, for my money, WHMS is the tops.

However, while the holiday season is the perfect time for love, it is also a great time for disaffectedness, alienation, existential angst, and abject romantic poverty. If this group includes you, you will find your comfort in the numerous anti-Christmas pictures made over the years. I am tempted to through The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind in there (hey, there was that one Christmas scene… right?), but my pick for this category would have to be, for modern stuff, The Ice Harvest, which is about as cold a holiday film as you can get. The clue: when someone’s wife is found dead kneeling over her Christmas presents on Christmas Eve, this is not a feel good film for the joy of the season. A contemporary noir, The Ice Harvest is often grizzly, but seldom dull, and it illustrates nicely how everything can go to hell at Christmas.

In terms of classics, I find it odd that no one recognizes Chaplin’s The Gold Rush as a holiday film. The fact that it takes place in snow helps, of course, but the Tramp’s dejection on New Year’s is a tragedy that plays itself out so regularly during the festive season that one cannot help but see this comedy masterpiece as a timeless tale of Christmas blues.

Now, classics buffs would scream if I did not mention It’s a Wonderful Life.

Ok, done.

No, seriously, It’s a Wonderful Life is a fine film, though not as sugary as it has been cracked up to be by parodies and memories. Sadly, that dark undercurrent of suicidal tendency is probably all too relevant for the holiday season. However, if we are going for Capri-corn, I have to suggest a lesser known, but just as enduring and touching, film, Meet John Doe. “John Doe,” played by the always alluring Gary Cooper, is a man pushed to his limits by the inhumanity of the system, and who demands that the world change, or he ends it all on Christmas Eve. Of course, in the meantime there is love, hard-bitten reporters and other things we have all grown to demand from 1930/40s melodramas, but there is also heart and wit here, too, and I find it an unforgettable film.

Next, we have a story that is very nearly a genre in its own right – Dicken’s A Christmas Carol. This is an oft-told tale, but one you’d be hard pressed to dislike. Scrooge, the iconic miser, is about as great as a character gets, and the basic myth of Christmas presented in this story makes this a permanent foundational text of our culture. However, not all versions are created equal, though I’d say you’d be safe watching any version shown on late night TV on Christmas weekend (there is a certain thrill to watching this movie after midnight on Christmas Eve – check it and see). My favourite all time versions have to include the ever-loved Bill Murray updating Scrooged, the classic 1951 Alastair Sims version Scrooge (they dropped the fancy title in honest recognition of who is the real attraction of this story), and the cute Muppet’s Christmas Carol staring Michael Cane as Scrooge, and Kermit as Bob Cratchit. However even less glorified versions deserve a look in, such as Patrick Stewart’s HBO rendering (featuring the wonderful Joel Grey and Richard E. Grant in supporting roles).

Best Christmas line ever? “Must I be accosted by these blasted sea urchins?”

Finally, the best and the greatest of all Christmas movies, as even acknowledged by its unvarnished title, has to be A Christmas Story. Maybe the title doesn’t even ring a bell, but the gist should come back to you if I yell, “You’ll shoot your eye out!” Remember it now? A beautiful piece of American nostalgia, this film reminds us that it isn’t always about getting exactly what you want (because answered prayers can still turn bad), or about having a perfect family or home. It is about the kind of memories that the holidays leave you with that matter in the long run. And a perfect holiday meal can be served at your dining room table or at a Chinese restaurant, but that makes it no less perfect.

So, no matter what your faith or culture, Christmas and seasonal films can entertain, warm the heart and delight the soul, and there is a wide variety for them to choose from. From the absurd to the sublime, Christmas has become part of our shared cinematic heritage, so stay in, hug someone you love tightly, and enjoy the season of screen magic.

Happy Holidays!

Little Miss Sunshine

2006-11-28T12:14:00.000-05:00

I went to see Little Miss Sunshine (2006) on a rainy afternoon in London, because I was afraid it wouldn’t be playing in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, when I returned home. It was. I saw it a second time.

Little Miss Sunshine follows a road trip from New Mexico to California with Olive’s family. Olive is a seven-year-old beauty pageant fanatic. When she was visiting her aunt in California, she entered a pageant for girls and placed second. Later, she gets a message that the winner was made ineligible (with a throw-away comment alluding to diet pills) and she was asked to come to the Little Miss Sunshine pageant in California. She gets this news at a bad time. Olive’s family is a perfect storm of bad attitudes, bad chemicals and disappointment, but they all have to pile into a barely-functioning yellow VW bus to make the trek.

Olive’s father (Greg Kinnear) is an unsuccessful motivational speaker, which has got to be the sorriest vocation one could ever name. His “9 Steps To Success” have seeped out of his seminars and into his everyday life, where he pressures Olive to win and derides losers for not “wanting it” enough.

Olive’s mother Sheryl (Toni Collette) is the one that tries to put everything in perspective. She’s the voice of reason. She’s the protector. She’s the reader of post-modern child-rearing books. She’s nurturing and sweet without being cloying.

Sheryl’s brother Frank (Steve Carell) comes to live with the family in the opening scenes of the movie. He is recovering from an unsuccessful suicide attempt caused by the unrequited love of one of his grad students (he’s a Proust scholar) and his subsequent mental breakdown and dismissal at his University. Steve Carell will be nominated for Best Supporting Actor at the Oscars, I prophesy. He was positively crush-worthy in this movie, and his great beard and pale tropical vacation/mental patient clothing didn’t hurt. I don’t feel warm fuzzies for him when he’s playing Michael Scott on “The Office.” I was very impressed.

Olive’s paternal grandfather (Alan Arkin) has also recently moved into the house. He was forcibly removed from his retirement community for being a belligerent jerk. Oh, and abusing heroin. He dedicates most of his time to cursing and helping Olive rehearse for non-exsistant beauty pageants. For all his nastiness, he might be the sweetest character in the whole picture.

Sheryl says Olive’s brother Dwayne (Paul Dano) has taken a vow of silence until he gets accepted into the Air Force. That’s not the whole story, but he doesn’t tell anyone but his uncle Frank, via a notepad and pen.

The writing and direction in Little Miss Sunshine is so accurate and astute that the audience knows the stories of all the characters in the first few minutes, as the titles roll. It’s the strength of that storytelling and the acting that make this such a sweet, disturbing, and funny film. It’s the kind of screenplay combined with great casting that I love to see – its economy, subtlety, and charm make this one of my favourite movies of the year.

This is more than a road trip movie, and although there is a group-hug-like moment at one point, it’s more than a saccharine story about a damaged family or damaged parts of a family whole. This family doesn’t stick together because they’re family. They’re stuck together because they’re family. There’s the difference.

Little Miss Sunshine is going to be released on DVD on December 19th, 2006. If you were unable to see it before, I highly recommend renting it. Those who have seen it before intend to rent in anyway.

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

2006-09-01T23:55:00.000-04:00

OK. Hands up if you don’t think Ben Chaplin is a living doll. Good. Now hands up if wouldn’t wrap Janeane Garofalo up and take her home. Excellent. This is a very good start.

So The Truth About Cats and Dogs (1996) is neither new, nor is it particularly a classic. It is, however, a sweet and enjoyable piece of fluff, and one of my favourite guilty pleasures. So, yeah, I am the silent picture and Italian art film fan… But one does not live on art alone. Sometimes, you have to go for the cream and sugar, people, and this one, for me, is a sure fire winner.

Basically, The Truth About Cats and Dogs is Cyrano de Bergerac for women. Abby (Janeane Garofalo), a clever and successful radio animal expert, is funny and personable, but shy and not exactly classically beautiful. Her neighbour, Noelle (Uma Thurman), is tall, willowy, blond and beloved by about 97% of the straight male population with eyes. Abby falls for a sweet-natured and sexy British guy (Ben Chaplin), who also happens to be head-over-heels in love with the woman he met over the phone, who just happens to be Abby. Abby, however, is so certain that a handsome guy would have no interest in her that she mistakenly asks her friend Noelle to stand in for her. From there, we get the classic rom-com comedy of errors.

Follow me so far?

Naturally, all ends up well, and I don’t think I will spoil anyone’s expectations by hinting that the best woman wins.

So, what do we get here? A pleasant fiction, my inner-cynic tells me, in which men really can love a personality so much that they can ignore the outer-package. Actually, it is even more far-fetched than that – he doesn’t just ignore the outer package. His love for her sense of humour and intelligence actually makes her physically attractive to him.

Is this one for Ripley’s Believe it or Not? Can a man love a personality to the point where the body is secondary?

I don’t know the answer to that. Aside from the fact that Janeane Garofalo is still better looking than like 80% of all us lowly non-movie-star ladies out there, this is a pretty big fish story to swallow. Still, we the audience desperately wants to believe, and, somehow, despite the occasionally spotty acting and huge suspension of belief issues, the movie does manage to satisfy and is highly re-watchable.

One thing is for certain, as the information highway brings AIM, Yahoo and five million other forms of chat into our lives and living rooms, the answers to the questions raised in this film will take on a much larger significance for our society… And this pleasant fiction may find itself gaining legions of new followers who are ready, willing and desperate to believe its fairy tale ending.

So go, rent, enjoy. Who doesn’t like a pleasant fiction every once in a while?

Lady in the Water

2006-07-29T09:03:00.000-04:00

Oh, M. Night Shyamalan. I want to like you. I really do! Why, then, are you so strong in some areas and so transparently lame in others? Or inconsistently lame and strong, anyway?

I suspect a lot of the problem is the one-man-bandedness of his works. He writes and directs all his movies, so all the blame or praise falls to him. In this case, was it a blessing or a curse that Sixth Sense (1999) was his first feature film?

Ok. Lady in the Water (2006). Paul Giamatti plays Cleveland Heap, a put-upon apartment complex superintendeant that seems somewhat contented to work and live with the miscellaneous characters that occupy the building. Like the weird little dude who is only working out one side of his body. Or the family with five sisters. The war buff. The film critic who clumsily analyses his life as if it were a film. The author and his sister. More on the author later.

Bryce Dallas Howard plays a sea nymph who appears in the pool of Cleveland’s complex. Yeah. I tried to care about/pay attention to this storyline, so bear with me. A long time ago, humans and sea creatures were friendly, but then men became more obsessed with owning material objects, and didn’t care about the sea creatures anymore. Uh, star babies of the sea nymphs were sent to live among men and if they could spiritually commune with one, or something, something good would happen.

My confusion or ambivalence on the storyline is fuelled by multiple amendments and addendums to the original story as the movie progressed. It’s like this, oh, no it’s not, it’s like this, oh, did I forget to say this? It gets tiring and boring really fast. How lazy was Shyamalan when he was writing this screenplay that he didn’t even try to insinuate story twists with any sort of finesse? They are slammed into the proceedings like a lump of clay thrown on the floor.

I liked the directing. The direction was cool. Shyamalan likes to frame his subjects very tightly, so the audience can’t see what the character sees, or, what the character can’t see. It’s a very effective tool in suspenseful directing. He knows that what you can’t see is often more frightening than what you can. Still, he showed us the aliens in Signs (2002). It was scary up to that point.

Paul Giamatti is an amazing actor. He is not a big screen hunk, and he doesn’t choose broadly funny roles, but he is captivating to watch with excellent comic timing. In Lady in the Water, his Cleveland stutters. Giamatti portrays stuttering with understanding and style. It’s not the stereotypical broken-record uncontrollable repetition of the first phoneme (“puh-puh-puh-puffed sleeves”), but the kind of unpredictable and troubled speech from which so many stutterers suffer. I just remembered: stuttering was mentioned in The Sixth Sense, too.

I said I’d get back to the author. He is played by Shyamalan, in his biggest role to date. (Until now, he’d taken a page out of Hitchcock's book, which is called “Appearing in Your Own Film.” He was only a tiny glimpse or cameo in his other films, but in Lady in the Water, it’s a proper role.) His character, when played by himself, and the plotline he has given Vic, is probably one of the most self-serving and egotistic turns I’ve ever witnessed. The Nymph (whose name, annoyingly, is “Story”), tells him that the book he’s in the process of writing will influence the future president of the United States, and will bring about an era of world peace. Oh, and he’d be murdered because of his ideas. Posthumous glory. How tragic. Is Shyamalan trying to say that we’ll only really appreciate his movies when he’s dead? That’s a tall order when it comes to this offering.

Everyone said it was crap, but I went to see it anyway. I should learn my lessons. Rotten Tomatoes gave this movie 21%. 15% of that is Giamatti, and 6% is for the line, “Mr. Heap is a player!”

The Frisco Kid

2006-07-23T01:28:00.000-04:00

Comedies from the 1970s have a distinctive flare to them, and comedy-westerns of that decade almost constitute their own genre. It is, perhaps, an acquired taste, but often well worth the viewing.

Robert Aldrich’s The Frisco Kid (1979) came out on DVD just this past spring, and was long awaited on home video format by students of Jewishness in American cinema. We have grown quite used to fictional glimpses of Jewish life in America in the late 1800s, but very few have taken us where this one does: The Westward Wagon Trail and the Pacific coast.

The Frisco Kid is Gene Wilder, who plays Avram Belinski, the 88th out of 89 rabbinical students in his Yeshiva class back in Poland. This less-than-astounding record earns him an unenviable position. His superiors decide he will be sent to San Francisco, where the growing Jewish community requires a rabbi. He sails to Philadelphia without incident, but, naturally, his trek through the Wild West is not so easy. He finds himself, robbed and defenseless, wandering in the wilderness. Helped along by the Amish (who he first mistakes for Hasidim), employed by the railway, and assaulted by food-robbing raccoons, the rabbi is sunk until he teams up with a rough bank robber (played by a very young Harrison Ford), who is too kindly (despite himself) to toss this fish-out-of-water back into the brush without help.

Playing the “damsel (read: rabbi) in distress,” Wilder is his usual wonderful self, and Ford, as beautiful and charming here as anyone ever could be, exhibits all the qualities that made him the box office hero he became. The bank robber is neither anti-Semitic, nor a brutish parody of cowboy masculinity, as so many of his celluloid brothers have been. He is uneducated, but he is not devoid of humanity. Likewise, the rabbi is a pacifist and religiously devout, but he never falls into cowardice (on the contrary, he is one of the few truly courageous images of Jewish males in American comedy) or dogmatic intolerance.

The story is simple and generally predictable (of course, the rabbi and the bank robber become best friends), and its humour does occasionally sink into the silly. (Not to say that the silliness is not effective – I found it quite impossible not to laugh right out loud at the scene in which the earnest rabbi teaches a tribe of Native Americans to dance the hora.) No one could accuse the film of high-concept laughs, and it is clearly meant to appeal to Jewish and non-Jewish audiences alike, as well as to many viewers who might not otherwise enjoy comedy-westerns.

Nevertheless, it also achieves a complexity and uniqueness amongst its cohorts. The characters are drawn with unexpected sensitivity and depth, stereotypes are never wholly relied upon, and the scenes of male bonding are poignant and believable. Violence, a common aspect of westerns, is also handled with an expert touch, and presents itself as an opportunity for heroics, but also as a seat of shame and senselessness. In its way, this film transcends the silly 70s comedy and makes it into thought provoking commentary.

With its unusually high production values, delightful klezmer-inspired score, and quick pace, The Frisco Kid is an enjoyable experience. Unfortunately, the new DVD completely underwhelms with its ugly packaging and menus, as well as with its relative lack of special features, but the film itself is a gem and worth the wait.

If you are interested in film representations of Jews, this is a key film because of its employment of stage conventions, as well as its subversion of old and tired stereotypes. However, if you are merely looking for a comedy that can entertain and amuse, played by attractive and charismatic stars, then you could also do a lot worse than this old-fashioned buddy picture with a peach of a gimmick.

Friends WIth Money.

2006-07-16T13:44:00.000-04:00

Friends With Money (2006) is about four generally unlikeable friends and their significant others. While the title might lead one to believe that Jennifer Aniston's character, Olivia, is the protagonist, all four ladies are featured on in equal measure.

Olivia is, however, generally the focus of the three wealthy friends' concern. Olivia isn't married. Olivia is a pothead. Olivia isn't living up to her potential. This last one, at least, is a genuine concern. Olivia used to be a teacher at a posh private school, but got so fed up with how the students were condecending assholes-in-training, she quit. Now, Olivia works as a maid. I think she finds it satisfying. I don't think it was a self-mortification practice, as if cleaning up other people's homes would make her a more noble person, but she just gave up on herself and didn't find what she did at all problematic. She had enough money for rent and weed, but not high-end cosmetics, which we watch her procure 1/2 ounce by 1/2 ounce in tiny sample tubes (see picture).

Catherine Keener plays Christine, who is half of a screenwriting duo. Her writing partner is her husband. They sit accross from one another, reading dialogue to make sure it's true to their created characters. They are adding a garish storey to their home, and when the contractor tells them that the addition will not make them very popular with the neighbours because it blocks everyone's view, she shrugs and says, "I want it."

Jane, played by the infinitely watchable Frances McDormand, is a successful clothing designer. Why her friends don't recognise her obvious depression, I don't know. She was gripped by such a deep malaise, she doesn't bother to wash her hair. It just gets dirty again, she says, and her arms get tired anyway, so why bother. She is so combattant and ready to fight with anyone who she feels wrongs her, she got thrown out of a an Old Navy for belligerantly accusing a couple of butting in line. (What's more humiliating: being thrown out of an Old Navy, or an A-list designer being seen in an Old Navy?) Her husband may or may not be dating another man. The two men could just be friends, but the kind of wide-eyed excitement is that of expectant lovers, not new friends. Jane is oblivious to husband's seemingly confused sexuality, and it doesn't appear to play a role in her depression.

Joan Cusack plays the frugal Franny, the easily-manipulated wife of a wealthy businessman. She is the richest friend, and she and her husband have so much money, they can't decide who to donate it to. What a burden that must be. She introduces her trainer to Olivia. He's a cad who has a fetish for hired help, and although he follows Olivia to other people's homes and uselessly watches her clean, he insists a cut of her pay. Meanwhile, he brags about making $65 an hour as a personal trainer. She forks over his "cut" without argument.

All of the friends don't seem to be happy, but are they really unhappy? They are letting their lives be lived for them; passive passengers in their own biographies. They are living lives of well-to-do Angelinos, but seem gaunt and drawn, with their tanned skin hanging from their bones. The friends are more contented to gossip than to actually help one another. One of them wonders aloud: if we weren't already friends and met now, would we become friends now? She thought probably not. They're all in their respective ruts. Keener's character seems to be the one with the most development. She eventually feels remorse over the rude construction on the house and also begins divorce proceedings.

Was this a good movie? Umm... It wasn't a bad movie. It wasn't remarkable, but it was not unwatchable. The characters were interesting but not compelling. I don't know if I'd even recommend this as a renter (August 29th). If I weren't writing this review, I might even forget I'd seen it. Meh.

Even the Disk Sucks

2006-07-10T17:15:00.000-04:00

I don’t really mean to be so very harsh. To tell the truth, after the initial disappointments, the new Pride and Prejudice (2005) actually started to grow on me. The pacing of the story (and the dialogue) is still far too fast, and I still worry that this version relies too much on having an audience already familiar with the story, but the look of the film is lush and lovely, and there are a few nice touches.

However, I have been less than charitable towards the thing since I have had my computer crash four times and my regular DVD player do long sessions of confused spins more times than I care to count.

I bought a copy of the new P&P at HMV, in their always-welcome 2/$30 sale, and the first copy killed my comp at the end of chapter 9. I tried again to no avail. I tried it on my entertainment system, which is usually a more rickety enterprise since the machine is about five years old now. This time it only skipped chapters 10 and 11, but no smoke rolled out.

Annoyed, I trucked back to HMV last week to get a new copy. Again, at chapter 10 it died, taking my computer with it. Today, I got yet another copy. Again, chapter 10 would not play.

I turned to the internet, which is one of the few luxuries of the modern world that I do appreciate, and found that I was not the only one with this problem. In fact, in reviews of the Canadian widescreen edition (the one with the little red maple leaf on the spine), I found that several complaints had been launched, and that many copies stopped, froze or pixilated at chapter 10, about one hour and thirteen minutes into the movie. It seems it was a factory issue, and some stores were more than cranky over granting refunds, forcing some customers to try copy after copy until some just gave up.

I can understand those who gave up. Part of me wanted to not bother with this. Chapter 10 is only three minutes long, and features the famous “Darcy’s Post-Rejection Letter” scene. I told myself, “You know what happens here. Just settle.” However, I saw Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939) too many times as a child, and I decided to take HMV on. So, I left the house again ranting about “Demanding satisfaction,” a la Alexander Pushkin or something.

HMV, if you’ll remember, firmed up its returns and refunds policies about four years ago in response to DVD/CD burning technology, and declared that exchanges could only take place on unopened items. In the case of flaw, DVDs could only be exchanged for new copies of the same DVD.

Seeing that this was a factory flaw, and that the local HMV does not carry the American version (which apparently is trouble-free), I was unwilling to accept anything else but a refund or a totally different movie. I may only be a humble student, but I still do not have the time to waste trying copy after copy, and running back and forth to HMV, where they seemed to be sure I was running some kind of scam on them.

Well, it turns out that the wonderful, fabulous, lovely and kind store manager (always ask to see a manager when one seeks satisfaction) was well aware that the first print of this DVD from March had this issue. I was told that Universal claims to have fixed the problem and that the new batches are fine, but this was certainly not the case here.

So, if you see a store burning off batches of the new Pride and Prejudice, Canadian edition, you’re probably better off saving your money. (Actually, you may be better off saving your money even if copies of the so-so melodrama are fine.)

In case you’re wondering about what I got in exchange, I selected Hitchcock’s Lifeboat (1944), which I should have gotten in the first place.

Lesson learned.

The Devil Wears Prada.

2006-07-03T11:02:00.000-04:00

I'll try to avoid the trap of describing this movie by comparing it to other movies. That's lazy, anyway, isn't it? It's like describing Canada in ways it's not America. Besides, I'm afraid that a lot of movies that might come to mind would be shallow, ephemeral, and forgettable compared to The Devil Wears Prada (2006). Devil is a more substantial offering, although at first glance it might appear to be a toothless chick flick.

Anne Hathaway plays Andrea, a journalism graduate desperate for work in New York City when she lands a job as an assistant to the editor of the fashion magazine, "Runway." She is not familiar with the magazine or the editor. Compared to other girls that work at the magazine, she wears frumpy (preppie?) clothes and is fat (size 6 - "the new size 14"). Also compared to the other girls, she has no preknowledge of the editor. This ignorance might be what saved Andrea, because she didn't have a pre-existing fear of the editor, Miranda Presley, played by Meryl Streep. She is cold, demanding, spoiled, entitled, and very, very, powerful. Andrea quickly learns to fear Miranda, as does anyone else who recognises her name.

Andrea finds that she gets more respect around the office if she plays the part, so she smoothes out her hair and wears more makeup and couture. No, you do not whiff Pretty Woman (1990). This is not a caterpillar-to-butterfly narrative. Although there is one short sequence revealing all her new beautiful clothes, Andrea's change of clothes does not represent a change of Andrea. In the beginning, anyway. She uses the clothes simply to get what she wants, but as time goes by, she begins to fear Miranda more and more, and she falls into the cycle at which she once scoffed. Really, it's a butterfly-to-caterpillar narrative.

Andrea becomes rather ugly in her scrambing to please Miranda. She starts blowing off her adorable boyfriend, family, and friends, and her sorrys are soon devalued. She hysterically scours the city when Miranda demands copies of the seventh Harry Potter manuscript for her children-of-the-corn twin daughters, and drops a dress size, although I'm not sure if it was by design or shredded nerves. Miranda finally gives Andrea the stamp of approval when she asks her to accompany her to Paris for Fashion Week. By accepting, though, she has to stab one of her co-workers in the back. Her remorse is momentary.

Andrea takes a long, hard look at herself in Paris after an episode where Miranda's terrible facade momentarily breaks. She is weepy at the news that her husband is divorcing her, but as she remorses that her daughters will not have their father around, in the same breath, she demands Andrea reconfigure the seating plans for a formal dinner. Andrea sees that while Miranda does have some humanity, it's not much.

I didn't read The Devil Wears Prada, because I think I dismissed it as chick lit, and I don't like chick lit. I haven't read a lot of this saccharine pulp which floods bookstores' shelves with their brightly-coloured graphic covers, but I've gotten the impression that shopping and finding a dream man are the common demoninators. Although those are two things that I think about, it's not my entire life, and I don't find it entertaining or compelling fiction. In the movie offering of this Laura Weisberger novel, it is obvious that we're dealing with a different equasion. Andrea has her dream man as the movie starts, we never see her shopping, and she never covets the clothes she wears. They are a means to an end, but she loses track of that that end goal is.

Ok - maybe I will compare it to another movie - Mean Girls (2004). I bring up Mean Girls only because it's another example of a movie I didn't expect much out of, but over-delivered. This was good, better than I expected, and not all about pretty clothes, although there are a lot of those, too.

Stalag 17

2006-06-27T21:58:00.000-04:00

The granddaddy of all POW pictures, Stalag 17 (1953) is that rare oddity: a classic and a "cult" picture. Blending comedy with serious subject matter and tense drama, it can easily be recommended to anyone who enjoys mystery, intrigue and solid character work.

“Stalag” refers to one of the German POW camps in which American, British and Russians were housed during World War II, number 17b being primarily American. Unlike the grim concentration and death camps, stalag prisoners were covered by the Geneva Convention, under which enemy soldiers were to be fed and not abused, nor were they eligible for slave labour. Thus, you get a large number of young men who, although deprived and living in uncertain conditions, spent years without news of the outside world and without productive activity, and clustered in crowded conditions with strangers and without clear leaders.

This movie is Billy Wilder’s take on a popular Broadway play written by two survivors of Stalag 17. Wilder, a former refugee from Nazi Germany, lost both of his parents to the concentration camps, so his hatred for the German fascists is articulate and immense. However, he, like the authors of the play, realized that the situation was also filled with strong characters and gallows humour. It is this expert co-operation of menace and humour that makes Stalag 17 a unique picture.

The plot focuses on a particularly tense Christmas, during which, after a failed escape plan, the men begin to realize that there is a Nazi spy amongst them. Naturally, they assume the guilt of J.J. Sefton (Oscar winner William Holden), an unlikable and wily inmate who has no friends, only customers. As the plot unravels, the guilt and appearance of guilt shifts and sways, and the tension mounts as the comedy melts away.

This is a film I have enjoyed over and over, and look forward to seeing many, many more times. In fact, this movie has made my Top 100 films of all time, and it is unlikely it will be toppled.

However, Stalag 17 may not be to all tastes. The overt (and sometimes dated) comedy may upset some people who are sensitive about the sanctity of the subject matter. In the end, though, the comedy works within the confines of an American POW camp, and the monotony of life there makes one picture the hijinks we and the people we know might have gotten up to under such conditions. Further, the comedy is always underscored with the horrors of war and the constant threat faced by POWs in Europe.

It would be a mistake to tie this film in with the less reputable Hogan’s Heroes TV sitcom of a similar setting. The TV show was not, as common lore would tell you, based on this film, and the artistic accomplishments of the two are as different as Monet is from “The Garbage Pail Kids” trading cards.

Stalag 17 was released on DVD in a “Special Collector’s Edition” last March, and includes a “behind the scenes” featurette, and a documentary on the memories and experiences of Stalag 17’s real survivors. The audio commentary leaves much to be desired (which is understandable as the participants are all in their 80s, and the film was made over fifty years ago), but the transfer is as crisp and sharp as any I have seen.

All in all, its exciting performances, amusing and snappy script, and its ability to inspire tension beyond the initial viewing all make Stalag 17 a truly must-see picture.

Kinky Boots.

2006-06-22T11:42:00.000-04:00

What a relief.

I have big feet. I often say I have drag queen feet, which is probably a bit dramatic. I have size 11 feet, and I know how difficult it is to find a great pair of heels. (And yeah, before anyone comments, I know my foot size is all in proportion. It’s not like I’m 5’5” – I am 6 feet tall.)
Kinky Boots (2005) is the story of Charlie Price, who a man who wears grubby tennis shoes when his father says you can tell a lot about a man by what kind of shoes he wears. Charlie is finally about to start his life in London with his (predictably) uptight girlfriend. Just as he arrives in London, he gets news that his father has died back in his Midlands hometown. He returns to the Price Shoe Factory, a sinking behemoth of a wing-tip shoe factory which has been in his family for four generations. A Price shoe is built to last a lifetime, but the factory loses money when, in the 21st century, the shopping public is more interested in buying cheaper, lower quality shoes with a built-in obsolescence.

Charlie is suddenly saddled with the unenviable task of “making people redundant” (the British euphemism for firing people – North America’s version of “victim of cutbacks,” or “laid off.”). When he goes to the warehouse and discovers a huge order of shoes that were not bought, as promised, by a vendor, the next step is to shut the factory. He is upset by being the end of the line – the last portrait on the wall.

In a last-ditch effort to unload his huge inventory, he goes to London. There, he happens to meet Lola, a drag queen with sore feet and a snapped stiletto. In a flash of creativity, he decides to change the product of the Price Shoe Factory to cater exclusively to men dressed as women. With Lola’s help, he designs fabulous shoes that are larger and reinforced with steel to support a man’s weight. Fabulous by drag queen standards, maybe – garish by other’s.

Lola is an amazing character. She is not just a caricature of a drag queen, but a gay man who feels his best dressed as a woman. (To clarify: he is not a transvestite. He looks way too good to not be drag royalty.) She is portrayed with sensitivity and humour by Chiwetel Ejiofor, and if he isn’t already on your radar, should be an actor to pay attention to in the future. His portrayal of Lola’s kindness, wit, and mannerisms was fantastic. Music follows Lola, and that might be one of the most wonderful things one could say about another person.

Charlie was played by Joel Edgerton, an actor I had not previously known, although apparently he was in two Star Wars movies. Naughty geek, me, for not recognizing him. Of course, for me, his likeness to Conan O’Brien in Kinky Boots was distracting, but beside that, he was also good.

Charlie and Lola’s relationship was interesting, since Charlie couldn’t decide if he was comfortable around Lola, what level of respect she deserved, or how to treat her in public. On that level, Kinky Boots was a great little vignette of gender issues, and how one’s gender defines where one belongs and how one is treated.

I liked this movie. It was sweet, sometimes to the point of being treacly, but bearable. And, mercifully, neither drag queen movie staple songs “It’s Raining Men,” nor “I Will Survive” made an appearance, but they did use Space’s “Female of the Species,” and Kirsty MacColl’s “In These Shoes?”, two excellent picks.

Pygmalion

2006-06-18T12:20:00.000-04:00

“With a little bit of luck,” I will “get me to the church on time,” and see the famous way that “the rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain.” Ah! My Fair Lady! I am not sure there is anyone left out there who hasn’t seen the play or 1964 big screen musical (starring the delightful Rex Harrison and the acceptable Audrey Hepburn), or even had the pleasure to participate in a production of this extravaganza.

However, it really is too bad that the lush Technicolor 1960s American version should so replace the play as written, and, in turn, the lovely and muted 1938 British version.

Because at least one of these versions (stage, screen, or literary) is known to almost everybody on earth (or at least the English speaking portions), either through tenth grade English class or idle Easter Sunday channel surfing, the plot should be well known to all. Inspired by the Greek myth of a sculptor, Pygmalion, who becomes so enamoured by his beautiful ivory creation, Galatea, that he forsakes all real women and prays for his creation to come to life. In sum, in an opposite image of Frankenstein, the artist/maker becomes obsessed with the perfect creation of his own hand.

George Bernard Shaw’s play “Pygmalion” has become far more famous than its original Greek predecessor. In his version, which successfully seeks to stress not only the inter-personal dynamics of such a pairing, but also the class gulfs that were inherent in Victorian England, the Pygmalion is Professor Henry Higgins, a wool-draped misanthropist phonetics specialist. His “work of art,” found and undertaken on account of a bet with his admirable and well-meaning associate Colonial Pickering, is a common flower gel from Convent Gardens, Eliza. The bet is that, within 6 months, the linguistic maestro can “pass this guttersnipe off as a duchess.” The artist’s relationship with his creation is one that he finds he cannot ignore, despite his insistence that he can do without her or anyone, but the ending(s) of the versions go in several directions. Do they, like Pygmalion and Galatea, fall in love and find their greatest desires fulfilled? Do watch and find out.

Pygmalion (1938) stars Leslie Howard, one of the most adorable and likeable male stars of his generation. It also introduces the striking and unique Wendy Hiller, who makes a believable and hearty Eliza Doolittle. Further, the supporting cast, in particular the dashing Scott Sunderland (Pickering) and the unsettling yet appealing Wilfrid Lawson (Alfred Doolittle), make dimensional subjects with which this Victorian world is peopled.

Pages upon pages ("sheets and sheets") could be wasted weighing the respective merits of the two major film versions, but really it largely comes down to opinions not only on whether a movie needs musical numbers, but also on casting choices. I hope to encourage viewers to see these films in concert, as both have unique charms and assets.

I adore both Rex Harrison and Leslie Howard, and I find them equally suited to this role (although Howard is, perhaps, in light of his younger age and paler complexion, a bit more believable). I prefer the performance of the young and tomboyish Wendy Hiller, who brings a certain roughness to the role of Eliza that was absent in the lovely and patrician Audrey Hepburn, thus making the 1938 Eliza’s emotional reactions that much more touching and significant. Both of the Alfreds (Lawson in 1938, and the remarkable Stanley Holloway in 1964), a character upon which the entirety of the play’s moral and philosophical explorations are centered, are wonderful in their own ways, with Lawson being the most serious and thought provoking of the two. Both Mrs. Pearces do their jobs, as do both Mrs. Higgins.

The greatest difference between the two versions in terms of characters, is in the casting and execution of Colonial Pickering. In the 1964 version, you may recall, the role was embodied in the sweet, but doddering, Wilfrid Hyde-White, an older, white-haired upper-class twit (albeit a gentle one). The 1938 version, however, has seen fit to provide Higgins with a rival for the romantic lead of 27A Wimpole Street.

Scott Sunderland, seemingly a non-actor who was 55 when this picture was made (but looked nowhere past 45), is a culmination of all that is attractive in traditional British masculinity – good looks, smooth manners, charming smile, immaculate dress, and the air of one born to enough wealth to be extremely comfortable in the world over which he is a lord and master. A powerful, powerful combination. In this detail, while Sunderland is delightful and magnetic, one wonders if an older, less sexually appealing man may have worked out better. In the 1938 version, completely unlike the 1964 version, we are left wondering why Eliza doesn’t ditch both her sniveling swain Freddie and the petulant Higgins, and make for the Colonel. This dilemma, enhanced by an odd and palatable chemistry between Hiller and Sunderland in the final ensemble scene at the home of Mrs. Higgins, serves to confuse and frustrate the audience, and damages the main goal of the film, which is to get Higgins and Eliza together.

Still, since this flaw is caused by the force of Sunderland’s charms, and by the wholly realistic stature of his performance, it can only be a minor quibble against what is a high quality production of an enjoyable story.

It is the acting in this non-musical version, as well as the cracker-jack script (vetted personally by G.B. himself, work for which he unwillingly received the 1938 writing Oscar), that makes this version a classic and a pleasure, and I hope that it can take a more equal place beside its 1964 cousin as pure pleasure for lovers of romantic comedy. Further, it should take a higher place for students of class consciousness, for this is a facet largely excised from the later version, and I would recommend this version without reservation for teachers and students who want to see a more faithful rendering of the original play.

The 1938 Pygmalion should be available for rent or purchase from quality stores, and in well stocked libraries, and is available in both VHS and DVD formats.

Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.

2006-06-14T12:54:00.000-04:00

Panic!

This is a public service announcement. Please, for the sake of your mental health, do not see Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (2005). I hated hated hated this movie. And yes, I did read the book. I don’t remember much of it, but I hope it turns out to be more memorable than this POS.

I don’t know if the dry British lit-humour just didn’t translate to the screen or what. I don’t think it was the cast. Martin Freeman was fine as Arthur, and the reason I went to see this snorefest in the first place. Who didn't fall in love with him as Tim Canterbury on "The Office"? Mos Def was very good as Ford Prefect. There was a stupid effing depressed robot thing that simply was not funny. I wanted to kill Sam Rockwell, and for the first time ever, Zooey Deschanel’s wide-eyed cuteness made me angry. How can a movie like this make me angry? It wasn’t Hotel Rwanda (2004)! It was a waste of time.

Storylines were disconnected. The love story was lacklustre to say the least (as this implied there was still some lustre, I’m loath to use this description). Slapstick was overdrawn. There were bits that were reminiscent of Wild Wild West (1999). Zaphod has two heads! Zaphod has three arms! Oh, people! It’s so stinkin’ funny! Look at him! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!! Ah. Oh… oh.

My favourite part was when Ford and Arthur went to a pub in the AM and ordered 6 pints of beer. I also think that was the funniest bit. It was 5 minutes from the opening titles. Oh, ye gods… I forgot about the opening titles. It was a chorus of dolphins singing “So long and thanks for the fish,” as a good-bye to earth. It went on.

When I saw this film in the theatre, I spent a huge chunk of time concentrating on prying a popcorn husk from between two of my molars with my tongue. I was actually disappointed once I’d extracted it, because then I had to pay attention to the film.

I know this movie has been out for a while, and you've probably seen it already, either in theatres or on DVD, if you were any way inclined. Still, if I can dissuade one person, I've done my job.

The Kid

2006-06-09T01:26:00.000-04:00

University has stripped me of my faith in religion, state and flag, and the inevitable process of growing up has pulled the wool from my eyes in terms of parents, school and relationships. If there is one thing I revere, however… one person I understand as Immortal… it would have to be Charles Spencer Chaplin. Chaplin, the endurable deity of the Cinema Temple and the Silver Screen. The man who proves that one does not have to be infallible to be an idol.

I say all this not to attempt to convince you to worship the man as I do, but merely to counteract any charges that I am biased in this review. There is no need to charge me thus. I am perfectly well aware of my bias.

That is why it has taken me this long to broach the topic of Chaplin. I feel no desire constantly to lay out positive, gushing reviews, time after time, so it took some doing to pick a Chaplin a film to cover. City Lights (1931), his most perfect film in my view, for example, needs no review. It is a classic, akin to Scripture. What kind of article would that make?

Therefore, I have hit on the silent film The Kid (1921), Chaplin’s first feature film involving the Tramp. This film is certainly a classic, but it is a flawed classic. This state is what makes it a perfect subject for a review.

The Kid was inspired by the loss of Chaplin’s first son, Norman Spencer, in infancy. His marriage to Mildred Harris, his first child bride, was failing, and he was entering a depressive state, both mentally and professionally, and was under the weight of a massive block. Then, by chance, Chaplin happened to see a stage show that featured a bizarre and precocious little child dancer by the name of Jackie Coogan, and, realizing this boy was the answer to his prayers for a muse, a deal was struck and a picture developed.

The result was “six reels of joy,” the picture “with a smile, and perhaps a tear.” The picture starts out with a poor and abandoned unwed mother who is coldly dumped from her charity hospital refuge with her newborn son. Despondent, she leaves the child in a limousine and heads off to commit suicide; however, she cannot kill herself and she returns to collect her son. Finding that the car has been stolen, she is struck with guilt and horror, for her child is now irrevocably lost to her.

Enter the Tramp. Taking his morning constitutional, the funny little man in the strangely pompous and deplorable suit, and with the even odder walk, comes down his skid-row alley with the nonchalance of a duke in Bath. Opening an old sardine tin, he carefully selects the best of his salvaged cigarette butts, and lights up. He is the very image of all that is poor and meager, as well as all that echoes the Victorian ideal of gentlemanly leisure.

Finally, a noise catches his attention. The baby, discarded by the crooks who stole the limousine, lies next to a dust bin. After some very desperate attempts to ditch the burden, the Tramp finds the note: “Please love and care for this orphan child.” That is all it takes, for the Tramp always falls in love with anything as defenseless and pitiful as himself. (See for example, the marvelous A Dog’s Life (1918), one of Chaplin’s best shorts.)

Five years pass. The Tramp, despite his slum apartment (which was clearly torn from Chaplin’s own childhood memories of the impoverished lanes of East London), he has become a caring and responsible guardian for the boy. Jack, a beautiful and utterly charming tow-headed angel/devil, returns the care back to his small and powerless father. Their domestic bliss is palatable and wonderful, and our hearts glow when we see the chemistry between them.

Soon, of course, the boy gets sick and the county steps in, leading to that magnificent and iconic scene of the Tramp fighting to keep his son in the face of bureaucratic brutality. Small and weak, the Tramp nonetheless slays demons (or at least knocks flat a cop and a social worker), scales the roof tops, leaps to a speeding truck, and saves his son from a horrible and bleak life as a poor-house orphan. Truly, there can be nothing more wrenching as, without dialog, we see the pleading boy cry over and over again, “Oh, I want my daddy! Please! I want my daddy!” And there is no greater crescendo in film history than the moment that the two are reunited.

This scene – the triumph of the common man against state interference and cruelty – is, by rights, the heart, soul and guts of this picture, and, even after nearly ninety years, it has barely lost an ounce of its power. The major error in this film is that this is not the last impression of The Kid.

After the Tramp saves the boy, and they are cast into the streets as runaways from the Law (and we find out that the boy’s mother is now rich and seeking out her child after finding the note in her own handwriting in the Tramp’s flat), the boy is stolen by a reward hunter. Despairing and alone, the Tramp haunts the city searching for his lost child. Finally, all hope lost, he sits on his former stoop and falls into a deep sleep. What ensues may be one of the clumsiest and disturbing dream sequence debacles ever to mar an otherwise magical film.

Chaplin was a romantic, and his artistic impulses were always passionate, but not always technically correct, and The Kid fell prey to a flight of fancy.

The fact that he dreams of an egalitarian and peaceful paradise in which all the inhabitants (even the authorities) live in harmony, and where food is free and love is all around, does not shock in a Chaplin film. Frankly, given the talent for dance and whimsy that Chaplin possessed, this sequence might not even have been all that bad on its own. Rather, it is the deeper significance of the dream sequence in The Kid that repels and disappoints.

In this dream, which only barely connects with the rest of the film, the Tramp (and his alter ego, Chaplin) lives in perfect peace and innocence. Then “sin creeps in.”

This sin comes in the form of a 12-year-old actress, played by none other than the woman soon to be known as Lita Grey Chaplin.

At 12, her beauty had so interested him that The Kid’s blemish was created just for her, and the result is a psycho-analytic nightmare, and an all-too-insightful vision of the future. The girl, tempted by Satan, lures and entraps the Tramp (Chaplin), causing his life to be ruined in the form of legal troubles and exile. Given the consequences of Chaplin’s later disastrous marriage to the 16-year-old Lita, this dream sequence plays now as one of the most bizarre (and uncomfortable) auteur shows-of-hand ever filmed, with the possible exception of Woody Allen’s otherwise wonderful Manhattan (1979).

I have seen The Kid at least 50 times, including twice on the big screen, and it is always a joy to introduce new people to its emotional highs and lows, and to hear whole new audiences laugh uproariously at the clever comedy bits. However, every time I see it, amidst the delight, I must give a small cringe at this dream sequence, and every time I am reminded that hubris and flaws, even in an artist I admire so much, must sometimes come out.

However, it remains as a reminder, too, that the romantic enthusiasm and idealism that so disfigured The Kid also created the moving plea for sanity at the end of his first talkie, the anti-Nazi film The Great Dictator (1940), and I am reconciled.

Once upon a time, one did not have to specify who Chaplin was. He was a force, like Pan or Eros. Chaplin was the king of all he surveyed. And he got that way by following his instincts.

No one thing is perfect. Flaws make a film, as much as does the beauty. The Kid, despite its impassioned and discomforting error in judgement, is as deeply beautiful as it is deeply flawed. It is a picture with both laughs and tears, and a great deal of humanity that resonates now and will most likely never fail to charm an audience of any era.

Brick.

2006-06-05T19:12:00.000-04:00

Film Noir is a subgenre of the Crime plot. Other Crime subgenres include Murder Mystery, Caper, and Courtroom. The differences depend on the protagonist. (Detective, Master Criminal, and Lawyer, respectively.) Film Noir has the most complex main character. It is a story told from the “[point of view] of a protagonist who may be part criminal, part detective, part victim of a femme fatale.” (McKee 1997: 82)

My opinions have been divided about Film Noir movies. While I love their characteristically highly-stylised dialogue and cinematography, I usually find the plots difficult to follow and the gumshoe sporadically indiscernible with his street-wise fast-talk.

In this sense, Brick (2005) was all it set out to be: a modern Film Noir. I could write that there are twists on the convention, but really, there aren’t. The only difference is, I suppose, that instead of a professional private dick hunting for baddies, in Brick, it’s a high school student, Brendan. The “brass” is Vice Principal Trueman. Brendan is still pining for his ex-girlfriend, who got caught up with the bad element of their school and is found dead. He follows clues, pisses off some muscle, becomes embroiled in a drug war, and gets the bejesus beaten out of him more than once. Oh, he throws some good punches, too, but the other guys probably didn’t end up with blood pooling in their stomachs.

The Noir plot points are there, and so is the stylish photography. High-angle shots, disregard of the law of thirds, and lots and lots of backlighting (which I think is another nod to classic Film Noir shadows, but the modern product in this case is silhouette) are very striking in how simple it is for a director and a DOP to disorient their audience. The filmmakers also tamper with film speed/continuity to illustrate Brendan’s dis-ease, with great results.

Brendan is deftly played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt, of TV’s 3rd Rock From the Sun “fame.” I remember being impressed by him when he was on that show. He played a grizzled space traveller trapped in a teenager’s body with surprising sensitivity. Now, all growned up, he cuts a fine figure, and is sometimes reminiscent of Heath Ledger. In Brick, he’s a wise-cracking, slouchy, broken-hearted dude. He makes us root for him to succeed, especially when we see him persevere when his face gets progressively more rearranged.

The femmes fatale are very good. There is one cool thespian queen who enslaves freshman, and another nymph with a 40s fashion sensibility. Both hold a certain allure for Brendan, but he doesn’t allow himself to get too close, because he doesn’t trust them.

Brick is, at times, hard to follow in plot and dialogue, which is consistent with my usual complaints about Films Noir, but this main character of Brendan was amazing. He’s cool, dignified, subtle, clever, and fallible. I find this especially charming when I see that the author’s only other credit is for a short called Evil Demon Golfball From Hell!!! (1996)

It’s available on August 8th on DVD. If you’re a Film Noir fan, do rent this one to see how it stacks up to the old classics.

Go For Broke!

2006-05-31T11:39:00.000-04:00

World War II movies have a general feel and tenor to them. They can be occasionally moving or amusing, but the bulk of them remain Sunday afternoon TV-time-filler, and most of us can’t really remember the names or specifics of most of the ones we’ve seen.

They even share a basic plot arch. A platoon of “regular Joes” make up a rag-tag and endearing bunch, usually comprising of an Irishman, a Southerner, a Jewish student-type, a generalized “big brother” Natural-Leader-type, an Italian guy, and possibly a Greek (maybe even with an accent). Their lieutenant seems distant and/or displeased with them, and they resent how hard he is on them. Eventually, after a short time somewhere in the middle of Missouri, they finish Basic Training and are off to Europe, or possibly the Pacific Theatre. Banding together, and relying on the training they once rebelled against (which now saves their lives), they triumph and win the approval and comradeship of their commanding officer. Usually there is a WAC thrown in for a scene or two, perhaps someone sings a song, there is usually a bar fight at the USO, and oftentimes a squad is cut off from the main unit. In the end, they all sail home into New York harbour with bands playing, and everyone is wiser then before, as they mourn the loss of at least one strategically placed character we have come to know over the previous 70 or 80 minutes. (He, of course, represents all the dead sons, brothers and beaus of the original audience, and serves as a meager attempt to bring home the “reality” of warfare.)

Oh, and there is a requisite number of uses of the terms “Gerry,” “Kraut,” and “Jap.” Probably enough to make anyone born post-70 squirm in our chairs.

In many ways, Robert Pirosh’s Go For Broke! (1951) is quite standard. There is a love interest, albeit only in a photograph (“My girl back home"), and people do sing (although not in the typical way). And there certainly is a rag-tag platoon with a by-the-book CO who must learn to appreciate them. There is even an Irishman… of a sort.

Go For Broke! tells the remarkable story of the U.S. 442nd Regimental Combat Team (along with the 100th Infantry Battalion) that was formed in 1943 under a special presidential order, as a kind of experiment in conceptual nation building. It tested Roosevelt’s assertion that Americanism was not a matter of race, but of loyalty and spirit. The 442nd, whose motto was “Go For Broke!”, was entirely manned by Japanese-American volunteers. They suffered over 9000 causalities and earned more than 18,000 individual decorations. Fighting in Europe (so as to avoid being mistaken for the enemy in the Pacific), these men participated in the liberation of Italy and France, and their story fascinates, but is seldom heard.

In the film, we get to know a handful of the volunteers – adorable Tommy (Henry Nakamura), the Pearl Harbor orphan; Sam (Lane Nikano), the wise and friendly Every Man; Chick (George Miki), the bitter and streetwise tough-guy (who for the life of me brings Cory Feldman to mind in every scene); Ohara (pronounced O’Hara throughout; Henry Oyasato), the “suntanned Irishman.” There are also a handful of other characters who weave in and out, such as the fun-loving and ultra-cool Hawaiian beach-bums (who are constantly singing). One of the most touching men is a soft, bespectacled and scholarly young man who loves cats and architecture, but whose degree in engineering has netted him a career as a fruit vendor due to the racial prejudice of the 40s. All in all, these characters are delightful and intimately sketched. Whereas many war movies can rely on ethnic tropes to convey character, this film must flesh out the men for they are all “Japanese,” but certainly not the type we have been trained to expect in such films.

Leading them is Lt. Mike Grayson (Van Johnson, the tallest and blondest star they could find), a lanky Texan who “signed up to fight the Japs, not fight with them.” Over the course of the picture, he comes to realize that it is the Japanese-Americans (Nisei, or Buddha-heads) who symbolize true American values, and that prejudice has no place in a democracy.

However, I must note that this film is certainly not preachy or trite, and it maintains no glossy image of America or the culture of the front. In the 1940s, War films tended to portray Americans as “one big happy family,” because prejudice was contrary to the war effort. However, common sense will tell you that there was certainly racism on the front. This film opens that up and explores it. This is not done through direct and corny exposition, but by poignant illustration of some sliver of what these men went through. They fought enemies on both sides of the front.

I think that few of us can fully comprehend the reality behind this picture; the cruelty of a system in which a man is distrusted and maligned, even while fighting for his country. The same country, by the way, that has locked his mother and father (and friends, and girlfriend, and little brother, and himself) up in internment camps back home, simply for being of Japanese origin. And Go For Broke! explores why a man would volunteer to die for such a country, and the answers are thought-provoking, human and touching.

All in all, this movie adds a new mode of awareness, and, while it is essentially a War Picture (with all the formula that genre entails), it is one that stands out as an exceptional one. On top of that, as a film, I found it gripping in parts, and I actually cried in one scene. While some of the power diminished in subsequent viewings, I find that this movie has lingered with me for some time, and is far more memorable than its cohort. I can see no better reason to recommend a picture than that.

Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story.

2006-05-26T08:55:00.001-04:00

Apparently, Laurence Stern’s serialised novel “The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman,” (begun in 1760) has been deemed “unfilmable.” Although I own the book, it is in my massive “unread” heap, as opposed to the diminutive and Nick Hornby-laden “read” heap. So, for research for this review, I dutifully read it. It, meaning the book’s introduction. (Hey! Cut me some slack! It’s 450 pages of insanely small print, people!)

The introduction says: “[Sterne’s] novel, which consists of an amorphous mass of inconsequential incidents, sentimental episodes, jokes, musings, reminiscences and countless hilarious digressions into side issues of the vaguest tangential relevance, has no beginning, middle or end… Sterne notably lacks any real interest in storytelling and his bizarre technique illustrates his adherence to… the `stream of consciousness` approach of the twentieth-century novelists.”

Flipping through this book, I see glimpses of Kurt Vonnegut, and see more and more why it might be called unflimable. For example, there is a black page after the death of a character (named Yorick – awesome), and squiggly lines indicating the path of stories.

Damn. What comes out is a very creative and imaginatively-written film which documents the poor cast and crew trying to film this “amorphous mass.” They are in way over their heads and nothing seems to go right. Well, at one point the producers luck out and get Gillian Anderson to play a part on one day’s notice (even though, of course, her scenes end up on the cutting room floor).

The opening scene has Steve Coogan (of Alan Partridge fame), who plays Tristram Shandy, in a makeup chair being fitted for a nose prosthesis. He is trying to make his supporting castmate, Rob Brydon (who are both playing themselves in this sequence) understand why he is not leading man material. Rob then bears his teeth to Steve for the rest of the scene, begging Steve to define what colour of yellow they are. Perfec’. Coogan also agonizes over his height, insisting that he should be taller than everyone else because it's artistically sensitive, but he comes across as frantically insecure, which, of course, he is. See picture of Coogan and Brydon in wardrobe, testing the height of their 18th-century shoes.

Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story (2005) is a very British comedy. You must follow what I mean: annoying, idiosyncratic, and antagonistic characters insult one another while ambling though their egocentric lives. I expected Basil Fawlty to show up. There is some sense of 1960s-style absurdist comedy (no sexy parties, but Tristram is, at one point, hung upside down in a womb), but this, too, is very British.

A Cock and Bull Story successfully adapts “Tristram Shandy” because instead of attempting to force a disparate narrative into a three-act structure, the writers let chaos reign, and the disorganisation of the film’s production (which the audience gets to see) mirrors the novel’s original tone. Some might site This Is Spinal Tap (1984) to fill in the blanks of this odd configuration, but I don’t think this film would be considered a bona fide mockumentary (pardon the oxymoron). I loved this movie, but the more I try to define what it is, the more I come up empty handed. It’s probably exactly what Laurence Sterne would have wanted.

Released on DVD on July 11th, and if you enjoy dry British fare, check it out.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

2006-05-20T17:49:00.000-04:00

I first read the Harry Potter series in 1999, and have anxiously read every single book and watched every single movie. I admit that my ardor waned severely around 2003 (most likely due to the way that everyone and their uncle could talk of nothing but Harry Potter), and that the last book, The Book Which May Not Be Named, was a major disappointment for me; however, I still consider myself a Potter fan.

Nevertheless, I suspended my enjoyment with this last film, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2005). If you are wondering why I am posting a review of this film so long after it was in theatres, and even months after it was new on DVD, I will explain. I refused to spend the theatre price to see this film, as I have become increasingly rebellious against the $23+ that it now costs couples to see movies. Then, when it was released on DVD, I even refused to rent it at new release price. You see, we always buy each installment on DVD, anyway, so we have decided not to, in effect, increase the cost of seeing it by walking through the wallet-wringing steps of theatre and rental, and waited for previously viewed to buy.

Last night, John brought home our spanking new (second-hand) copy! Naturally, we watched it right away.

There seems to be no major need to explain this series or the plot of a movie/book so well known as this, so I will be brief. Harry, who is now in fourth year, mysteriously gets entered into the famed Tri-Wizard Cup competition in which champions from the three major European magic schools match their wizardry skills and bravery. Harry’s friends turn on him, seeing this as his newest ploy to win attention and fame (it was about time that Ron and the rest got sick of being the sidekick of a spot-light hog). The cup trials begin, and Harry wins back much of his popularity. Then, just when it all seems that we will have yet another “Harry Wins the Match, Saves the School, and Goes off for Summer Vacation” triumph, everything goes to pot and we realize the world is about to end.

Any major problems I can find in this movie’s plot rightfully belongs to the book, so I will not spell them all out, except for a small mention that the loss of Cedric Diggory would probably have meant more if we had known him for longer than just one episode. However, as Goblet has been my favourite book thus far, I have few complaints in that vein.

As to the film, the special effects were good, the lighting was very nice, and the acting, when it wasn’t sliding into Dawson’s Magical Creek territory, was usually engaging and likeable (except for those poor actors who had no more than three words to say in the whole movie). Certainly those awful jeans-model-haircuts on almost every single boy was distracting and will be, in a few years, the first horribly “dated” thing in the series, but I have no qualms about the overall look of the film in general.

As far as characters are concerned, Michael Gambon didn’t even annoy me too much here (though I will forever mourn the loss of Richard Harris), and Ralph Fiennes was a stroke of casting genius (though I am sure he regretted having to keep his clothes on for once). But where the hell was Snape (and his voice) in this film? They may as well have had an Alan Rickman cutout standing in the crowd scenes! However, all in all, the general tenor of the book was preserved, though in an abbreviated sense, even if all the new characters were short-changed in terms of development. (Aside from the fact that those Durmstrang Institute fascists scared the tar out of me.)

So the problem wasn’t that I hated this picture, or even that it disappointed me, really (not in the way that, say, The Corpse Bride (2005) made me want to cry from frustrated and dashed hopes). Rather, insofar that this movie was simply a stacato pictorial illustration of the book's major scenes, it is one over which I can neither rant nor gush.

It was; it played. I watched it; it filled a couple of hours. I guess I enjoyed it – after all, it is always a pleasure to enter the world of Hogwarts, and I felt that to some extent here. But I certainly don’t think the movie has really left me with anything lasting. It’s sad, but what can one say? It showed me the important plot points, said the right things, and set up the next movie… mission accomplished. So… Meh, as Catherine would say. Meh.

One must wonder if perhaps the series has outgrown the two-hour movie treatment. It may not be possible for these books (now that they creep in 700 pages, plus) to be presented in any way other than the “illustrated story” form until the makers decide they must go to The Lord of the Rings format (three-hour films, with expanded sets for home video).

And the underwhelming viewing experience of this abridged film makes me hope they decide to do it very, very soon.

Kung Fu Hustle.

2006-05-15T09:21:00.000-04:00

Do you ever watch movies and wish you could do the thing that the main characters could do? For me, the usual suspects are Strictly Ballroom (1992) for dancing and Shine (1996) for piano-playing. I finished this movie wishing I could fly horizontally through the air to kick someone in the head.

Something you might not know about me is: I love kung fu movies. I realise that this might be odd for some of you who know me, but then for others it’ll make perfect sense. The kick-ass action, the romances, the honour and the comedy all roll into a great genre that I’ve only recently been introduced to. I didn’t grow up on these things (that would be Pink Panther movies), but ever since I saw the original Drunken Master (1978), I’ve been hooked.

Kung Fu Hustle (2004) starts by introducing us to the ruthless Axe Gang who have a stranglehold on the city’s police force, and whose members are as nasty as Tim Roth in Hoodlum (1997) and as graceful as the Sharks and/or Jets. In the first five minutes, you are introduced to the kind of highly stylized movie you’re about to enjoy. The rest of the movie takes place in a slum called Pig Sty Alley that is so poor, the gangsters don’t even bother with it. The action picks up when two members of the Axe Gang encroach upon the ghetto and try to put the squeeze on its residents.

It turns out that the gang members are actually hapless muggers who are too stupid to know that a) you don’t pose as Axe Gang members and b) it’s fruitless to try to extort money from poor people. It also turns out that the slum seems to have a disproportionately high population of kung fu masters. This makes life difficult for the real Axe Gang members that are dragged into the fray by the stupid muggers.

I was laughing was so loud, my father came downstairs to see what was so funny. Kung Fu Hustle was so funny. It combines gangster movie with comedy, romance, fantasy, musical, drama, and some live-action animation. This movie has some of the most memorable characters I’ve seen in a long time. It’s more than any other modern wire-fu movie (even though it does use the same martial arts choreographer as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000), Yuen Wo-ping) – it’s a bending of a genre.

Rent this movie, enjoy it, and then buy a copy of it for me as a thank-you for making you see it. Honestly, this is one of the best movies I’ve seen in years.

Two Versions of The Student of Prague

2006-05-11T21:25:00.000-04:00

“I haven’t a penny to my name – O Academia!”

The Student of Prague, the novel, was written in 1913 by Hanns Heinz Ewers, the writer and philosopher of ethics, and it has appeared in film at least four times since it was published. My personal advocacy on the part of silent pictures as an art form is no secret, and, given my friend Amanda’s recent foray into silent films, I have chosen the two German silent versions, both classics in their own ways, for my review this week.

Generally speaking, North Americans today do not have adequate opportunity to explore silent pictures. This is a shame, as the variety and rich skill poured into many of these works can be astounding and arresting.

However, there are also dangers in collecting silent pictures in terms of the availability of quality prints. Unfortunately, most affordable copies of these silent pictures leave something to be desired in their watchability, and the murky, jumpy or scratchy visual quality (and generic or unexciting audio tracks) of these films may harm your enjoyment of silent pictures. But rest assured that not all silent picture prints were created equal, and do not allow one or two sketchy prints turn you off this film form altogether!

This is part of why I have elected to review two versions of The Student of Prague. The first one, from 1913, stars the famed Paul Wegener (of The Golem, 1920), and the second, from 1926, stars Conrad Veidt (best known for his appearance as the somnambulant Cesare in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1920, and as the Nazi Major Strasser in Casablanca, 1942). Both of these versions are currently only available on DVD in North America through the Alpha Video editions, which were both released in 2004.

Alpha Video is one of my favourite companies, in some ways. On the one hand, this company produces extraordinarily cheap DVDs, and they make it possible for film students to fill their collections with affordable and rare films, many of which cannot be easily obtained elsewhere. For the often impoverished student, Alpha is possibly his or her best friend.

However, the basic logic is that you do, indeed, get what you pay for.

The cheap price they maintain is done at the expense of the quality control done with, say, Kino Video (the more expensive student’s best friend). Whereas Kino restores, cleans and transfers their editions, Alpha transfers them, with various results, from old VHS copies (this is how they keep their cost down). These VHS copies are usually transferred at odd speeds, may have continuity problems (hence the “jump” that tends to appear on such prints), and often have focus issues. Naturally, they often do not compare with the crisp restorations done by Kino, such as with the excellent quality of their editions of 1924’s Die Nibelungen, or with the superior Criterion Collection series (which is often prohibitively priced), such as their wonderful edition of Häxan (1922).

Therefore, one usually has a choice. $5 with Alpha for a watchable, but not ideal, print, or $35 to $40 with Kino (or even more with Criterion) for a very good or excellent print. For many students, the decision is pre-made by our wallets.

However, with The Student of Prague, we do not have such a choice. Alpha is currently the only company with full versions of these movies available for North American sale. Both with the price tag of around $7 American, via Amazon, they are very affordable, but does the respective quality (of both the films and the prints) make them worth the purchase?

The general plot of The Student of Prague is fairly simple. A young student and fencing champion, Balduin, is poor and frustrated in his poverty (a state in which society views him as middle class or higher because of his education, but in which he will never have as much money as such a class rank requires). He falls in love with a countess after rescuing her, and fails to recognize the love of the simple flower girl who adores him from afar. His obsession with the countess and his lowly class inspire him to enter into a pact with the sorcerer Scapinelli, in which the student will become richer than his wildest dreams and Scapinelli may chose and take any one thing in the student’s room. Being poor, the student sees nothing that would be more valuable than the gold coins Scapinelli promises, so he agrees. However, the sorcerer astounds him by choosing and taking possession of Balduin’s reflection.

The rest is a downward spiral, as most re-tellings of the basic “selling your soul to the devil” stories are. Balduin loses the countess because of the jilted love of her fiancé, the trampled heart of the flower girl, and the machinations of his possessed reflection. He descends into madness and debauchery, and finally dies in a (literally) dis-graced state.

The 1913 version of this film is tremendously important, historically speaking. Until quite recently a “lost film,” students and scholars were understandably excited when it turned up. It is considered one of the root works in the influential “German Expressionist” movements, in which inner turmoil and societal unrest are expressed through contrasted light and dark scenes, and through the massively innovative and bizarre set designs. Other famous Expressionist pieces include Nosferatu (1922), Metropolis (1927), and, most especially, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920). This Expressionist tendency spread from Germany to North America, and can be seen in Chaplin’s short The Bond (1918) and in the John Barrymore talkie, Svengali (1931), but that is another subject.

However, despite its historical significance, this film is a general disappointment. Wegener, who was a major dramatic force in his day, appears hammy and heavily dated in this film. While the film does have some extraordinarily beautiful external camera work, and some wonderful depth of shadow, it is also clumsy in places, and glosses over all but the most cursory of character motivations. Further, the Alpha print, although watchable, is slightly murky and lacks definition. Finally, the worst part of this film on DVD is the annoying and tacky faux-organ soundtrack composed by Paul David Bergel for this edition.

In comparison, the 1926 version is both a stronger film, and, in some places, a worse print. This version, at 91 minutes (compared to the 1913 version’s 41 minutes), is almost luxurious in the time it spends lingering over scenes and character development. The flower girl is tender and passionate, whereas in the 1913 version she was two-dimensional and unlikable. Likewise, in this version the sorcerer Scapinelli is given more of a grander, orchestrating role in the entirety of the narrative, giving his character a greater feel of horror. Granted, I enjoyed the performance of the 1913 Scapinelli (John Gottowt) better than the 1926 one (Werner Krauss), but the role is vastly improved. The countess is also more interesting, and far more sympathetic, moving the role of Balduin from greedy social climber to a young man genuinely in love. Having said this, however, he does not really sell himself out for love, but because of the massive frustration born of poverty (which is a very different thing than greed). In addition, the psychological ramifications of class struggle, which are not really drawn out adequately in the original, are palpable here. In turn, even the stolen reflection is given a gravitas of his own, turning not evil eyes on Balduin, but accusatory eyes of a younger self that has been abandoned and betrayed. The narrative becomes one of what each of us must do for success, and the ideological younger selves we must all destroy or wound in the process. Therefore, the 1926 version carries a symbolic moral significance lacking in the more cut and dry first version.

Overall, the story is better in the re-make version, motives are clearer, and the emotional impact is stronger, and I found this version to be the best viewing experience.

The print, however, bothered me more than the earlier version. Perhaps this is because the film was better and I wished I could see it more clearly. In general, the title cards were harder to read and the print had far more scratches. However, the score is vastly better than the 1913 version, even though it is also composed by Paul David Bergel. Instead of the unremitting synth-organ screech of the 1913 version, the 1926 version, though nothing spectacular, is at least broken by strings and guitar, and the emotional cues are better placed and more effective.

I do recommend both these films for film students, as they are both important and both have specific joys contained within them. However, for an evening in, I am more inclined to suggest the 1926 version for pure entertainment value. Finally, however, if you are unused to silent pictures altogether, you can find easier and cleaner films to start with (drop me a line, and I would be pleased to suggest a few), and you may be well advised to wait until better prints become available.

American Dreamz.

2006-05-08T19:24:00.000-04:00

So. American Dreamz (2006). Sigh. There's sorta a spoiler below. You shouldn't care enough not to read on.

Here’s the story: It’s a "Canadian Idol"-esque show, but with only one judge and bigger ratings. The judge is Martin Tweed (Hugh Grant), who is basically a hollow shell of a man who hates his life but likes the lifestyle his life affords him. (“Re-write!”) The president is the spitting image of Martin Van Buren. No, wait… (egad, this is exhausting), George W. Bush, and is played by Dennis Quaid. We get to see, though, that this president is so sheltered from the real world by his advisors (including a creepy Willem Dafoe wearing a Cheney suit), that he is blissfully unaware of all the things that he could be doing to help. Perhaps this storyline was the only thing that kept director Paul Weitz [About a Boy (2002), In Good Company (2004)] away from Guantanamo Bay. The "American Dreamz" contestants: Mandy Moore as the savvy and manipulative Sally and immigrant Omer (Sam Golzari) as the Al Qaeda reject slash token brown guy... who has an uber-gay American cousin. Oh, yeah, and the rapping Sholem Glickstein (Adam Busch). I didn't make up that last name.

The president is shocked into seclusion when he insists on reading the world news as unfiltered through his staff. He begins taking "happy pills." Then the president grows a spine. His advisors want his street cred to go up, so they book him on "American Dreamz" as a guest judge. He doesn't really want to, but he agrees to appear. Al Qaeda creams its collective shorts. The plot goes on from there.

I walked out of the theatre satisfied that I wasn’t let down, but now that it’s been over a week since I saw American Dreamz-with-a-zee, I’m not so sure. Did it just capitalize on the popularity and preconceptions of "American Idol"? (No, I wasn’t so deluded to think that this was based on "Canadian Idol". Please.) Are there too many pop culture and political references for this movie to stand up against the test of time? Does Hugh Grant get blown up at the end of the movie? Did that event make me happier than I ever could have expected?

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Rent this one if you really feel like it, but rent it soon, because in a month it’ll be about as topical as watching reruns of Weekend Update from the early 90s.

Ragtime

2006-05-04T19:51:00.000-04:00

People have accused me of having a lack of appreciation for “modern times.” When reviewing my tastes, most are surprised that I can identify more songs by Rudy Vallee or Jelly Roll Morton than by Coldplay. (That’s actually quite an easy claim, as I don’t believe I could identify any songs by Coldplay… In fact, I’m so out of the loop, I don’t even know if Coldplay is a current enough reference to make that last line work.)

To prove these people wrong, I have selected a film that is a bit more… up to date, shall we say? I highly recommend Miloš Forman’s Ragtime (1981) as my pick of the week.

Sure, critics will quickly point out that this film is set at the turn-of-the-20th-century… But it’s in colour, so that should count for something.

Ragtime is based on E.L. Doctorow’s Gordian novel about a new century and new ways of life, and the undulating ways in which lives intersect, weave and collide. This novel is astounding in the amount of ground it covers, and I’m not sure how it could have been brought to the screen word-for-word. (As it is, Forman carefully chose the prime dramatic points of interest, and the movie is still 155 minutes long!) Like 1997’s excellent LA Confidential (one of the best films, period), which is a mere sliver of James Ellroy’s mammoth novel of corruption, sex and greed in 1950’s LA, the film version of Ragtime is an expertly pared and culled cross-section of a modern literary classic, with a script written by Michael Weller (whose only other major work appears to have been Hair in 1979!).

(Be warned, I go into detail about the plot in this review. If you want it to be a surprise, then just take my recommendation and go see it. However, I assume that the stage version of this, up there with “Fiddler” and “Our Town” as hackneyed local theatre fodder, has already spoiled most of the plot for you, anyway.)

The plot concerns several lives tossed amid the societal shifts in New York in the early 1900s, a period that has not been filmed as many times as its spectacle warrants. A seemingly perfect late-Victorian family is our starting point. Their lives are disrupted permanently when they find a homeless, ill and pregnant black woman (Debbie Allen) in their garden. The nameless Father of the family, played with massive force and quiet currents by stage actor James Olson, is a repressed and stoic business man whose practical and no-nonsense character is all for turning the woman over to authorities and continuing on with their perfect lives. The Mother, a stunningly serene yet commanding Mary Steenburgen, quietly insists that it is their duty to help. Mother wins – a first sign that things are changing. Mother’s younger Brother merely wants out of the cage of Victorian responsibility provided by his brother-in-law, and is embodied by a typically twitchy Brad Dourif. Soon, good deed done, the family attempts to return to their lives, but now with their charity case as their maid.

Before long the peace is once more shattered when the absent father of the young woman’s baby appears. He is Coalhouse Walker, Jr., and is played by magnetic Howard E. Rollins, Jr., who reminds us here exactly what he could have done as an actor had cancer not tragically cut his life short in 1996. Coalhouse Walker, an assertive and infinitely modern young black man, has made it big as a piano player of the newest and most dangerous musical form yet, Ragtime Jazz, and his character is, essentially, the human form of that music. He is explosive, attractive, disquieting, quick-silver, and charming, all at once, with enough style to win over the entire family, especially since he has returned to marry the woman he loves and give his son a name. The Victorian Father breaths a literal sigh of relief.

However, once again the peace, having twice been patched together, is broken, and this time there is no method strong enough to reestablish it. Racists deface Walker’s car, a brand new Ford Model-T, simply because the sight of a clearly successful black man driving such a car is too much for them to handle, and literally all hell breaks loose. Walker finds himself in a fight that he cannot win, and his fiancé pays the price. As the new century ravaged the social “norms” of Victorian America, this conflagration destroys and re-forges everything in its path.

By the end of the picture, the prim Mother has run off with a Jewish immigrant (Mandy Patinkin) who is involved in a new industry called “flickers,” the Brother has had a torrid and tragic affair with that decade’s version of a chippy (played by a doll-like Elizabeth McGovern), and he has joined forces with Coalhouse Walker to take the city hostage in a fight for the rights and respect of black men. Suddenly, the world is no longer one the staid characters can recognize, and the dynamic characters flee into their new freedom with an energy that leads to madness, and the actions, music and relationships all mirror this new world called the Twentieth Century.

I cannot easily sum up this film, or the various emotions it demanded of me. Though the characters are many, there is adequate time spent on individual lives to inspire hate, love, respect, humour, excitement and disgust. Often times these buttons are all pushed at some point by a single character as he or she develops! Further, for the film buff there is ample eye candy in terms of the mix of up-and-coming stars and the living legends. Keep a sharp eye out for, among others, Norman Mailer, Fran Dresher, Jeff Daniels, Frankie Faison, Michael Jeter, Samuel L. Jackson, Ethan Phillips, John Ratzenberger, and who knows how many others of interest in this cast of hundreds. Especially important is the final big-screen appearance of legend James Cagney, who is older and weaker at 80, but who still can give a body shivers when he snarls.

Unlike many films made in the 1980s, this is one picture that will be good for un-ironic viewings for decades to come. From point A to point B, this film is made with care and attention, from the spot-on casting to the hundreds of period costumes, right down to the clever paper cut-outs made by Mandy Patinkin’s Jewish tinker. The soundtrack (including Randy Newman’s first full-length film score, for a script he was born to bring to life), direction and acting are uniformly first-rate, and part of my reaction is one of simple admiration for a towering job of enacting such a book.

However, this is only a part of it. This picture challenged me. While the brief plot I have described may bring to mind ideas of “Noble Minorities” versus the “Brutal White Establishment,” Forman has done something different and far more complex. There are no easy answers in this film, and the audience is pushed by the choices we see on the screen. We are told that film going helps us create and re-create ourselves, and Ragtime is clearly a picture that takes this job seriously. Through the screen action, I interrogate myself, and this is at times engaging and at other times extraordinarily uncomfortable.

This is not a perfect film in that the draw of the first half seems unevenly matched with the repulsion of the second half, and it certainly isn’t a feel-good hit, but, nevertheless, it shouldn’t be missed.

P.S.

2006-04-30T10:11:00.000-04:00

I wanted to see P.S. (2004) when it was in theatres, way back in the day, i.e. Hamilton, a lifetime ago, a.k.a. when I didn’t live with my parents. Sigh.

In P.S., Laura Linney plays Louise, a calm divorcee who works in the admissions department of Columbia University’s Fine Art Department. She hangs out too much with her ex-husband and the woman that she claims to be her best friend (Missy) is a morally-deficit wannabe adulteress who lives a long-distance phone call away. Not far enough.

Her polite and orderly life hiccoughs when she receives an application from F. Scott Feinstein (Topher Grace). Louise is stopped short by his handwriting and use of language, which is identical to her high school boyfriend, a boy named Scott Feinstein. Scott was killed in a car accident when he was eighteen.

She immediately calls F. Scott in for an interview and is shocked by the similarities between her Scott and this F. Scott, especially their shared likeness. The painting samples that F. Scott brings in are beautiful, and although the dead boyfriend worked more in abstracts, F. Scott’s paintings are close-up snapshots of mundane but intimate moments. The paintings are the work of Bryan Lebeouf.

P.S. is not a reincarnation movie. It’s shouldn’t be compared with P.S.’ contemporary Birth (2004), which also marketed itself as a mystical second-chance for a broken-hearted woman (with a rudimentary understanding of the complexities of reincarnation). In Birth, the “reincarnated” lover is 10. In P.S., he’s in his mid-twenties. Therefore, a sexual relationship is not creepy/illegal.

In this film, the rebirth is not that of the young lover, but of the abandoned woman. Louise was literally and figuratively living under a blurry image of the late Scott. Scott sits on a pedestal, and it isn’t until a conversation with her best friend that we find that she shouldn’t have been so quick to canonise.

Laura Linney is spot on, as usual. Her Louise’s life is usually so controlled that her sudden recklessness rejuvenates her. She’s passionate, but also controlled so that at any moment of elevated stress, she is likely to boil over. Where did this woman come from? Why had I not heard of her until recently?

No, the sole reason I watched this movie was not because Topher Grace is on my husband list. Which he is. It didn’t hurt, though. He was featured in the March 2006 Vanity Fair, where he was dubbed “The New Tom Hanks-Jack Lemmon-James Stewart” (pg306). That’s a tall order: the attractive in a non-threatening way, funny and sensitive leading man. I think he disappears into this characters more than those three other actors. He turned heads in Traffic (2000), although well-intentioned, bored me to death in Win a Date with Tad Hamilton (2004), and impressed me all over again in In Good Company (2004). Please don’t think of him as only Eric Forman.

P.S. is the kind of small, intimate character film that I love to fall into from time to time. It reminded me of The Squid and the Whale (2005), another brilliant Linney movie.

The Seven Year Itch.

2006-04-26T15:26:00.000-04:00

As the school year comes to a close, and we turn our thoughts to summer vacation, the desire for a “good summer movie” once again rears its head. While there are any number of films that glorify summer and its advantages, The Seven Year Itch (1955) focuses on the more unfortunate aspects of the season; the heat, the upset in routine, and the horrible isolation that comes with working while the whole world seems to be on holiday.

Yet, underneath all this, there is the promise that, in summertime, the lovin' is easy!

Directed by that ultimate American auteur of the breezy comedy, Billy Wilder, this film has all the style, sophistication, and, above all, laughs that one would expect. Starting off with one of the cleverest title sequences pre-Woody Allen’s Bananas (1971), the film then swings into a delightful mock-documentary story of the pre-Columbian Manhattan native men sending their wives to the cooler lake country for the summer, and then chasing after the pretty single girls left on the heat-soaked island. This, of course, sets us up for the basic plot of the film. The Seven Year Itch captures the yearly ritual of the Grass Widower (or “summer bachelor”), a phenomenon well remarked upon in the middle of the last century (and very likely still a way of life for many in the smog-infested urban centers of North America).

Our hero, such as he is, Richard Sherman (wonderfully played by Tom Ewell, reprising his successful turn on Broadway in the original production of this George Axelrod play), has been happily married for seven years, and he has a lovely wife (Evelyn Keyes) and a rambunctious and typically obnoxious son (Butch Bernard). Sending his family away to the cool comfort of the cottage country, Richard plans on two months of drudgery on his own in Manhattan at the publishing company where he works. Above all, he swears, he will not fall into the madness that consumes his longer-married brethren, who see nothing but cards, wine, bad habits and, especially, dames while their spouses are out of the city. Richard, feeling above his sex and society, is determined to lay off the cigarettes, the booze and the junk food while his wife is away, and feels smug in his ability to mind his manners without a “keeper.”

This is, of course, until a single and friendly bombshell (played by icon Marilyn Monroe) moves into the apartment upstairs, and he discovers that he may very well be entering what his psychiatrist-author client, Dr. Brubaker (played by legendary Austrian comedic actor Oscar Homolka), calls the “seven year itch,” a mysterious condition that, during the seventh year of marriage, makes men become so overwhelmed with the urge to roam that Richard may not have any choice but to cheat!

What happens is for you to find out, but the ensuing temptations and struggles are played out with the sort of sly cosmopolitan tweaking that only Broadway and Billy Wilder (of 1960’s The Apartment fame) could create. In the 105 minutes of this movie, middle-class morality, the health craze, class divisions, psychoanalysis, gender barriers, the publishing/ advertising industry, and self-help fads are all sent up in the most delicious of ways. Most of all, the film highlights the dangers of letting imaginations fly out of control (when all the hero can see is the dangers of smoking)!

The picture is strengthened by the appearance of a few true greats in the world of character acting, such as the indomitable Donald McBride as Richard’s Grass Widower boss (“I wasn’t to bed last night, and I may not go to bed tonight!”), the endearingly annoying and angular Doro Merande as the dour vegetarian restaurant waitress and nudist (yes, this film is a bit ahead of its time!), and, especially, the always-wonderful Robert Strauss as the smarmiest superintendent this side of my last living quarters.

The Seven Year Itch is adorned with a cracker-jack wit, and dressed in some of the best lines to be found of its period (the one that really gets us every time is, while taking a long, forbidden puff, Richard sighs, “Oh, all those lovely, injurious tars and resins!,” and sounds like he is positively soaking in the process of mortgaging his future for a moment of perfect heaven). With always-surprising dream sequences, a charming score, an attitude towards its subject matter that is never crude or cruel, and a new take on the old problem of “roving eye syndrome,” this film is a sure winner.

Despite some staginess in having the character talk to himself throughout (which actually works well here), and some colour saturation issues, The Seven Year Itch is one of the few movies that I can honestly predict will be as fresh fifty years from now as it was when it was made.

This film was produced by 20th Century Fox, and is now readily available on DVD via the “Marilyn Monroe Diamond Collection,” but don’t let that turn you off. I have never been a Monroe fan of any standing, and I certainly favor Tom Ewell in this film (in his greatest role), but the ultimate ice cream blond is about as good as it gets in this film. She literally sparkles in this picture, and is as sweet and likeable in this as her later characters were dumb and sad. For the acting, writing and direction, as well as a general atmosphere of good fun, I can’t recommend this picture highly enough.

Rent it, and enjoy! (And stay away from wine, women and song this vacation season, or risk ending up like poor Richard, who needed a vacation to recuperate from his summer!)

Match Point.

2006-04-21T19:46:00.000-04:00

I like Woody Allen movies. Even when they're not considered his "good ones," I appreciate the Woody Alleness of them. Items that usually appear on his ingredients list: interconnected family members; distinctive soundtrack; ex- and present lovers; New Yorkiness; sometimes throw in a body; recurring actors including my favourites, Alan Alda, Diane Keaton, and Allen himself; and, of course, that font. That comforting, familiar font.

I was told that Match Point (2005) didn't seem like a Woody Allen Movie. I was both intrigued and wary. I was told that not only was Woody not acting in the movie, there was also no other actor in the movie acting like Woody in his stead.

"They" were right. Besides the crackling soundtrack and a couple of sharp, throwaway comments that were casually blurted a frame before a scene change, this had all the wit and sting of a Woody Allen movie without reeking of flop sweat and an analyst couch. And it's set in London! Gasp! (London or New York, it doesn't matter, because Allen knows cities, and their pace.)

In Match Point, Jonathan Rhys Meyers is Chris, and wears many hats. He is introduced as a tennis pro at a posh London sports club. Names are dropped. He's played Agasi. His first student, Tom, introduces Chris to his mother, father, sister, and fiancee. Chris then plays the boyfriend as he and Tom's sister hit it off. Tom's fiancee is Nora; Scarlett Johansson. She's an American. She's a chronically unsuccessful actress. She is luminous. She is loathsome. She is insecure and falling apart, but in a foreign, American way. She's like a crumbling wall held up with a layer of chicken wire. Chris is captivated.

Tom and Nora break off the engagement, but not before she and Chris begin an affair. Chris still marries Tom's sister, and Tom marries another woman. Time moves along surely. Chris' life spirals out of control, and we watch him scramble.

Chris, as a main character, is not open to the audience. Not to say he is inaccessible, but he doesn't invite us into his plans. Usually, there are clues to what a character is thinking, or going to do. Watching Chris is like watching an opaque person in real life, on CCTV: we do not know what he is thinking but can only watch. Sometimes there is a panicked crack in his facade, but usually, we just didn't know. Instead of being put off and alienated by this, I found myself all the more captivated.

So now is Woody Allen protesting pablum movies? I suppose he's never been interested in spoon-feeding his audiences. It's just that this one is particularly tasty. It's no wonder critics were so excited about this Allen offering. It's a Woody Allen movie in the best sense of the meaning: distinctive without being derivative. It's available April 25th on DVD, and prepare to be surprised more than once.

Holly From The Block.

2006-04-21T17:34:00.000-04:00

Holly is more than the sum of her parts. Those close to her often wonder if she is the reincarnated embodiment of a person from an earlier time. Not caveman times, but Vaudeville times. I sometimes get the distinct impression that Holly is disinterested in the 21st century and would have much more entertained a century previous.

This driven blur of contrasts entered my world in the autumn of 2003. Black trenchcoat. Black boots. Black hair. Black humour. Who is this mystery woman? We were both students at McMaster University, both in a two-year thesis-based MA program, but she was a year ahead of me. She seemed to have her feet planted while I was in over my head.

In her office, amongst her Dead Sea Scrolls textbooks and Hebrew conjugation charts, sat a monochrome photo of a dapper and brooding Humphrey Bogart. That was the moment I should have known what I was up against. A movie buff. No. Not buff. Connoisseur. A movie buff wouldn’t name her cat Fritz. Holly is a movie connoisseur.

Holly is also another Maritimer. She is from the North Mountain of the Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia. Not the South Mountain. John, her hetero life-partner, is a PEIslander! A countryman! At Dalhousie University in Halifax, Holly got her first degree in Comparative Religion. She dabbled briefly in criminology before moving with John to Hamilton in 2002.

Holly’s Irish-Jewish roots are spelled out all over her sleek, long black hair, fair complexion, and bright eyes. She sees all. “Can I tease? Can I comfort? Can I advise?” Those who care for her are cared for in return ten-fold.

Heaving three sighs of relief, Holly, John, and Fritz turned their backs on Hamilton and moved to Waterloo, Ontario in August 2005. There, Holly turns heads while successfully pursuing her PhD in Film, Religion, and World Domination.

Holly steadfastly maintains her other blog and contributes to other discerning sites upon request. She has been a creative writer from an early age, winning awards as a schoolgirl with her short story “Gefilte Fish and Mulligan Stew.” (or the other way around?) She is also an encyclopaedic source of early-20th century entertainment and generally an old-school good taste barometer.

Our differences make our friendship stronger. I love Shaun of the Dead (2004). She loves Frankenstein (1931). We can’t decide which one is Felix and which is Oscar.

Catherine from Away

2006-04-20T15:10:00.000-04:00

It has been my pleasure to know Catherine for three years now, and the fact that it has been eight months since we lived in the same town and we are still close friends is, given my track record with correspondence, a testimony to how loveable she really is.

A statuesque and blond shikse goddess, Catherine is my exact opposite in many ways. But right from the first, she and I had a bond. Though both of us were doing graduate work in Religious Studies, we both lived and breathed movies. Our film collaborations in the past have mostly consisted of much discussion and the occasional crashing of a Fellini flick, but now we have finally put our passion to constructive use. It is both fitting and enjoyable that the lady who introduced me to blogging is now a partner in my latest internet venture, and I have high hopes for this hobby-project.

For example, that it may land us both lucrative jobs in media…? (All serious offers considered. Please leave your name and website url in the comments field, and specify which of the two astounding critics you mean to address.)

Catherine holds a graduate degree in the social scientific study of religion from McMaster University, and enjoys yoga, knitting and photography. She is also a dab hand at cooking, especially when this involves various combinations of rice, beans and corn. Aside from some of the most … interesting tastes in music of any of my friends, she is also a fine critic of film and fiction, and has a wide understanding of contemporary films and pop culture. First and foremost, however, Catherine has at her command the best grasp of CBC lore and procedure of anyone I know, and is one of those rare birds called a “True and Proud Canadian.”

Catherine is currently a freelance writer and also works in an art centre on Prince Edward Island, where she religiously takes long drives along the wonderful landscape and has constant adventures with her cat.

I am pleased to bring my interests together with hers, as they both contrast and compliment each other very well, and I anticipate that I shall learn a lot about reviewing from this born critic (and I say that with all affection).

I am proud to present my colleague and sister in film-buffdom, Catherine, who, even if she weren't as wonderful as she is, would still have my undying gratitude for she has been my main supplier of Charlie Chaplin books, and this is a gift that truly keeps on giving.

Welcome!

2006-04-20T11:24:00.000-04:00

This site came into being at 11.30am (Ontario time) and 12.30pm (PEI time), on April 20th, and was born out of a love affair of two women and the art form known as film.

Long may it reign!