The PopGuide

SUPER 8: One of the Most Romantic Films of the Year

2011-11-27T13:16:00.000-08:00

Since it’s Summer release this year, no film has been more indicative of its own downfall than J.J. Abrams’ SUPER 8, a cinematic valentine to its film’s co-producer, Steven Spielberg that is distractingly disguised as a sci-fi thriller and is quite simply, a motion picture placebo. If one were to brand and market said placebo, an apt name for the ineffective product would be “Déjà Vu”. Rife with homage to the filmmaker, it’s hard to discern whether the film is being self-referential to the 8mm film format in its moniker or whether it’s Abrams’ way of highlighting ‘eight’ (more or less, but it appears he miscounted as there are more) of Spielberg’s ‘super’ bodies of work, most particularly: JAWS [#1]; CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND [#2]; POLTERGEIST [#3]; E.T.: THE EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL [#4]; THE GOONIES [#5]; “Amazing Stories” (Season One, Episode One: “Ghost Train”) [#6]; EMPIRE OF THE SUN [#7] and JURASSIC PARK [#8].

From the perspective of cinematic equipment, namely a tripod (notice its skewed point of view reflected in the film’s poster), as well as its appearance as a three-legged war machine in the sci-fi classic (and Spielberg’s 2005 re-boot), WAR OF THE WORLDS [#9], Abrams’ film-within-a-film likewise falls flat in an uncompelling fashion under the strain of such weighty adulation for his Amblin mentor and fellow producer - - much like the young filmmakers’ tripod collapses during the visually remarkable train crash and pivotal centerpiece in SUPER 8. In order to understand the crucial significance behind this cataclysmic sequence and why it was filmed over one year in advance of the film’s release date requires going back quite a few years.

Spielberg has said that his earliest childhood memory which impassioned him with his love of filmmaking was Cecil B. DeMille’s THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH that features a disastrous train wreck [see #6] created in the heyday of Hollywood crews’ skillful production of models, pyrotechnics and special-effects movie magic. Of the six children in SUPER 8 to first witness the catastrophic head-on collision of the pick-up truck derailing the multi-car Air Force train which unleashes an alien creature, it can be surmised that Joe Lamb (Joel Courtney) is the biographical construct of Mr. Spielberg, who, as a hobby in the film, creates and paints model train cars (later used during the staged train crash over the film’s closing credits) much like Steven did during his youth: Exhibit A | Exhibit B | Exhibit C

Watch the train crash in SUPER 8. At the very moment the pick-up truck’s two pairs of wheels merge with the track within striking distance of the trajectory of the train (just as Klaus [Lyle Bettger]’s vehicle did in DeMille’s film), the doomed lovers in Charles’ (Riley Griffiths) 8mm zombie film, “The Case”, utter the lines, “I love you so much’ and ‘I love you, too” moments before a shower of explosive, animated steel and debris surround the filmmakers as if they’re evading enemy gunfire in Spielberg’s SAVING PRIVATE RYAN [#10]. It’s curious that The Cars’ “Bye Bye Love” is playing in the soundtrack en route to the location-shoot at the train station - - could this perchance be Spielberg intimating ‘goodbye’ to the special effects filmmaking techniques of yesteryear, at once, so dear to his heart, as we enter the fully-digital arena of the 21^st century or is it simply an attempt at foreshadowing through the characters’ dialogue their fateful goodbyes? My money is on the former.

SUPER 8 has quite a bit to say about the act of looking. Like an adept filmmaker who is able to anticipate a problem on set, notice how Joe (initially tasked with being a grip and makeup artist) looks over his shoulder and is the first to be aware of the potential destruction about to befall his young friends. There is even a hollowed reverb element in the sound design to accentuate his close-up gaze of the oncoming disaster in the vein of the visually unsettling dolly zoom (or “Hitchcock zoom”) in VERTIGO or Spielberg’s use of the effect in JAWS. However, “The Case” is not Joe’s film. The film’s enthusiastic director, Charles, like J.J. Abrams, is strictly in it for the “production value” and focuses his tunnel vision on documenting his shot unable to foresee the damage about to come his way. Likely crowding his vision is Abrams’ penchant for lens flare which would’ve gotten a filmmaker fired in the good ole’ days of the Hollywood studio system.

It might be more significant that Joe is the sacrificial ‘lamb’ as the film’s youthful protagonist. The other characters and elements that permeate SUPER 8 seem to attract to him much like the emptied train cargo of mysterious, magnetized cubes which pull towards each other for reasons yet unknown. Just as Elliott (Henry Thomas) was initially ignored by those in his orbit [see #4], by the climax of E.T., after he forms a connection with an alien botanist, he becomes the central focus of attention towards which his peers gravitate. Similarly, Elliott’s family unit is broken by the exit of a parent (his father, a consistent theme in Spielberg’s work). In Abrams’ film, the Lamb family experiences the tragic loss of its wife and mother from an accident at the town’s steel mill. If it weren’t for the alien being escaping its steel prison cell of the train car and wreaking havoc on the fictional town of Lillian, OH, the death of Elizabeth Lamb (Caitriona Balfe) was already responsible for sending shockwaves through the tight-knit, mid-western town.

Strangely, the action that unfolds seems awfully familiar and starts to resemble a cinematic town full of filmic neighborhoods we’ve visited before. When the kids aren’t borrowing their parents’ automobiles, they get around with the assistance of their trusty bicycles [see #2, #3, #4, #5]. The military occupies the town of Lillian (named after Abrams’ grandmother) [see #1, #2, #4, #7] in an effort to cover up a government project which involved keeping an alien being captive as people are inextricably snatched [see #1, #2, #3, #8] by a nearly-unseen, tentacled beast who is pilfering various appliances [see #4] to construct its spaceship (aided by those cryptic, shape-shifting cubes). Unmanned automobiles in a used car lot {perhaps a nod to USED CARS [#11]?} spin out of control [see #3], levitate and magnetize to the spacecraft for additional ballast before the creature uses it to depart its water tower launch pad towards an extra-terrestrial destination at the fascination of the film’s surviving onlookers [see #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 ………. ].

Ordinary kids pitted in Extraordinary situations … Joe (SUPER 8) and Barry (CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND) share striking, ‘70’s similarities.

Steven Spielberg is one of the most recognized, respected and strategic film directors in the world with entertainment properties valued in the billions of dollars. He has either mentored or (executive/co-) produced films by such directors as Frank Marshall, Robert Zemeckis, Joe Dante, Matthew Robbins, Kevin Reynolds, Todd Holland, Phil Joanou, Brad Bird, Barry Sonnenfeld, Michael Bay (who, coincidentally, was also known at the age of 13 to have a fondness for blowing up his train set and filming it with his 8mm camera), Peter Jackson, D.J. Caruso, Jon Favreau and others. In some of these relationships, Spielberg has humbly foregone the screen credit either for financial/political reasons or more assuredly, because he was passionate about the project and wanted to solely be its cinematic benefactor. To have such a prolific cinephile with a deft hand in his/her ring would surely be any filmmaker’s delight. Even upon Stanley Kubrick’s passing and after many private conversations on the craft of filmmaking and collaborations on the film which Kubrick stated was more suitable to Spielberg as it was “closer to his sensibilities”, Spielberg directed the ambitious A.I. ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE.

J.J. Abrams and his many ‘easter eggs’ (here, Romero's DAWN OF THE DEAD) … Not seen on the wall is Charles’ other poster for John Carpenter’s HALLOWEEN which takes place primarily in Haddonfield, IL. Haddonfield, NJ is the home town of the film’s producer/screenwriter Debra Hill - - as well as Steven Spielberg's home when he was a child.

Many of the aforementioned filmmakers have succeeded/are succeeding in their own right because of their individual creative, stylistic voices and the emotions they evoke in their respective audiences. Unfortunately, the young filmmakers’ inside references to George Romero in their construction of a low-to-no budget zombie horror picture in SUPER 8 are overshadowed by Abrams’ direction of his film in which “The Case” exists: a 112-minute master class on the essential cinema of Steven Spielberg.

Alexander Pain-ful’s, “The Decadence”

2011-11-26T20:03:00.000-08:00

Despite the film’s gorgeous tropical vistas of the Big Island and its lushly photographed, Pacific-kissed and sun-blessed archipelagos, complemented by wall-to-wall Hawaiian folk music typically equated with relaxation and warmth, Alexander Payne’s THE DESCENDANTS is no cinematic day in paradise. When Phedon Papamichael’s camera isn’t capturing sumptuously picturesque island-soaked skylines, the film has a lot of weight in familial relations and shows how characters are inter-connected, most particularly through financially vested interests in an ancestral trust. And if it wasn’t for the “The” in the film’s title, one might think the film was entitled, “Decadence”, for its gluttonous excess of Hawaiian beauty and parallelization of moral deterioration. Entitled is a fitting word. Payne’s tropical tragi-comedy dramatizes that purveyor and haole land baron, Matt King (thespian ringleader and the consistently glib and ever-smug, George Clooney), oversees a trust that owns 25,000 acres of prime Hawaiian real estate in an impending sale to a commercial owner who will blight said land with hotels, franchised stores and various and sundry tourist traps. Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, King’s wife, Elizabeth (Patricia Hastie), is on life-support following a devastating water-skiing accident whose mortal decline counterbalances the meteoric rise of the financial sum expected from the sale of the Kings’ land investment. As the hereditary woes escalate in Payne’s pictorial paradise, each of King’s flawed archipelagic family members and close friends exhibit signs of arrested development and unlike the visually arresting backdrops on which they’re projected against, their actions in the film just aren’t pretty.

Nearly the entire cast is portrayed as vulgar, vitriolic, eccentric and depressive - - its adults and their children - - and ironically, the longest smile and the film’s most thoughtfully happy instance comes complements of Elizabeth King just moments before she succumbs to her accident-inducing coma. The adults lead a lazy existence with a foundation based in wealth management as they don shorts, flip-flops and casual wear in corporate settings while the children harbor an entitlement that they feel they can hurt those around them by texting injurious messages to fellow classmates, flipping people off, engaging in excessive name-calling, entangling themselves into their parents’ affairs, etc. Their respective futures appear destined for failure unlike those of their forebears who struggled and triumphed in their endeavors and provided the fruits over which the contemporary King clan labors. The film’s most potentially authentic emotional moment appears and in Payne-ish fashion, is crushed in a swell of sarcasm and obscenity when Troy (surfing guru, Laird Hamilton) directly connected to Elizabeth’s accident, tries to pass along his warmest regards and nearly looks as if he’s going to break down when King and his youngest daughter, Scottie (Amara Miller), brush him off. The authenticity of this moment is intensely and dramatically palpable yet is immediately destroyed giving way to scenes of relentlessly bad parenting, inappropriate slang words for a woman’s vagina (repeatedly uttered by young girls no less) and introductions of characters so incredibly kooky and ill-mannered that their presence seems like an excuse for a chuckle. Therein lies the double entendre of the film’s title - - THE DESCENDANTS - - whereas the King family descends from ancestral Hawaiian royalty, Payne charts a coarse course into a contemptibly immature realm which consumes all who are connected with the King fortune.

Decay and deterioration of communication (paralleled with the decomposition of Elizabeth’s mortal body and soul) exists between family members and dear friends which seem to serve as recurring punchlines rather than sharp examinations of human nature. Sensitive familial ties as fragile as these literally hang by a thread which seem destined to snap at any moment. THE DESCENDENTS is over-crowded with so many dysfunctional moments that it’s any wonder the King family finds any resolution to the number of problems which swirl around them and are yet to appear in their fictional futures. They can rest easy in knowing there is a financial safety net secured by the struggle and heartache of their ancestors to brace their descension into further depths of despair. Payne’s microcosmic view of humanity is distorted. What is especially troubling is when this brand of dark humor and dramaturgy draws laughs and sympathy from moviegoers. Thankfully, this has been isolated to a few floating islands in Mr. Payne’s paradise which is indeed very troubled.

Although there is more harmony in the film’s use of traditional Hawaiian music than between the film’s characters, the soundtrack has an adverse effect with regards to the accompanying visuals and actions that unfold. Similar to Tim Burton’s BEETLEJUICE employing a soundtrack of Calypso music, the music’s mood utilized in THE DESCENDANTS has a contradictory effect and becomes monotonously jarring, despite the few instances of diegetic music, for instance, where a Hawaiian band is playing in a dive bar.

The elder King, father-in-law, Scott Thorson (Robert Forster), is naïve to the fact that his “good girl” and “devoted”, “faithful wife” to Matt, has been having an affair with another man and treats her with compassion and dignity which is most becoming of a father. Upon his lips approaching his daughter’s mortal cheek for the last time, Matt, his daughter, Alexandra (Shailene Woodley) and her simpleton beau, Sid (Nick Krause), peer into Elizabeth’s hospital room from the hallway to watch humanity be exhibited, albeit through a small, sliver of an opening of the door. King hasn’t the slightest inclination of the meaning of fatherhood as he consults those in his network of family and friends (even his eldest daughter, Alexandra) for advice. He even refers to himself in voiceover as a “back-up parent”.

This proves one thing: when faced with mortality, the cast of characters move about the screen in a harried fashion. Matt runs several blocks in flip-flops to the delight of sheepish audiences not accustomed to such behavior out of the mega-star which is delightfully pretentious when he could’ve simply driven his car resting idly in the driveway. And his nuclear family goes on their own bounty hunt for the man with whom Elizabeth has been sleeping.

Even Hawaiian and pop-cultural icon, Duane ‘Dog’ Chapman, “Dog the Bounty Hunter”, makes a brief appearance via his television program of the same name. This is a trope that King follows when he goes on his own mission to seek out and serve his unfaithful wife’s suitor, Brian Speer (Matthew Lillard). Imagine a bumbling, middle-aged “Magnum, P.I.” leading his own brand of Keystone Kops or Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade donning flip-flops and casual fatigues as opposed to his fashionable suit and sans a legitimate private investigator license. (Ironically, Clooney’s portrayal of Matt King physically appears casually fatigued throughout the film.) Upon seeing the motley crew of modern-day gumshoes stealthily seeking out Speer, the image of them comes across as more of a family outing to dinner and a movie rather than an impromptu manhunt.

It doesn’t excuse the fact that a responsible father would prefer to engage in such activities on his own rather than having to involve his youngest children and explain any potential repercussions likely to occur. Although the hunt for Speer serves no financial bounty for King and Company, it is eventually revealed that the hunted Speer will come into a bountiful sum of money if King’s trusted ancestral estate is sold to Speer’s commercial employer. Herein lies the conundrum: when pitted between choosing to sell the land or not, this will make Matt’s immediate family filthy rich and bestow a huge commission to Brian Speer in the process or King can maintain the dignity of his descendants visualized in the obligatory scene when Matt literally shines a light on photographs of his ancestors as he opens the seemingly long-closed shades in a cottage tomb of relics, framed pictures and keepsakes of his family.

Sadly, it is Elizabeth who insists through her Will that she be removed from life-support if there seems no chance of recovery and her body isn’t able to keep. This document thereby becomes the second instance of legal trouble for King to overcome; a gross contemporary representation of bodily maintenance compared to what King’s ancestors had assuredly implemented for their own well-being. It just seems quite value-less when one has to involve power of attorney to avoid spoiling like milk, as King’s father-in-law, Thorson, puts it. The duration of the film depends on Elizabeth hanging on for dear life, just as she clutches onto her small hand towels, so that those close to her not only have ample time to pay their final respects, but have the opportunity to offer forgiveness and/or right their wrongs with the soon-to-be-departed. It is therefore especially chilling when King vehemently curses her imminent corpse as he comes to grips on his inheritance decision knowing that she has been unfaithful to their holy bond of marriage.

The film shows that mortal death is inevitable. Robert Forster’s portrayal of Scott Thorson doesn’t look too far off either. Whoever oversaw his make-up and decor really made him look dreadful. (It didn’t seem so long ago that he knocked one out of the park in JACKIE BROWN as skilled bail bondsman, Max Cherry - - that ball is still soaring overhead.) THE DESCENDANTS not only shows the face of death by way of Elizabeth’s mortality, but also magnifies and inspects it on numerous occasions and when it takes on another form after cremation, the film comes to rest on its post-mortal ashes as they’re shoveled into the Pacific Ocean to descend the Polynesian depths. Elizabeth’s face is an image that is multiplied many times over in a child’s photography assignment at her elementary school. Its cooling visage is even applied with makeup. There is something terribly wrong about all of this.

On the other hand, George Clooney’s Matt King, though living and breathing, is utterly emotion-less with a consistently gravelly inflection. When he’s portraying happy, it appears to be sarcastic. When he shows anger, it still appears facetious. At once, when the script calls for him to be overcome with sorrow, his expressions of grief and anguish are wooden and just plain sad.

The film will unequivocally cater to mainstream audiences in the nation’s blue states; which is interesting, because one might deduce the correlation of first-generation Greek, Director Alexander Payne’s cultural affinity for the color, blue. Ironically, it was in Ancient Greece that there was a lack for a word for blue. Yet it has since become the prevailing and national color of the Hellenic nation (as well as a repellant for evil spirits and flies). Likewise, Payne’s films (most particularly evident in SIDEWAYS and THE SAVAGES) have slyly garnered an attraction to those audiences of a socially aware, liberally elitist, granola nature.

Were it not for the exalting imagery of the Hawaiian setting, THE DESCENDANTS appears as if it was contrarily produced and shot on a shoestring budget. The mise en scène of the various residence interiors, Alexandra’s private school, the hospital and adjoining beach venues exude a feeling of “on location” and look as though the film crew just happened to show up to film the respective environments. Coupled with this is an inordinate amount of close-ups, specifically in the exchange between King and Cousin Hugh (Beau Bridges). At the pivotal point when Hugh reveals the connection between Brian Speer and King’s ancestral investment, one close-up here would have been more effective. Instead, a monotonous series of close-ups ensue that are both uneven and makes one wonder if Payne shot the scene in this manner because he was in short supply of background extras the day of the shoot.

In the surf laden atmosphere of Hawaii, perhaps it would’ve been to Payne’s benefit to hang ten - - of his fictional cast of characters - - whose depressive and ultra-distressed existences make THE DESCENDANTS look more like a BLUE HAWAII. Come the finale, the King family sits down to ice cream (ala Marc Forster’s MONSTER’S BALL) perhaps to soothe their exacerbated tummies of the mutual stresses they overcame prior as they watch Luc Jacquet’s documentary sleeper, MARCH OF THE PENGUINS. If Payne is trying to relate the treacherous journey of the (emperor and female) penguins to that of King’s similarly “ancestral” breeding ground, then that is a further insult to the viewer - - quite frankly, the journey of the penguins is more arduous and exciting and portrays a more stable vision of parenthood despite the harmful elements that swirl around them as they help strengthen and develop their young.

DRIVE: Scorpio Descending

2011-10-04T00:33:00.000-07:00

Making a movieis casting a spell.

Kenneth Anger

Director Nicolas Winding Refn’s neo-noir/road movie hybrid, DRIVE, stunningly captures an enchanted ‘80’s cosmos amidst a decaying asphalt desertof Los Angeles by displaying his cunning abilities as a maestro - - or magician- - capable of harnessing music, visuals, symbols, sounds and employingessential film references and genre devices to be used at his command. As the film opens from darkness, adirective is being uttered by Driver (Ryan Gosling) in the form of anincantation after a revving engine is heard in the distance through anatmospheric nighttime ambience while burbling notes arise from the soundtrackwhich summon images of a sorcerer’s cauldron filled with a bubbling brew.

There's a hundred thousand streets in this city. If I drive for you, you give me a timeand a place, I give you a five-minute window. Anything happens in that five minutes, then I'm yours, nomatter what. Anything happens aminute either side of that, and you're on your own. Do you understand? Good. And you won’t be ableto reach me on this phone again.

As the sequence unwinds, the camera slowly sweepsthrough Driver’s domicile, at first, focusing on a marked-up map of DowntownLos Angeles followed by Driver surveying the L.A. cityscape out of an apartmentwindow. Emblazoned on the back ofhis jacket is a golden scorpion which seems to take on the significance of asupernatural totem. As he speaksto his client over the telephone, an intermittent burst of neon glows under hiswhite jacket as if he were standing over a fire-burning kettle simmering aglowing, pink potion.

Driver (RyanGosling) begins to stir the pot … and cast his spell over the City of Angels.

When coupled with the schematic diagram of the citystreets, it appears as if he is performing a cinematic incantation over thecity and fashioning its landscape to his wishes or, at least, projecting ontothe city a series of specialized escape routes he is about to maneuver in histrusty, steel steed. Either way,some kind of sorcery is indeed stirring.

Navigating through the city’s gritty arteries,penetrated by glittering neon and sparkling traffic lights, takes on aspectral, otherworldly quality. AsDriver takes refuge in the mobile, womb-like sanctuary of his automobile, whilebeing bathed by green, red and sepia-colored light, other cars and street lampspass by him like fleeing phantoms and surges of electricity in a modern, yet,retro-noir terrain.

Upon arriving at a pre-determined rendezvous point,he meets a pair of crooks cloaked in dark clothing who are about to perform aheist and it is revealed that Driver is their hired wheelman responsible fortheir getaway. The five-minutecountdown begins and Driver initiates the stopwatch feature on his wristwatchwhile donning a pair of Gaspar 2204 driving gloves echoing the predominate useof gloves of this type in the decade of the eighties. No modern conveniences like digital timepieces or cellulardevices are employed. Drivertriggers a walkie-talkie connected to a police band and along with him, wewait, in anxious anticipation. Healso flips on the car radio just in time to catch the remaining fifteen minutesof a professional basketball game in the nearby Staples Center which willparallel the suspenseful intensity of Driver eluding the authorities (by landand air) in a cat-and-mouse chase traversing the highways and byways of theCity of Angels. Pulling into theStaples Center’s parking structure moments after the local Los Angeles teamproves victorious, Driver successfully ditches the car and walks out of thestructure unscathed as scores of fans seemingly cheer along with him at hismomentous escape from justice.

What we come to know about Driver is thefollowing: above all else, hedrives, but beneath his restrained exterior, he’s a man of few words who speakssoftly and carries a big stick; he spends his days performing stunt work forthe Hollywood film community, but mostly works in a garage; he moonlights as ananonymous wheelman on heists and never works with the same client twice; he hasno name to speak of; he doesn’t smoke, but has a fondness for bracingtoothpicks between his lips; he’s focused, skilled with his hands and a man ofhis word; Driver is at his most optimum strength when he is behind the wheel ofan automobile - - it seems to magically recharge his lifeblood; he switchescars as quickly as he does his outfits/identities (mechanic, stunt man, cop,cold-blooded killer, guardian angel) and he doesn’t have any partners. However, his credo against formingpartnerships changes when he enters into a relationship with a neighbor in hisapartment complex with whom he becomes smitten, Irene (Carey Mulligan), who hasa young son, Benicio (Kaden Leos), to whom he offers a token of goodwill, atoothpick.

Extra-diegetic music enters this stage of thesoundtrack that not only punctuates Driver’s connection with Irene, butunderscores what they might be feeling for one another, complemented byenergetic, synth-pop notes reminiscent of the ‘80’s; songs like “A Real Hero” by College featuring Electric Youth

And you have proved to be a real human being and a real hero; A planeton a cold, cold morn’; 155 people or more; All safe and all rescued …

and “Under Your Spell” by Desire,

I don’t eat. I don’tsleep. I do nothing but think ofyou. You keep me under your spell…

the latter of which expands on the film’s affinityfor spell casting.

The filmposters for DRIVE and RISKY BUSINESS exhibit a stylishly ‘80’s font with apenchant for automobiles.

But, historically, all good spells must have atreacherous counterpart. Withinone week of their burgeoning relationship, Irene’s husband, Standard Gabriel (Oscar Isaac), enters from the wings (supporting the film’s symbolicmyth of angelic purity) who has been let out of prison on good behavior. He immediately becomes a friend ofDriver and is far from sinister, however, his release from redemption unleashesthe wrath of his former associates, Nino (Ron Perlman), a Jewish gangster andpurveyor of a local pizzeria; his henchman, Cook (James Biberi) and Cook’sloyal subordinate, Blanche (Christina Hendricks). Nino’s business partner and Driver’s reluctant nemesis,Bernie Rose (Albert Brooks), gradually counteracts the potency of Driver’smagic.

Obtaining the opportunity to act outside of thecomedic box from which many are familiar with his performances, Albert Brooksis no stranger to violence. Hisearliest film role was as Tom, a campaign worker in a New York City Senator’soffice in Martin Scorsese’s, TAXI DRIVER, where the film’s “ticking time bomb”, Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro) sees it ashis duty to clean up the polluted mean streets of Scorsese’s vision of New YorkCity through violent vigilantism.

A major influence on Scorsese’s filmmaking and anobvious reference to DRIVE is Kenneth Anger’s experimental short film, SCORPIO RISING. It also contains little dialogue(actually, none), religious symbolism, a noticeable pop soundtrack, aritualistic worship of automobiles (namely, motorcycles in Anger’s film) andthose that drive them as well as its most dominant symbol - - the scorpion - -which is branded on the back of Driver’s jacket. As Driver zips up his jacket, he keeps his back to thecamera and takes his time in the zipping motion giving the viewer enough timeto linger on the image of the jacket and take in (fetishize) the potentiallycult-status (and rebel-like torso) of Gosling in his role of Driver. Incidentally, Anger said of his filmthat “Scorpio is the sign of the Zodiac that rules the sex organs andmachinery.” Similar to thecharacters that populate Anger’s film, Driver and Shannon (Bryan Cranston), Driver’semployer and trusted business counselor, work religiously on the automobiles attheir Reseda Boulevard garage when Driver isn’t taking one of their prizedbeauties out for a spin. Uponbeing wounded in the film, the aptly named Doc (Russ Tamblyn), operates onDriver in its repair shop as if it were a hospital. Shannon, an archpriest in the vaulted church of his sacredgarage, along with Driver, make up a religious order of customized carmanufacturers. Developing themotif of angels at work, while repairing a car part in his apartment, Driver’scircular desk light hovers over his head like a halo, perhaps, symbolizing himas a guardian angel.

Bernie Rose, on the other hand, conjures up thoughtsof one who has a sharp, thorny nature. Stabbing and eviscerating his enemies with jagged objects andrazorblades is his signature technique, much like whipping into one’s adversarylike with the stinger of a scorpion. A former film producer in the ‘80’s, this wildly uncivilized behaviormay stem from one (or several) of the plots of his string of action B-movies heproduced which he tells Driver his critics thought too European, yet which heimmodestly claims were terrible. Duringthe process of DRIVE, as enemies stack up against Bernie and his temperheightens, not only does blood sloppily begin to spill as it did in his ‘80’sschlock, but DRIVE, likewise, explodes into a hybridized starburst of genres,yet maintains its neo-noir veneer.

As if Refn’s vision of Los Angeles weren’t grimenough, Bernie brings about an ominous cloud of darkness over everyone inDriver’s orbit. These include bothIrene’s family and Shannon, the latter of whom calls Driver “special”, admitsto exploiting his talents and does everything in his power to maintain theirpersonal and working relationship. But feeling double-crossed after a heist gone horribly wrong at Driver’sexpense, Bernie cuts Shannon down to size with a straight razor. Immediately after meeting Bernie forthe first time, Driver appears in a successive shot asking Benicio, “Is he abad guy?” Whether or not he’struly referring to Rose or to the cartoon they’re watching which features ashark (also an animal with sharp, pointed protrusions), is ambiguous, but onething is for certain: Driver’scasted spell over the plane of the city is wearing thin.

Contrasted with Driver’s offering of a toothpick toBenicio, Cook gives the boy a bullet to hold onto and orders him not to loseit. And at one instance, whenIrene jokes with her son by sweetly calling him a monkey, Bernie, in anotherpart of the film’s universe, vehemently calls Cook a monkey, along with anotherexpletive with great, damning effect. Bernie also matches Driver’s use of statistics when he explains thereare roughly two thousand heists in the city of Los Angeles per year, some ofwhich he may be personally responsible for. The setting of DRIVE in Los Angeles, California,specifically in the context of the Western United States, pays homage to andhas an undeniable reference to the western film, most particularly, GeorgeStevens’ SHANE.

Driver’s first appearance and back-story, likeShane’s (Alan Ladd), is ambiguous and he eventually resides in the sameapartment complex after meeting the Gabriel family where he engages with themin a communal fashion just as Shane did at the home of Joe Starrett (Van Heflin). Both Driver and Shane spend valuabletime with the young son of his respective parents. Sexual tension between Shane and Joe’s wife, Marian (JeanArthur), also exists between Driver and Irene. The placement of the principal characters at their firstmeal together in the Starrett home resemble that of the first meal that Drivershares with Standard, Irene and Benicio in their apartment.

During their meal, Standard recounts how he firstmet Irene at a party and when he introduced himself as “Standard”, she quipped,“Where’s the deluxe version?” and gives a brief, yet longing look atDriver. (Just as in KennethAnger’s short film, KUSTOM KAR KOMMANDOS, where The Paris Sisters’ song, “Dream Lover” is featured, Driver, himself, is acustom car commando/aficionado and the possible object and “deluxe version” ofIrene’s affections.)

References to the western film continue toabound: as Shannon soups upDriver’s getaway cars and stunt mobiles for the movies, at one point, hereveals how he dropped in three hundred horses under the hood. In the film’s daylight hours,storefronts (the pawnshop) and restaurant interiors (Nino’s Pizzeria and thediner where Irene works) all share a similar stone décor resembling a stonetableau one may have seen in abundance in the Los Angeles desert. After Bernie washes his bloodied bladeclean in his modest apartment, he sits down to relax in his living room chairadjacent a movie poster called “Slinger”, quite possibly, an abbreviated formof the predominately used term in typical western fare: “Gunslinger”. One characteristic that the featured cast in DRIVE sharewith those in SHANE is that they’re good with their hands, whether they’recustomizing or modifying a car in a garage, wielding a blade and a hammer orpulling shotgun shrapnel from one’s body. And just as it’s illustrated in SHANE, there is very little gunfire thatis passed (less than ten shots) between characters. But when it is present, it explodes at a deafening pitch like thunder. And in time, Driver may also share mythic status similar tothat of the “Man with No Name” character played by Clint Eastwood in SergioLeone’s spaghetti western pictures in his “Dollars Trilogy”.

As soon as the ingredient of greed enters theseething mixture of Nino and Bernie’s recipe for destruction, the city and itsinhabitants are vectored into a subversive state of decadence andbloodshed. When Driver repeatedlypounds Cook’s hand with a hammer in a strip club and then threatens him with ahammer and nail to his forehead, several nude strippers breathlessly sit by andstare and resemble frozen mannequins who no longer seem to know how to react tosuch violence. Another scene ofintense bloodletting exists when Driver and Irene share the film’s longest andmost passionate kiss in an elevator (along with a male passenger on Nino’spayroll) and moments later, is gently guided to another side of the elevator soDriver can pummel Nino’s henchmen’s head to a bloody pulp in the oppositecorner. In this respect, DRIVEstarts to verge into the territory of grindhouse and the splatter film in itsexcessive stabbings, slashings and physical destruction of the human body,compliments of its B-grade producer, Bernie Rose.

In Driver’s fateful confrontation with Bernie, theyface off, two scorpions with blade-like precision, orchestrated with theirdueling figures in shadow, as their writhing, silhouetted torsos are projectedonto a sun-baked parking lot. Their struggle escalates, but it becomes indistinguishable who willovertake whom. Enter a wink to theslasher film, notably PSYCHO, when Driver sits in the seat of his car,(potentially) mortally wounded and stares off into the distance as Marion Crane(Janet Leigh) had done in Hitchcock’s classic slasher. As the camera crawls up Driver’sbloodied torso, into his face, several beats pass until he finally blinks. (This echoes to two earlier scenes whenhe engaged in a light-hearted blinking showdown with young Benicio.) Unfortunately, Marion Crane neverblinked again and shares a similar fate with Bernie Rose. By simply sitting in the driver’s seatafter his struggle with Rose, Driver looks as if he is being imbued with somekind of magical energy (or fuel) and seems to be recharged as soon as “A RealHero” returns from the extra-diegetic ether of the soundtrack. Driver sees the end of his way of lifewhich parallels Shane’s final words:

I gotta be going on. Manhas to be what he is. He can’tbreak the mold. I tried it and itdidn’t work for me. There’s noliving with a killing. Right orwrong, it’s a brand and a brand sticks. There’s no going back.

By the finale, a man of his word, Driver sticks tohis guns and does what he does best behind the wheel of any car he can manipulate: he drives - - into the dark corners ofa constructed city he thought he understood - - which may or may not bepotentially supernatural - - guided by a superior, innate driving prowess. And as director Refn’s spelldisintegrates, so, as we’ve seen, the city begins to crumble; first, into decadence,then, into darkness from where the film originally entered. Chances are, Driver will be fine. As his former employer and mentor,Shannon, once spoke of his skills, “You put this kid behind a wheel, there'snothing he can't do.” That’s his character! And in a final nod to SHANE, Driverheads off into the dark unknown as his magical lifeblood trickles from his body- - and Scorpio descends (?) …

CONTAGION: Sick Degrees of Separation

2011-09-25T22:55:00.000-07:00

And on the Second day, director Steven Soderbergh divined a plague. His cinematic creation of the destruction of the human race complements of a lethal fomite contagion, however, is far from biblical proportions and from the outset, is more appropriately a low-budget hyperlink film with a digital gloss. Each sequence of the film is hosted (literally) by a character who may potentially play host to a virus that impacts the visual chain of events that follows or precedes it. Whether or not a character resides in San Francisco, France or Hong Kong makes no difference as in some way, shape or form, will act as a catalyst with others in the global network care of a virus which consumes its prey faster than Fed-Ex or Pings that are transmitted on an Internet Protocol. In the realm of hyperlink cinema, CONTAGION is a multitasker’s delight; imagine IT’S A MAD, MAD, MAD, MAD WORLD stripped of its comedic elements and featuring just as many stars as in the heavens whose respective actions commingle, converge and collide with one another in horrifying, feverish, paranoiac fervor. In the film’s first five minutes alone, Soderbergh subjects us to various propositions of how the unexplainable and seemingly unassailable pandemic is transmitted: through human contact, sexual intercourse (STD), the flu/common cold and/or fomite contamination. And quite unexpectedly, for the duration of Soderbergh’s latest cinematic experiment, an audience member assumes the role of a willing participant included in the Petri dish of the movie theater along with the neighbors, cultures and bacteria that might be lingering and festering in its dark surroundings.

Since the release of his debut feature and sleeper hit of 1989, SEX, LIES, AND VIDEOTAPE, Soderbergh has consistently tread a fine line between mainstream commercial filmmaking and low-to-no budget cinema. In so doing, he has strategically managed to satisfy both studio heads at multi-million dollar entertainment conglomerates and audiences with a voracious appetite for art house cuisine while multi-tasking behind (and often in front of) the camera and shuttling between the roles of writer, producer, editor, cinematographer and director. Soderbergh’s TRAFFIC, an instant classic about the global war on drugs replete with an inventive, color-coded composition and a tension-inducing, handheld, guerrilla filmmaking approach (yet distributed by a major studio) balanced by a truly effective ensemble cast, exhilarated critics and cinephiles alike and may, quite simply, be the filmmaker’s masterpiece as rumors begin to swirl of his imminent retirement from the craft.

CONTAGION, on the other hand, sneakily introduces a war on communication, most particularly, the social network, in which we are currently engaged in both our waking moments and sleeping hours. And just as an exchange of information, if it is potent enough, may be transmitted from one source to another in the social network at an accelerated rate where it succeeds in becoming viral and trends to the point of becoming extensively popular, Soderbergh hypothesizes that a hybridized infection, likewise, can either spread directly or indirectly at an alarming capacity until it absorbs our lives and the fabric of our global society. It’s an ambitious concept and bloggers, tweeters and the mainstream media are caught in the crosshairs. Contagion, the term itself, originates from various meanings and translations for “a touching, contact”, “communication of disease” and “the transmission of disease from one person to another”. With the breakdown of communication comes the collapse of social mores and customs such as talking to and touching others and as the film’s taglines insist, “Don’t talk to anyone” and “Don’t touch anyone”.

The film’s production company, Participant Media, endeavored to create a social action element to engage its audience ‘participants’ in viral preparedness, but I think that Soderbergh’s motives are more elusive and that his attempts are to denigrate the ever-moving procession of social media in all its guises, be they Twitter, Facebook or Google+. So where there’s the strain of mutated animal DNA compounding the disease in Soderbergh’s film, there exists the strain of being contaminated by relentlessly invasive social media portals. In an interesting twist, Soderbergh affiliates the menace of the airborne pathogen with potentially injurious pharmaceutical corporations and the investment community whose ulterior rationale may not be to immunize but to weaponize and whereas an antidote to the virus is concerned, to monetize. The cold gaze of these bureaucrats at the subsequent media being relayed to them via television of the momentous discovery, likely in advance of a vaccine, coupled with the apathetic configuration of their placement around the model boardroom table, speaks ominous notes. Meanwhile, as residents of the world engage in quarantine and disengage from contact with one another, others desperate enough in seeking fast-tracked recovery, sacrifice common human decency by raiding pharmacies around the globe for a homeopathic remedy called Forsythia rumored to be successful in warding off the contagion. This alternative cure is eventually exposed as a placebo peddled by a false prophet, Alan Krumwiede (Jude Law), who delicately juggles social relationships with crooked investors in the pharm industry along with his followers on Twitter and online readers in the blogosphere.

One character who ignores the online chatter is Mitch Emhoff (Matt Damon) who might be likened to Robert Neville, author Richard Matheson’s lone survivor of a vampiric pandemic in his classic horror novel, “I Am Legend” which (at the time of this review) has not only been adapted to film on four separate occasions, but was the inspiration for George Romero’s 1968 seminal zombie film, NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD.

The Legend of the Last Omega Man on Earth

Although not necessarily an ‘Omega Man’ warding off vampiric infestations, Emhoff is surrounded with societal unrest and disorder and in a way, is pardoned from the plague because he doesn’t want to socialize and would much rather stay behind closed doors and keep to himself. As he strives for privacy, notice how his daughter, Jory (Anna Jacoby-Heron), continues to use her cell phone to text SMS messages with her boyfriend, Andrew (Brian J. O’Donnell) and in one instance, tempts fate and risks sharing the plague by kissing after making dual snow angels in the single-digit cold Minnesota weather. On multiple occasions, Mitch tries to annul the kids’ relationship, once going so far as to fix Andrew in the sights of the double-barrel of a shotgun. Even more significant is how the patriarchal Emhoff is seemingly immune to the virus which gripped his wife, Beth (Gwyneth Paltrow), supposedly, the second carrier of the virus and their young son, Clark (Griffin Kane). For inexplicable reasons, Mitch has built an immunity to the virus just as Matheson’s hero, Robert Neville, convinces himself of his insusceptibility to the global plague because he was bitten by an infected bat (bearing a thematic similarity with the climax of CONTAGION) as opposed to another diseased human being and survives his daily life by locking himself in and riding out the storm of post-apocalyptic Los Angeles in the prison of his own home.

Soderbergh may be urging us all to embrace privacy. As demonstrated in his 2002 re-boot of Andrei Tarkovsky’s 1972 sci-fi epic, SOLARIS, at its core, is about one man alone on an island of his own thoughts. Scientists aboard the space station hovering over the oceanic planet of Solaris would much rather mingle with their respective ‘guests’ (loved ones who they each left behind in their past on planet Earth who are reproduced by the sentient powers of Solaris’ waves) than each other. As Mitch fondly looks at pictures taken on his dead wife’s digital camera, he whimpers with remorse for her and, just as the suicidal/dead wife, Hari (Natalya Bondarchuk), had been resurrected by the power of her living husband (Donatas Banionis) Kris’ thoughts being beamed to Solaris creating a reproduction of her presence on the space station, Mrs. Emhoff is ‘resurrected’ in non-linear fashion on Day One in Macau just long enough for us to see how Soderbergh’s virus was initiated. Arriving at the film’s climax, the reveal of the virus’ origin is exposed as likely a propagandist element warning corporations of their invasion of the natural world and the consequences that follow - - for it is Emhoff’s mining company responsible for disturbing a jungle, which unsettles a banana tree safe housing a nest of bats, one of which is a carrier of the disease who jettisons its half-chewed morsel of banana into a horde of hogs awaiting slaughter - - a cinematic domino effect that leaves a disrupted global discourse in its wake amidst a Solarian-like sea of Purell hand sanitizing lotion.

Always a bridesmaid … always distasteful.

2011-05-30T19:49:00.000-07:00

From top to bottom, Director Paul Feig’s BRIDESMAIDS is a coarsely disjointed effort that relies on the success of its jokes (which come across as one-liners dispensed at an evening of mediocre stand-up comedy) and the ability of its Writer/Producer/Star/Maid of (Dis)Honour, Annie (Kristen Wiig), to carry the film on her shoulders. In Wiig’s defense, as an alum of the Groundlings sketch comedy theater as well as a “Saturday Night Live” veteran, she makes for an impassioned headliner who seems at ease in carrying out a legion of uncomfortable improprieties. For one thing, BRIDESMAIDS immediately seems like an inappropriate title for the film given the fact that it commences with Annie and her on-again, off-again beau, Ted (Jon Hamm), engaging in over a half-dozen sexual gyrations in the first tenth of the film sprinkled with interspersed grunts, demands and other sounds of salaciousness. What is the purpose: to show how agilely kinky they are or unhesitatingly unsettle the audience - - because, and with no intention of sounding like a total prude, is it terribly funny or just graceless? At least any educated (or not) viewer could instantly anticipate the comedic awkwardness of THE 40-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN upon seeing its Writer/Producer/Star/grown-male protagonist curled up in his sheets in the opening shot of the film awaiting the buzz of his 7:00 AM alarm in a bedroom populated with STAR WARS and “Mystery Science Theatre” ephemera, action figures and a ball cap adorned with the image of Jack Skellington. Unfortunately, the joke’s on Annie as Ted deceitfully asks her to leave his plush pad whilst cunningly leaving the door open for future trysts. However, that his motorized driveway gate is literally closed prompting Annie to not only scale it to exit, but also engage in the walk of shame, reinforces the fact that she’s perpetually behind the eightball.

Annie has hit the bottom (and never seems to reach the top) of her personal and professional endeavors because of her consistent bad-life choices and inelegant remarks she shares with those in her orbit. That’s not to say that those in her network are more well-behaved than she, quite the contrary. Each character is distinctly branded and fulfills their abject personas whether it’s Annie’s mother (the late Jill Clayburgh) reciting objectionable commentary from her AA meetings or Annie’s invasive, British roommate Brynn (Rebel Wilson) pouring a bag of frozen peas onto her back to soothe the pain of a recent Mexican worm tattoo curving around her fleshy middle or Annie’s fellow bridesmaid, Megan (Groundlings alum, Melissa McCarthy), shamelessly admitting upon their first introduction that she’d “climb’ Annie’s Mistaken Fella (Hugh Dane) ‘like a tree”.

‘Pretty in pink’ these girls ain’t - - at times, they’re not so much crude as they are downright cruel. It’s when Annie addresses a brusk, young female customer in her jewelry shop with the universally reprehensible four-letter “c” word does her boss, Don Cholodecki (“MADtv” veteran and Groundlings alum, Michael Hitchcock), permanently dismiss her from his employment. Annie’s temper tantrum at the gift-giving ceremony provoked by her jealousy of fellow, upper-crust bridesmaid, Helen (Rose Byrne), is wickedly over-the-top as she initially criticizes those responsible for its event coordination followed by her personally destroying the French-themed (‘her idea’) regalia at the bridal shower. The film also dips into the bowels of scatological humor with a bit of retching thrown in for good measure when the girls and the bride-to-be mix upset stomachs due to badly prepared Brazilian food with the sterile surroundings of an upscale wedding dressmaker shop. But in all seriousness, is there anything more detestable in mainstream cinema than Rob Reiner’s classic “barf-o-rama” featured in his STAND BY ME?

Fashioners of contemporary comedies seem as if they’re constantly trying to out-do each other by inexhaustibly pushing the level of raunch to new heights - - or shall I say, lows. It now seems so very long ago that screwball comedy mavens like Carole Lombard, William Powell, Lucille Ball, Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell performed their roles from polished screenplays which were as timeless and literate (and extraordinarily funny) as those constructed by the Bard complemented by graceful, masterful direction from the likes of Howard Hawks, Gregory La Cava, Ernst Lubitsch, Leo McCarey, Preston Sturges and Billy Wilder … stand-up maestros such as George Carlin, Johnny Carson, Richard Pryor and (as of this review) living virtuosos like Ellen DeGeneres, Phyllis Diller, Eddie Izzard, Bob Newhart, Don Rickles and Chris Rock pepper their audiences with wit and laughter while skewering relevant topics (and often other living persons, politics and events) of the day with intense fervor and infallible timing without constantly spewing extraneous vulgarities to lower in dignity not only themselves, but more importantly, their audience, which nowadays seems commonplace.

Modern comedic filmmakers (save for Woody Allen, Albert Brooks, James L. Brooks, Mel Brooks [no relation between the triumvirate], Nora Ephron, Christopher Guest, Amy Heckerling, Reginald Hudlin, Mike Judge, Nancy Meyers, Bob Odenkirk, Rob Reiner, Trey Parker & Matt Stone, Keenen Ivory Wayans and a handful of others) remind me of chaperones supervising hyperactive children in a sandbox wherein its comedic elements are relegated to mockery, base human behavior of the lowest common denominator, obnoxious noise and distractions of color, props and other contrivances which has further extended virally into contemporary commercials and television shows, not to mention banner ads on the Internet. And like a sandbox, it consists of little depth and dimension; jokes, like sandcastles, which are molded to creation, crushed and recycled (lately, Hollywood has been imitating the British sandbox model e.g. "The Office") … and it looks like fun to play in for a half-hour and then gets really old, really fast. A hybridized (and bastardized) blend of reality-based entertainment with deadpan comedy seems to be the in vogue style (e.g. “The Office”; “Parks and Recreation”; “Modern Family”) where wooden insults are traded amongst characters more often than actual jokes. Bob Newhart, a first-class “straight man”, succeeded in his deadpan craft (in radio, television and film) because others around him displayed emotion to off-set his mental superiority and supposed smugness. With everyone performing in a similar wooden tone, for example, in “The Office”, makes its imaginary paper supply company, Dunder Mifflin, seem like a rather cold, un-funny and difficult situation and place with which to connect. If anything, the program would benefit from a laugh-track or ‘live studio audience’ to give it vitality and personality.

There isn’t much of a connection in the BRIDESMAIDS’ screenplay either. Most sequences and characters that occupy them seem like they’re inserted there as an excuse to introduce new talent found on the stand-up circuit. If not, they provide opportunities for movie-goers to spot notable alumni of The Groundlings or comedic veterans of stage and screen like bridesmaids Rita (Wendi McLendon-Covey) of “Reno 911!”; Becca (Ellie Kemper) of “The Office” who’s role here isn’t much of a departure from her mousy persona at Dunder Mifflin. And there’s Lillian (“Saturday Night Live” cast-member and Groundlings alum, Maya Rudolph) as the blushing bride to be wedded to muted Dougie (Tim Heidecker) of Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim program, “Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!”.

Although it’s not very funny to see a cameo by ‘90’s Grammy Award nominated group Wilson Phillips as they’re lampooned by the cast in a surprise concert during the wedding finale singing “Hold On”, it is a curiosity that earlier in the film during its excruciatingly overlong airline sequence that Annie quips to Flight Attendant Steve (Groundlings member, Mitch Silpa) that “It’s the ‘90’s.” It may be just me, but I thought it was much funnier when the cast of THE FORTY-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN (incidentally, voted by AFI as one of the Top Ten movies of 2005 and a stronger, more cohesive comedy than Feig’s film) broke out into a song-and-dance number of The Fifth Dimension’s “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In” which was emblematic of Steve Carell’s affable Andy finally losing his virginity. “Hold On”? Personally, I couldn’t wait to be ‘let go’! Was there any significance of their performance other than Lillian being a fan of the band when she and Annie were growing up? It just felt rather insulting; as if they were being depicted as has-beens. Besides, it’s not the first time Wilson Phillips has been mocked by the “Saturday Night Live” team before.

When it’s all said and done, one might argue that BRIDESMAIDS succeeds as a “Brat Pack” film similar to those popularized by the late (great) Writer/Director, John Hughes; the caveat being that the script is a dull comparative and that it’s overflowing with raunch. THE BREAKFAST CLUB, also a Universal Studios Picture (now, merged with NBC is likely to keep generating crossover in their film, television and talent properties), likewise features five characters from disparate backgrounds introduced to each other through a pivotal event (high school detention vs. Lillian’s marriage) whose bond grows through the course (vs. coarse) of the film. The MPAA is certainly tested and harsh language is utilized to enhance the daring script by Hughes whereas Team Wiig/Mumulo’s screenplay (Annie Mumulo, a Groundlings alum and the “Nervous Woman on Plane” who foresees their plane going down) appears as if it’s an unending series of one-liners, curse words and non sequiturs. Come the final shot of the movie, metaphorically (and derogatorily, my apologies), it’s as if two pigs, Annie and her suitor, Officer Nathan Rhodes (Chris O’Dowd) are driving off in the patrol car. I like to think that Rhodes is using the tactic of taking a call to transport Annie to the police station to lock her up for the night to show her the error of her ways.

As an amusing side note, the Danish translation of the film’s title is BRUDEPIGER … that’s pretty funny happenstance.

Biking on the Golden Gate Bridge ... amidst pedestrians ... in one take ... one-handed ...

2011-05-28T09:40:00.000-07:00

One glorious afternoon in the Bay area ... one blogger ... one road bike ... one iconic bridge @ 1.7 miles long ... one hand on the handlebars, the other on the (camera) phone ...

See the footage!

Typically, the West sidewalk is dedicated to cyclists while Pedestrians and tourists of the city are only allowed access on the East sidewalk. But for this particular trip and due to Seismic Retrofit Construction, the West sidewalk of the bridge is closed to bikers (through September, 2011) proving once and for all (for cyclists anyway) that the west side is the best side ... unselfishly and considerately, I pedaled, navigating elbow-to-elbow amongst walking natives and other visitors to the fair city. The end of September can’t come soon enough, I’m afraid.

Incidentally, Friday, May 27, 2011, marks the auspicious opening and 74^th anniversary / birthday of this suspended, twin-towered ‘Wonder of the World’. Many happy returns, GG - - may you continue to wear your coat of International Orange proudly - - as you are continuously over-passed by millions of autos and foot traffic and under-passed by scores upon scores, of boats with or without oars, as they travel via the mighty, restless strait under your gorgeous golden gate!

BATTLE: LOS ANGELES: A War on the Nervous System

2011-03-20T12:15:00.000-07:00

The act of watching BATTLE: LOS ANGELES is a nauseating experience. At times, it is aggressively nauseating. According to Director Jonathan Liebesman’s BIO, he studied filmmaking at NYU and the AFDA, but minutes into the film, it becomes abundantly clear that he must have graduated with honors from the School of ADHD. Hyperactive, with the inability to focus and like the neurobehavioral developmental disorder of the same name, it is a chronic disturbance that impairs the film and seems likely an irreversible trend to continue in contemporary filmmaking (as it does in reality TV programming). Lukas Ettlin’s camera-in-a-blender cinematography lacks a purpose and seems like it is constantly trying to find something on which to focus - - and I DARE him or the filmmakers to publically produce a working shot list.

Coupled with the advent of the Avid and other non-linear digital-editing technologies, B-roll and camera coverage has put a strangle-hold on the one-take style of filmmaking that easily translates to a filmmaker having no faith in his or her material. It seems ironic that Ettlin, a native of Switzerland that has a world-renowned position on neutrality, was chosen to lens such a film about extraterrestrial beings obliterating the major cities of Earth in order to harvest its water supply. This irresolute shooting style even continues in the newsreel footage that the characters watch on their respective television sets which include quick zooms and pans amid incomprehensible close-up shots and never for once seems to utilize one of the most sacred devices in a DP’s toolkit: a tripod. In the filmmakers’ defense, all of the Tripods were decimated in Steven Spielberg’s WAR OF THE WORLDS. The film’s ‘You Are There’ experience in which it pits you seems as if it’s nothing more than a recruitment video for the United States Marine Corps, which like Paul Verhoeven’s STARSHIP TROOPERS, is a sci-fi film of war with deceptive overtones of propaganda. 116 minutes later, the only place in which I wanted to enlist was my local drugstore for a Tylenol. Thankfully, however, my immunity for such cinematic trivialities is as impenetrable as a bulletproof vest.

Likely confusing is the film’s moniker - - BATTLE: LOS ANGELES - - when the film takes place primarily in Santa Monica, CA. It’s not until the last shot of the film that military choppers actually make a beeline toward downtown Los Angeles proper! Technically, it should’ve been dubbed BATTLE: WESTERN LOS ANGELES COUNTY, but I’m sure it wouldn’t have satisfied focus groups and didn’t seem cool enough a title. More appropriate a title would’ve been simply BATTLE: LA since 90% of it was shot in Shreveport and Baton Rouge, LA. Luckily for Lieutenant Corporal Peter Kerns (Jim Parrack) who is also a featured character in HBO’s “True Blood” in (fictional) Bon Temps, LA, he didn’t have to travel very far - - physically and in acting chops - - from his likeably, simple-minded and good-hearted persona of Hoyt Fortenberry. Kerns, like Staff Sergeant Michael Nantz (Aaron Eckhart) and Technical Sergeant Elena Santos (Michelle Rodriguez) should each be praised for their ability to stand out from all of the visual clutter in which they’re immersed and be somewhat ingratiating.

Regarding the rules of contemporary film-viewing, even if we do see Nantz perform two, successively rapid sit-ups and push-ups (in extreme close-up), after an appropriate suspension of disbelief, we’re to believe he actually did achieve twenty or more reps (or else, once again, an actor was saved through the magic of editing). With his chiseled features and positive work ethic, I do believe he accomplished a hearty workout regimen. And after witnessing the cast in their various lines of duty, although her spoken dialogue is as wooden as a mighty Oak, I’d rather be shadowing Sergeant Santos for her skilled directness and attention-to-detail in the field of battle. Her fellow soldiers (and the filmmakers) unfortunately take their cues from their successful and more highly ranked predecessors (in order of plagiarism): ALIENS, CLOVERFIELD, INDEPENDENCE DAY, DISTRICT 9, WAR OF THE WORLDS (all versions), STARSHIP TROOPERS and PREDATOR in terms of:

inter-group rapport with intensely-used and repetitive military slang;
over-the-shoulder documentation of the unfolding events in a war-torn landscape;
alien beings that are both lanky, lean and often hybridized with artillery capable of firing various types (at varying speeds) of ammo;
engagement in ground-to-air and air-to-air (dogfight) combat involving drone-like vehicles and force fields on enemy warship(s) and corresponding craft;
inspecting the multi-layered innards of alien beings in order to understand its compositional makeup;
discovering a nemeses’ Achilles heel and sharing the vulnerability with others still alive in the human network in order to ‘spread the word’ and ‘take them down’.

"Hey, Bra, don'tcha think we should pack it in?"

(To evacuate the Pacific Ocean/Gulf of Mexico or not to evacuate?)

In these instances, BATTLE: LOS ANGELES is neither vital entertainment nor a relaxing one to enjoy. Why do filmmakers insist on crafting films that are not only a chore to watch, but as detrimental to one’s optical nerves as they are on one’s nervous system? Contrasted with the film that popularized the trend in hand-held cinematography, THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT was like staring at a slightly skewed picture postcard in which its imagery did not seem randomized and was an enjoyable experience in horror. Having seen both a leaked version of the film phenomenon online and in the theatre, I much preferred the grainy and degraded online version that enhanced the contextual horror of not being able to comfortably see or anticipate what (unseen) demons lurked in the characters’ midst. In its blend of color and black and white sequences, the camera that each character holds, is like a virtual extension of one’s eye - - it doesn’t zoom in and zoom out whilst panning simultaneously to upset the viewer’s equilibrium like in Liebesman’s film. One thing I learned from the CITIZEN KANE school of filmmaking is that where there is a lack of depth of field, there is assuredly a lack of depth (of ideas and imagination).

Why all this zoom in, zoom out, pan right, pan even more right poppycock in scenes such as in the flower shop when a soldier is selecting flowers for his nuptials; or when the soldiers are celebrating on a midnight beer-binge or even when a mortally wounded civilian is lying on the floor of a convenience store as he sits on death’s door step? You’d think that more compassion would be paid to a character in a sequence that absolutely requires it - - sure, just keep whipping that camera lens around to induce a headache more so than tears. Not even the potential elements paying homage to Howard Hawks’ RIO BRAVO where Nantz and his marines hole themselves up with a batch of civilians in the Santa Monica Police Department against the invading alien marauders or John Ford’s STAGECOACH when the soldiers navigate their steel wagon commuter bus through an enemy alien warpath can save a film that is already fubar.

Corpsman Jibril Adukwu (Adetokumboh M'Cormack) remarks, “I’d rather be in Afghanistan”. That’s the spirit, brother! (Sarcasm.) What’s tragic about a film in the current military climate where unrest often (and as of this review, currently) resides in nations around the globe, the last thing you want to hear crossing a soldier’s lips is a disregard for the military duty for which he signed up and shirk his responsibilities - - especially when the alien nemeses they’re facing aren’t terribly menacing. They don’t bleed or expel acid. They don’t control humans with their minds. In fact, the film purports that they are just as organic and have a penchant for body armor as do their human targets.

And with all the firepower and military training at their disposal, even ‘Newt’ (Carrie Henn) in James Cameron’s ALIENS showed more cojones than were exhibited by those in Nantz’s platoon - - in addition to using the Almighty’s name in vain during moments of high tension nearly three dozen times and engaging in personal politics with a superior officer that is not only worthy of being court-martialed, but disrespectful to one’s elders. If I may be so bold and act as my own appointed court martial, I find the defendant, BATTLE: LOS ANGELES, for all of the aforementioned, GUILTY and sentenced directly-to-video, followed by the obligatory video game tie-ins and unnecessary sequels to further numb the minds of gamers and promote a harvest of new, unsuspecting recruits to War.

Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?

2011-03-05T21:17:00.000-08:00

Prince Feisal: It is written.

T.E. Lawrence: Nothing is written.

LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, Dir. David Lean

From the onset of George Nolfi’s THE ADJUSTMENT BUREAU, an adapted rendering of Philip K. Dick’s 1954 sci-fi short story, “Adjustment Team”, youthful U.S. Senate hopeful, David Norris (Matt Damon) is occupying his own space in a dimly-lit hallway preparing a speech he will give to a massive crowd of onlookers seen visibly awaiting his entrance beyond a framed glass doorway. Moments later, the door (literally and figuratively) opens to the promising political future of Senator Norris inviting him to make his way down the path toward the podium where he will greet his attendants - - the theme of traveling through doors and following one’s path is popularized in the film’s second act. A rapid montage ensues consisting of energized speeches on behalf of the candidate, baby-kissing that seems commonplace for contemporary politicians, television appearances on “The Daily Show with Jon Stewart” (because historically, interviews with pundits in today’s media culture as opposed to television journalists excite movie audiences aged 15-34) and networking with a considerable amount of New York City’s registered voters. This positive momentum in Norris’ race is followed shortly thereafter by the predictable career-crusher: a lewd photo leaked to a print news source of David pulling a college prank which is destined to hurt his candidacy and securing his senatorial seat.

“Adjustment Team” featured herein

Moments like these in film are hopeful reminders that print news may still be a viable source of investigative journalism instead of downloading deadlines through one’s mobile smartphone device. Furthering this notion of a breakdown in modern technology is the consistency with which many of the principal actor’s cellular phones either don’t work (however, they regularly send/accept text messages) or don’t afford one enough adequate reception to place or field a phone call. What is the reason for this techno-breakdown? It’s not necessarily implied by the filmmakers so it may be that Art imitates Life and is the result of a crowded cellular network or not enough towers to boost signals - - who really knows? Chances are that the disruption on the physical plane of Norris’ New York may be due to a bureau of adjustment technicians, sophisticatedly dressed (with sharp double-breasted suits, designer coats, ties and hats) harbingers of Fate employed by a “Chairman” to confirm that the lives of nearly all humans on Earth, most specifically David, move according to a predetermined plan. This doesn’t sit well with David whose crestfallen political future is replaced with falling in love with a talented ballet dancer, Elise Sellas (Emily Blunt). In typical Phildickian fashion (BLADE RUNNER, TOTAL RECALL, MINORITY REPORT, PAYCHECK, NEXT), David, who is imbued with prized importance in his future will attempt to outrun these agents of destiny to (re-)connect with the woman of his dreams. Thankfully, he has a few tricks up his Brooks Brothers’ sleeves and can count on the employment of chance which can typically unfold in opposition to the Adjusters’ tactics of ‘sticking to The Plan’.

‘The Plan’ takes the shape of a wonderfully-realized notebook whose ‘digitally’ printed entries and ‘tracks’ move in tandem to a subject’s motion during the events that occur in his life. One might relate its pages to a pair of vertically-affixed iPad devices with GPS technology capable of harnessing anyone’s daily movements with an unlimited battery life enclosed inside of a leather-bound jacket. If only the inspiration for the pages motion was half as exciting as what appears in the notebook - - unfortunately, the storyline of the lovers’ relationship falls short of awe-inspiring; only the path in which they take to (re-)unite with each other is exciting. In the realm of ‘political chase’ films, the presidential/senatorial grooming of Chance (Peter Sellers) in Hal Ashby’s BEING THERE and Jay Billington Bulworth (Warren Beatty, BULWORTH) are far more entertaining depictions of Politician vs. The System, whether they’re fortuitously gaining popularity ‘by chance’ or evading gunfire by an unknown assassin while simultaneously leading in the polls. It’s also not terribly convincing that in Nolfi’s film, Blunt’s Elise will be crowned the nation’s best modern dancer and quite frankly, the chemistry between Norris and Sellas is rather flat and like many contemporary filmed romances, can’t hold a candle to such onscreen flirtation as was exhibited between Roger O. Thornhill (Cary Grant) and Eve Kendall (Eva Marie Saint) in Hitchcock’s thriller of the political chase brand in NORTH BY NORTHWEST.

Chance (Peter Sellers) resembles 'Fate' / an adjustment technician

Norris is literally engaged in a ‘race’ (physically and politically) as he tries to thwart and/or elude the agents of adjustment while continuing to make a living for himself. (It seems Damon’s Norris has been in training for this film throughout his efforts in the Bourne enterprise.) Initially, the agents are tasked with trying to keep Norris and Sellas from coming into contact with each other and manage to successfully do so for three years - - during which time Norris readies himself for his second swing at the senatorial seat. But after carefully researching David’s file and clarification from “the Chairman”, it is revealed that Norris and Sellas are meant to be together. (Perhaps this element is in homage to Powell and Pressburger’s fantasy classic, A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH about an aviator who goes on trial for his life after finding true love when he was instead supposed to die in a plane crash.) Enter into the chase, Thompson (Terence Stamp) a.k.a. “The Hammer”, a first-class Adjuster in his field and a type of rogue agent (of mal-adjustment?), who advises David that love between two individuals can only damage their respective ambitions; in this case, Sellas’ drive to become the country’s greatest living dancer and Norris’ rise to political stardom and becoming President of the United States. Therein lies the course of the film’s protagonists which progresses through ‘The Plan’ notebook from left to right (not necessarily from Point A to Point B) while the adjustment antagonists litter the playing field with physical challenges, downed phone lines and numerous stalling tactics.

Scattered throughout New York City’s landscape are doorways which take on a special significance of inter-city travel and the key to accessing each portal is the hat each adjuster dons in their attired arsenal. Feeling sympathetic to Norris’ case, adjuster Harry Mitchell (Anthony Mackie) supplies David with a schematic of the doorway system and the use of his hat to travel through the cities’ wormholes. A bond of friendship grows between the two and more secrets of the adjustment’s firm are revealed to Norris: that rain and large bodies of water can affect their judgment and that they’re not necessarily angels, although they’ve been called that term by others, like David, in the past. In fact, there’s actually too much exposition that is relayed to David which in my opinion proves that the characters have no faith in the material they’re presenting; to repeatedly prove that something we know does not exist truly does exist eventually breaks one’s suspension of disbelief. Another criticism that must be made is against the film’s score and that it bears an uncanny similarity to the film’s composer, Thomas Newman’s other musical composition for Mike Nichols’ epic mini-series ANGELS IN AMERICA (harmoniously beautiful, however, a deceptive imitation) which also takes place in New York City and involves angel-like constructs - - coincidence?

Watching THE ADJUSTMENT BUREAU, another allusion became clear to me, most particularly with Howard Hawks’ THE BIG SLEEP (the 1946 theatrical release) as the act of passing through doors in the former film reminded me of the characters’ execution of opening/closing doors in the latter. This may require further analysis with other feature films (not including Pete Docter’s/PIXAR’s MONSTER’S, INC., where its animated monsters travel from Monstropolis to the human world through the assistance of innumerable closet doors), but Hawks’ film may hold a record of entering through doors which I’ve tallied at 75 which doesn’t include entering/leaving through car doors (30), entering through a window (1), through A.G. Geiger’s beaded curtain (5) and passing through Joe Brody’s draped curtain (2). Sure, it may also be a big stretch that Philip K. Dick shares the namesake of the protagonist in THE BIG SLEEP (Philip Marlowe), but the attire shared between the adjustment technicians and much of the male cast in Marlowe’s orbit are similar in style and sophistication (save for the post-modern Bureau staff members who slightly resemble the appearance and stride of the Chrome Robot officers in George Lucas’ THX 1138). Marlowe and Norris respectively find themselves in the Public Library (Hollywood / New York), not only an institution for study, investigation and the pursuit of knowledge, but the New York Public Library acts as the foundation of the Adjustment Bureau’s headquarters where its countless files on nearly every human life mirrors that of the books that fill each shelf and cubbyhole in the library’s collection.

Much like a book in a lending library, I would recommend checking out THE ADJUSTMENT BUREAU for its imaginative tugging at the veil of reality and peeking behind its fabric to witness an author’s perspective of how things work. In a way, the idea of sharing in this voyeuristic series of moments is rather subversive - - I just wish it would’ve been carried out even further with less narrative exposition. And I can admit to being affected by the film’s sinister charm in that I may think twice about the next person I meet who’s wearing a hat or any other type of headgear.

BLACK SWAN: A Company of Wolves and Doppelgängers

2010-12-29T01:10:00.000-08:00

At the conclusion of Darren Aronofsky’s THE WRESTLER, the ill-fated protagonist, Randy (Mickey Rourke) performs an aerial “Ram Jam” by leaping from the summit of the wrestling ring onto his opponent which not only heightens the tension on his heart, but also will inevitably kill him. This director’s visual motif of a character’s leap of faith pushing himself to undefined limits translates to the storyline of BLACK SWAN, a psychological-fantasy and mature fairytale “re-inventing” of Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake” grounded in the contemporary island of New York City.

As Aronofsky’s latest film opens over white titles on a black frame, a lone white spotlight illuminates an immobilized Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman) who is enshrouded in blackness on a borderless stage. The light continues to bathe her frozen pose which is not only symbolic of her solitude and her comfort level of being alone as she smiles at her state of desolation, but revealing of her status as a balletomane. She engages in a dance with the camera as it smoothly and fluidly follows her in a pas de deux. Moments later, their dance is disrupted by a dark figure approaching Nina from behind with headlong rage. With the camera changing partners and shooting over the other character’s shoulder in a hand-held method, this is not only emblematic of breaking the 180° rule, but representative of the crossover of elegant, cinematographic filmmaking techniques found in such films as Powell and Pressburger’s definitive ballet-fantasy, THE RED SHOES with those utilized in the New Hollywood. Such modern cinematic techniques include magnified sound effects (compliments of a talented Foley artist or a well-placed boom microphone) such as feet tapping the stage in ballet slippers and bones cracking as one’s toes curl. These standard actions (ambient sounds) are exaggerated and brought further to the foreground in modern cinema when in classical films they were either exhibited at the bare minimum or cut completely from the picture. There is a raw intensity to appreciate in Aronofsky’s vision of the modern ballet as he turns his camera to unexpected places like Nina’s pair of ballet slippers as she rips its stuffing from the sole like carcass off of a bone and its bottom is frenziedly slashed with a pair of scissors (no doubt to achieve comfortable footing on stage). In the film’s library of sound effects also exists variant sound cues of wildly flapping feathers which when fully and stunningly realized at the film’s climax, completes Nina’s transformation into a ‘Black Swan’ as black feathers cover most of her torso.

Pas de deux, Déjà Vu

Amidst Nina’s perpetual struggle for perfection in her craft and ambition to secure the leading role of ‘The Swan Queen’ in New York City ballet director Thomas Leroy’s (Vincent Cassel) bold re-imagining of “Swan Lake”, Sayers is continuously haunted by personal demons that invade her subconscious and seem to physically take shape in a developing rash on her back. This theme of anatomical penetration and deterioration - - an intensified study of the human body as a corruptible machine - - is consistent with Aronofsky’s body of work (π/PI, REQUIEM FOR A DREAM, THE WRESTLER). The film’s Director of Photography, Matthew Libatique, strengthens this notion by shooting much of the visual landscape in tightened medium shots to more deeply inspect a character’s range of motion. With the help of the SnorriCam device (a body-mounted camera), a character’s movement from their own point of view simultaneously creates for the viewer a heightened and disorienting experience. As Nina’s hallucinations grow stronger, she shakes them off her conscious with gratified ignorance when she isn’t scratching at her wound with the innocence of a child. The appearance of and growth of her lesion and the fantastical delusions that complement it are both a blessing and a curse, just as there is a constant struggle between innocence and sexuality, the diametrically opposed ‘White Swan’, Nina vs. the competitive ‘Black Swan’, Lily (Mila Kunis) and the colorful confrontation of white and black (Nina consistently sports pure, snow-white ballet fatigues with a tinge of pink whereas Lily is typically attired in black; in Lily’s seduction of Nina at a club, she offers Nina a lacy, black top to wear on top of her white frock). When Nina believes her innocence and flawless dance form will make her perfect for the role of ‘The Swan Queen’, these characteristics coupled with her fear of taking risks acts as her downfall. It is only when she exhibits a primal sexual advance towards the ballet company’s director that he is convinced the lead role belongs to her.

As witnessed in many of cinema’s dance-oriented films, a dance company’s success is dependent on group camaraderie, being on time to work and not sleeping with ‘the boss’ - - these manners are ignored in Aronofsky’s film. Additionally, the element of sabotage is thrown in for suspenseful effect as multiple characters vie to attain ‘the lead’ role. So ensues backstage politics which leads to backstabbing and character assassination on the modern stage. At a Gala party to celebrate the new dance season and Nina’s introduction as ‘The Swan Queen’ to a room full of arts patrons, a collection of New York’s upper crust and her fellow dance ensemble, Thomas whispers to Nina to brace herself as she is figuratively thrown to the wolves in her midst. She survives the evening without a scratch, however, she notices a small cut forming below her fingernail during Thomas’ endorsement speech praising her abilities. After the party, Thomas assures Nina that she did well which further alleviates any residual stress she feels for her understudy, Lily, whom she believes is trying to upstage her at every turn. Not only does Lily seem to have an uncanny resemblance to Nina, but also a penchant for disrupting Nina in practice (and a repetitive clumsiness that causes Lily to apologize to those around her) which bears heavily on Nina’s performance anxiety. With Thomas’ complimentary words, Nina officially becomes a detached outlier, not only dancing away from herself, but also outside of the sphere of the compatriots in her company. Uniquely, it is Nina’s self-sabotage that assists in strengthening her star power on the stage and at home with her overbearing ‘stage’ mother, Erica Sayers (Barbara Hershey) who repeatedly checks in with Nina via cell phone. A former ballet dancer herself before she focused on bringing up her daughter, Erica assures Nina that she’s “the most dedicated dancer in the company”. There is a moment that Erica continues to compliment Nina (calling her “sweet girl”) as she looks into a mirror over Nina’s shoulder when an unsettling graphic match reverse-shot is created - - as if Erica is horrified by something she sees in the mirror complemented by the simultaneous shriek of an underground subway train moving hurriedly on a track with the reverse shot match of Nina looking at her reflection in the soiled window of the subway car. It is as if Erica witnessed something disturbing in her daughter that only Nina could see through the power of reflection.

Showtime!

Mirrors and reflections (as well as Lily’s duplicity) featured throughout the film prey on Nina’s paranoia of her abilities being overshadowed and eventually produce hallucinatory visions of a darker double with a pair of rubied, bloodshot eyes which are later followed by the appearance of barb-like feathers puncturing through her wound. A doppelgänger’s lair rests within the cold confines of the mirror which populates the entirety of BLACK SWAN and Pandora’s Box is unleashed through Nina’s continued scratching at its/her skin’s surface. When Thomas revealed to his company that they would be performing “Swan Lake’, Aronofsky seems to speak through him of his own film, "done to death [Nina’s performance literally ends with a poetic death], I know, but not like this. We strip it down, make it visceral, but real.” He asks of his company which of them is able to embody the white swan; as he inquires as to whom will be able to portray the black swan, his question is posed to his dancers directly in the reflection of the mirrors surrounding them. Nina also uses the reflective device as a tool to achieve absolute perfection through her own death at the finale of the performance. Taking a leap of faith from high atop the set piece of a cliff in the self-reflexive production-within-a-film, Nina lands safely on a mattress, but is found to have previously stabbed herself with a shard of glass from her dressing room mirror. Bookending the film in mirror-like symmetry with how it opened, Nina is again immobilized as she smiles at her “perfect” one-night-only performance while drowning in an intense white light. In Aronofsky fashion (a contemporary tragedian), no one will arrive in time to resuscitate her. Nina has exhausted her humanly value and will “lose herself”, as per her director’s (Leroy/Aronofsky) wishes. And by the film’s completion, it is the White Swan who overpowers the Black Swan as Nina finds comfort in her demise as black titles on white close the film and whiteness bleeds into the edges of the frame.

Give POLTERGEIST a ‘hand’

2010-11-10T02:01:00.000-08:00

Caveat venditor

Latin translation of “Let the seller beware”

With Director Tobe Hooper and Writer/Producer Steven Spielberg’s 1982 release of POLTERGEIST, the classic haunted house ghost story is rebranded to reflect not only an ultramodern realm of intellectual horror, but also a highly-stylized, sophisticated investigation into the supernatural and a serious genre piece. The film’s title itself conjures up images of a collection of ghosts (let alone one as the singular “poltergeist” suggests) that wreak havoc on unsuspecting human targets while defying the laws of physics. It is as equally terrifying a moniker as the filmmakers’ prior forays into revolutionary horror movie-making (THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE and JAWS, respectively), but the underlying fear of POLTERGEIST lurks under multiple plot points including teleportation, human possession and sacrifice, sacrilegious desecration of a sacred burial ground and other psychic phenomena. And a visual motif that is consistently repeated throughout the film is the representation of hands and reaching out - - literally and figuratively - - both on earthly and spiritual planes.

As the film opens on what appears to be indiscernible spectral visions (the very first image appears to be an outstretched hand), the camera pulls out to reveal the remaining moments of a television station sign-off complete with various statues and images that are pure Americana while The Star-Spangled Banner plays on the diegetic soundtrack. You can’t help but feel the pageantry of the music as its stringed, brass and woodwind instruments signal the opening titles of the film; it rather adds a touch of elegance to the atmosphere of a seemingly suspenseful horror thriller. With these complementary sounds and images, it is therefore confirmed we are watching an American Film, but already, the motives behind such imagery are ambiguous. The TV station sign-off is terminated before welcoming a screen of snow-like static within its frame. One may argue that the initial elements on the tube signify a reality of unfolding events on an earth-bound plane whereas what follows in the static is an indeterminate portal into a second dimension.

The camera continues to slither past a man sleeping in a chair as his right arm falls over the edge and his hand rustles a plate of snacks. This sets off a chain of events beginning with the family dog, E. Buzz, awakening to the disturbance. The dog moves about the house as a way of introducing each member of the Freeling family. He leaves a bag of fallen potato chips in his wake, licks and noses the family members as if he, too, were a spirit interrupting their rest. Deep in slumber, the family completely ignores his actions. As soon as the youngest child, Carol Anne (Heather O’Rourke) rises from her bed (not necessarily from E. Buzz waking her), something impels her to the television set to which she innocently speaks as if she’s sitting across from a group of older strangers. One by one, her family awakens to her noisy dialogue. At the end of her conversation, she leans into and presses both of her hands onto the screen as if it’s some sacred altar. The child’s extended fingers create a graphic match with the next scene the following morning of a pair of trees on a mound of earth during an expansive, panoramic shot of suburban Cuesta Verde showing off the cookie-cutter homes in the developing neighborhood.

The sterility of the homes is offset by the scraggly offshoots of the unattractive trees that populate the bald, green hillside community of Cuesta Verde, the name of which is laden with double entendre. Cuesta may be translated from the Spanish verb conjugation of ‘to cost’ and/or a ‘coast’, ‘slope’ or ‘hill’ and the most fitting translation for the film being ‘taking on the burden of something for a cost (and experiencing struggle)’. Verde translates as ‘green’ or ‘unripe’ (e.g. the development is in its early stages) as Carol Anne’s father, Steven (a nod to Spielberg?) Freeling (Craig T. Nelson) is selling burgeoning real estate to new homeowners in this nearly vegetation-free mecca of suburban sprawl. The trees themselves look as though they were manicured for landscaping on Beelzebub’s (a slight anagrammatical version of the name of the Freeling’s dog, E. Buzz?) lawn. At first glance, it appears as if the real estate developers are the true foe of the film who have bulldozed rich land for their own benefit. Mr. Freeling just happens to be Igor to his Dr. Frankenstein employer, Mr. Teague (James Karen) pulverizing the soil to make way for new tract housing and inviting new clients to purchase into the development community. “I can’t tell one house from the other.”, one of Steven’s customers intimates during a tour of a model home. And the fresh saplings that dress the yards are merely a façade much like the foam/Astroturf grounds that were featured in Tim Burton’s BEETLEJUICE. For the sake of POLTERGEIST, the plant life that exists in Cuesta Verde appears to be lifeless and petrified.

The film’s only attractive tree-like detail is Carol Anne’s snow-white, wicker headboard on her bed fashioned in the shape of a tree with splayed limbs. This is in harsh contrast with the hideous tree it faces outside of her and her brother Robbie’s (Oliver Robins) bedroom window. Steven tries to impress upon Robbie that the tree has not only existed long before his company started building homes in Cuesta Verde, but that he built their home next to it as a way of protecting their family. A showdown between Robbie and the immense limbed eyesore is inevitable. And nothing his father can say will instill reassurance that his son can have a good night’s sleep.

This is a pattern that continues throughout the film: one of constantly losing control (often accentuated by the appearance of hands and reaching outwards).

Carol Anne is summoned out of a peaceful, nocturnal slumber to engage in a conference with the “TV People” in her family’s television (which ends with her applying her hands on the set). Upon her second meeting in front of the snow-filled television set, Carol Anne reaches out her hand as a misty shape reminiscent of a bony hand lashes out at her before dematerializing into a smoky plume. Shortly thereafter, the television screen sends forth a great burst of light, burning a hole into the wall above the parents’ bed. In one of the film’s eeriest moments, E. Buzz is later compelled to lay one of his dog toys on the bed directly below the burned cavity in the wall as if it’s a sacrificial gift.
Steven and his buddies cannot watch a football game without the strange occurrence of “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood” interrupting their televised match (Steven and his neighbor repeatedly point and click their hand-held remote control devices at each other’s home to see whose program will prevail and ultimately be watched).
Carol Anne’s canary, Tweety, is found dead in its cage (an omen of bad things to come, its tiny claws pointed upwards). As soon as Steven finishes unsuccessfully brandishing his remote control at his neighbor, a graphic match of Steven's wife, Diane (JoBeth Williams) holding Tweety by his claw is compositionally mirrored as she holds the bird over the toilet to be flushed. When Tweety is properly buried in the family’s flower garden, it is later unearthed by a massive bulldozer (with powerful metallic blades resembling an outstretched hand digging into the dirt).
Diane is unable to have her children properly push their dinner chairs under the dining room table. At one instant as she turns to go into the kitchen, the chairs stack upon themselves on top of the table.
A member of the construction crew helps himself to Diane’s coffee and cooking (by reaching through the kitchen window past the blinds).
The tree that Steven said had been firmly planted into the ground is not formidable enough to withstand the onslaught of a tornado and is entirely plucked from its foundation and pulled into the cyclone (after it tries to devour Robbie when it pulls him from his bed with its enormous hand-shaped limbs).
After hanging in mid-air and losing her grip on her bed which snaps like a twig in her fingers, Carol Anne is consumed by a force in her closet with flashing lights reminiscent of light beaming through a film projector compliments of “The Beast” and is transported to another dimension where exist the “TV People”.
A trio of parapsychologists, Dr. Lesh, Ryan and Marty (Beatrice Straight, Richard Lawson and Martin Casella) are completely shaken by the forces that exist in the Freeling household that they must consult Tangina (Zelda Rubinstein), an “extraordinary clairvoyant” to “clean” the house and expel the demons that hold Carol Anne hostage. After recovering the child and all seems back-to-normal, the possessed home regresses to its earlier state of supernatural control as coffins (and skeletons, apparently made of real human cadavers) begin firing out of the ground as well as bob in once hallowed ground which is now a hollowed swimming pool in the Freeling’s backyard.
After escaping the clutches of the evil spirits that release a stream of chaos onto the Freeling’s street, Steven races his family in their station wagon to the safety of a Holiday Inn motel. Even after he pushes the wheeled television set out of their room and the closing credits roll over Jerry Goldsmith’s portentous score, the film’s final moments include a choir of giggling children - - as if suggesting a return by another breed of POLTERGEIST.

Whether the film is presenting a stinging anti-television message or simply using the device of the television set as a doorway into another dimension (ala a Crystal Ball evocative of the snow globe present in one of Spielberg’s favorite films, CITIZEN KANE), POLTERGEIST is a competent and accessible horror film that has achieved pop notoriety, spawned sequels and been paid homage in film, television and the written word. Adept at bridging the gap between an earthly and spiritual plane through the use of this contemporary, man-made portal which beckons the personal touch of a hand to rightly initiate its power (to turn on, switch channels or turn off), the filmmakers even go so far as to connect both realms through a type of invisible birth canal that releases ectoplasmic afterbirth making the process of crossing over something entirely human. For all of the film’s richly textured layers and accomplished filmmaking feats, would you agree that POLTERGEIST deserves a big … round of applause?

P.S. No souls, spirits or skeletons were harmed in the making of this blog post. So please, no curses (is it a coincidence that Gene Shalit (who is one of the only images to appear on the Freeling’s television set) recently departed from NBC’s “Today” show?) - - don’t make me get all Expecto Patronum!

A familiar, yet satisfying Town north of Boston ImProper

2010-09-25T02:22:00.000-07:00

Ben Affleck’s second directorial effort, THE TOWN, is a competent entry in the heist-movie genre which distinguishes him as an auteur of Boston-centric cinema. Just as much high detail and style for the unofficial “Capital of New England” is afforded by the filmmakers as Truffaut and Godard likewise have bestowed upon their native Paris. Beantown’s rich history of economic and technological growth, political impact and its reputation for being a positive center of higher education is threatened by an element of crime pouring out of the open wound of its neighborhood of Charlestown, MA regrettably dubbed: “The Bank Robbery Capital of America”.

Forget about the film’s apparent allusions to not only the South Boston ambience and epically familial tragedy of Scorsese’s THE DEPARTED, the costumed ensemble of crooks and their Angeleno crime waves in Bigelow’s POINT BREAK and the sympathetic musings of a master thief in Jewison’s THE THOMAS CROWN AFFAIR. The mechanics of Affleck’s movie-making toolkit are on full display and despite the barrage of profane machismo, combine in a way that resembles a throwback to classic production aesthetics when scenes of intense action were storyboarded and one-on-one moments between characters exuded either a tender or tense theatricality. One scene in particular exhibiting both of these qualities is handled with the utmost sensitivity which reaches an apex of delightfully, Hitchcockian suspense.

After a series of romantically tinged rendezvous between skilled bank robber, Doug MacRay (Ben Affleck) and his mark, a former bank manager, Claire Keesey (Rebecca Hall), they reach a point in their relationship when their feelings for one another are no longer inhibited by nervous restraint and a desire to be with the other is as palpable as a blow to the head. Claire has no idea that the man who sits opposite her sipping on a soft drink on a momentously sunny day in the park also helms a crew of professional bank robbers responsible for successfully pulling off a daring heist of her bank and ultimately holding her hostage. Under the guise of a compassionate friend to help calm her nerves after experiencing post-traumatic stress from the episode, Doug engages in a ruse of sharing her company to determine if she’s squealed to the authorities. As his hoax begins to disintegrate when true love becomes evident and is pondering “putting this whole town in my [his] rearview”, a figurative black cloud enters to unsettle the mood (also donning black clothing) in the form of Doug’s childhood friend and associate James “Jem” Coughlin (Jeremy Renner). What follows is a prime example of textbook-style editing and a cleverly coordinated composition of characters with James situated between Claire and Doug inquiring after their afternoon tryst while Doug focuses on concealing the tattoo on the back of James’ neck (the only evidence Claire recalled from the holdup) that will undoubtedly blow their cover.

The film continues on this consistent path of characters on the verge of becoming victorious only to be awakened by disillusionment. And with multiple modes of transportation present (cars, buses and trains), the boundaries of Charlestown seem impervious to escape. Just as in Clouzot’s classic white-knuckler, THE WAGES OF FEAR, its characters are not only trapped within the confines of its South American town’s invisible borders, but are suffocated by the fear of exhausting all opportunities for escape and not earning the wages necessary to secure their individual freedoms. Doug’s crew continues to knock over banks and elude the bluecoats as a kind of sport, but for what aim, it is never made entirely clear. In one respect, they are commissioned by Fergus Colm (Pete Postlethwaite), the big don, whose cover is a local flower shop (who slices thorns off of roses like someone who shears human flesh) and is responsible for organizing elaborate heists throughout town. On the other hand, it is an unfortunate vocation that generates massive doses of adrenaline and is possibly the one job they’re good at. It calls to mind an oxymoron: occupational hazard.

In Gregory La Cava’s classic, MY MAN GODFREY, Carlo (Mischa Auer) somberly speaks of money and its vice-grip over all in its grasp as “the Frankenstein monster that destroys souls”. As Affleck inventively stages the film’s climactic heist in the bowels of Fenway Park, a stadium which Fergus regards as a stately cathedral that must be invaded and financially toppled, is it just a coincidence that the renowned left field wall in the stadium is called the “Green Monster”? Money is as much a character in the film as any of its major players: it’s counted, bound, buried under ground, measured, analyzed, weighed, compared to a man’s (and woman’s) worth. It eventually leads one to the way of the gun or when someone like Claire can control the flow of it on a daily basis (demonstrated through her career as a bank manager), can perform a charitable act like refurbishing a decrepit ice rink. If there’s one thing we’ve learned from the movies it’s that crime does not pay.

A visible symbol that appears on a number of occasions throughout the film is the obelisk of the Bunker Hill Monument: the last vestige of law and order standing in a landscape marked by violence and corruption. Unlike the presence of other much taller financial, political and business institutions that surround it and have since fallen to decay or economic ruin, the towering, granite monolith suggests a strong foundation of values that are solid through and through. For the sake of THE TOWN, it is a recurring visual motif that acts as a firm reminder against lawlessness. Moreover, the sweeping shot of the tower is often spliced together with sequences featuring FBI Agents Adam Frawley (Jon Hamm) and Dino Ciampa (Titus Welliver) progressively gaining on Doug’s team’s tail. At one moment when Doug is walking the streets at night, the Monument looms behind him in the left-hand corner of the screen flooded by spotlights that gives the impression of conscious guilt overpowering him. Doug is obviously having serious doubts about his profession. Featured just as prominently in the film is the Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Memorial Bridge in which its high-tension white cables resemble a net being thrown across a part of the town. Meanwhile, various police nets are strategically employed to catch Doug and his men but are repeatedly felled by his crew’s cunning. At times, the ten-lane bridge even appears to double as a cable-stayed prison cell. The effect that law enforcement has on Boston’s bridges is intensified when Agent Frawley orders the bridge to close on traffic after Doug’s team leads the fuzz on a high-powered, bullet-riddled chase through narrow street canals of brick and cobblestone.

Amidst the roaring blaze of TEC-9 gunfire followed by regular shower storms of lead bullets and wildly exciting (and seemingly storyboarded sequences of) vehicular battering rams leaving a wake of steel carnage throughout the circuitous streets of Charlestown, these elements are just props in Doug’s arsenal when combined with the theatricality of his team’s striking costumes. These consist of skulled monsters with thick dreadlocks, hockey masks, aged nuns in traditional habit culminating in the employment of Boston P.D., EMT and MBTA uniforms. As the heists grow more complicated, the manner of costume becomes increasingly stripped down to the flesh of the men donning them and as their faces are revealed, their fate seems rightfully sealed. To his advantage, Doug knows when the performance is over and exits the proverbial stage of Charlestown that Affleck’s players had populated. By the film’s climax, Doug has spirited away to an unnamed locale with no more familiar landmarks and has even fashioned himself a heavy beard. He appears drained of energy and out of character from the man he played in his former town. He not only lived there, he was THE TOWN; he owned it. So does Affleck, as its director.

The Dream is Real … or is it? : breaking down ('collapsing') INCEPTION

2010-09-01T02:59:00.000-07:00

Whatever we build in the imagination will accomplish itself in the circumstance of our lives.

William Butler Yeats

The crux of Christopher Nolan’s fantasy-heist film, INCEPTION, is whether or not we can believe in its protagonist’s conception of reality vs. a state of dreaming. In arriving at a verdict, the viewer is pitted into a complexly labyrinthine landscape which not only celebrates the genesis and execution of ideas but revels in the process of collaboration on the part of its skillfully crafted characters as they navigate through elaborately architected environments that may crumble at any moment. The film is cinematic baklava and consists of layers upon layers of multi-textured concepts that logically and rather lucidly test the illogical limits of human imagination in a world where dream sharing, removing an idea (extraction) or planting one into another person’s mind (inception) is possible. As these conceits are tested and ingeniously realized on film and when, for instance, our comprehension of gravity is inverted, thankfully, the adept hands of the film’s writer/director guide us through shaky bafflements to a calming, stable ground. In so doing, Nolan deserves a compliment of the highest order; and in home-video circles, one might easily consider this his Criterion disc.

The film’s protagonist, Dominic ‘Dom’ Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio), a gifted thief specializing in the extraction of one’s secrets through their dreams, is delivered from an unknown origin onto a sandy beach awash with seawater crashing against him; a visual metaphor for inception of birth, undoubtedly. This is the first sequence of the film’s many riddles wherein we are to question whether this is truly a vision of present reality, a projection of the dream world or in fact, a hint of a non-linear journey through a state of mental limbo that can potentially ensnare a dreamer’s mind for a period of decades to infinity. I believe it is the latter and acts as a bookend with the film’s climactic mission of inception. Upon closer inspection, however, the ambiguous placement of this scene showing Cobb asleep on the shore at the base of an Asian compound makes one wonder if what follows is a completely dreamed fabrication. Even as Cobb is captured by armed guards that may be mental constructs created by his aged employer, Mr. Saito (Ken Watanabe) sent to capture him on the beach, the projected landscapes, the characters that populate them and all elements therein, may come compliments of Cobb’s subconscious. This is further stressed by the vision of Cobb’s two children playing in the sand who always appear just out of his reach. And the environment all too much resembles the dystopic shorelines he created in his own personal limbo and result from the memories he shared with his deceased wife, Mal (Marion Cottilard), the film’s prime antagonist.

Mal is the antithesis of Dom and their relationship with each other was immortalized in their act of dream sharing powered by their passion for creativity and engineering/dismantling entire civilizations for their amusement. The awe-inspiring element of their creations taking shape and others toppling to make way for new constructions can likely be considered one of the cinema’s great romantic delights. Mal’s downfall and eventual suicide was a result of her not being able to differentiate reality from a dreamscape which was further provoked by Dom’s ability to make the clear distinction between the two states. Dom’s regression into his memories of their lives together strengthens her existence. It is as if she is his effeminate projection of himself as both characters are cunning, anticipate each other’s moves and are able to make a clean kill in the field of battle. Technologically speaking, Mal, similar to Dave Bowman’s disembodied nemesis in Kubrick’s 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY, Hal (both of whom share similar branding), may be considered a gorgeous glitch who continues to thwart Dom’s efforts and draw him closer to the dark side of his mind to be lost forever in an eternity together in limbo. That her memory had become so deeply embedded into Dom’s subconscious, her presence can only be characterized as a specter who haunts Dom’s progress he experiences in his personal reality along with his fellow business colleagues, his ‘dream team’: Arthur (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), Dom’s Point Man and closest business associate; Ariadne (Ellen Page), the Architect responsible for building the elements with the dream and whose moniker significantly refers to the daughter of King Minos in the Greek Myth who helped Theseus escape the labyrinth; Eames (Tom Hardy), the Forger and skilled chameleon who can morph himself into other characters for the sake of the team’s mental reconnaissance and Yusuf (Dileep Rao), the Chemist, whose powerful potions are able to sedate the team into multiple dream levels.

In a film brimming with so many fantastical elements where the line between reality and the dream-state is blurred while fusing with devices of advanced technology to capably perform industrial mental espionage, the near future as envisioned by INCEPTION may be more narrowly characterized as ‘post human and elegant cyberpunk’. By the team’s entering dreamed simulations (the thorough process of which is never fully explained: it consists of a push of a button in a device which fits snugly into a silver briefcase that releases a sedative through filaments connected to one’s wrist in order to enter the shared dream world) targeting their mark, Robert Fischer (Cillian Murphy), the heir to a competitive business empire of Mr. Saito, further shows how much farther humans are trying to leave the real world in search of an unexplored, typically disorienting, non-organic future. Physical human life is therefore expendable once entering the artificial/virtual world that exists in the mind of the person who’s responsible for dreaming the environment. In this post-industrial age, bulky, mechanized machinery has been sacrificed for more ‘elegant’ micro-circuitry that’s often able to fit into one’s pocket or the confines of a briefcase and can hardwire into the human network within moments without showing signs of entry (after Dom’s first journey of extraction into Saito’s mind, upon waking, Saito is unable to find on his wrist the entry point of the wire Dom’s team used). The film’s wall-to-wall, non-diegetic score is metallic and steely and reminiscent of a fusion of science, mathematics, technology and an organic world at odds. Musical notes punctuate the film space and plucked guitar strings depart like faded memories into the ether. And the inclusion of Édith Piaf’s “Non, je ne regrette rien” in the film’s diegesis not only resonates as a sublime, anthem-like yearning for moving forward with no regrets, but helps to reinforce Dom’s strategy of maneuvering through the levels of a dream: the only way to move forward and be successful is to go deeper, not in reverse.

Human biology and technology intermingle in a way that this vision of the future may be defined as post human. In the dream world, human constructs can become chameleons and bend their gender just as the concept of time is accelerated during each dream level that is penetrated. Identities are altered in a way like most people change their shirts and the dreamers can choose to either maintain or abandon any likeness to their original identities. Likewise, artificial environments are created as close to resemble the real world with the addition of cleverly architected mazes to not only give the space more dimension, but offer Dom’s team an edge against hostile projections with which they may have to engage in combat. The fictional realm into where the dreamers travel consists of memories and projections of one’s subconscious that can lash out at visitors to a dream-state when threatened. Biology and conscious existence are tested in that when one dies in a first-level dream-state, they wake up. However, when one is multiple dream levels deep and experiences death, the cost is a trip into limbo where rational thinking in the real world is lost and one is destined to remain for decades to an eternity.

Greed, an aged concept, continues to exist and control the extent of how far/deep/often one is willing to travel or invest in these experiments. The rich who become financiers for the enterprising of extraction/inception will claim ultimate dominance in this, the futuristic utopia. Saito, who expenses Dom’s activities is relegated to being ‘a tourist’ so that he can first-hand witness his investment in their professional endeavor. Christopher Nolan may be anticipating the Chinese will become the new global power, thus making the film somewhat anti-American. The concept of dream sharing is not only reserved for the upper class, but also utilized by those in a lower echelon as depicted in the basement of Yusuf’s chemical laboratory. The proceedings in Yusuf’s lab reminded me of the hallucinatory sequence in Sergio Leone's ONCE UPON A TIME IN AMERICA when DeNiro's David/'Noodles' puffs away in the opium den during the film’s bookends. Although we are meant to believe that everything that has preceded this opening moment has occurred (e.g. David’s meeting the other boys in his crew of gangsters, engaging in a life of crime and corruption, etc.) who's to say that the events of the film ever happened? As in INCEPTION, there are henchmen (projections?) creeping in the shadow puppet theatre (there are puppets projected on the screen canvas as walking projections navigate in front of the screen) looking for Noodles which makes one wonder if the filmed events are real or not. Perhaps Leone’s film was induced through the opiate just as the events in INCEPTION are brought on by a mechanized-induced sedative into the bloodstream.

When determining whether INCEPTION is entirely a dream or not or if Cobb is trapped in limbo to dream forever, even as he walks through the baggage claim and his teammates look directly at him (just as the projections did in the previous dreams of the respective characters), the participants could be sharing a present plane of reality, but I believe that they are merely projections of Cobb’s subconscious. The totem Cobb continually references (a spinning top which falls when he is awake) may be an altogether dreamed extension of his denial that he is trapped within a dream; whether it topples or not, is of no value. And the ambiguous ending of his top wobbling neither proves or disproves he is awake or dreaming because it is in Cobb’s dream that the object is powered to spin incessantly, wobble or topple. Cobb is able to eventually see the faces of his children in the film’s climax, but that action could've also been produced care of his dream-state. For someone who made a living residing in and spending much of his life in the dream world, as Yusuf’s colleague mentions about their clientele, many of them seek Yusuf’s assistance in order to be woken up. On the first occasion that Cobb samples Yusuf’s sedative, there is a hint that he could still be under the influence of his drug-induced dream state: as he spins his top on the precarious corner of a sink, Cobb never sees it completely topple and more importantly, he witnesses an illusion of Mal against the reflection of the bathroom mirror. And never for the remaining duration of the film does his top completely come to rest.

Upon the film’s screening for critics, Nolan was questioned whether or not he was influenced by Alain Resnais’ enigmatic classic, LAST YEAR AT MARIENBAD. It is true that both films feature ornately designed (and moments of crumbling) architecture through which snappily dressed characters often have difficulty maneuvering and a male protagonist who is obsessed by a woman he once knew in his past (or in his dreams), but the major difference lies in the films’ narrative structures. In the trailer for MARIENBAD, audience members were invited to become co-authors of the film and play the “truth game” by digesting important visual clues given by the director to shape the cinematic puzzle to a desired conclusion. What is truth or fiction, past or present is blurred and the concept of time is open to interpretation as the events that occur typically do so from multiple memories and points of view. What cannot be denied is how closely the film resembles a non-linear ghost story in its use of organ music that echoes through endlessly dark corridors and past extensively mirrored hallways by which well-dressed spirits are destined to stroll. And just as there are several games to be played in Resnais’ film (Nim, checkers and shooting sports), Nolan supplies Cobb’s core team-members with game-like totems (a top, a loaded die and a chess piece) while both directors pit their characters into a cinematic maze.

In this still from MARIENBAD, notice how the chateau’s guests (ghosts) cast shadows, but the topiaries do not.

Notice the visual similarity in the spatial relationship of characters in the prior image with those in this sheet-poster for INCEPTION:

One of the most striking cinematic similarities with INCEPTION (besides ON HER MAJESTY’S SECRET SERVICE in the film’s action sequence in the snow-capped mountains) is Satoshi Kon’s anime film, PAPRIKA, in which a group of scientists use a device called a “DC Mini” allowing them to engage in dream therapy by entering the dreams of patients to cure their ailments and anxieties. Once the device falls into the wrong hands, the characters’ dreams enter the real world and run amok with the concept of reality hanging in the balance. There is also a brief nod to Nolan’s own BATMAN BEGINS as a sedative is dripped onto Fischer’s hood which immediately knocks him into the next dream level, a behavioral reminiscence of his hooded ‘Scarecrow’ character who sprayed his enemies with an equally powerful neuro-toxin to send them into a hallucinatory state bringing on their deepest fears. Fischer literally walks into a direct homage to 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY when he approaches his father’s deathbed: Victorian and wooden furnishings are in contrast with the sterile and cubed floor and wall composition which bears an uncanny resemblance to Dave’s dwelling in the finale of Kubrick’s film. In the same scene, Dave accidentally knocks over a wine glass from his table that shatters on the floor which mirrors a broken champagne flute on Mal’s hotel room floor. Then seconds later, the appearance of Dave’s older self makes me recall the aged make-up of Mr. Saito in the opening moments of INCEPTION.

Despite these similarities in Nolan’s cinematic peer group, he has managed to manipulate the traditional laws of cinema to craft a film so intensely surreal, that the inspiration of ideas on the part of the viewer far outweighs frustrating bewilderment. Your imagination is also not only soothed, but you may leave the viewing feeling as if you’ve witnessed a new breed of film ultimately realizing that the act of inception is possible - - as you undoubtedly fell under its spell and allowed the idea to enter your own consciousness. As we currently live in a society tempted by ‘plugging in’ and doing it often, a repeat visit to experience INCEPTION is truly a dream come true. You just have to remember to wake up or risk being lost in the dream forever.

SEX AND THE CITY 2: A frigid, fashionable faux pas & holy hot mess

2010-06-09T23:01:00.000-07:00

Apart from the film’s title being an undoubted misnomer, SEX AND THE CITY 2 fails on many fronts, not the least of which is that many of the proceedings don’t even take place in “the city” of New York from where the Candace Bushnell-penned franchise had pumped its essential lifeblood. Instead, the island of Manhattan is literally just that: a metaphorical island to where the film’s protagonists (Carrie Bradshaw, Miranda Hobbes, Samantha Jones and Charlotte York) travel between exploits at a Connecticut estate and the resort mecca of Abu Dhabi. And for all of the luxurious regalia as well as the overweight price tag of the couture on display, the experience received upon watching Writer/Director Michael Patrick King’s latest flicker verges on valuelessness.

The film is purely high fantasy: not in the epic sense as found in the works of C.S. Lewis or J.R.R. Tolkien, but with elements that are just as wholly unbelievable. For instance, in a hard-hitting economy that has been likened to a global Depression and economic apocalypse, anyone would be hard-pressed to resign from a career (with potential six-figure earnings) simply because one’s employer rudely ignored an employee (Cynthia Nixon) in a staff meeting. At least Miranda clocked out of her busy law firm with plenty of time to grab a cab and arrive at her son’s grade school to witness his being awarded first prize for a mouse maze he created. Sewn throughout the film is plotting just as contrived. All’s well that ends well in the fantasy realm of this New York City where an executive can make such a decision, however, it is not justified or a logical choice to employ in the real world. Just as curious is the fact that a trader on Wall Street, Mr. Big (Chris Noth), unwinds almost to the point of obsession to classic black and white movies. Even as he expresses regret at the Dow dropping one hundred points in the market, he exudes a lackadaisical charisma comparable to Jack Donaghy on television’s “30 Rock” who rarely takes anything seriously and makes the term ‘high-powered executive’ sound like an oxymoron.

The most fantastic aspect and the film’s ultimate blaspheme is the import of sex to the city of Abu Dhabi where the visual feast of the female flesh (primarily outside of the hotel’s “free zone” e.g. the hotel grounds) is frowned upon and any public display of the physical act of lovemaking invites one to serving time in prison or worse. Whether the fearless foursome of femmes are belting out “I Am Woman” in a karaoke club located in one of the most misogynistic countries in the world or laying out poolside with their erotic zones exposed (when they could have donned a “burqini”) or even when Carrie employs a tactic from IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT to hail transportation in a Moroccan market with her nude leg proving “that the limb is mightier than the thumb”, the inclusion of such details in the script not only borders on the absurd, but sets a dangerous precedent for anyone (especially impressionable teenaged-girls) who may want to imitate such a trip ala “Girls Gone Wild” - - unlike Spring Break in Miami Beach, such a pleasurable yet risky peregrination on foreign soil would assuredly result in a similar re-“hash” of events previously laid out in grisly detail in MIDNIGHT EXPRESS or BROKEDOWN PALACE where one’s sex as opposed to stimulants is peddled and an unfortunate climax (no pun intended) is achieved.

Sex (the act of love-making, not the gender), as it is portrayed in the film, is performed in a raucous and noisy manner and in one edited transition is juxtaposed to a pair of screaming children writhing in and amongst their parents in bed. Romance is sacrificed for a deafeningly, flamboyant and vulgarized act. It is sweaty, loud and only involves a woman skirting menopause (Samantha Jones) with both a middle-aged and a bronzed Adonis. And on one occasion, an unimaginative homage is paid to Hitchcock’s TO CATCH A THIEF as Samantha reaches her sexual apex with her partner as fireworks are released (from an unknown origin) beachside. Similar to the crassest (teen) comedy one might find in the Judd Apatow camp, the lack of refinement is further perpetuated with such ill-mannered phrasing as “Lawrence of my labia” and “Charlotte has a sand-wedge” when referring to Charlotte’s nether region as she sports a tight pair of slacks. This is not to argue that grown women aren’t allowed to engage in such fancies, let their hair down and shake some action, but in the landscape of SEX AND THE CITY 2 where the girls have not only amassed multiple fashionable frocks (certainly not held up by modesty), absorbed unlimited libations and had illimitable access to sex, it’s very apparent their eyes are larger than their stomachs and have devoured more than their fair share of the proverbial cake.

What’s more offensive in a film that obsesses over the superficiality of sex as if it were a new style of fashion that comes and goes with the change of seasons, is that the women in the film aren’t totally confident in their abilities to both have sex or engage in decent human behavior. Coupled with dialogue that makes naughty references to sex abounding in clichéd double entendre a go-go and speaking objectionably to one another veers into a realm of self-deprecating excess. Whether for male or female audiences, this is not the feel good movie of the year. Far from a character study where there might be a sophisticated attempt at a proper analysis into their own respective developments, these women appear as though they’re in their own version of DEATH BECOMES HER and are literally falling apart at the seams; a Venus de Milo personified. Even when her hormone pills and creams are confiscated by airport security, Samantha’s dependency on the medical product turns her into a hormonal junkie as she massages her body with yams and devours hummus for its natural enzymes before menopause overtakes her. Comic relief wanders into the pathetic.

Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda are each but a canvas for its writer to paint upon (and accessorize compliments of Dior, Valentino, plunging necklines, sequins and the latest trends; in that case, the benefit of their cinematic existence is that they help stimulate the economy). Whereas the former three relentlessly journey into shallow terrain bursting with artificiality as they partake in discussions regarding haute couture, a potentially cheating husband and wanting to escape the responsibility of marriage for two days a week, fortunately, Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) has an air of modesty about her character and quite possibly shares the least abysmal dialogue with those in her network. She then abandons this strong characterization momentarily as she texts on her cell phone (absent presence) while others are trying to enter into a dialogue with her. To her advantage, she at least tries to ingratiate the group into the culture of Abu Dhabi by discussing the language and showing consideration to others at every turn. Not soon after, Samantha mars any possibility of a positive affiliation with the natives when she is caught publicly having sex on a beach thereby revoking their hotel privileges. No matter, they manage to procure Business Class tickets on a departure flight returning to the U.S.A.

I don’t see how this franchise can continue any further. Firstly, it is the men of the film (from the Wall Street Executive, Mr. Big, to the faithful Moroccan man servants) who exhibit any confidence and strike up a meaningful rapport with those around them. It nearly always seems like a chore to complete a conversation with any of Carrie’s crew and to do battle with their neuroses. And it’s difficult to admire or follow along in anyone’s adventure who constantly produces an endless stream of ennui and apathy. The female protagonists of SEX AND THE CITY 2 have no control over their surroundings even though they like us to think they do i.e. survival in any city takes more than just being able to successfully hail a cab or order the next round of Cosmopolitan cocktails. Unfortunately, Carrie and her girls prove that it really is a man’s world when they end up conducting themselves as tragic, hapless clowns. If Carrie is such a studied guru of relationships, why does her character revel in avoiding to share advice with her friend concerned for her potentially crumbling marriage; or when she selfishly tries to control Mr. Big’s itinerary complemented by her own gluttonous indulgences of sex, shopping for clothes, shoes, jewelry and making dinner reservations.

Even the original SEX AND THE CITY film opened with Carrie discussing how girls come to New York looking for “labels and love”. It’s self-indulgent fantasy, pure and simple. There is no better visual display of the fantastical than in the Busby Berkeley-esque staged sequence that appears during “the gay wedding” in the film’s opening. Although it’s not as cunningly lyrical as Berkeley, the set-design and the overall choreography is really entertaining and shows King comfortable in this gay element. The appearance of Liza Minnelli is merely the frosting as she channels Beyoncé (as embarrassing as it might come across) in a vigorous dance routine. (Icon-status aside, there’s just something inappropriate and distracting about someone not acting their age. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I was reminded of the tasteful and glorious dance number in MYRA BRECKENRIDGE featuring a booming-voiced Mae West that captured the right amount of sex appeal, sophistication and maintained an edge so campy that imitation is imminent. See for yourself.) With a subtle, yet humorous delivery, Mario Cantone, the gay bridegroom and probably the most talented and accomplished entertainment hyphenate in the cast, grows concerned when he thinks Liza is going to have a heart-attack. As for the audience in my theatre: total flatline.

FRIGHT NIGHT: An Appreciation

2010-05-02T05:29:00.000-07:00

Soft voices, seduce you

A butterfly in a spider's web

Infectious, behavior

You're damned to do it all again (and again and again and again...)

Lyrics to “Good Man In A Bad Time” by Ian Hunter

Growing up in the early ‘80’s, most fortunate, suburbanite children like myself were treated by their parents or easily-swayed babysitters (although they often went by their own volition) to screening, at their local multiplexes, such popular box-office blockbuster event movies including those of the STAR WARS franchise, E.T.: THE EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL and GHOSTBUSTERS. So it’s no wonder I was easily and immediately engaged into the world of sci-fi fantasy and cinematic fiction. I don’t have an exact reason why it had befallen that horror films would be my film genre de choix during those early maturing years, but it didn’t seem to bother my parents and I figured that if I could handle knife-wielding maniacs, decomposing bodies, exploding heads or zombies running amuck, I could handle any of life’s aggressions.

Because watching R-rated films was taboo in our household, being able to sneak into a corner of the house (or that of a friend who shared similar passions for the paranormal and/or glutton for gore) to watch such films was complemented by an excitingly heightened and rebellious form of danger of getting caught by one’s parental figure. As its images fascinated me, my imagination grew and my innocence likely lessened. Nowadays, there aren’t too many networks on television that cater to horror/fantasy film fans despite a few channels such as Chiller, SyFy (formerly known as Sci Fi Channel), ThrillerMax (of the Cinemax brand) and occasionally, AMC. But en vogue during those formative years was late night and afternoon horror film marathons with programmed classics (DRACULA), psychological thrillers (PSYCHO, THE BIRDS) and schlock (MONSTER IN THE CLOSET, THE TOXIC AVENGER). For those living in New England at the time, my personal TV-network favorites teeming with such horror fare (featured most often on Saturdays) were WPIX 11 (based in New York), Spine Tingler Theatre on Channel 20 and USA Network’s Up All Night.

Parents are pretty formidable gatekeepers when it comes to a kid satisfying his or her own passions, but every so often when their guardian’s defenses are down, a kid’s urges can be indulged. It’s never taken a lot to make me happy, so besides the family-friendly television commercials of horror films that amused me as a youth that I knew I would never have a chance of seeing in theatres or the glorious posters of such films secured in Plexiglas cases underneath the marquee of said film, the only other social media of the day that I could actually get my hands on were newspaper advertisements usually found near the middle of the Sunday Paper.

And so it was here, faithful readers, that I caught my glimpse of the image that would be instantaneously burned into my brain: that of the poster inset and local showtimes of Tom Holland’s contemporary horror classic, FRIGHT NIGHT (1985). Perhaps it was the yawning blue face of the creature hovering over the ominous home of its vampire owner, Jerry Dandridge (Chris Sarandon), complete with a fanged dental makeup that looked unlike most vampires I had ever seen in the movies. Its cerulean face resembled a modern-day Medusa with snake-like extensions moving about in every which way under a full moon. The poster’s iconic image was simple, frightening and effective. The font-type of FRIGHT NIGHT was equally as clever with the extended “F” and “T” simultaneously resembling fangs and stakes. The chilling creature, apart from being a reproduction of one of the characters seen in the film’s climax, was also a puppet manufactured by the special effects crew originally used as the “Ghost Librarian” in Ivan Reitman’s GHOSTBUSTERS (released by the same distributor, Columbia Pictures, a year earlier).

It is ironic that the cleverness behind FRIGHT NIGHT is its acknowledgement that films about vampires are no longer fashionable, as Peter Vincent (Roddy McDowall) tells Charley Brewster (William Ragsdale), an impressionable teenager and fan of horror movies who is convinced his new neighbor is a bloodsucker. The film’s inventiveness is also found in its transparency of vampire lore and the knowledge of such concepts is strategic in helping the protagonists thwart the fanged nemeses. For those not familiar with FRIGHT NIGHT, one might call it a mash-up of DRACULA, REAR WINDOW and GALAXY QUEST where compounded into the film are these elements: a young man spies on a mysterious neighbor which leads to trouble for him and his girlfriend; an aging former actor, fearless Vampire Hunter and host of a popular horror television program, “Fright Night”, uses his props and knowledge of vampire concepts in expelling the ‘creatures of the night’ and the romantic poeticism of a thousand-year-old (confirmed by Jerry’s sister, Regine, in FRIGHT NIGHT 2) vampire trying to (re-) connect with a woman who resembles a lover he knew in his past.

As the film mocks or rather dissects the classical themes in vampire popular culture, the film’s cast and crew walks a fine line between farce and sincerity in scenes that are nuanced, stylish and blend into each other so effortlessly that it appears as if the film writes itself without having to move a muscle. Complemented by masterful economics of shots where no scene seems overwrought with comical touches that are elegantly over-the-top, FRIGHT NIGHT is a perpetual and accessible horror delight likely to gain momentum in the current climate where exists a resurgence in vampire curiosity. A few recent events possibly responsible for this spate of fanged fiction: the cult following of Anne Rice’s popular bestselling novels, some of which have been adapted into films; two successful series of books brought to the big and small screen, respectively, TWILIGHT (which caters to young children) and TRUE BLOOD (targeting young adults and older audiences) and clothing stores attracting those individuals of the gothic-obsessed culture e.g. Hot Topic. In a similar vein, the immortally named Forever 21 exudes everlasting connotations. FRIGHT NIGHT was a surprise hit of 1985 and became the highest grossing horror film of the year, surpassed only by the second sequel of A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET. It has since achieved a cult status amongst fans - - and a 2011 re-make of the film is imminent.

The film takes place in Anytown, U.S.A. and if it weren’t for some rather dated fashions of the period, it would also likely be anytime. But thanks to this lack of time-affirming notes makes itself a timeless motion picture. Classic vampire horror motifs are on full display - - crosses, holy water, mirrors and stakes - - and each are analyzed in their relation to exposing or destroying a modern-day vampire: crosses can be used to reject a vampire, but only if its owner has faith in it; blessed holy water can purify a vampire, but it can be desensitized if held against a warm fire; no vampire can cast a reflection in any mirror which is fitting that Jerry’s home contains not a one; and stakes used in the film prove that wood driven through any part of a vampire causes pain, be it the chest or the hand and can take the form of any broken wooden fragment such as the leg of a chair to a Number Two pencil.

Charley Brewster’s post-make out session with his girlfriend, Amy Peterson (Amanda Bearse), is interrupted when he catches sight of his handsome new neighbor, Jerry Dandridge and mortal man servant, Billy Cole (Jonathan Stark), a modernized Renfield, carrying a coffin into their basement. As the days ensue, the town’s population starts shrinking and from Jerry’s bedroom window with drawn shade, Charley hears shrieking. He calls on the authorities to drop in on Jerry one day who is conveniently unavailable to meet with them. Billy is not happy with Charley’s potential disruption of his boss’s afternoon slumber and affects a fatal glare while in the officer’s presence in the form of a silent warning. Upon Charley’s first meeting with Jerry, another classical element that vampires can only be invited into an owner’s rightful home is confirmed when Mrs. Brewster, Charley’s single mother, invites Jerry over for cocktails. But it is Charley’s blood that Jerry would rather be drinking and makes it clear that he plans on dropping by whenever he feels like it “with [his] your mother’s permission, of course”.

Jerry abuses his welcome and returns the same evening appearing through Charley’s mother’s bedroom window. He walks directly to Charley’s room past a mirror on her dresser which refuses to show his reflection. In the film’s first of several well-choreographed and edited sequences, Jerry enters Charley’s bedroom without his knowing. A brief and nearly silent (so as not to wake up mother) struggle between man and monster begins. Jerry captures Charley holding his throat in a death grip and upon slamming Brewster against the wall, white powder from the crumbled wall dusts Charley’s hair which immediately resembles one being aged by fear - - his hair literally turns white! The struggle intensifies as Jerry guides Charley by the neck out of his second-floor window and in the heat of battle, Brewster reaches for a framed-picture of his girlfriend which he accidentally tosses from the window as it is staked and shattered by the picket fence below (a foreboding element?). This in turn awakens Mrs. Brewster and Jerry spares Charley’s life as he turns, walks out of Charley’s bedroom and materializes into a bat to escape out of the hallway window.

Before his life is conceivably destroyed, Charley is unable in his attempts to enlist the help of his friend aptly named “Evil” Ed Thompson (Stephen Geoffreys) who is as equally enthusiastic about horror and gothic culture as he is. Charley’s only alternative for support is Peter Vincent (whose namesake is a combination of renowned horror actors Peter Cushing and Vincent Price), host of Charley’s favorite horror television program, “Fright Night” and legendary vampire killer. He hatches a plot to kill his neighbor whom he is convinced is a vampire. At first, Vincent is reluctant to help poor Charley when he is regrettably fired from his nightly television program (cleverly and like Dandridge’s sleeping hours, filmed in a studio during the day) before finding out he is to be evicted from his apartment. He imparts to Charley that contemporary audiences would much rather watch maniacs in ski masks chop up young virgins as opposed to watching the types of films that make up Vincent’s lifelong oeuvre: surrounding that of the vampire; in a scene that subtly balances humor and romanticizes the classical cinematic craft in which McDowall himself had acted for nearly a half of a century. In a brilliant turn of events during Peter’s first encounter with Charley’s neighbor while accompanied by Ed, Amy and Charley, Dandridge’s inability to cast a reflection in Peter’s mirror awakens in him a rebirth of courage to believe in and eventually fight the attractive vampire. This startles him so much that he drops his pocket mirror to the floor simultaneously crushing the film’s earlier treatise against the self-reflexivity and existence of the vampire film - - and then the fun begins. Another element of duality appears in the form of Charley’s girlfriend mirroring that of Dandridge’s former lover in a painting in Jerry’s parlor. Although there is no mirror present, the likeness between the two women connected through the framed artwork is remarkably uncanny.

Once Dandridge’s secret is foiled, the protagonists safely flee his home, but not before Jerry steps on a sliver of glass left by Peter’s broken pocket mirror. Dandridge disregards Vincent and chases the trio of youngsters into the city confronting Ed separately from Amy and Charley. Through a dynamic sound design and the assistance of a craned camera, Jerry is able to walk along a metal fire escape several feet from the ground overhead of “Evil” and gracefully appear on the floor of the alleyway in one continuous take. Ed’s demise is imminent. After hearing what they believe is Ed’s screaming a few blocks behind them, Amy and Charley race into a downtown club setting into motion (literally) one of the film’s signature sequences in which music, dance and light combine to make a scene of incredible power enhanced by the seductive energy of Dandridge over every living thing in his orbit. Women reach out to touch him. Jerry seems to glide through the rabble. He exudes total sexual magnetism. While Charley tries to reach Peter on a telephone, Amy is compelled to join Jerry’s side through a noisy and crowded dance floor as the musical notes of the film’s soundtrack match the characters’ movements just as well as the beats present in just about any classical film musical number. The dance begins. Watch closely his hand as he reaches out for Amy’s shoulder. Amy falls under her Master’s spell as he obviously tries to rekindle in her feelings he once had for her long since deceased double. They perform all of this without uttering one word. The scene proves a picture (or series thereof) are worth thousands of words and the blocking of the characters and direction of the action comes compliments of a deft hand. They rhythmically waltz through the crowd past several mirrors which ironically reveals his true identity to Amy. However, she is helpless. Charley, likewise, is helpless in garnering Peter’s support and returns to rescue Amy. Jerry, unable to kill Charley in public (another devout law of vampirism), advises that if he wants to see Amy (alive) again, he and Peter need to rendezvous at his home that evening.

What follows in the film’s second and far gorier half, is a series of incredible creature effects transformations compliments of visual effects producer, Richard Edlund, of STAR WARS, POLTERGEIST and GHOSTBUSTERS fame. As FRIGHT NIGHT itself is a type of compendium of vampire lore, the true-to-life special effects that are realized at this moment in the film satisfy its chronology in the historically cinematic vampire timeline. Whereas in the beginning of the film, the implication is that characters have been murdered and so the audience sees what resembles bodies sealed in plastic bags. With real horror in the world and in the news, we have a good sense of how a human is killed. Shown in vivid detail in the film, however, is the destruction of each of the film’s monsters and is not so much gory as it is a fabulous example of a master craftsman and effects team at work with paints, creams, gelatin and pyrotechnics. Some of the marvelous effects realized in the film’s closing chapters include a sacred cross pressing against and melting a vampire’s forehead as if the religious object were a hot iron; a remarkable metamorphosis of an injured half-vampire/half-wolf that crashes through a chandelier from a second-floor landing to the floor below before returning to human form; and one of the more elaborately-choreographed mutations involving a stake subduing Jerry’s servant on a stairwell resulting in his flesh melting down to his bones as a Prell shampoo-like substance oozes from his pores prior to turning to dust as his rickety skeleton falls and shatters into several hundred pieces. Watch how they did it.

The stage is set for the final showdown in Jerry Dandridge’s suburban palace. Undoubtedly a nod to the campy, highly-stylized and Gothic horror films produced by Hammer during the two decades beginning in the 1950’s, the climax features lavishly-designed set pieces including a modified version of Jerry’s home that literally breathes white fog and creaks as if it is a ship devoid of passengers and cargo while floating at sea. As a bitten and mortally wounded Amy begins her own transformation into a vampire in Jerry’s bedroom, Charley and Peter face off with the head (vampire) of the household with their blessed armaments intent on fighting tooth and nail. Dawn approaches and Amy’s fate is surely sealed. The nearly two-dozen cuckoo and antique clocks scattered throughout Jerry’s home start to sound their deafening chimes as the sun’s early rays pierce through Dandridge’s stained-glass window. Jerry leaps into mid-air and transmogrifies into a vampire bat encircling his prey at the bottom of the stairwell before taking refuge in the basement (modern-day horror’s version of the dungeon). Daylight fills the upper (berth) floors of the home as the pair of vampire hunters follow Dandridge into his lair only to find his ages-old coffin has been sealed shut from the inside. As Peter aggressively pounds away at the metal slats of Dandridge’s wooden cocoon, Charley is distracted by a viciously revamped Amy who similarly wants to drive her fresh fangs into his neck as she violently plows through the belongings in Jerry’s basement towards her human target. Managing to break through the coffin’s shell, Peter repeatedly hammers a stake into Dandridge’s chest as he quickly rises from his resting state to Peter’s dismay. He forcefully pulls the makeshift stake from his heart and throws it across the room accidentally breaking one of the darkened windows that his dutiful assistant had painted black. Unable to return to the safety of his coffin, Peter and Charley destroy all of the windows throughout the chamber flooding the entire room with light thereby neutralizing Dandridge as he is sent hurling to the cement wall and bursts into flames. Amy returns to her original human form as Dandridge’s reign of terror and the most frightening of nights comes to an end.

Peter Vincent obligatorily returns to his job hosting “Fright Night” as Charley and Amy embrace while watching their friend’s late night television program. Across the property, Charley notices what looks like a pair of red eyes flashing from inside Dandridge’s uninhabited bedroom which he shrugs off. The unexplained ending leaves itself open for a sequel which would come three years later as Jerry’s sister, Regine (Julie Carmen), takes revenge on those who killed her brother. A fine film in its own right, the sequel and several cinematic imitators can’t hold a candle to the true originality of the very first FRIGHT NIGHT. Holland’s film also relished in showing a quirk on the part of Dandridge regarding how he ate and treated his teeth ‘between meals’: he ate lots of apples. In addition to practicing good hygiene, Jerry Dandridge may be, without a doubt, the most handsome and suave of cinema’s vampires. What sets mostly ingratiating horror villains such as vampires apart from other movie monsters is that besides being seductive and perpetually well-groomed, their ability to engage in a dialogue with characters (whether good or evil) in their shared screen space is a lot more favorable to watch than a deranged maniac donning a hockey mask or any other type costumed-gimmick determined to reach a high body count who often has very little (if anything) to say which proves a point: they’re brain-dead.

Despite all of the “trappings” as Regine Dandridge refers to them (i.e. crosses, roses and holy water), since the dawn of the earliest vampire film, those that have engaged in this lifestyle have slowly evolved and built up an immunity and may continue to do so until possibly becoming more human. Wouldn’t that be scary? Now if they would refrain from ‘feeding’, that would be an interesting development. The unfortunate fact behind such creatures as THE WOLF MAN is that their transformation into the beast is often outside of their control (i.e. the appearance of a full moon) and in order to become more human, their character needs to die. Vampires are culturally sensitive to sunlight, but as found in the TWILIGHT series of films, daylight instead makes their skin sparkle. If mankind has anything in common with the movie monster, it would most certainly be that of the screen vampire: occasional cognizance of sunlight; sudden surges of almost superhuman strength; I suppose one may often check their reflection in a mirror not to engage in narcissism but to make certain they are still human. Man, like the common horror film and the characters that populate them, will always be in a state of constant evolution. Thankfully, films like FRIGHT NIGHT developed earlier than most films of this caliber and have a right to an eternal rest.

P.S. It’s easy to miss, but as Peter Vincent bares his soul to Charley about how much of a coward he is in fighting the undead, he reveals that Peter Vincent isn’t even his real name - - a modicum of poignant information that goes further unexplained adding depth and mystery to his character.

KICK-ASS KICKS ITS OWN …

2010-04-18T22:34:00.000-07:00

Whatever life holds in store for me, I will never forget these words: "With great power comes great responsibility." This is my gift, my curse.

Peter Parker/Spider-Man

From the onset of Writer/Director Matthew Vaughn’s adaptation of the Marvel comic book of the same name, KICK-ASS, we’re immediately thrust into an opening credit cloud reminiscent of Richard Donner's in SUPERMAN where production companies “Marv” and “Plan B” zoom past us in a New York City skyline which resemble obliterated fragments of Superman’s native Krypton. It’s fitting that the primary colored “Marv” seems like a dilapidated namesake of the popular comic book publisher “Marvel”, but as a cinematic marvel, KICK-ASS ain’t. What the film is, however, is a wholly manufactured male fantasy replete with animated violence a gogo, a fetishized Catholic schoolgirl uniform and enough foul language to satisfy anyone suffering from vulgarity withdrawal. As a film that is assumedly studied of the vast and ever-evolving comic book universe, its own attempts at originality are futile and clichéd with thematic ideas that come across as something the writers may have overheard in a middle school hallway peopled with comic book aficionados. That the film opens in the clouds is just where the writers’ minds exist and where the film belongs confirming this element of heightened fantasy.

Enter the narrator, Dave Lizewski (Aaron Johnson), the ordinary alter-ego of the titular and not-so-extraordinary “Kick-Ass” and a self-proclaimed lover of comic books who is frustrated by the fact that everyone in his orbit gives in to thugs and that no one stands up for the common people when danger is imminent. After a run-in with a pair of lowlifes (and a car!) that nearly cripples him (simultaneously displayed as a ‘kids-don’t-try-this-at-home’ warning against vigilantism), David undergoes a surgical procedure that provides him a metal skeletal structure that helps secure his mortal superiority which he likens to Wolverine’s internal mechanics. Like the costume that he dons, David is still a little green and like the stripes that adorn it, he’s still a bit yellow, but even as he fumbles, he’s not entirely a coward either. But neither was Travis Bickle in Martin Scorsese’s classic, TAXI DRIVER, which the film has more in common with than say, BATMAN, SPIDER-MAN or SUPERMAN. At least these films (and comic books) contained a city/nationwide and/or global threat with scores of multiple lives at stake compliments of a deranged nemesis.

Kick-Ass’s nemesis: Frank D’Amico (Mark Strong), a stereotypical Italian kingpin with a penchant for orange (clothes, furnishings and interior design) and whose employees’ only value to the film is to supply an ample body count upon their demise. His taste in art is equally grisly as he owns an ochre-colored painting/lithograph of a skull that graces his kitchen wall and a pair of Andy Warhol’s “Gun” in his private office that together celebrates the film’s reflexivity of violence. Frank’s inside man in the police force has an even more intimidating moniker: Detective Gigante (Xander Berkeley). D’Amico’s characterization is introduced in a scene suggestive of the one in Director Sam Raimi’s DARKMAN when the crooked Robert Durant (Larry Drake) removes a man’s finger with a cigar cutter. Frank inflicts the same pain upon one of his own with a pair of heavy-duty pliers which becomes the crux of the film’s threat-less agenda and possibly the film’s greatest flaw - - that there is no ultimate threat to mankind or the Gotham where the film takes place - - D’Amico is not only hell-bent on taking out Kick-Ass, but his only other intention is to protect the integrity of his drug-ring while simultaneously killing his own men in his lumber yard which acts as a front for his cocaine-running organization.

David’s superhero status is anything but super, yet his exploits spawn a comic book series, a costume line and even “Kick-Ass Cappuccino”. His fame reaches the world wide web wherein he inspires a father and daughter duo, widower Damon Macready a.k.a. “Big Daddy” (Nicolas Cage) and Mindy Macready a.k.a. “Hit-Girl” (Chloe Moretz), the latter of whom has a battery of foul language that is as hard-hitting as her fighting abilities, to publicly show off their own superhero-like outfits while engaging in their own brand of renegade vigilantism. It becomes a detriment that Hit-Girl’s course profanity and shameless killing sprees nearly hinder the charm that she so obviously exudes. The Macready’s relationship when compared to the Lizewski household is a peculiar one in that there exists no mother figure in either - - which probably accounts for the film’s numbing barrage of expletives that pass every character’s lips like bullet-fire from a pistol. Elizabeth McGovern, a fine actress in her own right, is given less than 15 seconds of screen-time as Dave’s mother before succumbing to a fatal aneurism over breakfast. The late Mrs. Macready is featured as a drawn character in the film’s only animated sequence whose inability to pay the bills after her husband is wrongfully sent to prison (c/o the corrupt D’Amico) abuses drugs to the point of suicide prior to giving birth to their daughter. The Macready’s interaction with one another resembles that of a father and son playing catch at the ballpark more so than the healthy rapport a father figure has with his daughter. This is later intimated when D’Amico (while holding a pistol to Hit-Girl’s forehead) exclaims how much he wishes his son, Chris a.k.a. “Red Mist” (Christopher Mintz-Plasse), were more like her and had the capacity of her highly-skilled fighting talents.

The violence that ensues verges into Tarantino-esque territory (punctuated in one fight scene with soundtrack-sampling by Ennio Morricone), although what unfolds can only be characterized as senselessly mind-numbing, contemporary video-game warfare that traps so many films of this caliber by making their characters worthlessly expendable while getting a chuckle out of audiences. What makes a film purely Tarantino-esque is that characters in Quentin’s films engage in ‘higher’ (left-) brain processing and that their destruction is dependent on not only their physical actions, but how they engage in a dialogue with one another. Another highlight to QT’s films is that his characters are so memorable that they become something of a legend which is achieved compliments of a strong screenplay. When it’s all said and done, there is nothing entirely redeemable about KICK-ASS in the least. His adventures are hardly inspiring to any audience member wanting to become a superhero or even an above-average hero especially after undergoing various tortures such as being stabbed in the chest, run over by a car, beaten with a baseball bat, a pair of brass knuckles ...... Even Dave’s bumbling as a normal guy-cum-superhero comes with its own baggage of adolescent awkwardness. And not only does he have to wrestle with two identities, add to the mix a third sense of self as he pretends to be gay to get closer to the girl he loves, Katie Deauxma (Lyndsy Fonseca), which predictably releases a series of immature jokes at Dave’s expense from his peers - - and invites more chuckles out of the audience.

Cursing throughout the film is not only habitual but almost as present as automatic speech fillers like ‘er’ and ‘um’ which makes more valid the lack of language abilities and ‘lower’ (right-) brain functioning of its characters. Neurologists have also released studies confirming that ‘illiterate’ swear words are about four times more remembered than ‘educated’ words in traditional language. So apart from its other major accolades and accomplishments GONE WITH THE WIND has amassed since 1939, it’s line, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” was chosen as the #1 movie quote by the American Film Institute and cost producer David O. Selznick a legendary $5,000; more of a risk to include in the film against the period’s stringent Hollywood Production Code than the contemporary rapid-fire assault on the senses and the ears of current audiences, wouldn’t you say?

After the film’s bloody conclusion, Red Mist alters the color scheme of his costume to orange (continuing his father’s color of choice) as Kick-Ass and Hit-Girl literally fly off into the sunset like a classic Western but with aerial technology. Life seems back to normal before Red Mist (rather resembling the tortured character of James Franco as “New Goblin” after his father’s death in SPIDER-MAN 2 & 3) pulls a gun on the audience and fires at point-blank range as the screen goes black - - which maintains the film’s treatise and just about makes all the violence that happened before it consistent; this time, inflicting more on its viewers. *Regrettable sigh*

If one were to disavow their suspension of disbelief (which I did on numerous occasions), another curiosity is the film’s depiction of vanity license plates. Is the significance of the “Kick-Ass” license plate affixed to the cab destroyed in the film’s opening minutes supposed to support the fact that Kick-Ass himself has become a Gotham icon? How does Red Mist get his “Red Mist” vanity plate so quickly when it typically takes 6-12 weeks to get one delivered in the mail?

P.S. As an aside, keep in mind that no screen ‘daughter’ in the history of cinema kicked more ass than Ann Blyth’s “Veda Pierce Forrester” in MILDRED PIERCE - - all without uttering one obscenity.

GREENBERG, Los Angeles: An awkward town with an abundant soundtrack

2010-04-04T15:17:00.000-07:00

“Life is wasted on … people.”

Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller)

Imagine a malcontented Alvy Singer (Woody Allen, ANNIE HALL) stranded in Los Angeles after recovering from the hospitalization of a mental breakdown whose only solace is bringing misery to those in his orbit and drafting correspondence to various heads of corporations whom he feels are responsible for the breakdown of American culture and values. Therein lies the premise of Noah Baumbach’s study of Angeleno neuroses: GREENBERG. The film has all the makings of being categorized under the low-grade production aesthetic of the Mumblecore movement but instead has a balanced mix of celebrity and non-professional talent making observations of their adult (and young adult) lives while having a studio polish c/o Focus Features under the NBC/Universal Pictures brand and a soundtrack so massive that its CD accompaniment would far outlast the film’s running time. Add to that a continuation of the stereotype of the smug yet struggling Santa Monica Farmer’s Market shopping, art-house theatre patronizing (FYI: the Laemmle Monica 4-plex movie theatre is located at 2^nd Street and Santa Monica Blvd. adjacent to the popular organic street market) aspiring Hollywood singer/actress sure to satisfy the film’s core audience.

The film’s greatest detriment is its consistently awkward screenplay wherein characters’ dialogue with one another drips with acid and cynicism when it’s not being clumsy or wrought with despair. Since a dramatic film of this type is only as strong as its characters, it’s difficult to appreciate the experiences that unfold when they and the characters that populate them are thoughtlessly and unfairly scrutinized. And what could have been insightful and honest observations of topics that run the gamut of struggling with a music career to get a recording contract, caretaking for an animal diagnosed with depression or conversing with impressionable teenagers about the arts and career paths (while abusing cocaine, valium and hard liquor) result in long-winded, angry, often-times profanity-laden diatribes compliments of the titular Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller). Anyone who has lasted one month in Los Angeles will no doubt be aware of the existence of these types of misanthropes. Knowledge of such characters is only heightened upon working in the Entertainment Industry.

Stiller’s oeuvre can only be characterized as excessively screwball where jokes are more often than not directed at his characters’ expense; with regards to his cinematic personae, one has to wonder whether he has a really thick skin or is just not very bright. What differs in his performance of Greenberg, however, is that he is more genuinely human than comical, albeit flawed over multiple fronts:

he can’t maintain or complete a healthy/logical conversation with anyone (see the series of jump cuts during his face-to-face talks with other guests at the children’s birthday party);
he sets a weak precedent to a group of twenty-somethings twice his junior by ridiculing their taste in music (Korn) and their (skillfully positive) ability to adapt to new technologies and social networking tools (while doing a line of cocaine and excitedly and rudely hopping over guests to change the music selections at a party);
he doesn’t engage in efforts of intimacy with his love (hate?) interest, Florence Marr (Greta Gerwig) (their first sex scene when he literally dives head-first into her vagina is not only awkwardly choreographed, but leaning toward offensive - - especially since he demeans and walks out on her after each sexual encounter); he also offers her a cheeseburger immediately after she’s had an abortion;
and he’s unable to recall the name of the child and girlfriend of his close friend (with whom he’s known for over twenty years).

Details such as these are not only not verging on slapstick when delivered by a supposed comedic actor (Stiller), but intimates a reaction of awkward silence in any sophisticated audience member - - especially during the particularly anti-climactic scene when one of the letters which Greenberg had focused a majority of his attentions in his correspondence with several franchises and corporation heads is printed in the newspaper … and is quickly forgotten about so as to amble into the next scene. There is also something tragic in the fact that Florence (Greenberg’s brother’s trusted personal assistant), an ambitious singer in Hollywood, no less, isn’t familiar with such popular songs as Albert Hammond’s, “It Never Rains In Southern California” or Oliver Stone’s classic film examination of ‘80’s excess and greed, WALL STREET. In her favor, that Florence is not familiar with the latter only more strongly suggests her innocence as she is pitted on the spectrum opposite the corruptible Greenberg. Upon deeper examination of the film, one might draw a parallel with regard to this innocence that Florence shared with Jennifer Jason Leigh’s character - - not so much of the character, Beth, herein, but rather, Brad Hamilton’s younger sister, Stacy, in Amy Heckerling’s FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH where she was impressionable to the peers in her circle, how she engaged in sex with multiple partners complemented by unusual acts of coupling and most particularly, the abortion that both experienced in the finale of both respective films. Leigh, who created the story with fellow writer/director Baumbach (also her real-life husband) perhaps wanted to add a bit of cinematic self-reflexivity which is nearly unmistakable.

Los Angeles has been exploited for its natural, rugged beauty, perennially fair weather climate and ravishing vistas ever since “Uncle Carl” Laemmle took the Twentieth Century Limited train ride West from his New York office to Los Angeles to put Universal Pictures into commercial operation. Many films since that epic trip have shot on location in Los Angeles, but few have turned their cameras inward to catch the city at its most candid and intimate than such classics as: SAFETY LAST; DOUBLE INDEMNITY; IN A LONELY PLACE; THE BLUE GARDENIA; REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE; STRANGERS WHEN WE MEET; IT’S A MAD MAD MAD MAD WORLD; MODEL SHOP; MYRA BRECKENRIDGE; BEYOND THE VALLEY OF THE DOLLS; CHINATOWN; SHAMPOO; HELTER SKELTER and contemporary classics: THE PLAYER; SHORT CUTS; JACKIE BROWN; BULWORTH; MULHOLLAND DRIVE; TRAINING DAY and COLLATERAL - - complete with expansive views of cityscapes, gorgeous beachfront properties, haunting alleyways and street corridors with shots close enough to see the grit or blood-stained pavement that immerses the viewer in its surroundings - - a cinematic womb of the City of Angels - - that is at once trapping, seductive; haunting and comfortable. One of the most strikingly evocative films of modern-day Los Angeles is GRAND CANYON, a studio picture (Twentieth Century Fox) directed by Lawrence Kasdan that deftly captures the tragedy, extra-marital love, possibility of miracles as well as one of the most cleverly uttered phrases in cinema with regards to watching films and its relevance to answering life’s riddles.

In GREENBERG’s attempt at becoming a ‘Los Angeles picture’, that the film’s overall mood is grim and listless gives little hope for the viewer in appreciating its multiple settings. One of the film’s singularly remarkable sequences is when Greenberg climbs into a swimming pool at his brother’s Hollywood Hills home just as a helicopter buzzes overhead. The camera follows Roger’s side profile into the deep end and as the buzzing of the copter’s blades intensifies, Greenberg’s paddling against and slapping of the water grows until he repeatedly strokes for and reaches the safety of the pool’s stepladder. He can’t seem to do anything swimmingly for himself and like his brother’s ailing dog, Mahler, needs constant attention. When the attention of Florence satisfies him, he enters into a tantrum which occurs repeatedly throughout the film and is anything but humorous. The emotional disorder/nervous breakdown card is an easy out for an actor/filmmaker when depicting a character’s helpless state. After the climactically wandering voicemail message which Roger leaves for Florence, the only redemptive act he engages in as a form of apology to her for all of his prior improprieties is his willingness to measure, nail and properly frame a picture for her into her studio apartment wall.

Greenberg’s pretension and condescending nature to those in his sphere (who also refers to L.A. patrons in the local bars as “bridge and tunnel” when there is no bridge or tunnel comparable to those that exist in Manhattan regarding the derogatory East Coast phrase) is compliments of the film’s writer, Noah Baumbach, a native New Yorker himself, who provides the film with no positive core values whatsoever and possibly Ben Stiller’s most irritated (and irritating) character to date (save for his Orderly in HAPPY GILMORE). It is with this that I charge Baumbach for not fleshing out his protagonist and supporting characters in a script that lacks not only redeeming value but also risk; what there is no end of are awkwardly misguided conversations accompanied by commonplace camera-work and lackluster set-design (see Mumblecore). For all of Roger’s flaws, one never gets the sense that he’s sincerely ‘crazy’ or emotionally disturbed. He takes on a vow to do nothing so why should anyone care to take the opportunity to join him in his adventures and pursuits through this brief portion of his screen life? Morbid curiosity? Get one’s admission’s worth?

Roger continues to walk in Los Angeles (on one occasion, passing a FAST & FURIOUS [another Universal Picture] movie poster which dates the film) as he did in New York. He relies on others for transportation because he doesn’t own a car (meanwhile his brother is a wealthy hotelier who can’t provide one for him?) when he’s not engaging in erratic behavior as is personified in the tube dancer he passes on multiple occasions at a nearby car lot. If it was Baumbach’s intention to depress his audience for living (or who happen to live) in Southern California, he absolutely succeeded. At least when Alvy Singer (Woody Allen, ANNIE HALL) arrives in Los Angeles, he has such a deep-seated aversion to Southern California that he becomes ill and immediately has to return to New York - - that’s funny! Hint: Greenberg?

Next to Gerwig’s undeniably affable portrayal of Florence Marr, the ever-quirky Rhys Ifans who plays Ivan Schrank, Greenberg’s confidant and “man” gave the film’s strongest and most believable performance. In a landscape of eccentrics and classifiable oddballs, for once, the expectation that Ifans would also exhibit goofy tendencies was soon obliterated giving him an edge that took him by way of the high road as he mingled with Greenberg’s quirks and was able to come out the straight man. Like George Bailey’s, Clarence Oddbody or Pinocchio’s Jiminy Cricket, Schrank is more than just Greenberg’s conscience and mortal guide, he is his closest friend who tries to help Roger regain some semblance of normalcy in an existence clouded by misery and ever burgeoning doubts of his family and friends. Schrank is the antithesis to Greenberg in that both failed in their combined efforts to succeed in the music industry, but the former was able to maintain a family and not let life’s worries affect his character; Greenberg on the other hand, chooses to hold a grudge against society and becomes the eternal bellyacher.

The unresolved conclusion leaves open the possibility that Florence may accept Roger and give him the attention for which he yearns. Personally, I would have thought it terribly amusing if Greenberg had left the voicemail for someone else. At least it would have kept the comedic tone consistent. On another personal note, I appreciate that Baumbach and the Music Supervisor approved the inclusion of Duran Duran’s “The Chauffeur” - - it’s a great song (and has a stylish video). Regrettably, I think that’s why it was chosen for the film i.e. there is no underlying significance (which I’d go so far as to say that it could have referred to those persons who give Roger a lift in their car) and fits the mood of the scene in which it was used: reminiscing, Greenberg listened to it when he had done cocaine in the ‘80’s. Deep.

There’s Nothing Suspenseful About a Character Who Lives Forever: My Musings on THE HURT LOCKER

2010-02-17T00:21:00.000-08:00

This story is neither an accusation nor a confession, and least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will try simply to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped its shells, were destroyed by the war …

Opening titles of Lewis Milestone’s ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT (1930)

The rush of battle is a potent and often lethal addiction, for war is a drug.

Opening quotation of Kathryn Bigelow’s THE HURT LOCKER (2009) c/o Chris Hedges, “War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning”

Why do I go to the movies? For the length of time it takes for my bladder to hold out (Hitchcock was onto something there), the movie theatre seems an opportune place I can patronize to release the stresses of my day and/or escape from reality. Images flashed onscreen from the projector overhead complimented by sounds emanating from the corners of the enclosed screening quarters can trigger earlier thoughts or convictions I may have had that are manipulated by characters and shapes as they wriggle and bend through beams of light on the vinyl screen before me. This experience can be a place of negativity or something completely positive and escapist. I suppose that once I select a comfortable cushioned chair to sit on after passing through a threshold of double-doors as an aroma of warm-buttered popcorn and stale nacho cheese sauce fills my nostrils, I feel like I’m in my very own hurt locker.

Why do soldier’s go to war in the movies? Most films in the War genre tend to serve up eternal conundrums that go unanswered not because there’s a specific reason why one fights - - it could be for the sake of pride for one’s country, to uphold security, for reasons only they themselves know - - but probably because it is something more elusive than that. Is it the thrill of victory; are soldiers in it to win it? Or is success to win dependent on the desire to get out with one’s own skin when staring death in the face?

Enter Staff Sergeant William James (Jeremy Renner): James is somewhat like George Steven’s “Shane” in the way he’s able to easily ingratiate himself into Bravo Company than he is fresh meat for the grinder. And like Alan Ladd’s titular character, he expresses a weariness as if he’d just been intensely and emotionally drained by some (or a series of) disaster(s), while exuding a cool detachment against life’s trivialities. Just as Shane’s origin is unexplained, from where exactly does James hail? James takes command of the Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) squad with his new team members Sergeant JT Sanborn (Anthony Mackie) and Specialist Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty) after their Staff Sergeant, Matt Thompson (Guy Pearce), is regrettably killed by a ‘roadside bomb’ in an excitedly explosive scene unleashed in the first ten minutes of Kathryn Bigelow’s THE HURT LOCKER. That Thompson’s orthodox approach to bomb disposal is procedurally by-the-book, James’ methods are otherwise employed with controlled abandon complemented by a hint of adrenaline abuse. His teammates are not happy.

Upon their initial meeting, Sanborn quips to James that the name of their Camp recently changed names from Liberty to Victory. Unable to sense sarcasm and immune to healthy human interaction, James isn’t aware of the joke because he harbors an obsession with disarming bombs that gives him a veneer of militaristic Teflon. Generically, the film as a film of War is a façade, as SHANE is not a Western so much as it is a Dramatic parable. THE HURT LOCKER is more reminiscent of a Detective film: where an exploded bomb and its accompaniment of aimless confetti-like shrapnel or a bullet emptied from a sniper rifle will not only send one to the hurt locker, but to “The Big Sleep” and as James evokes Humphrey Bogart’s Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade or in this case, Sam Grenade, he is tasked with disarming a series of elaborately-designed, inanimate exploding devices utilizing complex facilities of deduction.

James feeds his craving for adrenaline by disarming bombs and keeping the inactive detonators in his footlocker as a reminder of what may have destroyed him. Is it really James then, that’s detonating the bomb, or is it the bomb - - which tests him each time - - that is slowly disarming James and his crew to the point of sending them to oblivion? The bombs resemble human machinery complete with wires, cogs, colors, wheels and a battery, like a beating human heart. The characters are just as hollow as these bombs. Eldridge, the one soldier who shows an affection for his therapist shares the only visible attempt at connection with another human being and the boy’s doctor, like clockwork, is predictably destroyed thereby re-leveling the playing field.

Featured in the film is a third-person shooter video game played by one of the soldiers: “Gears of War” which connotes the iconic image of Charlie Chaplin caught in the gears of the mega corporation as he struggles to survive the harsh world of Industrialization. James, Sanborn and Eldridge are also each cogs in the machine of war who are a few rungs above the common grunt in the way they use their wits to disarm nasty little bombs which hold immediate invitations to their respective demise. Unlike the subdued propaganda of War in Milestone’s ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT, Bigelow’s vision of War as a drug (as is seen in so many contemporary television-commercial and video game PR in their exhibition of soldier-turned-instant-hero set against a choir of alto and soprano voices accompanied by heavy metal music-stylings and unsheathed silver rapiers in overblown CGI visuals tinted with red, white and blue) is unsavory exploitation of human life. Milestone’s classic at least makes the bitter pill of war easier to swallow by labeling the new schoolboy recruits “fresh from the turnip patch”. If we have learned anything from the War classics, War is Hell … Quiet … Solitary … Dirty … and wrought with anxious anticipation. Conversely, James’ War is reckless, wild, and epitomized by revolt; he is a charming, poster-boy rebel (James Dean parallel?) construct of the New War who relaxes to heavy metal music and showers in his gear and military fatigues. In a world overflowing with prescription drugs, painkillers and various narcotics, it’s easy to reduce War to a lethal drug (or a bumper sticker) that chooses in whose veins it will rush. I like to think that survival instincts are what pump and pulsate through one’s bloodstream and brainwaves. The threat of War instigates survival and is an exterior entity that can be equally welcomed or ignored by any candidate so willing to engage in or avoid it. Survival is everlasting so long as you continue to breathe and heightens when an element of risk appears.

Thematic ideas take precedence over filmmaking technique in THE HURT LOCKER which for the most part is hollow and clichéd. Apart from the stylized slow-motion photography of rubble levitating from the sun-baked earth triggered by massive explosions, the film’s you are there shaky camerawork leaves little to be desired. The sniper sequence is nearly devoid of suspense and trades nominal dialogue for (what felt like) a quarter of an hour of cinematic boredom which begged me to ask myself, “did they just run out of a screenplay”? The sensitive guiding of the sniper battle in Stanley Kubrick’s FULL METAL JACKET was far more inventive and inducive of the onset of grey hairs.

The film unfolds like an ambling version of Henri-Georges Clouzot’s white-knuckle WAGES OF FEAR on foot that isn’t as suspenseful and is literally a pedestrian effort. If at least one of the bombs that James was disarming went off, I would’ve been slightly more intrigued - - even Bogie’s gumshoes were occasionally battered and bruised by his nemeses.

Once James returns home to his family, domestic life mirrors scenes reminiscent of the cold, barren environment of Andrei Tarkovsky’s SOLARIS. The atmosphere is stagnant. Never has a supermarket and its patrons seemed less alive. Compared to the environs of Iraq, James’ hometown belongs six feet under ground (that is, if you could actually level an entire city; see 2012). With a dead world that’s wet, somber and abysmal where James seems utterly out of place, this last entry in the film felt as if there could have been more potential to be even emptier. James is depicted as a consumerist drone and slave to domesticity, although what’s lacking is the necessary ingredient of what his life before wartime was really like. When given the opportunity to explain to Sanborn why he chooses to fight, he literally shrugs off the question - - a microbe of a hint would've been perfectly acceptable. It’s in Iraq that James belongs but who’s to say that his home, amidst countless explosives to disarm, isn’t in the Middle East? While donning his heavy military battle suit, he moves just as casually as he did when he pushed the shopping cart down the aisle of the grocery store, but he is compelled by an innate obsession to destroy that which causes mass destruction.

THE HURT LOCKER is not a film worthy of Best Picture (of 2009). Lewis Milestone’s classic ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT, however, was and still is the ultimate cinematic example of disillusionment, loss and self-sabotage ever put to screen. Not only a tour de force, it is the most intimate tour of duty for those who have enlisted. THE HURT LOCKER may be relevant given the contemporary handling of its subject matter and execution of military vernacular and soldiers’ duties, but its combined elements don’t make it a standout like a detonative device flawed by a frayed wire. Lew Ayres’ character, Paul Bäumer, in Milestone’s film shares a commonality with James in that he can’t stomach returning home after his tour is over. While sitting alert in a trench, the only link between Paul’s home and the people that populate it which has become misunderstood and unwelcoming to him is the innocent flight of a butterfly that conjures up memories of a time and place (and a personal butterfly collection) that he considered full of warmth and sentiment before being seduced by the corruption of War. He’s in his own hurt locker; his own hole, to contemplate, observe and protect against enemies. The hurt locker only has room for one - - it is the place where we can individually relax or tangle with our inner demons and an ethereal plain where we ultimately live on or die out. By peaking out of his hole to reach for the winged beast, an enemy sniper climbs out of his and fires hot lead at Paul sending him back into his muddy cavity as he coils inward like a dying dog. We never see that in James. He arrives in Victory Company and we have no back-story: only that he’s highly skilled at disarming bombs and not getting blown to smithereens. That to me, isn’t suspenseful and quite frankly, lacking in entertainment.

One of my favorite film-watching metaphors is Hitchcock’s REAR WINDOW in how L.B. Jeffries is confined to his wheelchair like an audience member whose cinematic world opens before him through the curtains of his windows much the same way the curtain in a movie theatre unravels in front of a vinyl screen. Similarly, Bigelow (whose remarkable body of work includes contemporary classics NEAR DARK, POINT BREAK and STRANGE DAYS) attempted at disarming me by pushing buttons, pulling strings and snipping away at fibrous wires that affected my various emotions, vulnerabilities and preconceptions - - and I was very much hoping to explode with enthusiasm - - but I just couldn’t detonate.

‘Bonnie and Clive’: Lessons I learned from AN EDUCATION

2009-12-05T20:34:00.000-08:00

The London captured in Director Lone Scherfig’s early 1960’s suburban portrait of Twickenham isn’t yet swinging, but it’s a tidily-organized, austere destination that is characterized as cold, damp, gray and dimly lit where diegetic echoes of French, Jazz and American Pop music emanate from wax and cigarette smoke floats amongst the musical notes. A cleverly designed title sequence (one in which Saul Bass would probably be proud of conceiving) moves in rhythm - - and in shapes and scribbles of ‘white chalk’ - - to Floyd Cramer's #1 hit (in the U.K., 1961) "On The Rebound" (a figurative title indicative of sexual relations yet to come) while the canvas of the movie screen is at once denoted to a chalkboard signifying: Class is in session.

Jenny (Carey Mulligan), is at the top of her class with marks destined to promise her a seat at the University of Oxford. At sixteen, she gracefully exudes a beauty and maturity not typical of her classmates with one foot in adolescence and the other in adulthood. A storm is afoot and changes are brewing in Jenny … and London. While leaving her literal classroom on foot during a rather torrential rainstorm, prosperity (twice Jenny’s senior) rounds the corner in the guise of David (Peter Sarsgaard) who welcomes Jenny into the comfortable confines of his Bristol luxury automobile. I was reminded of The Police’s “Don’t Stand So Close To Me”:

Wet bus stop, she’s waiting

His car is warm and dry

Like any naïve schoolgirl of the ‘60’s not accustomed to contemporary Stranger danger and with the added element of wet discomfort from the rain, Jenny eventually accepts his invitation after some clever wordplay. Additionally, she bargains for the temporary shelter of her cello and the objet d’affection for David as he is a lover of classical music and all its instruments. Incidentally, Jenny resembles the curvaceous shape and size of her negotiating chip and is undoubtedly an instrument with which he himself would like to play.

Music takes on an especially powerful significance in the film (as is typical in Screenwriter Nick Hornby’s work e.g. HIGH FIDELITY and ABOUT A BOY) with tracks that mirror Jenny and David’s playlist of their relationship including: “You've Got Me Wrapped Around Your Little Finger”; “Comin’ Home Baby”; “Teen Scene”; “Tell The Truth”; “Sweet Nothin’s”; “Since I Fell For You” and “Your Heart Is As Black As Night”. Musical cues subtly match moments of characters’ dialogue and actions for instance when David hatches a plot to lure Jenny to Paris on a Friday while Beth Rowley smokingly sings “A Sunday Kind Of Love” at the exact moment she belts out she doesn’t want a “Thursday, Friday or Saturday” kind of love. And when David and Jenny wander through a crowded casino club and Ray Charles’ backup singers cry out of the jukebox (for David no less) to ‘tell the truth’.

David reveals he is a man of the world, an accomplished jetsetter and bachelor or rather, a rebel whose suave veneer would equate him with Ian Fleming’s James Bond and it’s to David whom Jenny wishes to be bonded. Eventually, the two ‘life’ enthusiasts attend a classical music concert with David’s friends and ‘business’ colleagues, Danny (Dominic Cooper) and Helen (Rosamund Pike) who further take Jenny down the rabbit hole of art auctions, martini lunches, chain-smoking and sophistication.

Even Jenny’s traditionalist parents, Jack (Alfred Molina) and Marjorie (Cara Seymour) living in their impeccably straight-laced surroundings (which seem to be lacking in substantial lighting fixtures) are no match for David’s quick wit, incomparable charm and when all else fails, social lubrication. Equally (if not more so) focused on Jenny’s achievement of higher education and place in the world, Jack is the clichéd stick-in-the-mud (who’s unjustifiably racist, most particularly to Jews) father with standards of excellence and frugality he wishes to impress upon his daughter e.g. when he goes so far as to check the front lawn to see if their family owns a tree upon which money grows. David is the attractive landscaper (ala Rock Hudson, ALL THAT HEAVEN ALLOWS) who will chop down that trope.

With clever playacting and promises that he is able to introduce Jenny to Clive “C.S.” Lewis, the accomplished author, Christian apologist and former member of the Oxford faculty, David has Jack and Marjorie eating out of his hands which makes one wonder if he’s done this before (more on this later). Fallen under David’s seductive spell, Jenny’s parents are just as smitten as she is and allow him safe passage through their parental insecurities to Oxford and later, Paris. She trades in her gray school uniform for more colorful frocks and begins to sacrifice good grades for an education in worldly wisdom under the tutelage of David.

Everything seems bright and promising for Jenny until the rug of disillusionment is pulled out from under her when she discovers that David and Danny are actually self-employed sneak thieves who steal fine goods that (in their estimation) their owners cannot appreciate. To stay with David and condone such behavior suggestive of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow would go against everything Jenny has learned in her parent’s upbringing. She has a choice and for sake of argument (and the story), she decides to stay with David. No matter how difficult a relationship with David might be, to leave class (in mid-semester) would assuredly produce a failing mark.

Once in Paris, their relationship seems sealed as they reveal their respective sexual prowess to one another: that of a virgin on her 17^th birthday and an experienced older man who is just as shy as she is. An uncomfortable silence is punctuated by sounds of airplane take-offs and landings at an airport nearby while images of framed jumbo jets don the walls in their Parisian accommodations. The steps that have been taken up until this moment (despite the criminal behavior) has been carefully plotted and organized and through the act of sexual surrender on both their parts, there is nowhere for the happy couple to go but up as their relationship literally takes off and Jenny’s chances at Oxford are left to crumble on the runway.

Jenny and David return to London and break the news of their engagement to her parents to their devout satisfaction. Jack’s initial hope for his daughter to attend university is further shattered as he reveals that once his daughter found a capable husband to share a life with, that nothing else really matters. And for extra credit, Jenny seals the deal by standing off against her headmistress (Emma Thompson) and dropping out of school much to her favorite teacher Miss Stubbs’ (Olivia Williams) dismay. She is now free to lounge around Danny’s palatial residence, eat fine food, libate on exotic cocktails and swap fine clothes with Helen … A+.

David treats his new in-laws to a dinner out on the town, but reveals two flaws in his coordination of logistics: his Bristol requires a fresh tank of diesel which he didn’t plan for and he should’ve scraped the automobile for clues if he was going to leave it alone to pay the station attendant. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it most certainly also caught the cad. After searching through the glove compartment of David’s car, Jenny not only finds an empty pack of Bachelor-brand cigarettes (fitting name since David and Jenny are about to marry and he’s no longer a Bachelor) but freshly-opened envelopes addressed to David and his wife’s home. Controlling her rage, Jenny orders David to take her home - - the proverbial honeymoon is over.

David drops off his in-laws (soon to be out-laws), heads for the security of the bottle and for once is unable to consult his charm in conversing with them. With Jack, Marjorie and Jenny waiting for David to arrive with his apologia inside their home (now in absolute pitch darkness), David reverses his car in the middle of the street which glares his headlights into their living room (the brightest light that’s filled their home the entire film) and they’re able to not only see through his veil of deception, but Jenny learns her lesson and knows what she must do: return to school to complete her A-levels after which she is accepted into Oxford.

Throughout Jenny’s learning process, David brought with him a color (to oppose the dull gray and red brick consistency of Jenny’s neighborhood) and excitement (visual aids and class trips) that wakes up her conservative family to the possibilities of a new brand of post-war London which would soon welcome the Beatles and really swing. Off screen departs David and his Bristol and in its place would soon appear Cadillac automobiles.

Jenny’s (and London’s) maturation process leads her through a coming-of-age odyssey at once fascinated by the pleasure principle - - with a voracious appetite for culture, cinema, fine cuisine and classical/popular music - - who learns to accept her current state of reality and return to complete her proper education. By obeying this reality principle and reserving the lessons (fantasies) she had learned from David, upon being asked to travel to Paris with one of her similarly-aged Oxford peers, Jenny expresses great desire as if she’d never been - - which appears as if she has a lot to teach him and each other … Class dismissed.

TWILIGHT, L'amour Miséraaaaable: A Vegan Fantasy

2009-11-22T17:52:00.000-08:00

1834, "hobby, pet project;" 1881 as "fashion, craze," perhaps shortened from fiddle-faddle. Or perhaps from Fr. fadaise "trifle, nonsense," ult. from L. fatuus "stupid."

Original definition of "fad"

With the cinematic unleashing of Stephanie Meyer’s “Twilight” Saga, the once folkloric and mythological Vampire brand of seductive, gothic romance, nightly mischief and mass hysteria has shifted into a frosty terrain of mopey, emo-tinged, sexless, blood-sucking abstinence. And let us not forget: health-conscious - - instead of stakes, the film features a steak sandwich or lack (of meat) thereof (Meyer herself makes a cameo as “Woman Who Orders a Vegetarian Salad in the Diner”) - - vampire culture has gone from blood-red to green excitement. Oh, what a sad time for a vampire to be immortal. (See how a centuries-old vampire is coping with the contemporary film and literature fictional-shift.)

By definition, Meyer’s “beloved” (doesn’t it take at least a decade to reach beloved status) vampire-based novels and (Production Designer par excellence) Director Catherine Hardwicke’s first entry in the film series, TWILIGHT, have achieved cult status amongst a rabid fan-base of young adults, primarily tween and teenaged girls. If the film and the universally accepted lifestyles it has promoted are any indication of where (young) modern America is headed, I’d welcome anyone to drive a stake through my heart and be vanquished of this culture shock.

After the ‘cold open’, wherein the film’s production and distribution company’s snow-enshrouded Summit Entertertainment logo in cool aquamarine (which constitutes the film’s main color palette) fills the screen, an equally chilling line is uttered by Isabella Marie "Bella" Swan (Kristen Stewart): “I’ve never given much thought to how I would die” - - this is both a character name and a line of dialogue given heavy weight of wisdom and maturity not befitting of a modern-day American teenager who speaks it (unless, of course, she was featured in an Anne Rice novel). I’d have been thoroughly interested if this was being spoken in voiceover by the pre-slaughtered fawn in the film’s opening minutes, a scene reminiscent of both the stately deer’s demise in Michael Mann’s THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS and the sacrificial lambs surrounding the lushly, ethereal pond setting in James Whale’s BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN.

As the film progresses, we discover that Bella and her peers are no ordinary teenagers, but those characterized by the stereotypical Emo sub-culture: wherein guys are more sensitive than girls, yet both sexes lead an angst-ridden, tortured and depressed existence while donning apparel that is correspondingly suicidal and where short or tall, choppy, low-banged hair makes up 75% of their ‘look’ best represented by the human mortal counterparts, the vampiric coven of the Cullen Family (Emo Royalty, who flamboyantly shimmer like diamonds in the sun’s rays) and Bella’s prey, Edward Cullen (Robert Pattinson) who no one at Forks High School seems to understand.

Despite the ill effects the current economy has had on millions, modern-day teenagers (most particularly, Bella) in Hardwicke’s film really have nothing to feel tortured about: they have a (multiple) cell phone(s), home computer (and/or laptop), the unlimited pleasures the Internet has to offer (e.g. access to FaceBook and Twitter accounts), luxury automobiles and parents who show concern for them and fend for their well-being. Quel dommage! Incidentally, the one and only time Bella shows any sincere enthusiasm in the entire film is when her father, Charlie Swan (Billy Burke) gifts her with a truck he has purchased from his friend, Billy Black (Gil Mirmingham) and son Jacob (Taylor Lautner). Perhaps it’s in the drinking water - - in fact, the only instance anyone drinks from the tap is Bella during a conversation she has with her father in their kitchen - - as he’s typically placed near a bargain pack of Dannon bottled-water and cans of beer.

The social network in Forks, Washington (population “3,120 people”, Bella grumbles) where TWILIGHT’s events unfold can only be deemed as ironic dysfunction when compared with other educational institutions (real or cinematically fictitious, you may decide). Characters engage in lingo indicative of current social trends (e.g. “google it”; “Chillax”; “I’m down the with kids” and “You’re the bomb”), the majority of the student body seem to intuit and welcome Bella as if she’s of a celebrity-status (in this case, Sherry Potter) and yet Bella gives everyone the brush advising that she’s the “silent, suffering type”. Bella’s dad, the Chief of Police, has no idea that his daughter, the metaphorical Pandora’s Box (gift wrapped by Chastity), has conveniently liberated an age-old blood feud between a race of vampires spawned by the Volturi (an ancient race of Italian vampires) and Quileute (a.k.a. Quillayute) Indians who are able to transform into werewolves.

So, Emily Bronte’s classic WUTHERING HEIGHTS has been transferred from the Yorkshire moors to the gloomy Pacific Northwest and grafted with fangs and fur! Unlike the conversations featured in this revered classic of English literature, Meyer’s discourse in wuthering Washington State tends to be commonplace and awkward. Questions are dodged; secrets are kept and then revealed later; nervousness ensues. Mankiewicz or Chayefsky wouldn’t dare partake in such screenwriting trifles and/or released work one would connote to a fad. Bella literally shakes off potential friends in a school gymnasium who try to enter in a dialogue with her. And her movements are equally oblivious when she opens a car door into Jacob or slips and falls on a patch of ice. I understand the latter being a plot device, both that Bella is on shaky ground and that it hints at an accident involving the employment of Edward’s superhuman vampire strength and a van that nearly crushes Bella in a parking lot. But her actions are consistently clumsy and mopey and why she attracts everyone in her orbit, I may never know - - unless I read the books to discover that she holds the key to the ultimate human question - - but, that’s another medium for another post (that may never be); I digress.

Bella and Edward get past their initial awkward teenage adolescent hang-ups (that still exist come the climax) and become an item. Just as Romeo and Juliet participated in a doomed romance so are Kristen Stewart and RPatz’s protagonists as Edward fears he may altogether consume (i.e. drink, bite, devour) Bella if he is overcome by his animal urges. What ensues are scenes that are as uncomfortable to watch as they are laughable e.g. when Edward erratically squirms in Bella’s presence and looks as if he’s going to V in his M. TWILIGHT’s closest cinematic counterpart (save for the nomadic vampires’ long ‘hesher’ hair that came and went with THE LOST BOYS who are intent on killing Bella) may be CAT PEOPLE that contained a similar theme of controlling one’s animal desire for the sake (and safety) of a lover in that Irena Dubrovna (Simone Simon) refused to become intimate with her fiancé Oliver Reed (Kent Smith) innately knowing that she’d transform into a dangerous panther thereby tearing him to shreds. Jacques Tourneur’s and Val Lewton’s horror classic however, favored style over substance (and passing fancies). And if the first entry in the book series come to screen is any sign of things to come for the TWILIGHT Saga, this will be a quadrilogy that is anything but bella.

Films That Have Inspired Social Networking

2009-11-15T19:24:00.000-08:00

Twitter, YouTube and flickr are just a few of the current social networking tools that have contributed to the massive proliferation of users online as well as making the world (and universe) a much smaller place through the use of their technological devices and the data that has passed through them. Likewise, the cinema has been a source of entertainment and inspiration for its viewers since the first image and accompaniment of light flickered on a movie screen. By combining communications tools via the power of the cinema, the results have been highly reactive in the present social and technological marketplace.

Pre-dating contemporary computer and electronic technology, the movie-going public as well as the characters embedded in the celluloid, would (and still do) engage in an archaic form of message-delivery: stone drawings, paper/letter correspondence, radio or Morse code/telegraphic communications. Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s A LETTER TO THREE WIVES (1949) would now easily reach three million within seconds via a mainframe and companion server. In Hitchcock’s THE LADY VANISHES, Dame May Whitty’s Miss Froy, could’ve texted of her capture in the train’s compartment or uploaded the “MacGuffin” folk song carrying top secret information to a YouTube account using her mobile phone.

What follows are a few examples of films that have exhibited similar techniques and design processes of these networking tools prior to their creation. What is key here is that data was shared through an interaction with another person(s) (or user(s)) as opposed to being kept to oneself which is the crux of social networking.

Photographs were taken by paparazzi in LA DOLCE VITA (Dir: Federico Fellini, 1960) and NOTHING SACRED (Dir: William A. Wellman, 1937) and by a photographer trying to solve a murder (BLOW-UP, Dir: Michelangelo Antonioni, 1966) and (REAR WINDOW, Dir: Alfred Hitchcock, 1954), but that the images weren’t shared by them through their cinematic communities, save for their respective newspapers or magazine editors, they must sadly be disqualified from any inclusion herein.

Although there is an exuberance of energy and powerful imagery present in films such as MAGNOLIA (Dir: Paul Thomas Anderson, 1999), JFK (Dir: Oliver Stone, 1991), SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN (Dirs: Stanley Donen, Gene Kelly, 1952) or ANNIE HALL (Dir: Woody Allen, 1977) - - all of which and more like them are featured in clips (or in their entirety) online - - their entertainment may leave a lasting effect on one’s memory and feature a film (or game show)-within-a-film or film-viewing aspect, but any tool for the sake of social networking is for the most part, intangible.

Just think, if these filmmakers had played their cards right and had access to the technology that is currently available at our fingertips, these contemporary devices could’ve been welded in the furnace of their creative minds and like many of (YouTube’s) Chad Hurley’s contemporaries, in their basement.

Twitter/texting (Jack Dorsey, 2007; www.twitter.com)

Twitter asks one question, "What are you doing?"/"What's happening?" Answers must be under 140 characters in length and can be sent via mobile texting, instant message or the web. Twitter's core technology is a device agnostic message routing system with rudimentary social networking features. By accepting messages from sms, web, mobile web, instant message, or from third party API projects, Twitter makes it easy for folks to stay connected.

DR. STRANGELOVE OR: HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE BOMB (Dir: Stanley Kubrick, 1964) In this “culturally significant” dark comedy masterpiece, Sterling Hayden’s General Jack D. Ripper, orders a B-52 carrying nuclear warheads into Soviet airspace through an onboard CRM 114 device utilizing brief three-letter code prefixed messages between themselves. The results are disastrous and equally hilarious.

E.T.: THE EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL (Dir: Steven Spielberg, 1982) The beloved science fiction blockbuster featuring the relationship between a stranded alien botanist and his earthling friend, Elliott, as they employ a “Communicator” device to “phone home”. By utilizing the Speak & Spell console (one of the earliest electronic handheld devices complete with a visual display) in addition to various household appliances, a tree branch and a little imagination, Spielberg has concocted one of the most elaborate communications tools (exhibiting less than 140 characters, albeit, in an alien language) in cinema history with enough reception to reach E.T.’s home in deep space.

REAL GENIUS (Dir: Martha Coolidge, 1985) Val Kilmer’s Chris Knight attempts to loosen up his fellow “Pacific Tech” classmate Mitch by throwing him a party during their many failed attempts at creating a chemical laser for their professor. Unbeknownst to Mitch, Chris lures him (and scores of students in the process) across the university quad by way of a laser light show to a “Tanning Invitational” hosted by dozens of scantily clad beauticians. An alternative precursor to Evite / Socializr, Chris types a brief phrase “Tanning Invitational” by way of computer which is eventually “spelled out” by an elaborate series of laser beams and reflective mirrors set up across campus.

THE ABYSS (Dir: James Cameron, 1989) The science fiction underwater actioner features a team of oil workers and Navy SEALs in a mission to salvage nuclear warheads from a sunken Soviet submarine before they detonate and an approaching hurricane topside impedes their objective. When one of the warheads falls over the edge of an undersea trench, Ed Harris’ Bud is fitted with a special diving suit as well as a wrist pad touch-type device to apprise the team (in brief messages) of his advances into the abyss.

YouTube (Chad Hurley, Steve Chen, 2005; www.youtube.com)

YouTube is the leader in online video and the premier destination to watch and share original videos worldwide through a Web experience. YouTube allows people to easily upload and share video clips across the Internet through websites, mobile devices, blogs and email.

JOHNNY MNEMONIC (Dir: Robert Longo, 1995) Keanu Reeve’s Johnny Mnemonic takes the idea of a ‘thumb drive’ a step further playing a data courier who delivers sensitive information to clients through a storage implant in his brain by connecting to and uploading data and imagery via a television or visual display. A similar idea is featured in TOTAL RECALL (Dir: Paul Verhoeven, 1990) based on sci-fi maestro Philip K. Dick’s “We Can Remember It for You Wholesale” when Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Quaid is ‘uploaded’ with memories - - or in this case - - images for a vacation on Mars.

HACKERS (Dir: Iain Softley, 1995) Johnny Lee Miller’s Crash Override first connects with Angelina Jolie’s Acid Burn when Override tries to hack into a television station’s computer network in order to watch an episode of The Outer Limits. Burn then (like current copyright infringement) hacks into the server and kicks him off.

THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT (Dirs: Daniel Myrick, Eduardo Sánchez, 1999) The film takes YouTube’s tagline “broadcast yourself” a bit too far and although it is indirectly ‘broadcast’ by filmmakers other than those featured in the footage, it is nonetheless a forerunner in the idea of shooting oneself to become the subject of shared video and ‘viral’ programming for the masses to digest it.

JACKASS: THE MOVIE (Dir: Jeff Tremaine, 2002) The “feel-sick movie of the year” features MTV’s Jackass television performers (stars?) doing what they do best in front of the camera which has spread like ‘viral’ wildfire throughout the Web and become a pop-cultural phenomenon spawning imitations online, on television (MADtv and FAMILY GUY) and re-enacted most particularly by young boys aged 18-32.

Amélie (Dir: Jean-Pierre Jeunet, 2001) Amélie Poulain’s Audrey Tautou mysteriously surprises “the Glass Man” with videotapes she has edited (and uploaded) with whimsical, random and ‘viral’ imagery (e.g. a naked baby swimming in a pool, a horse intruding on a bicycling tournament, etc.).

Flickr (Stewart Butterfield, Caterina Fake, 2004; www.flickr.com)

By securely and privately uploading images and/or video from the Internet, mobile devices, users' home computers and from whatever software they are using to manage their content, Flickr shares this data on the Flickr website, in RSS feeds, on one’s blog, by email, by posting to outside blogs, etc. Flickr also organizes photos and video as metadata in order to search and disseminate to others with ease.

PECKER (Dir: John Waters, 1998) Edward Furlong’s Pecker, an avid photographer and sandwich shop employee, becomes an art sensation when the photos he takes of his family and Baltimore neighbors catch the interest of a New York art dealer and professional art collectors.

Amélie (Dir: Jean-Pierre Jeunet, 2001) Through the help of Amélie’s friend, a stewardess, Amélie devises a plot to have her travel the world with her father’s garden gnome and take pictures of it amidst the backdrop of worldly landmarks (e.g. New York City and Russia). Additionally, Amélie’s love interest, Nino Quincampoix, travels throughout Montmarte lifting discarded photos from photo booths which he collects and keeps in an album.