A Hole in My Heart

Swedish director Lukas Moodysson's A Hole in My Heart (2004) is an experimental mess of a film, and Moodysson would have it no other way. After Moodysson's earlier films, Show Me Love, Together, and Lilja 4-Ever, were all largely embraced and celebrated for their warmth, sophistication, and accessibility by international film circles, Moodysson sought to create something so esoteric and unaccessible that he would at last elicit a purely visceral reaction. A Hole in My Heart is that film.

Eric (Björn Almroth) is a desolate teen in Sweden who, in order to cope with his pornographic films that his father Rickard (Thorsten Flinck) shoots in their house, secludes himself in his room and psychologically distances himself from the debauchery that inevitably follows a shoot. This is not necessarily a moralistic claim that Eric is standing up for, but more so apathy and anger that he levels at his father. Also along for the journey are Geko (Goran Marjanovic) and Tess (Sanna Bråding), the porn stars of the film that Rickard is shooting (though Rickard too joins in on occasions).

Despite the continual horrific images that intercut the narrative (images of labia reduction surgery find their way into the film, as does an oh so lovely scene where Geko vomits into Tess' mouth), Eric is the key character in Moodysson's film. Eric watches over the other three and cares for them and their needs, despite their trangressions, and so there is obviously a religious/spiritual dimension to the film. Moreover, Eric's physical deformity (one hand is missing several fingers) adds to his distance from the "normal" pursuit of pleasure that the others seek. Beyond the father-and-son story and the silent caretaking, critisisms of capitalism abound, since Moodysson seems to be questioning why people who churn out empty pornography like Rickard are supported.

A Hole in My Heart is a film that ambitiously bites off for more than it can chew, and while Moodysson orchestrates subtly beautiful reveries with both Geko (in the fields) and Tess (in the store) separate from the daily monotony, there are more moments in the film where Moodysson pursues an idea far longer than he needs to or intercuts needlessly, though, again, some of this may well be intentional. That, however, does not always make for interested viewing.

Moodysson seems to have abandoned the easy period of his filmmaking for more adventurous fare, and this film does have its rewards. You'll have to dig for them, though. And Moodysson would have it no other way.

A Hole in My Heart: 6.5/10

Akira

Katsuhiro Ôtomo's anime classic Akira (1988) offers a cyberpunk deconstruction of all that animation traditionally offers in its narrative and, formally, it is still very much a masterpiece. Concerned with urban and governmental control in a post-apocalyptic Tokyo, the film touches upon issues of nuclear warfare, political activism, psychological trauma and aggression, authority, and the individual. More than these issues, though, the film is just damn cool to watch.

Kaneda is the figurehead of a youth gang that is surprisingly old school about only inflicting justice and not vengeance on the rival gangs that are threatening to spread out over the urban city. When one of the other members of the gang, the victimized Tetsuo, is injured and taken by the government for underground tests, Kaneda sets out to rescue him. However, the tests have given Tetsuo reservoirs of power that were previously untapped, and the struggle to save Tetsuo becomes more spiritual than physical.

At times, the film does not always make narratological sense, as some of the issues of political activism with the Council that tries to shut down the government are too convoluted to make sense when you reconsider elements of the plot. However, Tetsuo's shift from a normative psychology into psychopathology is handled with greater success, as Ôtomo substantiates in the film a past history that psychologically verifies the mental assault that has been ravaged upon Tetsuo. Indeed, Tetsuo's earlier trauma as the threatened gives his character greater weight than traditional villains, since the ramifications in Akira apply to all victims of trauma.

The film concludes with the traditional endfight, but Ôtomo also interweaves a more pacifistic tone into the film, so that the confrontation is less about blowing stuff up than it is about trying to psychologically save Tetsuo. As a result, the film succeeds in its psychological focus and stands as one of the better analyses of trauma in anime. Solid and enjoyable.

Akira: 8.5/10

Poseidon

So Wolfgang Petersen's Poseidon (2006) is pretty average all the way around. Beautifully technically, but this script feels like a total checklist of every cliche of a disaster epic. Multiethnic cast, check. All the ethnics dying early on, check. Annoying kid actor who can't act, check. Random kid actor disappearing from the group at inopportune times, check. Gay guy dying, no check.

Odd, given everything else.

Anyway, this script hinders what should be an enjoyable disaster movie, since none of the relationships are developed or layered. Dylan Johns (Josh Lucas) and Robert Ramsey (Kurt Russell) help stranded passengers of a sinking cruiseship try to escape to the bottom (now top) of the sinking ship. However, while Dylan seems to display growing affection for a woman and her son, and while Robert must cope with a daughter who is slightly estranged and newly engaged, neither relationship really takes off emotionally, but instead just seems placed there, as though the placement alone is meant to generate our sympathies. This error in script judgment really dooms a technically great film.

The film does garner sympathy when Russell sacrifices himself , so it does something right there, but by then it's too little, too late. While I don't profess Petersen's The Perfect Storm (2000) to be great or anything, I'll watch the end whenever it's on TV, and that film possesses an integrity of life that this film unfortunately never captures. I truly wish Petersen could tap into the zeitgeist like he did with Das Boot (1981) again. Sigh.

Poseidon: 5/10

The Piano Teacher

Michael Haneke's The Piano Teacher (2001) is an intimate examination of sexual and masochistic pathology, social perversion, and heartless betrayal. Considering that this is a Haneke film, it should come as no surprise that the film views all of this through the mildly disinterested gaze of a voyeur rather than turning into an uplifting tale of love that overcomes psychopathology.

Indeed, piano teacher Erika Kohut (Isabelle Ruppert) is so entrenched in her masochistic condition that no proposition of normative desire, in this case Walter Klemmer (Benoit Magimel), can possibly understand and mediate between a normal love and Erika’s preconceived desire for masochistic control. As such, when Erika finally reveals her true sexual leanings to Walter vis-à-vis a note, he cannot comprehend the extent to which her pathology separates them.

Any attempt to normalize their relationship is cannot be, since Erika does not know what a normal relationship consists of, since she instead turns to voyeuristic watching of young couples having sex and porn videos. When Walter finally breaks and commits the culminating crime, something between a forced sex / emotionless rape exists between the two. The fine line that negotiates between forced sex, which is what Erika essentially desires, and rape is so minute that even she is momentarily unsure of which has occurred. Ultimately, though, it is a rape, and this realization confirms to her that she is incapable of experiencing love the same way as others.

Yet, to further complicate our perspective, Erika also channels this masochism into her piano teachings. When a young girl student cannot properly play a piece being readied for performance, Erika sabotages her by placing shards of glass in the girl’s jacket. The inevitable lacerations deny the girl any opportunity to give a mediocre performance, and so Erika’s pathological commitment to the music is guaranteed. This aggression forces us to reconsider how to empathize with Erika, which is what Haneke, of course, wants. How do we empathize with a character that is so far removed from normal negotiations of decency and right and wrong? The answer: we cannot, but we can still appreciate the grim journey.

At the end of The Piano Teacher, there lies the irrevocable suggestion that Erika’s domineering mother fostered this pathological condition in her daughter. Yet the music and Erika’s devotion to it likewise fostered such a desire for control. And while this film is never truly fun viewing, it does explore psychopathology and its myriad repercussions intelligently and articulately. Ruppert gives a bravura performance in a role few would dare to perform, and the journey makes for a grim but engaging film.

The Piano Teacher: 8.5/10

Whisper of the Heart

Yoshifumi Kondo's Whisper of the Heart (1995) is something a little different from Hayao Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli. Rather than being centered around fantasy or mystical environments, this is a simple real-world story about one 14-year-old girl's growth and emotional maturity, hitting all the right tonal notes of young attraction and love.

Miyazaki wrote the screenplay, where Shizuku Tsukishima, a gifted translator and voracious reader, realizes that everything she takes out from the library has also been taken out by a Seiji Amasawa, a young violin maker. Naturally, the two are unknowingly brought together, spite each other, realize the truth about one another, and slowly discover the truth that resides in their heart about the other. That these scenes never become melodramatic or sentimental is a testament to Miyazaki's writing and Kondo's direction.

This film is, principally, about honesty and integrity, about following one's dreams no matter the obstacle. And while these ideas are certainly nothing new for children's films, the manner in which Kondo explores them demonstrates a sophistication that is echoed in the characters themselves. Full of vibrance and tangents that allow for a deeper psychological resonance with the characters, Whisper of the Heart builds to a climax that is heartwarming, beautiful, and simply pure perfection.

The honesty in which Miyazaki and Kondo deal with Shizuku's emotions, then, becomes the central success of the film. All of her feelings are transposed through the eye of the camera, letting us experience her frustration, budding desire for Seiji, and finally idyllic devotion to him. It is, simply put, a masterpiece of young human emotion.

Whisper of the Heart: 10/10

The Night of the Hunter

Charles Laughton's The Night of the Hunter (1955) exists as a film both ahead of its time and a product of its time. The film has two concurrent storylines that meet up early on. The first concerns a psychotic preacher, Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum), who goes through towns killing the scum so that sins of the flesh can be overcome. Meanwhile, young John Harper has watched his father place stolen money in his sister's doll. Through much incredulous circumstance, Powell comes looking for the money and John and his sister, Pearl, must flee town to survive.

Mitchum, of course, is terrific in the film, but the other principal actors are all hindered by a script that forces them to act against what should obviously be better judgment (especially Pearl and the Harper mother). Moreover, the unfortunate stylistic acting of the 50s contrasts with my temperment that is more used to naturalisic acting, which jars me out of the film occasionally.

Yet, while The Night of the Hunter is filled with plot contrivances, random tripping of the bad guy who chases slower kids, and the like, the second half, where the film takes on its more metaphorical dreamscape, is surprisingly tense, tantalizing, and well directed. I only wish that all the film possessed this same style. The juxtaposition of songs that Mrs. Cooper (Lillian Gish, channeling all of her silent film innocence sense of protection) and Powell sing, where each is symbolically combatting the other's faith/corrupt faith, is quite interesting. The over-reliance that "commoners" place upon proposed figures of faith is also interesting, and some of the visuals throughout are very haunting (the mother at the bottom of the lake).

Finally, the musical score here is absolutely magnificent. It blends beautifully with the dreamy images that Laughton secures from his cinematographer, and allows the mystic nature of the second half to be fully realized. For a contemporary take on the ideas that The Night of the Hunter explores, give David Gordon Green's Undertow (2004) a try. With The Night of the Hunter, ignore the first half of the film that is unfortunately burdened with 50s Hollywood acting and writing, and this film becomes magical.

The Night of the Hunter: 7/10

Y tu mamá también

Alfonso Cuarón's Spanish film Y tu mamá también (2001) is surprisingly captivating. The narration holds enough political underpinning and diverges enough so that the film possesses undercurrents of commentary that prevents it from merely being a film about the sexes. Moreover, the friendships and relationships continuously develop, overlap, and fragment, so that the most minute dialogue truly has the impact of reality, rather than prescripted Screenwriting 101. This film is yet another example of how foreign cinema gets at the heart of the matter with far stronger results than Hollywood scripted stories about relationships. Though the films are different tonally, this bears a resemblance to Mike Nichols Closer in its examination of the politics of the sexes, yet, as stated earlier, it contains political commentary about Mexico that allows the film to transcend any simple label of being a "relationship movie." It is a road trip movie, a political critique of Julio (Gael Garcia Bernal) and Tenoch's (Diego Luna) cultural upbringing, and a film about trying to get some sweet lovin'.

As one can guess from the picture, the film is obviously going to be sexy, with two high school guys trying to score with an older woman, but it is also quite affecting emotionally. To understand the twist that comes at the end for Luisa (Maribel Verdu) and how it's so embroiled in the beginning of her character is a great bait and switch by the director. So it's a wonderfully complex take on sexuality, maturity, and the psychology that is at the heart of all relationships. Beautifully shot and directed, and what a final scene via image and voiceover at the coffee shop. A great commentary on the impermanence of relationships built around simple lies instead of hard truths.

Y tu mamá también: 8/10

Paris, Texas

Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas (1984) is a film that slowly unfurls its narrative, relying on the measured evolution of character, music, and image to carry it until the end of the film sweeps headlong into view. With characters avoiding talk of the past for so long, it is only logical that the film closes like a confessional. Yet even this metaphorical image is not quite exact enough, for wanderers remain wanderers, and little is offered to suggest that the film’s family reunion will continue past the scenes that demonstrate it.

A middle-aged and seemingly mute drifter Travis (Harry Dean Stanton) is found in the deserts of Texas. When his brother, Walt (Dean Stockwell), who hasn’t seen Travis in four years, is notified of the finding, he comes down from California to rescue his brother and help him return to normalcy. After some time, Travis opens up verbally and proves able to come back to California, where his son Hunter has been taken in by Walt and his wife. That the film doesn’t become overly sentimental in its gradual depictions of father and son bonding is a testament to the direction and Sam Shepard’s script underplaying family melodrama conventions.

Inevitably, Travis and his son set off in search of Travis’ wife and Hunter’s mother, who is somewhere in Houston, Texas. That they find her isn’t necessarily a shock, but the integrity and candor that Paris, Texas shows after she has been located is something beyond the genre. And so we arrive at the confessional scenes, which reveal untold depths of psychopathology to Travis, who we had previously thought of with fondness, and so the film rather brilliantly forces a reevaluation of everything we once believed. Suddenly a character who seemed romantic is revealed as narcissistic, and what’s interesting is that the final images of the film likewise reveal that this narcissism may still possess Travis, and that fleeing may be easier than any reconciliation.

Though the film roams, its poeticism and artistry is nonetheless reigned in by a narrative that is indeed substantial. All the roles are handled well, particularly Stanton as Travis, and the layers of character extend beyond any rigid sense of convention. This is a film that digs into you, asking you to consider the characters long after the film fades to black, and the experience is richer for that. Wenders’ road movie explores the human psyche and goes far beyond approximation. And paradoxically enough, given this review, the less one knows of Wenders’ film going into it, the better the journey of the film actually is.

Paris, Texas: 10/10

Bob Roberts

"Don't smoke crack. It's a ghetto drug."

The key to mockumentaries is playing the central character straight. And, indeed, Tim Robbins' satiric mockumentary Bob Roberts (1992) gets this idea right, which is the whole key to the film's success. Moreover, though the film seemed like a mockumentary on national politics at the time of its release, Robbins' picture seems more prescient and incendiary today than ever before.

Followed by a documentary film crew, Bob Roberts (Tim Robbins) is a rightwing folk musician who runs for the Pennsylvanian senate against incumbant Senator Brickley Paiste (Gore Vidal). Taking his message to the common people, where Roberts woos citizens with folk songs that are best described as a blend of sincerity and utter stupidity (see the beautifully done Drugs are Bad song), Roberts secures his votes. When Roberts’ campaign manager Lukas Hart III (Alan Rickman) comes under fire for illegal operations in the past, though, a plan is hatched that guarantees Roberts’ electoral win.

There’s nothing like an assassination attempt to fuel Roberts’ electoral win. Yet although this attempt is seemingly played straight, the film’s lone muck-raking reporter (Giancarlo Esposito), who was charged with the assassination attempt, reveals that the only shots that were fired were actually fired at the ground by Roberts’ own crew. As a result, the spinal paralysis that Roberts sustained is merely a contrivance manufactured to garner sympathy and support.

If Robbins plays this with a wink, the whole picture would crumble. As it is, the tone is always straight and the secondary characters (television reporters and media) provide the majority of the humor. Yet to state that Roberts himself isn’t hilarious in his own right is also a fallacy. Robbins plays Roberts so straight that his whole characterization becomes howlingly funny. Roberts’ return letter to a 7-year-old who sent him a valentine is wonderful, and the folk songs are such a caricature that they too rule. Yet the film’s final scenes shift the tone to a genuine questioning of justice against tyranny, the nature of sacrifice for truth, and whether the documentarian will reveal the secret that he alone knows.

The cameos of the film are wonderful, and a young Jack Black steals every scene that he is in, but in many ways this film exists as a harbinger to the national politics of today, where politicians’ soundbites override common sense, and where slander and speculation surplant proof. Bob Roberts is a thoroughly fascinating film where the quality is as underrated as the film. Highly recommended.

Bob Roberts: 8/10

Manderlay

Continuing where his first film in the U.S.A. triology left off, Dogville, Lars von Trier’s Manderlay (2005) charts a more compact, more scathing, and of course, more emotionally challenging path.

Grace (Bryce Dallas Howard) and her father’s band of gangsters stumble upon a southern country town that still employs slavery. Grace orders that the town release their hold on the slaves, that it begin teaching democracy and freedom, and that the whites must repay their debt. Of course, since this is von Trier we’re talking about, any ideals that Grace exhibits are eventually called into question, so that the film examines whether forced democracy still isn’t a form of monarchy, despite how compliant the African-Americans initially seem. As always, questions of community and the true self are explored and commented upon.

Grace is initially positioned as a character who is not vain, but by the end of the film she has surrendered to her pride and reveals herself to be as guilty of ulterior motives as any other. Implicit in this newfound realization comes the social critique from Manderlay that anyone who forcefully legitimizes a takeover/regime change must still be examined for their ulterior motives. And while the scope of this little summary isn’t to bring national politics into the fray, von Trier is a little too blunt to not intentionally satarize these details. And while it may be too easy a target, it is also a potentially valid one.

Still, the ending of the film, which forces a reversal of assumption about character intention on the part of Wilhelm (Danny Glover, demonstrating solid range and restraint), does attempt to escape such pedantics and legitimately question the nature/need for some level of slavery, even as at adheres to the idea of female martyrdom so expected in a Lars von Trier film.

The problem with judging this film, then, comes primarily in questioning how many successive times von Trier can exploit the same, albeit fertile, ideas of martyrdom before one tires of the repetitive thematics and wishes for von Trier to try something new. This is why Breaking the Waves is the lone masterpiece of von Trier’s films viewed by this author. It was the first to use these tricks, and so it claimed them as vital and innovative. Now, however, despite retaining a quality picture, there are reservations in awarding a film that recycles so many ideas.

A dissenting opinion of Manderlay can be found here, and its criticisms are all indeed valid. But if the film works emotionally, and this author believes it does, then von Trier’s belief in this work, despite being didactic, is nonetheless engaging and worth viewing for anyone at all interested in the exploration of challenging ideas.

Manderlay: 7.5/10

Scary Movie 4

David Zucker's Scary Movie 4 (2006) continues the streak, however monotonous, of comedic satire generated from the latest media trends and horror/action films. If all of this sounds uninspiring, then you understand that what's in store is another dose of occasionally diverting amusement sandwiched around a lot of filler material.

Cindy Campbell (Anna Faris, always likeable) returns to face more traumatic situations that she solves more because of plot expectations than because she displays anything along the lines of an IQ. Likewise, Tom Ryan (Craig Bierko, channeling a healthy dose of Tom Cruise) finds that intelligence is not necessary for survival.

The first twenty minutes of the film are entertaining, but from then after Zucker seems to acknowledge that he's run out of material and so he returns to the oh so familiar gags of farting and getting-hit-in-the-head scenes. If this doesn't appeal to you, as it doesn't appeal to me, I suggest stopping the film about 20 minutes in. Still, the Jigsaw character from the Saw series is amusingly used at the end. But, erm, that's about it.

Scary Movie 4: 3/10

The Player

Robert Altman’s The Player (1992) rejuvenated his long dormant career and foretold of the resurrected ideas of ensemble pieces, relationships, and satire that would continue to guide his career into the present day. However, at times The Player finds itself settling for an easy though caustic satire of Hollywood instead of delving into the psyche of one desperate individual.

Griffin Mill (Tim Robbins) is a Hollywood executive producer, entrusted with mining different combos of other movies for upcoming projects, coddled by his underlings and by his girlfriend, Bonnie, and thoroughly drifting with power. When he begins to receive harassing postcards from what he assumes to be an screenwriter (Vincent D’Onofrio) who was long ignored, Griffin takes action into his own hands and dispenses with the screenwriter. However, he also falls in love with the screenwriter’s girlfriend, June Gudmundsdottir (Greta Scacchi), and, moreover, continues to receive threatening postcards.

This film works better as a satire of Hollywood than as a psychological study simply because it is never as interested in inner psychology as it is in the big payoff. And that is not necessarily an affront to the film so much as it is an affront to my habitual viewing interests. Observing Griffin, June Gudmundsdottir offers a throwaway line about whether or not one suffers if there is no sense of true suffering, and, indeed, Griffin echoes this observation by being too indifferent and detached to do more than worry for his own skin. Yet these are the details that I wish to see explored more, not the vacuous satirical bits.

However, the critique that a soul only gets you hurt in industry, despite being an easy target, nonetheless acts as a real critique, especially in the late-80s-early-90s era that the film documents. Moreover, the ending, which involves a circuitous overhaul of our previous conception of Griffin’s story, does work, even if it does not feel totally thought out (i.e. was Lyle Lovett’s character leaving the postcards at the dinner hotel, or was a second person tailing Griffin?). Also, the detective sequences feel at odds with the remainder of the picture, and though this can be defended by arguing that every scene is transcribed through Griffin’s subjective mind, these scenes still don’t quite work as well as they ought to.

On the other hand, The Player is thoroughly enjoyable and it does possess an intersting commentary on the merits of reality versus Hollywood fantasy, and the ending is delicious fun.

The Player: 7/10

Dancer in the Dark

Lars von Trier's Dancer in the Dark (2000) intersects musical fantasy and stark realism, acting as a vehicle for songwriter Bjork to perfect her idiosyncratic musical and vocal styling onto film, while acting as another female victim story for von Trier, who has now directed four consecutive films that examine community, treachery, and female martyrdom (Breaking the Waves, this, Dogville, and Manderlay). Yet, despite this limiting effect, this is also the fourth consecutive quality work that von Trier has produced.

Selma (Bjork) is a Czech factory worker in 1950s America and a lover of American musicals, attending films with her friend and co-worker Kathy (the extraordinary Catherine Deneuve). She continually saves money from her work in an effort to repair her son’s eyesight, which is a hereditary disease that plagues her as well, before he loses his eyesight as she is losing hers. She rents her home from policeman Bill Houston (David Morse), who is emotionally weak and confides to her that his wife’s exorbitant spending has left them penniless, even after he adds together his income with Selma’s rent money. As a result, he steals Selma’s stashed money and eventually forces her to kill him if she wants the money back. Of course, she is caught and tried for murder.

Intercut with the stark realism, Selma escapes into flights of fancy, dreaming up song and dance numbers that echo and romantically comment upon her plight in the real world. These shots, unlike the real world sequences, possess a timeless visual palette, as they differentiate from the more traditional von Trier handheld-camera stylistic. Moreover, the songs are intensely beautiful, full of percussive force and Bjork’s always remarkable voice.

To critique von Trier for historical accuracy, as some detractors are wont to do, is a pointless attack, since he does not really care historical accuracy, but instead values emotional accuracy. And the climax of the film, in the “Next to Last Song” number, is exceedingly powerful and gut-wrenching. Moreover, Bjork displays such a naked portrayal of Selma that any little criticisms dissolve in the face of her martyrdom, as we begin to understand why she sacrifices herself for her son. Indeed, understanding the value of human life and sacrifice is one of the first keys to understanding von Trier’s films. His films work as Christian allegory, as Greg notes, but they work just as well as stories that offer a worth of life that rises far beyond one's own.

Loaded with haunting musical numbers and the expected bullet-to-the-head emotional charge in all of von Trier’s films, Dancer in the Dark is an exceptional film full of dramatic force.

Dancer in the Dark: 8.5/10

In Her Shoes

As testament to the fact that I do accidentally watch horrible films, I give you Curtis Hanson’s In Her Shoes (2005). Masquerading as a fun little “chick lit” film, this cinematic bust in fact harbors one of the most incompatible blends of pathos and humor that I’ve ever been subjected to in film.

Maggie (Cameron Diaz) and Rose Feller (Toni Collette) are sisters, and, of course, as a result diametrically opposed. Rose is a committed workaholic, while Maggie, a resident party-girl who gets trashed and sleeps with anything, crashes at her sister’s apartment. After Maggie has sex with Rose’s current boyfriend, though, she is cast out and seeks shelter with their grandmother Ella (Shirley MacLaine) at a retirement home, where she learns such valuable lessons as reading and, um, not sleeping with her sister’s boyfriend.

The mechanization of the plot renders an otherwise incalculable personal affront into an injury that is at best kinda bad. Of course, the film reveals that he was scum and that Rose’s true love was another, and in so doing sidesteps all but the cheesiest ethical repercussions of Maggie’s action. This sort of űber-cheesy attention to detail plagues the entire picture, rendering confessions trite and pained, and helping plot twists nearly equal the unparalleled genius that is ABC's According to Jim. This one is just bad all around, folks.

And let it be known, a film cannot end with a character reading a poem at a sister’s wedding, and then repeating it via voiceover mere minutes later. Horrible.

In Her Shoes: 1.5/10

Contempt

The cinema of Jean-Luc Godard has always been self-reflexive, which allows Godard to act as an explicit commentator upon his themes. Yet his obvious visual and philosophical acuity do not always translate to fascinating films, as Alphaville can attest to, at least in my opinion. Thankfully, Contempt (1963) exists as one of Godard's very strongest entries in his oeuvre.

The title derives from the ambiguous yet unrelenting contempt that Camille Javal (Brigitte Bardot) fosters toward her husband, novelist/screenwriter Paul (Michel Piccoli). When Paul signs on to help rewrite the script for Fritz Lang’s film adaptation of the Odyssey by producer Jeremy Prokosch (Jack Palance), he unwittingly commits a loss of integrity and selflessness, which Camille internalizes alongside Paul’s reckless deserting of her in the hands of Prokosch. From there, Paul strives to maintain a marriage that is quickly dissolving.

Yet no Godard film is truly that simplistic. This film, as with all of Godard’s works, takes a cue from Brechtian practices and exposes all of its meta and narratological mechanisms so that the audience becomes cognizant of the film’s conceits, yet, because Godard is so ingenious in his handling of the material, these divulgences heighten the film’s experience rather than detract from the overall experience. See especially how he manipulates sound when Paul and the others converse while watching a dance, as well as the excellent climax, which subverts and rewards us simultaneously.

Moreover, Contempt continually avoids genre expectation, such as when he introduces a gun into the film’s scenario, yet never reduces himself or the film by actually relying on the weapon. Instead, he subverts our expectation by utilizing our long-understood notion of plot elements against us. Overall, though, Contempt works best as an analysis of a man struggling to make any and all sacrifices in order to salvage a marriage, even when he does not understand why he wife is so contemptuous to him.

Along with My Life to Live, this is one of Godard’s most perfect films, and is mandatory viewing to anyone at all interested in cinema.

Contempt: 10/10

The 39 Steps

Alfred Hitchcock's The 39 Steps (1935) is a typical film for Hitchcock, full of the customary wit, intrigue, and restrained romance that he is celebrated for, all while ratcheting up the necessary suspense that is simply Hitchcockian. It is, justly, his breakthrough film, and a worthy classic.

Richard Hannay (Robert Donat) plays a Canadian in London who is unjustly identified as a murderer. He heads for Scotland in an attempt to secure his innocence, only to realize that those he sought refuge from may mean him more harm than the police that he flees. He is eventually handcuffed to the beautiful but naive Pamela (Madeleine Carroll) as the two of them must work together to evade the real killers.

Within this conventional (for Hitchcock) framework, Hitchcock explores concepts of institutionalized marriage and uncommon trust, in that all the married couples are presented as loveless entities that remain together despite each other rather than because of each other. Additionally, the handcuffs create an interesting, though obvious, metaphor in retrospect, since Richard and Pamela must trust each other with their lives just as all couples must trust one another. They are emblematic of all couples, that is, minus the constant interceder of death that chases after them. Still, it's a powerful metaphor, and one which is subtle enough that it does not reveal itself unnecessarily or take one out of the film.

Moreover, the film's ending is a classic example of the MaGuffin, and its integration is ingenious. The only fault, really, lies in how Hitchcock alludes to past information with superimposed faces in the beginning, which was incredibly jarring to me, and nearly had me turning off the film. After that, though, it's all a fun and thrilling affair.

The 39 Steps: 9/10

The Untouchables

Brian De Palma has one of the most singular visual eyes in cinema. Unfortunately, the scripts that he chooses to direct are seldom as inspired as his vision (Femme Fatale is a surprising exception). The Untouchables (1987) is one of those stories where one man stands up against the corrupt system, finds three individuals who are equally motivated, mourns as those individuals are slowly murdered, and then overthrows the corrupt system to much courtroom clapping.

If this sounds overly cynical, it’s simply because I have tired of these stories, when De Palma is clearly so much more talented. Anyway, Eliot Ness (Kevin Costner) is the one man, the corrupt system is Chicago and Al Capone (Robert De Niro, beautifully slumming), and those motivated individuals are Jim Malone (Sean Connery), George Stone (Andy Garcia), and Oscar Wallace (Charles Martin Smith).

Those scenes which are most successful, despite an overly-exploitative soundtrack by the normally brilliant Ennio Morricone, are those between Ness and his wife (Patricia Clarkson), and these two actors elevate average material into something more meaningful through sheer acting pedigree. The couple’s understanding becomes transformed into a patient though inarticulate love. Also in the film, of course, is the wonderful homage to Eisenstein’s Potemkin in the train station, which De Palma directs with a master’s ease.

Despite these qualities, though, as well as Connery’s excellent performance, the film just never rises above its stagnant genre choices.

The Untouchables: 6/10

A Scene at the Sea

Japanese auteur Takeshi Kitano's A Scene at the Sea (1991) is one of his departures from audience expectation, since audiences had long grown accustomed to seeing Kitano direct and star in violent Yakuza movies. Instead, with A Scene at the Sea, Kitano proved deftly able to fashion a minimalist dramatic film centered entirely around subdued emotion and almost passive yearning.

A deaf-mute garbage collector, Shigeru (Kuroudo Maki), harbors little interest with his surroundings until he tries to repair a broken surfboard. Once the surfboard again breaks, though, Shigeru and his girlfriend, the also deaf-mute Takako (Hiroko Oshima), work to secure a new surfboard for him. At this point, the film is largely composed of shots at the sea as Shigeru tries to master surfing while Takako watches. Yet the emotional core of the film is their loyal relationship, and, as such, the film never drags or reaches for a cloying note, but instead remains thoroughly riveting.

Theirs is a sexless relationship. Instead of physical intimacy, there is emotional devotion. As a result, when Takako sees another girl sit beside Shigeru on more than one occasion, the betrayal leaves a scar deeper than any physical jealousy. More often than not, however, Takako sits in subdued interest and watches Shigeru surf, folding his discarded clothes with loving care. Patiently, then, the film builds to its crescendo, and the weight of the logical twist allows a Japanese/Hong Kong montage to be earned rather than forced. The film never manipulates, but instead reveals, and the ending is in concert with Takako's inner character, in that it's revealed as a far more active participant than we ever suspected.

The film expertly leads us into a contemplative spirit as Shigeru works to mature within his chosen pastime, and demonstrates a value for fidelity and devotion that is more profound than any words could manage. Though it initially seems to lack a narrative, the structure to A Scene at the Sea is classical in nature, and every moment is beautifully underscored by a masterful soundtrack.

A Scene at the Sea: 9.5/10

Last Life in the Universe

Few films on my list exist because of their collaborative nature, since most derive from a single auteur. Yet Thai director Pen-Ek Ratanaruang’s Last Life in the Universe (2003) is the exception, allowing four divergent creative voices to prefigure into the film’s construction. Beyond Pen-Ek, we have the dominant yet understated performance of Asano Tadanobu, the cinematographic artistry of Christopher Doyle, and the anarchic third-act presence of Takashi Miike. What is significant, though, is that these disparate influences embody the film’s mise en scène with minute exactness, weaving the age-old “opposites attract” genre together with a bittersweet rumination on life, symmetry, and chance.

Kenji (Asano Tadanobu) is a librarian who avoids any and all relationships and instead cleans everything around his apartment with mechanical precision. Noi (Sinitta Boonyasak) drifts through the day smoking pot and leaves behind a cluttered, emotional mess. When tragedy unites them, they enact an odd pairing as a combatant against their collective overwhelming sorrow. Yet this pairing is localized and given enough characteristics that classic clichés become imbued with something more profound.

This is a funny film, but the humor of the film is often dark, since Kenji wants to commit suicide, thinking that death rather than life “is bliss.” As a result, there are recurrent fantasy sequences where Kenji imagines his own death, and it is here that the film marks Kenji’s psychopathology. Yet his interest is piqued around Noi, even though he continues to reveal a pathological mindset, holding conversations with Noi even as he projects Noi’s dead sister, Nid, onto her body. This intersection between the two sisters creates a thematic element that doubles with Kenji’s own life, and Nid’s appearances become psychologically valuable to understanding Kenji’s inner-state.

It comes as no surprise that at the very core of Kenji’s need for cleanliness lies a need to cleanse his past. Though the narrative outwardly makes no mention of this fact, Kenji’s dragon tattoo on his back hints at a larger trauma where he was part of the yakuza, much like his murdered brother early in the film. Fascinatingly, this narratological renunciation gives a hint of Kenji’s paralysis. As such, his interest in the redemption found in Noi exists not just at the level of romantic interest, but at the more profound level of psychological recovery from his respective earlier paralyses.

The aspect of cleanliness, which of course has its debts to Shakespeare and Freud, comes to fruition in the film’s climax. While others might feel that Miike’s presence derails the film’s structure, I see his introduction into the narrative as explicitly bringing to the fore the past that has long been suppressed. Kenji can either relinquish the past and begin a new life or he can expose himself and commit inner-suicide. Pen-Ek handles the final decision with enough irony that we understand the tragic humor, yet the actions are always fully humane and in character. As a result, the ending overwhelms with its wistful hope, understanding as it does that hope is the last thing that Kenji can cling to. What’s important, though, is that he does choose hope.

Last Life in the Universe: 9.5/10

Benny's Video

Michael Haneke’s Benny’s Video (1992) anticipates his later film Funny Games, in that both are concerned with the nature of screen violence and how our desensitization to it precipitates a sense of ambivalence rather than fear or apprehension.

Benny (Arno Frisch, serving as a precursor for his later role in Funny Games) sits in his room and watches homemade videos of a pig being slaughtered, in addition to the constant barrage of national images of violence, and becomes so in tune with the filmed violence that he eventually ponders what it would be like to experience a murder himself. When his family goes away for the weekend, he invites a young girl over and sets up his video recorder. He is never sexually excited by the girl, but only by the video of the killing, and in this manner Haneke questions us as to where our sexual drive comes from, be it from filmic violence or from live flesh. After the inevitable killing, we watch Benny go about his day nonchalantly and eventually reveal the murder to his parents vis-à-vis the video tape of the killing.

His parents, for their part, decide to dispose of the body to protect Benny and while the father butchers the body into small pieces so that the girl can never be found, the mother takes Benny to Egypt. That the film stays with the mother and Benny during this time is a wonderful poke at our naturally curious desire to watch how the father disposes of the body, and that Haneke denies us this uncomfortable pleasure is readily apparent. He wants to deny us this primal thrill, even as he exposes the awareness of that voyeuristic thrill to us.

The film ends on a subversive reversal extolling redemption, but this reversal doesn’t embody any true redemption. Benny tells the police what he did, in effect undermining his parents’ disregard of the law. Yet there does not exist any explicit reason for this action. Instead, we can only take away those small throwaway glimpses of Benny’s humanity, such as his showing of posthumous respect for the dead girl, covering her legs when her dead body is splayed on the floor.

Despite a bravura bit of filmmaking where Haneke lures the audience into wanting to view the central murder of the girl, and again questions our need for such complicit viewing even as he hides most of the images offscreen, tantalizing us with only sound, Benny’s Video isn’t quite ready to sophisticatedly cover the terrain that Funny Games covers, and so it never quite achieves the same exceptional and uncomfortable quality that Funny Games is awash in. Certainly a good film, but never quite great.

Benny's Video: 6.5/10

Unforgiven

Clint Eastwood’s elegy for the western, Unforgiven (1992), is so meticulously crafted and expertly directed that the awe one feels for the film occasionally overshadows its main themes.

It’s the 1880s, and Little Bill Daggett (Gene Hackman) plays the corrupt sheriff who refuses to enforce any true justice on a cowboy who cut up a prostitute’s face because she laughed at his (hmm, how to word this?) undersized wee-wee. His refusal to be objective lies in the fact that he believes the women are sinning, and, thus, deserve whatever they bring upon themselves. The other women take exception with this disregard of objectivity, and get word into all the western lands that they’ll offer a reward to anyone who kills the cowboy who scarred the prostitute.

William ‘Bill’ Munny (Eastwood) is a reformed killer who now cares for his two small children on a small piece of property and silently mourns his widow. He is not a good farmer, he cannot clear the sick pigs away from the healthy ones, but he is devoted to each farming task because it silences any old thought from being resurrected. Indeed, vengeance and alcohol once clouded his senses, and he refuses to return to that old lifestyle. However, he knows that his children cannot live on his petty income since he isn’t a good farmer, and so he contemplates a return to murderous justice when the Schofield Kid (Jaimz Woolvett) asks for his help to avenge the prostitute.

Recruiting his old partner Ned Logan (Morgan Freeman aka the voice of God), Munny and the Kid head north to take revenge on the cowboy. Along the way, Munny reveals his childlike devotion to his dead wife, using his unending devotion for her to quiet any resurrected thoughts of dark vengeance. Yet when tragedy ensues, Eastwood does not shy away from examining how darkness can creep up in one man, and how violence brought against friends can demand a sense of retribution that goes far beyond justice.

As a result, it is within the final scenes in Unforgiven that Eastwood identifies the film’s preoccupation with vengeance and forgiveness. Munny has finished the job he was hired to do, yet he returns to settle the score, and, in doing so, he returns to that primitive being he once was. He knows it, and so does Little Bill Haggett, as noted in this exchange:

Little Bill Haggett: You just shot an unarmed man.
Bill Munny: He should have armed himself…

What’s more, he almost seems to relish the ability to once more drink and murder, since he is far from selective in whom he targets. Consequently, any joyous celebration of retribution becomes silenced since the audience understands how far Munny has gone, and doubts whether or not he can revive that devotional aspect to his life once more. Hence the importance of the opening and ending title cards.

Unforgiven is a solid contribution from Eastwood, and an incredibly rich experience on the nature of justice, past lives, and friendship.

Unforgiven: 9/10

Short Cuts

Short Cuts (1993) is Robert Altman’s ensemble interpretation of Robert Carver’s short stories, all of which concern middle-class life, relationships, and arguments between the sexes. More concerned with the small moments of life than with any real grandiose realization, it’s a wonderfully intimate and studied film.

The title derives from the cuts between the seven or eight concurrent stories that arc through Altman’s film. Rather than trail one storyline through to its natural conclusion and then begin the next, Altman throws all the storylines together and leaves it to the viewer to decide which is most central to the film.

As a study of stress, in all of its human, marital, and familial facets, Short Cuts is a marvelous success. I’m thinking especially of the Marian (Julianne Moore) and Ralph Wyman (Matthew Modine) storyline, where the husband and wife continually spar with one another, and the nakedness with which they conduct their translucent anger is a thing to behold. These are people that do not feel any reason to suppress the natural antagonism that has become a part of their daily lives. Equally interesting is the Shepard family (Madeleine Stowe and Tim Robbins), as their storyline documents a discontented family, but one which stays together despite the animosity each spouse levels at the other.

For those familiar with P. T. Anderson’s Magnolia, it comes as no surprise that this study of L.A. suburban alienation and angst concludes with a natural disaster, an earthquake, which brings about the vicissitudes of life. This serendipitous force brings a calming influence to all those that the film has followed, though it leaves an ambivalence as to whether Chris Penn’s character fill face any retribution for his murderous act.

Despite the praise that has so far been offered, Altman’s Short Cuts does simplify a few storylines that Carver had expertly written. For example, the Finnigan family (Bruce Davison and Andie MacDowell) and their trauma aren’t handled with the same care and religious allegory that Carver so meticulously wove into their short story, “A Small Good Thing.” Yet the film handles so much humanity with such careful regard that it is impossible to seriously scold the film, since it possesses a rare and a diligent handling of such humane topics.

Short Cuts: 9/10

The Descent

British filmmaker Neil Marshall’s The Descent (2005) is not out to transform the horror film narrative, especially since the film is predicated on those familiar tropes that have been around as long as the horror film narrative; instead, it is out to provide the most psychologically taut and frightening images to be documented in a horror film in many a year.

Sarah (Shauna Macdonald) suffered the traumatic loss of her husband and daughter in a car accident. She is still haunted by images of this event, and her impaired psychopathology is one of the film’s greatest strengths, since we don’t quite know whether the film wants us to understand the events that unfold as hallucination, and thus as inscripted revelation, or instead as shocking reality (the British ending, unlike the US ending, emphasizes the former, and can be seen here).

Anyway. There is unstated antagonism between Sarah and Juno (Natalie Jackson Mendoza), who may have been trying to initiate an affair with Sarah’s husband in the moments leading up to the crash. Now, however, it is a year later and Sarah, Juno, and four others are going on a cave expedition. What unfolds will not be stated here, as the film is best viewed when you know as little as possible. Know that you’ll be entertained, and that the film subtly explores the effects of traumatic experience.

However, The Descent also explores how a victim, namely the fragile Sarah, can in effect become a victimizer. Without the proper therapy, the trauma that she suffered through can linger and be revealed later with devastating results. In some regards, this may be the best explanation behind why she is perhaps most able to handle all that transpires in the cave expedition.

Given the status of the current horror market, where the best films are invariably Asian and those often aim for more than cheap thrills, The Descent is a wonderful find, and well worth the ticket.

The Descent: 8.5/10

Orlando

There are few films that are as dependent on a central performance as Sally Potter’s adaptation of Virginia Woolf’s Orlando (1992). Tilda Swinton must persuasively portray the feminine man Orlando, born into wealth and prosperity in the 1600s and 1700s, but then she must maintain that conviction when Orlando becomes a woman in the 1800s-present day, demonstrating each beguiling change with a matter-of-fact expression that adheres to the natural progression of Woolf's novel.

If you were questioning Orlando’s survival through the centuries, it should be noted that the key behind Orlando’s miraculous immortality lies in Elizabeth I’s blessing of him. The manor in which Orlando resides may be his as long as he does not age and wither. And so he does not. Unfortunately, though, that means that those around Orlando, specifically his betrothed, will pass out of view as they wither and Orlando’s eye wanders elsewhere. Yet women will still break his heart, and as Orlando himself notes, such is “the treachery of women!” though this same phrase gets amusingly reversed after the sex transformation.

The ethos behind this film firstly lies in its critique of the financial limitations of women, unable to hold property unless they can bear male children, is particularly scathing, but the tone is lightened by Swinton’s buoyant performance, so that the most contemptuous critiques are delivered with a nonchalant air. Secondarily is the appraisal by the royal court and the poets in the film that man is the greater sex, and that women may be raised atop a pedestal, but that is only because they do not possess the actual cognizance to think for themselves. Thirdly, there is the ease of persuasion of forcing a marriage to be simply because, as Orlando at last realizes, the man “adores you.” As a man, Orlando gets by without any real intellectual cunning, using his prosperity to compensate for a lack of real insight, so it is telling that Orlando’s true intelligence comes only after she has become a woman.

The film is never less than engaging, and the sumptuous design of costumes and scenery make this one of the best costume dramas. Moreover, Orlando has a strong philosophical merit that costume dramas sometimes ignore in favor of a more lighthearted story. Excellent stuff, this.

Orlando: 8.5/10

War of the Worlds

Steven Spielberg's War of the Worlds (2005) has an incredible opening voiceover by Morgan Freeman (hitherto known as the voice of God) that warns of an imminent alien invasion matched on top of images of Americans and their blissfully unaware daily existence. Had the voice of God persisted through the entirety of the film rather than reverting to a narrative-driven story of an alien invasion seen through the eyes of New York father Ray Ferrier (Tom Cruise), there might have been an interesting omniscient narrative going on. Alas, Spielberg saved his experimental stylistics for Munich.

It’s certainly a better film than Independence Day (1996), not that that’s saying much. However, Independence Day is a lot more fun than this film. Attempts to add art-house flourishes to this film with the whole white ash covering Ferrier’s face, which is an obvious nod to 9/11, don’t really add anything, and I grimaced when Ray’s daughter, Rachel (Dakota Fanning) asked whether the alien attacks “were the terrorists?”

Anyway, what you’re looking at here is an enjoyable but flawed film where a father rediscovers his love for life and family in the midst of total devastation. I don’t have any problems with the third act, save for the unexpected (re: bullshit) announcement that Ray’s son was not incinerated with the military when the aliens go on the offensive, but instead made it to Boston without being killed. I cry foul when a film deserves it, and this scene deserves it. So there are lowered points because Spielberg refuses to abide by a narrative of emotional devastation (family deaths) and instead opts for a distanced devastation (peripheral deaths).

The first two minutes of War of the Worlds, as well as the last three minutes, contain the voice of God, and it would be expected that they rule. And, indeed, they do. So hard. Unfortunately, everything in between is quite average emotionally, even if it's technically superb.

War of the Worlds: 5.5/10