Last night, I put up two postings and I'm going to try to do another three or four today. I have a backlog of films that I'm trying to clear off the docket. Hopefully, I can do this in time to put my musings about Watchmen next week.
Anyways, so J. and I went to my favorite theater, The Majestic Bay in Ballard. It's a family-owned theater (the only one in Seattle). More importantly, though, they have comfortable seats, freshly popped corn (I hate that popcorn that comes shipped in bags), real butter, and NO COMMERCIALS. It's so nice to avoid those really annoying commercials especially the ones for the National Guard. I have nothing against the military but I do have everything against mediocre testosterone rock used to create propaganda. I probably don't get out there as often as I'd like. Part of the problem is location -- J and I like to avoid using the car on the weekend and it's much easier to bus it downtown. The other issue is simply film selection. They just don't seem to play many of the films that I'd like to see. I'm always thankful, though, whenever I do have a reason to head out to Majestic Bay.
Much like The Visitor, J and I felt no great compelling reason to see Frost/Nixon. The only reason we bothered was because we wanted to see it before the Oscars. While I wouldn't call it disappointing, I certainly didn't feel that the film was particularly remarkable. I think sometimes the Academy confuses gravitas with quality. In other words, they overlook a film like The Dark Knight, which despite the fact it's a comic book-based story is still an example of masterly film making, and instead give credit to films like Frost/Nixon and The Reader because they tackle "serious" issues.
It would be incredibly stupid to measure the quality of a film based on popularity. Every quarter I ask my students what their favorite films are and when students name recent films, I'm often left wondering if they would say the same thing two or three years from now. Sometimes students ask why I show "old" films (meaning anything that's more than five years). I then point out that many of the films they may be so enamored with today, the ones showing in the cineplex, will soon be forgotten. I ask them how many films they saw four or five years ago they would really want to see again today?
With this said, I think it's equally stupid to ignore a film because it's too popular and after seeing Frost/Nixon, I'm even more convinced that a mistake had been made. There are so many films far better than this (including The Dark Knight) that came out in 2008. It's not that this is a bad film, it's just not a particularly interesting or innovative film. The only aspect of Frost/Nixon that I felt even remotely compelling was the structure. Released about fifteen years ago, Leon Gast's When We Were Kings documents the legendary "Rumble in the Jungle" between Ali and George Foreman (long before he became the lovable pitchman for an electric grill). If you've seen Frost/Nixon or plan to see it, I recommend that you take a look at When We Were Kings. The structural parallels are amazing. There's no way this could have been coincidence -- Ron Howard must have been thinking about Gast and the way he put together this retelling. Both films center around a "duel" -- in one case a verbal match and the other a boxing match. There is great emphasis placed on how the event came to be set-up and then the training process leading up to this great match. Just as Frost was seen as a lightweight, Ali too was thought to have been outmatched by Foreman. At first, it seems that Frost is getting pummeled but makes a surprising comeback. Ali also is getting destroyed but it turns out he was playing the rope-a-dope. Interspersed throughout this narrative stream are interviews (or fake interviews) of people who were there reflecting on what they saw happen. Oh, and if the parallel isn't obvious, there's a scene in which Nixon actually throws a playful jab to Frost's mid-section.
By the way, if you've noticed how little time I've spent to actually discussing Frost/Nixon itself ... well, let that be your clue as to what I really feel about the film.
I really feel sorry for Toby Jones. Heck, after seeing Frank Langella (Frost/Nixon) and Richard Jenkins (The Visitor) get their 15 minutes in the spotlight this Oscar season, I feel doubly bad for Toby Jones. Like Langella and Jenkins, Jones has an extensive filmography but almost all his previous roles are small character roles. In fact, Jones has a small part in Frost/Nixon. He also played Karl Rove in Oliver Stone's W.
Well, 2006 should have been Jones' year to shine in the spotlight. Jones' portrayal of Truman Capote was not only spot on but he was able to generate a great amount of sympathy in a character whose personality is anything but sympathetic. Yes, this should have been the film to launch Jones into that upper tier of film actors but it didn't. What happened? Well, 2005 happened. More specifically, in 2005 Philip Seymour Hoffman played Truman Capote in what was essentialy the same film. For whatever dumb reason, two studios chose to greenlight biopics of Capote and, even more specifically, biopics that focused on the time in his life in which Capote was working on In Cold Blood.
Everything about Jone's version was far superior to Hoffman's. Don't get me wrong, I really like Hoffman quite a bit (his little role as the villain in Mission Impossible 3 was fantastic) but in watching him play Capote, you never forgot that it was Hoffman playing Capote. Jones, on the other hand, not only channels Capote to a frightening degree of verisimilitude but goes one step further by exposing a part of Capote's personality far removed from the grandiose public persona by which most people knew him.
Even the supporting cast is better in Infamous. While Katherine Keneer may be considered the more serious and talented actress, Sandra Bullock was remarkably impressive in the same role of Harper Lee (the author of To Kill a Mockingbird).
Knowing how much Infamous was overshadowed by Capote, I'm reminded of Larry Doby. What you've never heard of Larry Doby? Well, that's probably because he was the second black player to play in the Major Leagues. In many ways, what Doby had to go through was far more impressive than what Robinson experienced but no one ever thinks about what comes second.
For some reason, the movie selection at Pacific Place has really sucked this last month or so and I've found myself having to return to the Regal Meridian far more than I would like. With the exception of the Guild 45th, the Regal Meridian is perhaps my least favorite theater in Seattle. If you're seeing one of the big blockbuster titles or a new release then it's not too bad since you'll find yourself in one of the larger theaters. However, if it's an indie film or an older release then you end up in a tiny theater that seats perhaps 70 people with a screen so small you wonder why you just didn't stay home and watch a DVD.
Of course, none of this really has anything to do with Aronofsky's The Wrestler but I had to get my disdain for the Regal off my chest.
If you even have a passing interest in film, you'll have heard all the superlatives about Mickey Rourke's fabulous comeback performance. The story has been so oft-repeated I won't even bother going over it here except to say that I think people often forget that the first real return of Mickey Rourke happened over a decade ago. Rourke had a small but significant cameo role in Coppolla's The Rainmaker (starring a pre-Goodwill Hunting Matt Damon and a post-My So Called Life Claire Danes). In other words, while The Wrestler may be the apex of Rourke's comeback, it was a long-time coming and should have surprised no one.
Looking beyond the Rourke hype, however, the two aspects of this film that I found most gripping were Marisa Tomei's performance as well as the simple fact this was a Darren Aronofsky film. Ten years ago, Aronofsky made a name for himself with Pi. A couple of years later he did Requiem for a Dream and then The Fountain. All three of these films exhibit a surreal vision brought to the screen through what might be best described as kinetic style. The Wrestler, in stark contrast, is neither surreal nor kinetic. The film is so radically different than his previous efforts that one really has to question whether or not Aronofsky really made The Wrestler. This shift in style makes me really curious as to what his next project will be like ... oh, and the fact his next project is a remake of Robocop (slated for a 2010 release) doesn't hinder those expectations from growing.
The other remarkable aspect of the film was Marisa Tomei's performance. Not to sound too crass but I found Tomei's willingness to get naked -- to sacrifice her body -- to be laudable. It would have been so much easier for Tomei to use body double or to do a really toned down version of stripping. We're so used to this sort of cinematic modesty that no one would have blinked an eye. But, her willingess to put herself there physically really made a difference in how much we felt for her emotionally. There's such a vulnerability to the character that only gets across when we see her literally throw her body around.
I think for young viewers who don't remember Rourke or for those who just never cared much for him at all, the hype over his performance might seems a bit misplaced. I think that twenty years from now, if people are still watching The Wrestler, it will be Marisa Tomei's performance that people will be talking about.
I suggested to some friends that perhaps we should all go see a movie. The Mini-Ster readily agreed but with the caveat: "I want to see something that requires no thinking." He then suggested that we should see Taken. I thought the movie was interesting enough: Liam Neeson as an action star was an interesting decision and, of course, Luc Besson can usually be counted on for interesting and highly stylized action sequences. An odd pairing, for sure, but so is peanut butter and ramen noodles ... don't knock it til you try it.
Well, after recruiting a few other people (Grumpy Old Guy as well as Dos Amigos), we all headed out for what we hoped would be 90 minutes of carnage. What did we get? Well, let's put it this way: the moment the film ended, The Mini-Ster turned to us and profusely apologized for having suggested we see Taken.
While it's certainly true that I wouldn't have chosen the film myself and I probably would have waited until it came out on DVD, I don't think it's terrible. Traditional narrative films always have three acts: the first establishes the premise, the second resolves the central conflict, and the third is the denoument. The problem with Taken is that the first and third acts are horrible. In most action films, the first and third acts are horrible but in the case of Taken, it was downright putrid. Much like hard-core porn, no one goes to see an action film for the plot. The story is simply an excuse to tie together a series of explosions. Sometimes when the plot is utterly ridiculous, it can become campy fun as in the case of the brilliantly conceived Speed. But, when the plot attempts to be earnest, the fun goes away and all you're left with is the struggle to hold back your gag reflex.
Unfortunately, Taken is one of those cases. The problem is that Neeson's gravitas is so earnest that it's hard to take him seriously. There's such a humorlessness about him. That's not a problem when playing Richard III but doesn't really work so well when playing a gun-slinging ex-CIA operative. I'm not suggesting that action films should all dissolve into parody or farce only that the less they take themselves seriously, the better they tend to be.
One of the Dos Amigos pointed out that the film felt as if the script had been written in the 1980s. Curiously enough, that turned out to be true. There is definitely something dated about Taken. The film relies on a series of stock ethnic stereotypes that could only exist in films pre 1990 (when people began to demand cultural sensitivity) or in films made in Europe (where cultural sensitivity just doesn't really exist ... it's easy for countries like France to criticize American race relations when they so conveniently sequester their ethnic problems to hidden districts).
One thing I did really appreciate about this film -- or at least that I found quite interesting -- was the unapologetic brutality. Taken is a basic abduction narrative. A parent loses a child and the parent desperately fights to get that child back. We've seen this in Ransom, in Not Without My Daughter, etc. What makes Taken different (though not necessarily better) than these other films is the narrow-minded focus of the father -- the extent to which he just doesn't care about anyone or anything else. It doesn't matter who he hurts or kills. To some extent, that sort of unapologetic, straight-forward brutality is refreshing. American films tend to candy coat violence or frame it in such wild extremes that it becomes cartoonish. When Neeson needs information from someone, he doesn't threaten him or his loved one. He just goes ahead and shoots the man's wife in the arm. There's no apology. Just determination. Oh, if only I had a little bit of that myself.
I decided that I wasn't going to review or discuss documentaries in this blog. Part of the reason is that discussing documentaries often leads to long diatribes about the film's subject matter (as if there aren't already enough long diatribes in this blog). Rather than talking about the film as a cinematic piece of art (or piece of trash), I'd just ramble on and on about how I agree with this person or how I think this person is a complete idiot. With a few exceptions (such as the documentaries of Werner Herzog or Errol Morris), it's hard to differentiate between cinematic documentaries and an episode of Frontline or some other PBS show.
The reason I'm breaking this personal policy is that Man on Wire goes beyond simple reportage and instead crafts a beautiful and inspiring narrative. In fact, I'd go so far as to suggest that the closest analog to Man on Wire would be something like Norman Mailer's Executioner's Song and Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. Whereas Capote and Mailer crafted a new genre, the non-fiction novel, Man on Wire, a documentary about Phillipe Petit, a french street performed who walked on a wire across the twin towers back in 1974, also attempts to redefine a genre by putting storytelling elements usually found in narrative films by Soderbergh or Tarantino into a non-fictional story.
The film's director, James Marsh, had three previous films to his credit the most notable being his 1999 debut, Wisconsin Death Trip. I didn't realize while watching Man on Wire that Marsh was also the same person who did WDT but when I learned of the connection, I was not surprised at all. Both films stretch the definition of documentary not by twisting the truth but instead of twisting the narrative to get at the truth. For those of you who have not seen Wisconsin Death Trip, I highly recommend you track it down. The film is based on a collection of 19th-century photographs that depict the harshness of frontier life in the midwest. The pictures mostly depict death and suffering. What Marsh attempted to do was take this collection (which in 1973 was published in book form under the same title) and get across the feeling of despair and struggle in cinematic form. He stayed true to the facts but presented those facts in a way that stayed true to the emotions one might feel from those facts.
It's very rare that any film would get a 100% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. When I first saw that Man on Wire got such a rating I was skeptical. Really, how could a movie be so good that it would receive a unanimous endorsement from critics all over the country? Well, after seeing the film, I can certainly see why. Of course, part of the reason has to do with the limited audience for documentaries. The guy who regularly gives Adam Sandler movies a thumbs up (and if you really think that any of his comedies after Happy Gilmore are worthwhile then you need to get a clue, my friend) probably wouldn't bother to see a documentary much less a documentary about a guy who walked across a wire back in 1974. For anyone out there who does enjoy documentaries and especially any who appreciates film, has a vested interest in film, this is a definite must see. And there I go breaking another one of my rules: I want this blog to be a discussion of films not a simple rating or review of films. But, again, this is an exception. GO SEE THIS NOW.
First off, let me just say that I've come to the realization that perhaps I watch far too many movies. I just can't seem to get caught up with all the films I've watched. It's February 03 and I'm writing a review for a film I saw eight days ago. That in and of itself isn't so bad except that within those eight days, I watched another four films (actually five but one of them I'm not going to bother with) that now need to be reviewed. I once read that the average person goes to the movies about two times per year. That's about how many times I go to the theater in a week.
Anyways, moving on ... The Visitor is another one of those films that I had resisted for the longest time. J. also commented that when she first heard about the film, there was very little that seemed appealing. Think about it for a second: a white person who's emotionally lost/damaged, finds solace and redemption by meeting a person of color and then learning to play African drums. Ever see Matt Damon/Will Smith in Bagger Vance? Ever see Patrick Swayze/Whoopie Goldberg in Ghost? Ever see just about any movie starring Morgan Freeman? This phenomenon, which Spike Lee once termed "the magical negro" (this was back in 2001 during a series of lectures he gave at Yale and at Washington State), is a familiar trope throughout American films. Of course, back in the 1990s, Toni Morrison traced it back even further in her lecture series, Playing in the Dark. She argues that throughout American political and cultural history, there has always been an Africanist presence that enables and sometimes even enobles white characters. If you want to see a gendered version of this argument, go look up Gynesis.
This has become a tired formula that really needs to be put to rest. I wouldn't mind it so much if the enabler just happened to be a person of color (like Danny Glover's character in the Lethal Weapon series ... those films are apalling on an entirely different level) but so often it's the very "ethnic" quality of that person that seems to be the great liberating factor. In Head of State, the sadly disappointing Chris Rock film (and, by the way, is there any Chris Rock film that isn't sadly disappointing? With someone as much comic genius as that guy, he just can't seem to find a movie to showcase that talent), there's a big finale in which all the uptight white people get loose and funky dancing to hip-hop. This, of course, makes the world a better place. Seriously now ... we have to stop this. Now.
In a major hypocritical moment, the film pokes fun at the prototypical white liberal collector of "ethnicity." A woman in a street market admires a set of handmade earrings. This white woman is dazzled just as much by the earrings as she is by the African woman who made them. She admires the African's name and asks where she might be from. There are plenty of white jewelry makers selling their ware on the streets. How many of them do you think get asked, "where are you from? What's your name" Oh, Betty ... that's such a beautiful name. What does it mean?" It's then revealed that this white woman has no real sense of Africa as she confuses two countries that are thousands of miles apart. For her, there is just a general Africanness that she finds interesting and exotic. Now, the protagonist, Walter, has an obviously more sincere relationship to the drums. For him, it's a personal experience in which he engages. It's not an item to purchase and hang on the wall. But, when looked at through the prism of the Africanist presence, it becomes clear that the drums are, in fact, simply just another set of interesting earrings.
J. and I ultimately decided to rent this film because it was up for an award (Richard Jenkins, lead actor) and because our friend, The Poet, kept talking it up. I should pause and mention that The Poet and I have a very adversarial relationship when it comes to films. I certainly respect The Poet's views and enjoy "debating" film choices no matter how much our respective choices may diverge. There are some films that we both enjoy (Lars and the Real Girl, for example) but most of the time we just have to agree to disagree. I'm not sure this is exactly one of those times but it's not that far off. Despite my political protestations to this film, I wouldn't grade it as being bad. But I also don't think it's particularly interesting or unique. Richard Jenkins surely deserves his Oscar nomination for what might be one of the most powerfully restrained acting roles I've seen in quite some time.
The Visitor is written and directed by Thomas McCarthy whose 2003 debut, The Station Agent, I enjoyed quite a bit. It had a slow, meditative pace that savored every moment without being overly languorous. It was also quirky without being overly cute (and as anyone who knows me or who has read enough of my reviews will surely know, there are few things in films that I despise more than quirky white characters whose affectations are meant to be perceived as cute eccentricities). Simply put, The Station Agent felt cinematic. The Visitor, on the other hand, felt flat. It was a fine story but not a finely told story. I felt that the movie was in such a hurry to explore Walter's transformation that it never let us experience his despair. In other words, to appreciate how much Walter changes we have to know where Walter begins.
Ultimately, J and I both enjoyed the film and were glad we saw it but we also felt unsatisfied ... like having a good dinner with a lousy wine and no desert. There was something good but not complete. To some extent, The Visitor felt like a very well-done HBO special and not really a "film." I think if I had watched this in a theater I would have been more disappointed.
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