How could a three-hour film be so reductive? The Elvis, in Elvis, is but a sideshow attraction to Baz Luhrmann's insatiable thirst for style and his refusal to slow down even for a second. Characters come and go like ghosts in a museum. Even the death of his own mother passes by almost unregistered. Nearly every dramatic beat is fumbled in this way, lost in the dizzying miasma of form and the director's ego. Of course, Elvis himself was a spectacle, but to base the entire film on this principle prevents the biopic from doing its primary job. There isn't the slightest probe into the psyche of the man: what made him so complicated and why he compulsively attached himself to the blood-sucking parasite of Colonel Parker. It's a movie made in post, unfortunately, because what's in front of the camera compels. The gravitas that Butler conjures isn't allowed to sit with us for more than a few seconds at a time without Baz's ADHD-fueled sensory overload. Butler is good when allowed to be, but sadly, he's rarely the priority. After all, the film is told from the point of view of the Colonel for some incomprehensible reason.
Reviews
73 Reviews
The Passion of Anna
(1969)
Top Tier Bergman
7 February 2023
What can you say about a man who obsessively collects photographs of people but refuses to take part in humanity himself? For the wife of this man who has no will of her own? What about Anna and Andreas? The former does her best to convince the world she's virtuous, while the latter tries desperately to convince himself that he is not.
The actors playing these wretched souls have plenty to say themselves. The short interludes which Bergman uses to cut up the action create a meta-commentary about the film during the film, a choice you either love or hate. My initial inclination when deciding for myself was that Bergman had to have been insecure about the inaccessibility of his characters and that his workaround seemed cheap.
But it became clear when noticing his aesthetics that Bergman is alluding to cinema's divide between reality and artifice and, as an extension, the misreading of one's own subjectivity. Bergman makes it very clear that these interviews themselves are staged or part of the film's fiction. Otherwise, how could he time the camera to rack focus or to increase the intensity of a light synchronically with the rhythm of the performances?
In The Passion of Anna, Bergman explores the idea that a person's perception of reality is shaped by their own experiences and that truth is always subjective. By showing the interludes as staged and artificial, he emphasizes that what we see in a film is always a representation of reality rather than reality itself; ultimately, what truths we see in ourselves are just as deficient.
The actors playing these wretched souls have plenty to say themselves. The short interludes which Bergman uses to cut up the action create a meta-commentary about the film during the film, a choice you either love or hate. My initial inclination when deciding for myself was that Bergman had to have been insecure about the inaccessibility of his characters and that his workaround seemed cheap.
But it became clear when noticing his aesthetics that Bergman is alluding to cinema's divide between reality and artifice and, as an extension, the misreading of one's own subjectivity. Bergman makes it very clear that these interviews themselves are staged or part of the film's fiction. Otherwise, how could he time the camera to rack focus or to increase the intensity of a light synchronically with the rhythm of the performances?
In The Passion of Anna, Bergman explores the idea that a person's perception of reality is shaped by their own experiences and that truth is always subjective. By showing the interludes as staged and artificial, he emphasizes that what we see in a film is always a representation of reality rather than reality itself; ultimately, what truths we see in ourselves are just as deficient.
Clara Sola
(2021)
Nature's Reverberations
27 January 2023
One could spend lifetimes learning to see the world the way Clara does. Her intuition for the universe's hidden matrix allows her to vibrate along with its sound. She's attuned to the earth and the soil and is Mother to all the animals who share it. Every creature has a "secret name" that Clara can detect through nature's reverberations. Her distinct gaze suggests a far more piquant view of the world that offsets the rest of the film's conventionality. Her eyes are sunken and fervent; they seem to expose new beauty and meaning all the time. The film excels when we, too, are made to see through them.
Ticket of No Return
(1979)
Leaving Berlin
23 November 2022
A posh aristocrat's drunken shuffle through the post-modern, post-structuralist wasteland of post-war Berlin signifies a repudiation of modern ethics and expectations... Prost! Language is no longer a viable method of communication. Excess is no longer a privilege of the upper class. Modernity's failed pledge for unity built on the preservation of logic and ambition has resulted in the celebration of resignation and the descent into hedonistic splendor. To act irrationally, to reject rational thought, is the only logical continuation in the wake of twentieth-century horrors. The appeal for harmony and beauty through art and culture has been replaced by the promise of temporary happiness and decadence through hollow consumerism; "pleasure gained not by aggression but by regression." The film poses the question: which is worse? External destruction or spiritual dilution; one is the product of the other, and both are roads that lead to the annihilation of individualism. Ticket to No Return is a beautifully shot and artfully imagined film that is simultaneously profound and ludicrous. Its incessant absurdity is both endearing and insufferable, revealing and isolating. By no means is it thoroughly enjoyable, though it does present the viewer with rich aesthetics and a thought-provoking narrative.
Next Sohee
(2022)
Personal but not accessible
25 October 2022
Jung's attempt to expose South Korea's externship program for the self-serving and labor-exploiting enterprise that it is, is a noble one; and while I'm sure she invested a great amount of emotion and effort into the research and making of this film, for the greater part of its two-hour-plus runtime, Next Sohee fails to create a compelling appeal.
The first half is bogged down by its setting, which depicts the sole-sucking listlessness of a call center with incredible authenticity. A mid point climax then severs the film in halves, forcing itself to retrace the arduous steps taken in the first hour, as a detective goes to all the places we've already been and asks all the questions we already know the answers to.
The first half is bogged down by its setting, which depicts the sole-sucking listlessness of a call center with incredible authenticity. A mid point climax then severs the film in halves, forcing itself to retrace the arduous steps taken in the first hour, as a detective goes to all the places we've already been and asks all the questions we already know the answers to.
Touki Bouki
(1973)
The Promise of París
12 October 2022
What starts as a realist and objective documentation of post-imperialist Senegalese society, rapidly apprises the viewer of its wacky formalism, as it increasingly subverts its social realism. It's like a window to the world, veiled by an illusory screen.
The purpose of Touki Bouki's subversions is to construct a recalcitrant critique of the festering remains of French imperialism that stripped the nation of its inherent culture. The cynical display of violence to animals, hyper-masculinity and sexism, and of the desire for a quick and effortless social ascension, underline the film's personal condemnation of its own reality. Its indignation is directed at the fact that seemingly, nothing will ever change.
It's stylistic resemblance to the French New Wave exists as a synecdoche of this lingering influence. The farcical promise of economic liberation by escaping to France is an idyllic and impossible objective for the characters and is conveyed through long, wistful takes of the primordial sea which envelopes Senegal and bars them from the outside world. The characters are mocked by the birds and boats that traverse this incarcerating mass of water with ease and are likened to the livestock which are forcefully tethered to the earth.
Idyllic diaspora is also conveyed in the film's looping soundtrack, which croons "París, París, París" in a romanticized and hypnotic melody to teasingly whisk away these trapped souls. It's use of diegetic sounds in non-diegetic ways (e.g. The foghorn from the boat supplanted in the film's score and irrationally repeating itself) further cement the continued effort of diluting reality through form.
Its plot elements are consistently interrupted by long bouts of experimental montage to mythologize the characters and their plight. Especially effective, are the handheld point-of-view shots, oftentimes mounted to moving objects, mixed in with methodical pans and tilts which switch to an objective vantage point. This construction of style serves to depict counter-hegemonic representations of Blackness (objective) and allows the perspectives of these characters (subjective) to be taken up by the viewer.
Touki Bouki, a piece of accented cinema, was directed by Djibril Diop Mambéty, a brazen auteur responsible for only one other narrative feature (Hyenas), and exists as a semiotic matrix of connotative meanings that make for an enriching and thought provoking example of Third Cinema.
The purpose of Touki Bouki's subversions is to construct a recalcitrant critique of the festering remains of French imperialism that stripped the nation of its inherent culture. The cynical display of violence to animals, hyper-masculinity and sexism, and of the desire for a quick and effortless social ascension, underline the film's personal condemnation of its own reality. Its indignation is directed at the fact that seemingly, nothing will ever change.
It's stylistic resemblance to the French New Wave exists as a synecdoche of this lingering influence. The farcical promise of economic liberation by escaping to France is an idyllic and impossible objective for the characters and is conveyed through long, wistful takes of the primordial sea which envelopes Senegal and bars them from the outside world. The characters are mocked by the birds and boats that traverse this incarcerating mass of water with ease and are likened to the livestock which are forcefully tethered to the earth.
Idyllic diaspora is also conveyed in the film's looping soundtrack, which croons "París, París, París" in a romanticized and hypnotic melody to teasingly whisk away these trapped souls. It's use of diegetic sounds in non-diegetic ways (e.g. The foghorn from the boat supplanted in the film's score and irrationally repeating itself) further cement the continued effort of diluting reality through form.
Its plot elements are consistently interrupted by long bouts of experimental montage to mythologize the characters and their plight. Especially effective, are the handheld point-of-view shots, oftentimes mounted to moving objects, mixed in with methodical pans and tilts which switch to an objective vantage point. This construction of style serves to depict counter-hegemonic representations of Blackness (objective) and allows the perspectives of these characters (subjective) to be taken up by the viewer.
Touki Bouki, a piece of accented cinema, was directed by Djibril Diop Mambéty, a brazen auteur responsible for only one other narrative feature (Hyenas), and exists as a semiotic matrix of connotative meanings that make for an enriching and thought provoking example of Third Cinema.
Blue Collar
(1978)
Alien Scripture
8 October 2022
Schrader's scripts often feel like alien scripture which we are undeserving of and otherwise incapable of producing ourselves. Equally despondent as it is caustic, Blue Collar's rivals the likes of Paddy Chayefsky's Network in its stunning veracity. The fervor in Pryor's eyes as he explains the hopelessness of his position within the oppressive, gloomy wasteland of power structures and capitalist greed, evokes a momentous thrust of pathos, while simultaneously exposing colossal truths about the inequities of America. But it's the way Schrader sets it all up which is so clever. This descent into hard cutting cynicism is a slow one. Much of the runtime is spent softening the viewer with sharp comedy and touching fraternity, making the canny hardening of tone and content all the more arresting. You don't get scripts this potent or piercing too often.
The Housemaid
(1960)
Doesn't work for me
8 October 2022
Concerned with the corruption of the middle class, this socially conscious, Korean soap opera is too abrasive to work; abrasive in the constant swelling of score, telegraphed foreshadowing, unnecessary repetition, and heightened performances. I would've preferred a much more subtle and psychological descent into chamber madness.
The pacing in the second half was unbelievably unnerving, and not in a good way. Short sequences of drama build into absurdism, always punctuated by the same insufferable use of music, blaring and abusive, to make sure you aren't falling asleep. These sequences take about 10 minutes, give or take, and are repeated again and again, without the slightest alteration, quickly becoming torturous in their monotony and lack of rhythm.
Though it's visual formalism and set design provide plenty of aesthetic elegance, the shots that drop your jaw don't come often enough to offset the boredom and anger brought on by its ineffectual absurdity.
Known for being Bong Joon-ho's favorite film and the main inspiration for Parasite, The Housemaid deserves its restoration (thank you Martin Scorsese), and deserves to be seen. The popular opinion is to call it a masterpiece, and so it's possible that it just doesn't work for me.
The pacing in the second half was unbelievably unnerving, and not in a good way. Short sequences of drama build into absurdism, always punctuated by the same insufferable use of music, blaring and abusive, to make sure you aren't falling asleep. These sequences take about 10 minutes, give or take, and are repeated again and again, without the slightest alteration, quickly becoming torturous in their monotony and lack of rhythm.
Though it's visual formalism and set design provide plenty of aesthetic elegance, the shots that drop your jaw don't come often enough to offset the boredom and anger brought on by its ineffectual absurdity.
Known for being Bong Joon-ho's favorite film and the main inspiration for Parasite, The Housemaid deserves its restoration (thank you Martin Scorsese), and deserves to be seen. The popular opinion is to call it a masterpiece, and so it's possible that it just doesn't work for me.
An Inn in Tokyo
(1935)
"Dogs mean you can eat"
8 October 2022
*** I SUMMERIZE THE GENERAL PLOT OF THE FILM AT LENGTH. NARRATIVE SPOILERS AHEAD ***
A man and two boys are seen walking along one of the many lonesome, dusty roads that exist inside the world of Ozu. They are shot from a low angle and against the monumental sky. They are like lone sailors lost at sea.
There is no work for the father (Kihachi), despite the numerous, booming factories, and so there is no food for the young, scrawny boys (Zenko and Masako). They are doomed from the start; trapped in a gray malaise and where luxury exists just out of reach.
Beautiful things happen in the in-between moments of Ozu's films. In his silent films, they usually happen in a field. There is an early scene in this film, where the boys and their father pantomime a rich feast full of fluffy, white rice and endless sake. This short reprieve from hopelessness is heaven for them, and we see them smile for the first time in the film's opening twenty minutes.
But the scene is much more beautiful still, because of the sorrowful, scoring of strings that accompany the images. Ozu may let his characters forget, for a while, their troubles, but he certainly doesn't intend for us to. This dichotomy between what we feel and what the characters feel creates an arresting sense of poignancy. Their temporary enjoyment is not meant for us.
The trio eventually catches a break, one presented to them by an old friend of Kihachi. She is a woman named Otsune with whom he used to kick up trouble. She is now reformed. She is running a restaurant and is able to dig up some work for Kihachi. The next ten days, he says, are the happiest of his life.
Things are complicated by Otaka, an impoverished single mother whose child has grown ill with dysentery. The two, fragmented families have met along their shared but separate paths of economic struggle. Kihachi has grown fond of the mother and the boys enjoy the company of her cherubic daughter. In an effort to repair his broken family, and because he has fallen in love, Kihuchi steals a large sum of money from a local officer to pay for the child's treatment, before turning himself in.
An Inn in Tokyo plays as a series of isolated moments in a bitter life full of cruel ironies. Even so, Ozu imbues a strong poetic beauty (in terms of how he frames this misery) within his social realism that allows the film to effectively absorb the viewer. The film succeeds in not simply drowning in its sea of anguish, but instead by providing a lens through which to see the unexpected moments of joy that go along with it.
A man and two boys are seen walking along one of the many lonesome, dusty roads that exist inside the world of Ozu. They are shot from a low angle and against the monumental sky. They are like lone sailors lost at sea.
There is no work for the father (Kihachi), despite the numerous, booming factories, and so there is no food for the young, scrawny boys (Zenko and Masako). They are doomed from the start; trapped in a gray malaise and where luxury exists just out of reach.
Beautiful things happen in the in-between moments of Ozu's films. In his silent films, they usually happen in a field. There is an early scene in this film, where the boys and their father pantomime a rich feast full of fluffy, white rice and endless sake. This short reprieve from hopelessness is heaven for them, and we see them smile for the first time in the film's opening twenty minutes.
But the scene is much more beautiful still, because of the sorrowful, scoring of strings that accompany the images. Ozu may let his characters forget, for a while, their troubles, but he certainly doesn't intend for us to. This dichotomy between what we feel and what the characters feel creates an arresting sense of poignancy. Their temporary enjoyment is not meant for us.
The trio eventually catches a break, one presented to them by an old friend of Kihachi. She is a woman named Otsune with whom he used to kick up trouble. She is now reformed. She is running a restaurant and is able to dig up some work for Kihachi. The next ten days, he says, are the happiest of his life.
Things are complicated by Otaka, an impoverished single mother whose child has grown ill with dysentery. The two, fragmented families have met along their shared but separate paths of economic struggle. Kihachi has grown fond of the mother and the boys enjoy the company of her cherubic daughter. In an effort to repair his broken family, and because he has fallen in love, Kihuchi steals a large sum of money from a local officer to pay for the child's treatment, before turning himself in.
An Inn in Tokyo plays as a series of isolated moments in a bitter life full of cruel ironies. Even so, Ozu imbues a strong poetic beauty (in terms of how he frames this misery) within his social realism that allows the film to effectively absorb the viewer. The film succeeds in not simply drowning in its sea of anguish, but instead by providing a lens through which to see the unexpected moments of joy that go along with it.
Three Thousand Years of Longing for it to be Over
2 September 2022
More of a trinket than a movie. All surface level awe and shiny veneer, but ultimately forgettable and without function. Stories told through isolated series of flashbacks almost always leave me behind. Everything feels detached from everything else, and so the action and drama doesn't compel. The persistent narration becomes innocuous and the separate plots, because they're so abbreviated, aren't given time to fully articulate their aesthetics. The film doesn't slow down enough to appreciate any of its infinite, fleeting moments; and so Three Thousand Years of Longing is as tedious as its title suggests.
Beauty abound
21 August 2022
Occasional interludes of Pelé playing emotive Bowie melodies in Portuguese against a water color sky shot with a wide angle lens to encapsulate all the beauty of the open water perfectly epitomize the film's incredible aesthetic and emotional beauty.
Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance
(2002)
Objective Absurdism
19 August 2022
Nobody is safe from the violence in a Park Chan-wook movie. Not children.. not women; neither side of the ethical coin will be left unbloodied by the heartless plots they inhabit. It takes a perverted inventiveness to conjure up such miserable, little moral fables and the brutality they in tow. Park's specific style emits a tangible mode of tonal energy that could be labeled as objective absurdism. That what's shown is so flamboyantly sinister, and yet executed so matter-of-fact, to where it's almost funny when viewed from the detached perspective of the camera. Penned like Greek Tragedies filled with little ironies and poetic justices, like wry winks from the devil to remind you just how cruel the world is.
Bodies Bodies Bodies
(2022)
Ironically a condemnation of itself
17 August 2022
Quite literally like spending the day with your significant other's insipid friends and trying to navigate the intricate and tangled web of group dynamics spun over time; an ordeal which ultimately isn't worth the effort of trying to assimilate. While the "twist" does make everything work a bit better, it still doesn't make it worth your time. Especially when it's the only possible resolution for a murder plot so confined by its setting and lack of characters. The film almost works as contemporary satire, one of a society so stimulated by buzzwords and armchair psychology that it no longer remembers what it's like to have organic or innate thoughts. It examines how constant exposure to contradicting layers of discourse only leads to further confusion and insecurity, which in turn forces individuals to cling even tighter to their own tangled logic. Manic dramatizations and over-complications of reality result in the inability to grasp even the simplest of truths. This is the film's thesis. Unfortunately, it would have carried more weight if it didn't feel as though it were contrived from the same virtual hive mind it so readily condemns.
Hostage
(2005)
Negotiation Tactics
7 August 2022
Pretty damn good for what it is. A derivative cop thriller held up by the shoulders of a post-90's Bruce Willis isn't (theoretically) the sturdiest of structures. But it's the choice to make it rated R and the film's commitment to its violence and visual style that allows it the right to achieve a more than solid status.
*Ben Foster is always the best part of whatever he's in*
*Ben Foster is always the best part of whatever he's in*
Early Summer
(1951)
One of Ozu's best
2 August 2022
Two sisters by marriage (Setsuko Hara and Chikage Awashima) walk along the beach. Their jet black hair set above their white shirts and against the grey ski, creates a vivid aura of beautiful idealism, one that underlines Ozu's style and the key themes of Early Summer.
Noriko (Hara), who is 28 and considered an "old maid," has decided to marry a friend from adolescence; a widower already with a child of his own. The unorthodoxy of her decision troubles her extended family who are all very concerned with marrying her off, but would prefer to do so to another, less complicated family.
Noriko is unwavering in opposition to these concerns, as she talks with her sister by the beach. It's clear that she's thought about her decision thoroughly and explains her reasoning well. Her sister says that she envies her for having waited so long to find a husband, because it has allowed her enter into this transition with far greater understanding of its inherent complexities. Their interaction eludes to the potent intimacy of their relationship, which they revel in, before running down to the edge of the shore.
The scene is so simply constructed, and yet it contains such tremendous power. A moment that would otherwise seem thin and unaffecting, suddenly becomes a lightning bolt of profound affirmation. Everything that has lead to this becomes so vital and pungent, as to allow for the imagery to evoke a shock of arresting emotion. Somehow, Ozu manages to capture what it feels like to be completely and honestly content.
That's the beauty of Ozu, is that he never rushes. He allows for unexpected depth and nuance to develop over time in both his characters and situations, so that his film's are developed in a manner which is totally non-factitious. He sets up separate, competing familial factions which bring about different generational, ideological and sociological divides.
This is the set up for every one of the director's films, but in his most effective efforts (Early Summer being one of them), these cultural elements carry further profundity. Here, it's the divide between the single and the married women in Nomiko's friend group. It is also the powerful autonomy she has in contradiction to her old-fashioned peers. The film therefore becomes a futuristic symbol, one which stands far apart from a culture so mired in past tradition.
Noriko (Hara), who is 28 and considered an "old maid," has decided to marry a friend from adolescence; a widower already with a child of his own. The unorthodoxy of her decision troubles her extended family who are all very concerned with marrying her off, but would prefer to do so to another, less complicated family.
Noriko is unwavering in opposition to these concerns, as she talks with her sister by the beach. It's clear that she's thought about her decision thoroughly and explains her reasoning well. Her sister says that she envies her for having waited so long to find a husband, because it has allowed her enter into this transition with far greater understanding of its inherent complexities. Their interaction eludes to the potent intimacy of their relationship, which they revel in, before running down to the edge of the shore.
The scene is so simply constructed, and yet it contains such tremendous power. A moment that would otherwise seem thin and unaffecting, suddenly becomes a lightning bolt of profound affirmation. Everything that has lead to this becomes so vital and pungent, as to allow for the imagery to evoke a shock of arresting emotion. Somehow, Ozu manages to capture what it feels like to be completely and honestly content.
That's the beauty of Ozu, is that he never rushes. He allows for unexpected depth and nuance to develop over time in both his characters and situations, so that his film's are developed in a manner which is totally non-factitious. He sets up separate, competing familial factions which bring about different generational, ideological and sociological divides.
This is the set up for every one of the director's films, but in his most effective efforts (Early Summer being one of them), these cultural elements carry further profundity. Here, it's the divide between the single and the married women in Nomiko's friend group. It is also the powerful autonomy she has in contradiction to her old-fashioned peers. The film therefore becomes a futuristic symbol, one which stands far apart from a culture so mired in past tradition.
The Gray Man
(2022)
Hard to Hate
26 July 2022
For something so mindless, The Gray Man takes itself very seriously. Everything is executed with maximum bravado, which makes lines like, "if you enjoy breathing, you'll take care of it," all the more obnoxious. There's about as much emotional depth and character building as your mother's favorite soap opera, and It sort of trudges along like a personality-less Dior commercial for much of its runtime. But you don't watch this movie if you're looking for Citizen Kane, and what it does do well makes it impossible to hate. Gosling of course just stands there, moving his face less than any actor has ever done before, and yet somehow exudes a natural charisma (a paradox that's made him the star he is). Chris Evan's adds another psychotic narcissist to his reel (Knives Out, Not Another Teen Movie), proving that he's better at character work than he is at playing it straight. The set pieces elevate the fight scenes and make the action more enjoyable than the typical beat 'em up, providing much needed respite from the film's attempts at dialogue. While It's hard to believe that this latest could-have-lived-without-it Russo flic will bring consumers back to Netflix, it's better than the streaming platform's usual drone of culture deflating nonsense.
Dreamscape of Twisted Memory
22 July 2022
Bi Gan set out to make a film like Billy Wilder's Double Indemnity and ended up somewhere halfway between Wong Kar-wai and Luis Buñel. The result of Bi's conceptual Frankenstein is a monster that exits in the shadows but is constantly screaming, "look at me!"
The film's title is both a summation of its themes as well as a description of its rhythm and structure. The first hour-and-change is little more than stylistic mood via crawling impressionism. That is to say that this portion of the film often feels like its own long journey into an eventual night which will not come.
Though it mires a bit, the first half is full of so many breathtaking sequences that it's hard not to get sucked in to the miasma of its style [e.g. The camera dollying backwards through a tunnel while a man pushes a stalled car toward its gaze; then suddenly becoming coated by drops of rain as it moves outside of the tunnel, looking through its teary-eyed, impressionistic view of the world; before finally fuzing with the contour of the car's flooded windshield (without a cut), it following the outline of a women walking beautifully alone in the rain].
The opening seventy minutes are interrupted by a title card which is jolted onto the screen, one which rivals Drive My Car for the latest title sequence in recent memory. This short reprieve is designed to severe the film into halves and also as presage of the film's final fifty-six minutes - an enrapturing odyssey through the twisted dreamscape of lost memories, made brilliant by the architecture of the subconscious.
Unbelievably, this entire sequence is shot in a single take, the camera swirling through mine shafts, keeping up with speeding motor bikes, and even transforming into drone as it lifts high above the vast environment to convey the act of flying. The film sutures the viewer's perspective to that of the central character's, so that they experience his dream as if it were their own.
While this all sounds wonderfully seductive on paper, the technical complexity distracts more than it enlightens. It only becomes immersive if one is able to stop wondering how the hell they pulled it off. It's increasingly difficult to focus on the complex thematics when one is wondering what would have happened if, say, a pool player were to miss his shot instead of sinking it into the corner. Were there contingencies that would allow the film to veer off into completely separate paths depending on the outcome of each action, or would any deviation force a complete do-over?
The second half is astounding but the one-take-wonder feels less like artistic inspiration and more like a gimmick, as it almost always does. I fear the film will be remembered for its technical aptitude rather than for what it has to say, which is a shame because its musings of memory and regret, on what's eternal and what's transitory, and its use of motif make it a profound piece of cinema.
One final note: I wonder if anyone has written about how the character slipping into dream while in a theatre causes him to becomes an extension of us, the audience, and how similar this dynamic is to the one set up by Leos Carax in Holy Motors.
The film's title is both a summation of its themes as well as a description of its rhythm and structure. The first hour-and-change is little more than stylistic mood via crawling impressionism. That is to say that this portion of the film often feels like its own long journey into an eventual night which will not come.
Though it mires a bit, the first half is full of so many breathtaking sequences that it's hard not to get sucked in to the miasma of its style [e.g. The camera dollying backwards through a tunnel while a man pushes a stalled car toward its gaze; then suddenly becoming coated by drops of rain as it moves outside of the tunnel, looking through its teary-eyed, impressionistic view of the world; before finally fuzing with the contour of the car's flooded windshield (without a cut), it following the outline of a women walking beautifully alone in the rain].
The opening seventy minutes are interrupted by a title card which is jolted onto the screen, one which rivals Drive My Car for the latest title sequence in recent memory. This short reprieve is designed to severe the film into halves and also as presage of the film's final fifty-six minutes - an enrapturing odyssey through the twisted dreamscape of lost memories, made brilliant by the architecture of the subconscious.
Unbelievably, this entire sequence is shot in a single take, the camera swirling through mine shafts, keeping up with speeding motor bikes, and even transforming into drone as it lifts high above the vast environment to convey the act of flying. The film sutures the viewer's perspective to that of the central character's, so that they experience his dream as if it were their own.
While this all sounds wonderfully seductive on paper, the technical complexity distracts more than it enlightens. It only becomes immersive if one is able to stop wondering how the hell they pulled it off. It's increasingly difficult to focus on the complex thematics when one is wondering what would have happened if, say, a pool player were to miss his shot instead of sinking it into the corner. Were there contingencies that would allow the film to veer off into completely separate paths depending on the outcome of each action, or would any deviation force a complete do-over?
The second half is astounding but the one-take-wonder feels less like artistic inspiration and more like a gimmick, as it almost always does. I fear the film will be remembered for its technical aptitude rather than for what it has to say, which is a shame because its musings of memory and regret, on what's eternal and what's transitory, and its use of motif make it a profound piece of cinema.
One final note: I wonder if anyone has written about how the character slipping into dream while in a theatre causes him to becomes an extension of us, the audience, and how similar this dynamic is to the one set up by Leos Carax in Holy Motors.
Stranger Than Paradise
(1984)
On the road to nowhere
10 July 2022
It's amazing how much Jarmusch does with so little. He works from a script cut up into individual segments, every one of which modestly constructed, though deeply emotive, dynamic and involving.
Take the scene where Willie (John Lurie) offers his pal Eddie (Richard Edson) a beer and then disengages completely for what feels like an eternity in awkward silence. As we get to know Willie, we understand that he plays these games with people in order to keep them beneath him.
Eddy is a good boy but a tad simple. Willie's and his relationship contains a mutual respect, though it perpetually boarders on points of contention. Willie's always scheming to keep the upper hand.
Eddie is charismatic though and endears himself to those around him. He's the perfect guy to bring along to visit an elderly relative whom you haven't seen in some time. He will warm up to that crazy, old broad and smooth over the whole thing.
And then there's Eva (casted perfectly as Ester Balint), Willie's cousin, a slyly cool emigrant from Hungary, who interrupts Willie's life, by way of his Aunt Lottie (Cecilia Stark), herself a delightful curmudgeon. She is to spend 10 days in the hospital, and plops Eva into Willie's domain like unwanted mail.
He spends this time by tricking her into answering the phone just so he has an excuse to be sore at her when she struggles to assimilate to the language. He also dishes out American phrases like "choking the alligator" for her to use instead of "vacuuming the rug." She's too smart for him though and can tell he's pulling her leg. Eventually, he warms up to her, though never adopts the role of the enlightening, older cousin. He aims to keep distance between her and the contagious boredom inherent to his world.
The ten days dissolve into fragmented memories, and she must leave for a time somewhere between indefinite and forever. Willie gets the feeling of retroactive longing and stinging regret.
A year goes by and he and Eddie decide to drive down to Cincinnati to see how she's doing, but maybe more so for a change of scenery. They find this new environment to be just as shapeless and withholding as the one they came from, and so they make the choice to road trip down to Florida with thought-bubbles of it's exotic idealism. But maybe this terrifically mundane existence has nothing valuable to offer at all.
The film could end with a sequence that poignantly encapsulates its themes and splashed shades of The 400 blows, though what follows is necessary. A random twist of fate allows Eva to happen upon a hip black local who mistakes her for someone else, handing her an envelope of riches and storming away. Isn't it funny how life always nudges us with prying irony, in order to remind us of its color? How does it always pick the exact moment when we've given up on it completely?
Take the scene where Willie (John Lurie) offers his pal Eddie (Richard Edson) a beer and then disengages completely for what feels like an eternity in awkward silence. As we get to know Willie, we understand that he plays these games with people in order to keep them beneath him.
Eddy is a good boy but a tad simple. Willie's and his relationship contains a mutual respect, though it perpetually boarders on points of contention. Willie's always scheming to keep the upper hand.
Eddie is charismatic though and endears himself to those around him. He's the perfect guy to bring along to visit an elderly relative whom you haven't seen in some time. He will warm up to that crazy, old broad and smooth over the whole thing.
And then there's Eva (casted perfectly as Ester Balint), Willie's cousin, a slyly cool emigrant from Hungary, who interrupts Willie's life, by way of his Aunt Lottie (Cecilia Stark), herself a delightful curmudgeon. She is to spend 10 days in the hospital, and plops Eva into Willie's domain like unwanted mail.
He spends this time by tricking her into answering the phone just so he has an excuse to be sore at her when she struggles to assimilate to the language. He also dishes out American phrases like "choking the alligator" for her to use instead of "vacuuming the rug." She's too smart for him though and can tell he's pulling her leg. Eventually, he warms up to her, though never adopts the role of the enlightening, older cousin. He aims to keep distance between her and the contagious boredom inherent to his world.
The ten days dissolve into fragmented memories, and she must leave for a time somewhere between indefinite and forever. Willie gets the feeling of retroactive longing and stinging regret.
A year goes by and he and Eddie decide to drive down to Cincinnati to see how she's doing, but maybe more so for a change of scenery. They find this new environment to be just as shapeless and withholding as the one they came from, and so they make the choice to road trip down to Florida with thought-bubbles of it's exotic idealism. But maybe this terrifically mundane existence has nothing valuable to offer at all.
The film could end with a sequence that poignantly encapsulates its themes and splashed shades of The 400 blows, though what follows is necessary. A random twist of fate allows Eva to happen upon a hip black local who mistakes her for someone else, handing her an envelope of riches and storming away. Isn't it funny how life always nudges us with prying irony, in order to remind us of its color? How does it always pick the exact moment when we've given up on it completely?
The Lure
(2015)
A little fishy
3 July 2022
Sleazy when it should be sensual. The cracks in its facade of European coolness allow for many moments of cringy posturing to shine through; often evoking the same awkwardness, as many student films do, made by people who were never given constructive criticism, and thusly, continue on without realizing that their shit does in fact stink. So much of it feels tangential and rushed. There are cases of weird emotional shifts between scenes where it feels like something is missing.
Still, though, there are times when the genre mixing works and the performances elevate beyond the amateurish and become weirdly poignant. The film excels in its aesthetic presentation, and the musical numbers (most of them at least) are captivating. The punk number is the best one by a wide margin, featuring one of the most epic characterizations I've seen in a while; that of the half-man half-god they call Titon.
If I were a better man I would be able to forgive the bad, because so much of it is quite good, but unfortunately, I'm a cynic at heart. Half the time my eyes were rolling, but for the other half, they were transfixed by the sirens' spell.
Still, though, there are times when the genre mixing works and the performances elevate beyond the amateurish and become weirdly poignant. The film excels in its aesthetic presentation, and the musical numbers (most of them at least) are captivating. The punk number is the best one by a wide margin, featuring one of the most epic characterizations I've seen in a while; that of the half-man half-god they call Titon.
If I were a better man I would be able to forgive the bad, because so much of it is quite good, but unfortunately, I'm a cynic at heart. Half the time my eyes were rolling, but for the other half, they were transfixed by the sirens' spell.
Flux Gourmet
(2022)
An Absolute Mad Man
27 June 2022
Peter Strickland is a mad man. If you are familiar with his work you'll know what I mean. His nuanced brand of vivid absurdism seems to have a tangible scent and taste to it, where every aspect is designed as sensory overload. This makes him a unique talent despite his overt influences - influences that stretch from giallo art house horror to early Lanthimos (even borrowing one of the Greek auteurs' main players, Ariane Labed for this latest effort). Velvet and satin textures dripping in ebullient color are the fetishistic clues that bring the viewer in on the subtle, often impenetrable themes that are at play. In the case of Flux Gourmet, what is most crucial is the investigation of psychological kinks which stoke the fires for artistic expression. Cronenberg also recently had something to say on the matter, only he used the body as an artistic vessel instead of the mind and its perversions. Though I admire Strickland's wicked little plots, I so frequently notice the fingerprints of others, plastered all over their shells, to where I have trouble appreciating them as original entities. Fortunately, there's always a certain aesthetic and thematic freshness exuding from the cinematography and writing that prevent them from becoming derivative.
The Fortune Cookie
(1966)
Below average Wilder, above average film
6 June 2022
Though this is, by the standards of Billy Wilder, a below average affair, The Fortune Cookie works better as a comedy than most of the standards set everywhere else. After a sideline cam-op (Jack Lemon) for the Cleveland Browns is upended at the conclusion of a long punt return by the team's star player, Luther 'Boom Boom' Jackson (Ron Rich), the stepbrother of the cam-op, a devilish layer named Gingrich (Walter Matthau), sets in motion a plan to take the team and network for all they've got.
Wilder, a master of both plot and character, provides a harmonious and daring script, as he always does, and the major players handle the material flawlessly. The choice to have an actor as frenetic as Jack Lemon play a man confined to a wheelchair for the majority of the production is, on paper, a questionable decision, but the kick of seeing him constantly fighting his instincts - which are to gesticulate wildly with ever turn of phrase - is an incredibly amusing sight.
That being said, the movie is much better when Walter Matthau is sharing the screen. His conniving dastardliness, as he manipulates every possible angle to the case, is the strongest current propelling the script. When he exits the frame the film does begin to drag, only just a bit.
There's also plenty of interesting subtextual and political ideas imbedded within the text, a Wilderism that is as familiar as his notorious cynicism. The viewer always begins to see subtle outlines of historical parallels between the morality of opposing sides in his scripts to those synonymous to World War II.
In this case, what is interesting is that the lawyers fighting our protagonists - the gatekeepers of the law who supposedly represent moral integrity - employ a german doctor who claims that - "back in my day, we would just throw the patient into a snake pit and if he climbed out we would know they were faking" - and also a private investigator donning an infamous, narrow mustache.
What Wilder is suggesting, as he always is, is that a moral blueprint, or at least one as rigidly defined by that of any State, can be just as easily corruptible to the soul of the individual as anything else. Wilder wrote movies about people who live their lives much in same way that he himself did; fast, fearless, and always by their own questionable moral perspective.
Wilder, a master of both plot and character, provides a harmonious and daring script, as he always does, and the major players handle the material flawlessly. The choice to have an actor as frenetic as Jack Lemon play a man confined to a wheelchair for the majority of the production is, on paper, a questionable decision, but the kick of seeing him constantly fighting his instincts - which are to gesticulate wildly with ever turn of phrase - is an incredibly amusing sight.
That being said, the movie is much better when Walter Matthau is sharing the screen. His conniving dastardliness, as he manipulates every possible angle to the case, is the strongest current propelling the script. When he exits the frame the film does begin to drag, only just a bit.
There's also plenty of interesting subtextual and political ideas imbedded within the text, a Wilderism that is as familiar as his notorious cynicism. The viewer always begins to see subtle outlines of historical parallels between the morality of opposing sides in his scripts to those synonymous to World War II.
In this case, what is interesting is that the lawyers fighting our protagonists - the gatekeepers of the law who supposedly represent moral integrity - employ a german doctor who claims that - "back in my day, we would just throw the patient into a snake pit and if he climbed out we would know they were faking" - and also a private investigator donning an infamous, narrow mustache.
What Wilder is suggesting, as he always is, is that a moral blueprint, or at least one as rigidly defined by that of any State, can be just as easily corruptible to the soul of the individual as anything else. Wilder wrote movies about people who live their lives much in same way that he himself did; fast, fearless, and always by their own questionable moral perspective.
The Asphalt Jungle
(1950)
Almost a great classic
18 May 2022
"What's inside of you?! What's keeping you alive?!"
John Huston directed this tight, little caper in 1950 which starred Sterling Hayden and Sam Jaffe and featured a largely unknown Marilyn Monroe.
The score goes off with just a few minor hitches but the handoff does not go so smoothly. Emmerich, who it turns out is cash poor, does not have the funds at his disposal to exchange for the jewels, and so he plans a double cross which ends in a bang and ultimately forces the thieves to scramble.
Huston's direction keeps things tight and moving. We get enough perspective from each side (the criminals and the cops) to create an interesting examination of morality. The cops (and lawyers) are not so righteous and the criminals not so corrupt.
While I appreciated the duality of the characters, the film was too plot driven to allow for its ensemble to properly elevate the subject matter. The characters, though they are authentic and full of personality, are not the priority. I wish we had a few moments of Dix out in the world to show what his life is like, how he knows all the people he does, and what kind of criminal he really is.
I also wanted more of a sense of setting. This qualm, along with my previous one, could've been solved simultaneously and with just a few extra scenes scattered throughout in order to establish a more definite milieu and to build up the characters and make them more legendary. These few demerits leave it a little shapeless and prevents a good film from being a great one.
With sharp dialogue and creative cinematography, The Asphalt Jungle is ultimately a very smart and successful 50s noir. Sterling Hayden is tremendous as a hulking brute whose principles and cunning make him a formidable figure. He utters gritty lines with a zealous desire for them to leave his mouth, for he does not like the way they taste. It's a good character but one that doesn't quite reach the Walter Neff, Rick Blaine and Charles Foster Kane tier of unforgettable characters from the Hollywood black-and-whites of days gone.
John Huston directed this tight, little caper in 1950 which starred Sterling Hayden and Sam Jaffe and featured a largely unknown Marilyn Monroe.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Doc Erwin Riedenschneider (Jaffe) is released from prison and evades a tail from a corrupt and inept Lt. Ditrich (Barry Kelly). His escape allows for a master plan to be set in motion - a jewel heist that requires three men, a financier, and a fence. A wealthy lawyer Alonzo D. Emmerich (played by Louis Calhern) agrees to be both the financier, as well as the fence, while local criminals Gus Minissi (James Whitmore), Louis Ciavelli (Marc Lawrence) and Dix Handley (Hayden) are employed as getaway driver, safe cracker and hooligan respectfully, the latter enlisted as a sort of muscle/wildcard combo that Riedenschneider insists is necessary.
The score goes off with just a few minor hitches but the handoff does not go so smoothly. Emmerich, who it turns out is cash poor, does not have the funds at his disposal to exchange for the jewels, and so he plans a double cross which ends in a bang and ultimately forces the thieves to scramble.
Huston's direction keeps things tight and moving. We get enough perspective from each side (the criminals and the cops) to create an interesting examination of morality. The cops (and lawyers) are not so righteous and the criminals not so corrupt.
While I appreciated the duality of the characters, the film was too plot driven to allow for its ensemble to properly elevate the subject matter. The characters, though they are authentic and full of personality, are not the priority. I wish we had a few moments of Dix out in the world to show what his life is like, how he knows all the people he does, and what kind of criminal he really is.
I also wanted more of a sense of setting. This qualm, along with my previous one, could've been solved simultaneously and with just a few extra scenes scattered throughout in order to establish a more definite milieu and to build up the characters and make them more legendary. These few demerits leave it a little shapeless and prevents a good film from being a great one.
With sharp dialogue and creative cinematography, The Asphalt Jungle is ultimately a very smart and successful 50s noir. Sterling Hayden is tremendous as a hulking brute whose principles and cunning make him a formidable figure. He utters gritty lines with a zealous desire for them to leave his mouth, for he does not like the way they taste. It's a good character but one that doesn't quite reach the Walter Neff, Rick Blaine and Charles Foster Kane tier of unforgettable characters from the Hollywood black-and-whites of days gone.
Once Upon a Time in America
(1984)
Laughably self-serious and empty of meaning
18 May 2022
As epic as Sergio Leone's tale of brotherhood and rebellion is, the result of this grandiose and pretentious effort smells rotten - its dirty tricks and machinations always evident - effervescing a stench of perverse human nature. I don't usually fault a film for such a thing. In fact, most of my favorites involve a greying morality and are usually quite ripe with provocative images and action. This film, however, is simultaneously so concerned with documenting evilness and yet is always interested only in perpetuating a style so abrasive that what little narrative significance does exists feels like disingenuous afterthought.
The characters are thin and underdeveloped. Robert De Niro plays Noodles (a name that becomes more ridiculous and vaudevillian with each utterance) who is the only character the film even feigns an interest in developing. The opening section (after a brief and brutal prologue that sets the stage for the incomprehensible ugliness that is to follow) show's him later in years, dealing with the moral complexity of his life in a retrospective shroud of thought, which at the same time, anticipates the reimagining of a life better off forgotten. This is the only part that works because the events of the film are presented as subtext and the power of severe sadness in Di Niro's performance is wonderful to behold. As soon as we see the slightest glimpse of what haunts this walking skeleton, all subtlety is evaporated and replaced with Leone's desire to appall.
The film leads the viewer back in time to witness the formulation of such a monster. Young Noodles is a savvy and precocious rapscallion whose posse of "innocent" looking, little pranksters always follows, like a cartoonish wave of lingering stench. It is impossible to believe, for even one second, that any of these boys could ever become anything other than the butt of a cruel joke told by a world so unforgiving as to force children into a life of petty crime. Of course these boys, played by diminutive actors who bring little craft or nuance to their performances, grow up to be hardened criminals all the same. It is the film's intention to show that even the softest looking fledgelings can be corrupted by the savageness of their external environment. This idea is a good one but is ultimately tarnished by the film's handling of it, to where any prophetic meaning is drained by inauthenticity and derivative parody of other films like The Public Enemy (1931).
Baked into this section of the film, are the criminal activities of the gang which are ever increasing in nefariousness, and a largely unnecessary subplot which introduces a plump neighbor girl who's always up for a shag in exchange for various offerings of baked sweets. I get that the young prostitute is used as a totem unifying the boys in their transition into manhood, but too much time is spent on doing little else other than gratuitously victimizing a young girl, whose appetite for sex causes the viewer to lose their appetite for the contents of the film.
This young, Madonna character is used in juxtaposition of the pure, angelic force of beauty that is Noodles' love interest. Deborah (played, at first, by a young and stunning Jennifer Connelly and later by a beautiful but wooden Elizabeth McGovern), represents to him an alternative to the nefarious path of crime and hatred he has already descended upon. His love for Deborah is always trumped, however, by his allegiance to his family of young gangsters, and his love for his true equal and partner in crime, Maximillian (played by a typically repulsive and yet somehow banal James Woods).
Max constantly distracts Noodles from his heart's truest desire and his imposition between Deborah and our rotten protagonist, creates an undercurrent of homoeroticism that runs throughout the film. This triangular dynamic represents the only interesting facet of this hallow and superficial spectacle, but is constantly undermined by such contrived and mawkish scenes of Noodles pushing away his could-be soul mate for people who he only ever looks upon with conceited superiority. It's utterly ridiculous that he would choose people for whom he has only contempt (other than Max) and for reasons which are never fully developed, over such a loving and loyal symbol of beauty and justness.
What's more ridiculous is how many times Deborah comes back to Noodle's, hoping that he will finally shed his rancid, scaly skin, and embrace her whole-heartedly. Her blind denial of Noodles' unalterable character constantly contradicts the fact that she, on more than one occasion, proves that she knows she can never change this man who's inscrutable destiny has long been threaded already. This contradiction leads to the film's most vile and damning sequence.
Noodles and Deborah, now fully grown, share a lavish and intimate meal together, adorned in their finest threads and accompanied by a live orchestra. This is all facade and pageantry, for as soon as they sit down and are forced to actually engage with one another, it becomes clear that they don't have any non-combative way of communicating. The possibility that once existed for the two of them to be together is no longer. Noodles, though he dons the attire of a refined sophisticate, is nothing but a thoughtless brute without any semblance of humanity. His lousy and weightless pronouncements of love which fumble out of his mouth in the next scene as the two lay together in faux-splendor, manipulate the viewer and knock them off their guard. This allows the brutal rape that is to follow to assault the viewer with maximum effect.
To me, this unforgivable and unflinching sequence of evil incarnate, was merely another of its kind in a string of awfulness assembled by an ineffectual and grossly misguided piece of cinema (it's not even the only depiction of rape-in-real-time that plays). The film then has the audacity to take an intermission, so that that the viewer is forced to contemplate the vile two-and-a-half hours that they have just endured. If they are smart, however, they will use this time to stare blankly at the black screen, for the events that the film wishes for them to ponder back upon, are as blank and thoughtless as such a gesture.
Sergio Leone is a true auteur whose fairy tales of moral messiness certainly leave their mark. It is to his credit that he made both a film which I consider to be a top-five all-time achievement in cinema (Once Upon a Time in the West), and this infamous, disgusting piece of garbage that didn't move me at all intellectually or emotionally for nearly four hours, all the while demolishing my surface-level senses with hallow brutality. That is the true fault of such a film; not that it shows such despicable acts of evilness, but that it does so without any tact or desire to use them as a way to say something greater about the human condition.
The characters are thin and underdeveloped. Robert De Niro plays Noodles (a name that becomes more ridiculous and vaudevillian with each utterance) who is the only character the film even feigns an interest in developing. The opening section (after a brief and brutal prologue that sets the stage for the incomprehensible ugliness that is to follow) show's him later in years, dealing with the moral complexity of his life in a retrospective shroud of thought, which at the same time, anticipates the reimagining of a life better off forgotten. This is the only part that works because the events of the film are presented as subtext and the power of severe sadness in Di Niro's performance is wonderful to behold. As soon as we see the slightest glimpse of what haunts this walking skeleton, all subtlety is evaporated and replaced with Leone's desire to appall.
The film leads the viewer back in time to witness the formulation of such a monster. Young Noodles is a savvy and precocious rapscallion whose posse of "innocent" looking, little pranksters always follows, like a cartoonish wave of lingering stench. It is impossible to believe, for even one second, that any of these boys could ever become anything other than the butt of a cruel joke told by a world so unforgiving as to force children into a life of petty crime. Of course these boys, played by diminutive actors who bring little craft or nuance to their performances, grow up to be hardened criminals all the same. It is the film's intention to show that even the softest looking fledgelings can be corrupted by the savageness of their external environment. This idea is a good one but is ultimately tarnished by the film's handling of it, to where any prophetic meaning is drained by inauthenticity and derivative parody of other films like The Public Enemy (1931).
Baked into this section of the film, are the criminal activities of the gang which are ever increasing in nefariousness, and a largely unnecessary subplot which introduces a plump neighbor girl who's always up for a shag in exchange for various offerings of baked sweets. I get that the young prostitute is used as a totem unifying the boys in their transition into manhood, but too much time is spent on doing little else other than gratuitously victimizing a young girl, whose appetite for sex causes the viewer to lose their appetite for the contents of the film.
This young, Madonna character is used in juxtaposition of the pure, angelic force of beauty that is Noodles' love interest. Deborah (played, at first, by a young and stunning Jennifer Connelly and later by a beautiful but wooden Elizabeth McGovern), represents to him an alternative to the nefarious path of crime and hatred he has already descended upon. His love for Deborah is always trumped, however, by his allegiance to his family of young gangsters, and his love for his true equal and partner in crime, Maximillian (played by a typically repulsive and yet somehow banal James Woods).
Max constantly distracts Noodles from his heart's truest desire and his imposition between Deborah and our rotten protagonist, creates an undercurrent of homoeroticism that runs throughout the film. This triangular dynamic represents the only interesting facet of this hallow and superficial spectacle, but is constantly undermined by such contrived and mawkish scenes of Noodles pushing away his could-be soul mate for people who he only ever looks upon with conceited superiority. It's utterly ridiculous that he would choose people for whom he has only contempt (other than Max) and for reasons which are never fully developed, over such a loving and loyal symbol of beauty and justness.
What's more ridiculous is how many times Deborah comes back to Noodle's, hoping that he will finally shed his rancid, scaly skin, and embrace her whole-heartedly. Her blind denial of Noodles' unalterable character constantly contradicts the fact that she, on more than one occasion, proves that she knows she can never change this man who's inscrutable destiny has long been threaded already. This contradiction leads to the film's most vile and damning sequence.
Noodles and Deborah, now fully grown, share a lavish and intimate meal together, adorned in their finest threads and accompanied by a live orchestra. This is all facade and pageantry, for as soon as they sit down and are forced to actually engage with one another, it becomes clear that they don't have any non-combative way of communicating. The possibility that once existed for the two of them to be together is no longer. Noodles, though he dons the attire of a refined sophisticate, is nothing but a thoughtless brute without any semblance of humanity. His lousy and weightless pronouncements of love which fumble out of his mouth in the next scene as the two lay together in faux-splendor, manipulate the viewer and knock them off their guard. This allows the brutal rape that is to follow to assault the viewer with maximum effect.
To me, this unforgivable and unflinching sequence of evil incarnate, was merely another of its kind in a string of awfulness assembled by an ineffectual and grossly misguided piece of cinema (it's not even the only depiction of rape-in-real-time that plays). The film then has the audacity to take an intermission, so that that the viewer is forced to contemplate the vile two-and-a-half hours that they have just endured. If they are smart, however, they will use this time to stare blankly at the black screen, for the events that the film wishes for them to ponder back upon, are as blank and thoughtless as such a gesture.
Sergio Leone is a true auteur whose fairy tales of moral messiness certainly leave their mark. It is to his credit that he made both a film which I consider to be a top-five all-time achievement in cinema (Once Upon a Time in the West), and this infamous, disgusting piece of garbage that didn't move me at all intellectually or emotionally for nearly four hours, all the while demolishing my surface-level senses with hallow brutality. That is the true fault of such a film; not that it shows such despicable acts of evilness, but that it does so without any tact or desire to use them as a way to say something greater about the human condition.
The Northman
(2022)
Blood soaked testosterone
3 May 2022
Two-and-a-half-hours of blood soaked testosterone, Robert Eggers' Viking revenge epic stands as testament to the uniqueness of cinema and the improbable way in which it can affect ones senses, opening them up to unforeseen worlds and alien stimuli. The third in a string of supernatural, folkloric fables, The Northman confirms Eggers ability to transport the images and ideas flashing inside his mind, like photocopies of the past, onto the screen, delivering them in a manner that can only astonish and confound.
The River
(1951)
Too sweet for my taste
24 March 2022
A credit to the marvelousness of the flora and the fauna and the way Renoir shoots the vivid red, blues and purples against the luscious, natural greens; but it's just too damn twee and stagy for my tastes. The beauty and the naturalness of the locations are wrongly imbued with a putrid stench of artifice created by the direction of the actors and a cloying emotional tone. The whole thing just doesn't blend. It becomes especially incessant when it attempts to be deep. I found the plight of Capt. John, or at least the way it was handled, to be laughable in spite of its attempt to manufacture pathos. Its a narrative where the lows must never be too low and the ideas must never shine too brightly, so as not to confound the viewer. Therefore, the emotional tone of the film seems cheap and unearned. It's unfortunate that the painterly milieu was wasted on such a saccharine, hokey, and dated production.
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