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Reviews
Little Miss Sunshine (2006)
"Comedy" is almost misleading
"Little Miss Sunshine" is thoroughly enjoyable. Of the greatest importance: this movie is not a "family comedy," but the -other- kind of "comedy." If you've seen Duncan Tucker's "Transamerica," for example, you will be familiar with the feel of "Little Miss Sunshine." It's more interested in making you cry than laugh. When humor emerges, it is dark and tinged with other emotions. And like "Transamerica," "Little Miss Sunshine" is both involving and satirical as a portrayal of how modern Americans relate to one another.
The screen writing is mostly good. From the very first scenes, I was drawn in by the quirky yet identifiable characters. Even more importantly, the main cast tackled these roles with verve and honesty. Olive (played by the remarkable Abigail Breslin) is a believable child with actual feelings, quite rare in comedies (and movies in general, really). And it turns out Steve Carell -can- take on a role demanding subtlety.
"Little Miss Sunshine" works best when it's not taking itself too seriously, keeping me engaged with the subtleties of the characters, their relationships, and the pacing of the story. The film has its misses where it overreaches. There are a couple serious scenes that are too slow -- slow enough that I was allowed to become aware of how thin and fairly unimaginative the plot really is. After all, the storyline is based around a road trip that brings together its participants; that's not exactly re-inventing the wheel. On the other hand, I can't tell you how refreshing it is to finally see a road trip comedy that -doesn't- retread all the tired conventions of the movie style. Yes, there is car trouble, but it's not employed as an overwrought plot device, and the family doesn't end up walking in the rain and falling in mud. Yes, they argue en route, but cutesy "Mom, he's touching me!" moments are mercifully absent. By balancing lightness and honesty throughout, "Little Miss Sunshine" ends up more bearable than 75% of the "comedies" that get churned out today, Hollywood or independent. Check it out -- just don't expect to laugh too much.
The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
An over-hyped chick-flick
"The Devil Wears Prada" is everything you'd expect and little else. One can't help but point out the striking similarities to earlier offerings featuring Anne Hathaway -- the same Cinderellian out-girl turned in-girl protagonist, the same friends vs. career dilemma, the same cookie-cutter scorned romantic interest (courtesy of Adrian Grenier), the same formulaic character development portrayal, etc. ...
The screen writing is disappointingly bland for long periods of time. Meryl Streep was convincing as the subtly ruthless Miranda Priestly, and Stanley Tucci delivers in a few scenes, but the rest of the cast is thoroughly unremarkable, as are their respective shallow characters. An especially big thumbs-down to Andy's supposedly forsaken friends, whom we clearly -should- sympathize with, but who come off as simplistic jerks unsupportive of Andy's understandable ambitions.
There are certain saving graces. Excepting the lame final 15 minutes, the plot paces itself well; that is, there is a relatively uniform distribution of unambitious, facile, Disney-esquire "entertainment." But I use the term loosely, and I leave it up to you to decide whether "entertainment" is a reasonable term to describe 109 minutes of intermittent smart-ass conversations between Andy and Miranda, Andy and Emily, Andy and Nigel, and Andy and her boyfriend or other friends, all of which offer little in the way of interesting relationship portrayals. The movie is billed as a comedy, but there are few really amusing moments.
Though there are more than a few predictably trite scenes (e.g. the obligatory "Don't you see? You've changed" lovers confrontation), I found nothing truly gag-worthy, and the distaste came in merciful portions.
I haven't read the book, nor do I know anything about fashion media, the fashion industry, or fashion in general. And unfortunately, "The Devil Wears Prada" doesn't delve deeply enough into its own premise, never really piquing my interest in the subject like I wanted it to, only managing to use fashion media as a buzzword-rife backdrop for, quoting an earlier reviewer, "The Princess Diaries 3." This was perhaps the greatest injustice of all.
Edmond (2005)
No plot, no plot, terrible character, no plot
I don't know the first thing about David Mamet or his other work. However, I will say that this movie adaptation of his play Edmond sure -felt- like a play. A bad one. There's a lot of speaking but no actual dialogue or screenplay -- just a whole lot of nauseating, overwrought existential musing. There's no plot, only a series of totally unbelievable events engineered to force the theme of destiny down our already gagging throats.
The play that this movie is based off of seems to be some kind of awkward twist on the Oedipus tale. Edmond is doomed to an unknown fate he avoids only on subconscious levels. The problem is, while Oedipus is a real character with real feelings, Edmond is a forced construct. The movie gives us no story, no relationships, only Edmond, and he isn't even a real man! He doesn't develop in any understandable way. Throughout the movie, he cycles exclusively between four vagaries of thought: horniness, generalized people-angst, generalized rage, and wordy revelations on existence.
Edmond is a difficult character to identify with, to say the least. His pseudo-tragic heroic story doesn't speak to me because frankly, I can't understand him at all. What in the hell does he want? First he's out cruising for prostitutes, then he beats up a black man, then he picks up and kills a girl, then he's ready to testify at a black community church? When pressed for explanations, Edmond stammers out a clumsy anti-religious rant and follows it up with, you guessed it, more ramblings on people and the courses that life can take. Please, Mamet, give me something, anything to explain just what is going on in this man's head. Anything more than these random displays of empty emotion that are impossible to identify with and that show me nothing about Edmond, myself, or the world. He's angry because people won't listen? Could it be that he's NOT SAYING ANYTHING?? Edmond does happen upon a mild insight late in the game, that fear might be another form of desire. But yet again his diatribe is so cluttered with randomness that I fail to see the point. What does he mean, he finally feels "safe" in prison? His character seems to change completely at every given moment, defying all logic and all attempts to understand him. His interactions with others are confrontational at wildly varying intensities with seemingly little impetus. His drives and impulses are so arbitrary that by the movie's end, I'm not inclined to believe a thing he says. I can't sympathize with Edmond's story or learn anything from it when he is so clearly detached from normal humanity, and when there isn't even a decent story to latch onto.
William H. Macy seemed to be doing the he best could with the "character" he was given to perform. His effort to create Edmond didn't make up for Mamet's lack, but I suppose it does earn the film an extra star, especially for Macy fans. He even manages to give Edmond some life during an amusingly uncomfortable striptease scene. Or maybe I only enjoyed it for the boobies.
Had there at least been a plot behind Edmond's journey, this play-movie might have been moderately interesting. As it is, the movie is a baffling, incoherent disaster. There is no focus, no real climax, no suspense and practically no resolution. There is tension, but mostly of the "When is this going to go somewhere?!!" kind. I don't even understand what the main conflict was. The worst part is, Mamet attempts to make a theme out of this absolute nothingness. The destiny idea is deployed with a strange and distasteful dichotomy of heavy-handedness and haphazard ambiguity. From what I can see, Edmond could not have possibly learned anything from his incongruous experiences, except maybe not to be so freaking impulsive. Yet Mamet attempts vainly, through Edmond's incomprehensible outbursts and meaningless exchanges, to convince us that Edmond has learned a great deal. Mamet does a lot of telling, but no showing, and ends up saying nothing at all.
Koyaanisqatsi (1982)
Exceedingly dull
All who are considering checking out Koyaanisqatsi, be forewarned. The cigar-smoking friend who recommended it to you is full of it. People who laud this "film" as some kind of grand artistic accomplishment are not being honest with themselves. They are probably confusing intellectual awe of the project with actual enjoyment of the work. Indeed, that sort of confusion is depressingly prevalent in the "art world," and a source of endless satire and editorializing by people like me. Read on.
Cinematography alone doesn't make an interesting film; it is one component of many that filmmakers can draw upon to create a meaningful and pleasing work. With absolutely no plot or screenplay, Koyaanisqatsi is not a "film." It is a seemingly arbitrary collection of admittedly masterful shots (if you can sit through them) by Ron Fricke, most of which are time lapsed or in slow motion, strung together with an exaggerated "artistic" flair. All of this is set to a static and uninspiring soundtrack by Phillip Glass, who seems content only to create music that is repetitive, void of dynamic contrast, aggravatingly "minimalist" in the worst ways, and informed by trite symphonic conventions. In a sense, Glass's work complements the film perfectly; neither the film nor the soundtrack go anywhere.
To those who disagree, I ask: when you're settling down after dinner, and no one's around to impress, which would you rather watch, Koyaanisqatsi, or practically anything else? If cinematography is your thing, why not watch documentaries? A good documentary also has beautiful shots, but with actual substance as well. You can call Koyaanisqatsi "creative" all day, but are there actually people who would rather watch this tedious art school riff-raff than a quality nature or industry documentary? I'm not denying that through Koyaanisqatsi, Godrey Reggio attempts to make some kind of meaningful statement, obscure and direction-less as the results are. I'm not speaking to Reggio's ill-conceived intentions. I -am- attesting that ultimately, not only did Koyaanisqatsi provide me the most boring 87 minutes I've ever experienced, but it managed to communicate almost nothing to me except a not-so-subtle undercurrent of unapologetic pretentiousness, even more apparent in Reggio's inflated retrospective interviews that come with the 2002 DVD re-release (he insists that he "originally didn't want a name for the movie, but an image," because "why have a word for something unnameable?").
The failings of Koyaanisqatsi bring to mind a certain album put together by composer Steve Reich. After an involved study of African drum rhythms, Reich sought to record an album exploring the hidden rhythms that can emerge from juxtaposing ever-shifting rhythmic patterns. What resulted was an album of only drums and endlessly repeating tuned percussion. That's right, the same marimba patterns and a bunch of drums with nearly the same timbres beating to the same monotonous beat. At the same monotonous tempo. For a whole hour. This "album," which fails to stimulate on the level of Muzak, is called Drumming. Like Koyanisqatsi, it is a casualty of the worst excesses of "minimalism." And much like Koyaanisqatsi and its singular championing of cinematography, Drumming is an attempt to elevate one isolated element of the medium (here rhythm) to the exclusion of all others. I'm always alarmed by the sheer volume of people who even consider the term "creative" to describe such a sobering lack of ambition. Don't believe me? Read the Amazon reviews for Drumming and be astonished at the ridiculous praise heaped upon it. One reviewer deems it a "masterpiece of contemporary music" and exalts in how "fascinating" this background music is. Another claims it would have been more rewarding were it LONGER.
If, when I'm sitting through an album or film, I feel that I'd much rather be watching TV (and I hardly ever watch TV), is it too much to not rate the work SEVEN POINT NINE STARS? Alas, some people clad in beatnik hats prefer not to think about that. Such is the way with Koyaanisqatsi and its potheaded, would-be cult following. If you're the type to spend all your free time in coffeehouses whining about the establishment, then by all means grab copies for yourself and each of your friends. Otherwise, steer clear of this nonsense film.