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morning75
Reviews
Barton Fink (1991)
Writer goes to hell and back...
Those groomed on the Coen Brothers' more recent offering (to a lesser extent Fargo', certainly The Big Lebowski' and O Brother, Where Art Thou?') may find Barton Fink' surprisingly lacking in the overt comedy of those movies, yet anyone who revelled in the religious and moral underpinnings of the films I have mentioned will find here a wealth of tempting material to warm their hearts. Played in superlatively bookish fashion -- distant yet inquisitive, cold yet suffering -- by John Turturro, the eponymous Barton is a playwright who decides to follow the lure of money, but finds out that, for him, the root of a pretty evil tree. For when the major talent' Barton arrives, and is at once commissioned to write a superficial wrestling picture, he finds writer's block, together with a picture of a swimsuit-clad woman on a beach, engulfing his creativity -- not to mention the noise made by his next door neighbour played by John Goodman, in a truly superb performance, that achieves a true acting distinction in portraying a character that elicits sympathy while being in every way unsympathetic. For this particular neighbour is not a good one -- there is more to Charlie Meadows than meets the eye. For one, the room gets hot, and the wallpaper peels, whenever he is near. He is an insurance salesman, door-to-door, with a fondness for enjoying' the wives of absent husbands on his travels. He drinks, and encourages Barton to do likewise, and generally leads him astray... he uses the word damned' on more than one occasion... As soon as you pick up on this central theme, as you will fairly quickly -- the Coen Brothers are wonderfully benevolent filmmakers, one feels they care for their audience and never descend, even in their depictions of more unfortunate or pretentious characters, into mockery or snideness -- an enjoyable but apparently rather dry movie becomes a funny, complex, many-layered and extremely satisfying one, showing an intricacy to the Coen Brothers' craft that must rank them near the very summit of filmmaking today. Shifting layers of meaning, coruscating in-jokes and glowing lines that resonate in superb fashion ("People can be so cruel... if it's not my build it's the personality..." says Charlie in the line of the film, one so preposterous given the source, you can't help but laugh out loud) are all to be discovered here, along with a very resonant exploration of the life of the mind' and the creative drive, and a veritable panoply of perspicacious and sapient ponderings on the vainglory and faux-sagacious foibles of that sesquipedalian character of excessive prolixity, the pretentious and ostentatious pensmith. Yep. All the other performances are excellent, from Frasier's John Mahoney as the alternately walking and barfing F.Scott Fitzgerald pastiche W.P. Mayhew, to Judy Davis as his tragic muse, Audrey . The Coen Brothers are never ones to play it absolutely straight and the film ends with two wonderfully surreal scenes, of the kind perfectly formed to sit happily in the minds of viewers as a reference point for the Coen Brothers as filmmakers, as Barton Fink' will for lovers of great cinema. Certain scenes in this film, indeed the whole motif of the struggling writer, are eerily reminiscent of Woody Allen's classic, though even as a huge Woody fan I would say inferior, Bullets Over Broadway. In that film a group of characters are discussing art when one remarks that "no great artist[s] is truly appreciated in their lifetime." Well, we have a choice in that. For goodness sake break the mould -- go and see a Coen Brothers film, especially Barton Fink, and appreciate yourself silly.
9/10 (and I'm not a high-marker...)
Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (1992)
Compelling reason to watch the series
Who else but David Lynch could provide -- with his loose canon' of often extraordinary, often bewildering movies, that despite inciting equal measures of admiration and disgust among critics, prove nonetheless consistently popular, especially among his loyal band of fans -- a more apt definition of the cult director'? And what other TV show but the haunting, labyrinthine, Lynch-directed Twin Peaks could serve as a more suitable exemplar of cult TV'? Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me is, critically, a risky project for Lynch. Based on the hugely popular TV show, about a rural town shaken, divided, and ultimately exposed as a result of the discovery of the dead body of Laura Palmer, a young high school student, it offers itself as a prequel, purporting to explicate the causal chain that led to the discovery of Ms Palmer's beaten, blue-lipped corpse in a plastic bag in a nearby river. The result is that any moviegoer not au fait with the series may well find themselves baffled rather than enchanted by these behind-the-scenes' shots of the town -- and events surrounding -- that regular viewers of the TV show became so involved with, and also much of the complex mythology that the series introduced, and this, in a nutshell, is probably Twin Peaks biggest flaw: to form a motion picture storyline from reference to events and characters -- not to say those marked by the kind of esoteric subtlety, verging on wilful perversity that distinguished, and defined Twin Peaks, indeed Lynch's work as a whole -- is perhaps one demand too many for the average audience to accede to. Which leads one to question whether Lynch ever intended this film for the average moviegoer' (ie: non Twin Peaks aficionados.) For as a stand-alone movie, I would have to qualify with one caveat any recommendation to see Fire Walk With Me, namely; do not expect a coherent, fully-rounded, easily digestible experience. Yet it is shame, having said all of this, that such obstacles to the movie's greater dissemination into the public consciousness exist. Though hardly a departure for Lynch (the film features many of his staples -- hallucinogenic dream sequences, the exposing of facade, a wilfully scattergun approach to plot, interesting characters conversing in laconic, often abstruse bursts) it is, nevertheless, a startling watch. Say what you will about the Lynch's storytelling shortcomings, stylistically his abilities are, quite literally, there for all to see. Without recourse to computers or robotics, and as if the blue-screen never existed, he appears at least to have a startling aptitude for creating magic and suspense, weirdness and shock, using really very traditional methods. This is a wildly entertaining film in both visual and visceral respects. A major factor in its success -- particularly as regards the latter quality -- is the performance of Sheryl Lee, as the tale's tragic heroine, Laura Palmer, who seems to slink her Cocaine-addled way along a fine white line between melodrama and mawkishness, and heart pulling resonance and chilling sympathy throughout the film, more often than not coming through unscathed. There is something in her portrayal of the lost, apparently abused -- though in the fashion of the rest of the movie it is never made explicitly clear -- and drug addicted teenager, while consisting largely of anguished looks and ululatory cries, interspersed with expressions of alternately, longing and coquettishness, that leaves a imprint, a likeness on the mind after the credits have rolled, and the reason, again, conveniently conforming to the tenor of the rest of the film, is never quite clear, though she seems to fit the part unusually well, and displays a remarkable duality -- common in abuse victims -- now vulnerable and terrified, now predatory, wilful, and aggressive. Other performances are less noteworthy; singers Chris Isaak and David Bowie betray a surprising inability, especially in light of the latter's theatrical stage presence and previous acting experience, to describe interesting characters that convince the audience of doing anything more that work through their predetermined verbal and literal steps; Laura's twin love interests could conceivably (though no doubt, reluctantly) have been transplanted from the LA sets of Buffy or Dawson's Creek to the desolate environs of the rural north, and the dwarf who dwells in the apparent waiting room between life and the afterlife is, well, just plain creepy. Yet for some reason, whereas other Lynch films -- Lost Highway particularly -- left one feeling frustrated and rather cheated by the writer/director, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me haunts, and intrigues, hallmarks of any good mystery, be it as obscure or as traditional as you like, and it is upon this predicate would I base my argument that perhaps, even if you have not seen the show, you should go and see this movie after all. Just approach it as you would, as a stranger, approach a real small, insular rural backwater like Twin Peaks: with an open mind about the inhabitants and the tales they have to tell, and no prior expectation of a warm welcome, despite what it says on the sign. 7/10
Late Show with David Letterman (1993)
The best TV entertainment host ever
David Letterman is, in many people's opinion (mine included) simply the best TV host and entertainer there has ever been. For what he has done for the talk-show -- completely reinventing it and in turn creating a style that is entirely his own, while maintaining extraordinary consistency (five shows a week for twenty years) -- and for his matchless sense of what makes good television, he deserves to be considered, though still working, as one of the all-time great figures in broadcasting such as Steve Allen, Johnny Carson, and to a lesser extent, Captain Caveman. Oh, and this is his nightly show.
Hasards ou coïncidences (1998)
A capricious beauty.
Though Chance or Coincidence is a film surficially concerned with death and grief, never have I enjoyed a film that deals with this most emotive subject in so trenchantly and poignantly a manner, while at the same time managing to exude such effulgence and vitality.
Its singularity is born perhaps of the balletic theme that runs throughout; the main character's passion for the art form making for some glorious set-pieces as well as a subject that, delightfully, elects to express her feelings through dance at the most unlikely moments.
Indubitably the exuberance of the cinematography plays its part; when its subjects dance, both dramatically and literally, rather than observe, the camera becomes a part of their movement, follows, and joins in.
And mention must be made of the glorious lighting; of a French film dealing at least in part with such themes of darkness and tragedy, this is an atypical example in its determined eschewing of any visual reticence or gloom in favour of an almost pugnacious optimism allied to a vibrancy that lends each scene a unique glow, becoming a light that radiates through the film as a whole, that rather than lessening the impact of its more emotionally affecting moments, prevents it from ever becoming maudlin or depressing.
Could the secret lie in the film's wilfully idiosyncratic handling of plot? Certainly this is a rich conceptual concoction, featuring a particularly exciting device in the video camera that plays such a pivotal role in an interesting, joyfully unpredictable tale.
Surely the secret is in the script, sharp and intelligent, interpreted in a range of superb performances from the cast; particularly enchanting is that of star Alessandra Martines, wife of director Claude Lelouch, in whose beautifully expressive eyes we may find the secret yet...
But ultimately, of course -- and predictably -- I will have to say that it is all of these. Chance or Coincidence was a wonderful surprise in all respects, as it will be to anyone who watches it, and I cannot recommend it highly enough.