An excellent, if greatly underrated film. Philosophical author Thaddeus Golas, who lived with a hippie commune for several years in San Francisco in the '60s and 70s, pointed out that The Baby Maker wonderfully captured the spirit of youth in the '60s, far better than Hollywood caricatures like The Trip or Easy Rider. This is true, of course. This film is about the clash of worlds and paradigms. Like most films of the 1970s, it's true themes are hidden under layers, and the title gives few clues as to what the story is truly pointing at. Worth a viewing!
Reviews
14 Reviews
Jimi: All Is by My Side
(2013)
Check out the white guitar. Really!
6 January 2015
Warning: Spoilers
A friend of mine asked if "All is by my side" was really made without the use of a single Hendrix song. I mulled it over and realized that it was the case.
What struck me is that until that moment, I had not thought of it. Even though I grew up with a consciousness of Hendrix's music in my permanent background, I was engrossed in this emotionally stirring picture and never noticed the seamless trickery. This, paired with the realization that the film was what we call in the business "buried" on distribution, (meaning that no money was spent advertising to people about its release or existence,) prompted me to write this review for the few out there who might be on the fence about buying the BluRay, and giving writer-director John Ridley some luv.
Assuming that the Jimi Hendrix estate was the prime reason behind the decision to make a Hendrix film without "Hey Joe" or "Purple Haze" and all the rest, it behooves the clever viewer to dig beneath the surface to see what John Ridley considered important enough to stake his sterling reputation upon. What follows are not Spoilers, since I do not talk about strong plot points beyond the theme, but I do expose what I perceive to be strong symbols and subtext. Reader beware.
André Benjamin who stars as Hendrix is remarkable. His characterization is total, complete with the graceful handling of left-handed guitar licks, but it is down to his eyes and voice - his sultry portrayal of the man is dizzying. And you can read about that anywhere...
This picture manipulates symbols and suggestions artfully, and although the elements of the manipulation are a mere fact of Jimi Hendrix's own biography (in which, admittedly, I am not at all versed) it is apparent that Ridley, a Black writer-director, understood their deep power. At the root of it is a white Fender guitar, which is "granted" to Hendrix by Linda Keith, the White English Rolling Stones groupie who falls for him in a dingy New York club, at a time when he hasn't got a name or the slightest audience. When I was a boy, someone pointed out that the shape of the guitar was evoking the curves of a woman, an observation so simple that I took it for granted ever since. In Ridley's story, that white guitar should be spelled with a capital "W" since it comes to represent the crystallized ideal that Linda Keith has envisioned. The film goes on to suggest that it is she, more than anyone, who helps Hendrix get his head out of his ass and take his show on the road. She is also instrumental in finding him his White English agent, and ultimately his White admirers.
Is this important? Clearly in the mid-sixties in the USA, a pretty, rich White American girl might not have wanted to be seen with a Black musician. And if she had, for whatever reason, she would certainly not have understood the type of projection that was needed to make him palatable to a White audience, which is of course the crux of Hendrix's later worldwide success. People well versed in travel will know that this type of sexual and racial transgression was always more feasible in Europe, and particularly in the UK.
I often wondered how Jimi Hendrix became one of the first truly significant Black men to transcend cultural racial boundaries and open the door to several more instances in subsequent decades, because all my life, it was clear that Whites, often more than Blacks, were affected by his musical innovations and swagger. The common idea about this is that music simply transcends boundaries. Fair enough, but is there more? For instance, is music not fundamentally sexual? Is sex not about power?
In this film, John Ridley provided me with a possible theory, if not an explanation: Jimi Hendrix jumps on the chance to date White women and thus to commit the most effective act of socio-sexual transgression, which is to gun for the object of desire at the summit of the power pyramid - the conquest of the beautiful White woman.
I give particular credit to Ridley for not shying away from the inevitable confrontation (not the one with the racist police, nope!), with a Black English brother who challenges him to come back to his own kind. The sexual context surrounding this invitation, and Hendrix's dismissal, is so evident that one cannot help wonder if therein rested much of the passion and focus at the heart of Hendrix's own ability to cross over. I'll leave it at that. The amazing feat in Ridley's picture is that you can alternatively see it or miss it entirely. But it's all there.
So at the end of the day, discussions about gaining insights into the mind of Jimi through his top ten songs are blown away by the clues handed down by his top two women. The film is powerful, but perhaps not in ways that people can exactly predict.
The conceit of great movie making is that great film makers know that great art never earns money, at least never fast enough for investors' appetite. Yet they have to trick everyone into helping to make it anyway, because without great art, the gigantic mass of money making junk cannot point to great art to cause envy, and capture the spirit of consumers.
Apparently, another, bigger picture about Hendrix starring Anthony Mackie is being made - presumably with more help from the estate - and consequently with a larger budget. The question is, with more screen time devoted to "The Wind Cries Mary" and "The Star Spangled Banner" will the next Hendrix biopic get in there and expose some deep grit about sex, music, and the mechanics of insemination of a culture? I would contend that "All is by my side" is the one to see.
What struck me is that until that moment, I had not thought of it. Even though I grew up with a consciousness of Hendrix's music in my permanent background, I was engrossed in this emotionally stirring picture and never noticed the seamless trickery. This, paired with the realization that the film was what we call in the business "buried" on distribution, (meaning that no money was spent advertising to people about its release or existence,) prompted me to write this review for the few out there who might be on the fence about buying the BluRay, and giving writer-director John Ridley some luv.
Assuming that the Jimi Hendrix estate was the prime reason behind the decision to make a Hendrix film without "Hey Joe" or "Purple Haze" and all the rest, it behooves the clever viewer to dig beneath the surface to see what John Ridley considered important enough to stake his sterling reputation upon. What follows are not Spoilers, since I do not talk about strong plot points beyond the theme, but I do expose what I perceive to be strong symbols and subtext. Reader beware.
André Benjamin who stars as Hendrix is remarkable. His characterization is total, complete with the graceful handling of left-handed guitar licks, but it is down to his eyes and voice - his sultry portrayal of the man is dizzying. And you can read about that anywhere...
This picture manipulates symbols and suggestions artfully, and although the elements of the manipulation are a mere fact of Jimi Hendrix's own biography (in which, admittedly, I am not at all versed) it is apparent that Ridley, a Black writer-director, understood their deep power. At the root of it is a white Fender guitar, which is "granted" to Hendrix by Linda Keith, the White English Rolling Stones groupie who falls for him in a dingy New York club, at a time when he hasn't got a name or the slightest audience. When I was a boy, someone pointed out that the shape of the guitar was evoking the curves of a woman, an observation so simple that I took it for granted ever since. In Ridley's story, that white guitar should be spelled with a capital "W" since it comes to represent the crystallized ideal that Linda Keith has envisioned. The film goes on to suggest that it is she, more than anyone, who helps Hendrix get his head out of his ass and take his show on the road. She is also instrumental in finding him his White English agent, and ultimately his White admirers.
Is this important? Clearly in the mid-sixties in the USA, a pretty, rich White American girl might not have wanted to be seen with a Black musician. And if she had, for whatever reason, she would certainly not have understood the type of projection that was needed to make him palatable to a White audience, which is of course the crux of Hendrix's later worldwide success. People well versed in travel will know that this type of sexual and racial transgression was always more feasible in Europe, and particularly in the UK.
I often wondered how Jimi Hendrix became one of the first truly significant Black men to transcend cultural racial boundaries and open the door to several more instances in subsequent decades, because all my life, it was clear that Whites, often more than Blacks, were affected by his musical innovations and swagger. The common idea about this is that music simply transcends boundaries. Fair enough, but is there more? For instance, is music not fundamentally sexual? Is sex not about power?
In this film, John Ridley provided me with a possible theory, if not an explanation: Jimi Hendrix jumps on the chance to date White women and thus to commit the most effective act of socio-sexual transgression, which is to gun for the object of desire at the summit of the power pyramid - the conquest of the beautiful White woman.
I give particular credit to Ridley for not shying away from the inevitable confrontation (not the one with the racist police, nope!), with a Black English brother who challenges him to come back to his own kind. The sexual context surrounding this invitation, and Hendrix's dismissal, is so evident that one cannot help wonder if therein rested much of the passion and focus at the heart of Hendrix's own ability to cross over. I'll leave it at that. The amazing feat in Ridley's picture is that you can alternatively see it or miss it entirely. But it's all there.
So at the end of the day, discussions about gaining insights into the mind of Jimi through his top ten songs are blown away by the clues handed down by his top two women. The film is powerful, but perhaps not in ways that people can exactly predict.
The conceit of great movie making is that great film makers know that great art never earns money, at least never fast enough for investors' appetite. Yet they have to trick everyone into helping to make it anyway, because without great art, the gigantic mass of money making junk cannot point to great art to cause envy, and capture the spirit of consumers.
Apparently, another, bigger picture about Hendrix starring Anthony Mackie is being made - presumably with more help from the estate - and consequently with a larger budget. The question is, with more screen time devoted to "The Wind Cries Mary" and "The Star Spangled Banner" will the next Hendrix biopic get in there and expose some deep grit about sex, music, and the mechanics of insemination of a culture? I would contend that "All is by my side" is the one to see.
Ask Me Anything
(2014)
Good chick-flick for guys... who love cinema, that is!
20 December 2014
I had no idea what to expect when I sat down to view "Ask Me Anything".
It occurred to me that this would probably turn out to be a fluffy, sensitive chick-flick and that I might walk out after a little while. My male ego often feels unable follow the psychological estrogen trail for too long... At the movies, anyway.
I mention this for all the male readers because I was truly blown away by this little movie.
It deserves to have little or none of its content revealed. I will mention the package: nicely written, surprisingly engaging, considering how modest and devoid of ambition some of the dialogs can deceivingly appear at the start. The picture is deeply candid and offers genuinely potent insights into cinematic gender language. It is fresh! It took me by surprise and wrapped me around its little finger in no time. Walking out? Out of the question!
The style of the picture is discreet - it allows some very subtle performances to come across.
Britt Robertson, the lead, deserves accolades. She is a superb actress - deeply vulnerable. What's more, she has a unique quality for an actress: she makes her protagonist fascinating long before we've even begun to get acquainted with her crisis.
The film left me speechless. In a good way.
It occurred to me that this would probably turn out to be a fluffy, sensitive chick-flick and that I might walk out after a little while. My male ego often feels unable follow the psychological estrogen trail for too long... At the movies, anyway.
I mention this for all the male readers because I was truly blown away by this little movie.
It deserves to have little or none of its content revealed. I will mention the package: nicely written, surprisingly engaging, considering how modest and devoid of ambition some of the dialogs can deceivingly appear at the start. The picture is deeply candid and offers genuinely potent insights into cinematic gender language. It is fresh! It took me by surprise and wrapped me around its little finger in no time. Walking out? Out of the question!
The style of the picture is discreet - it allows some very subtle performances to come across.
Britt Robertson, the lead, deserves accolades. She is a superb actress - deeply vulnerable. What's more, she has a unique quality for an actress: she makes her protagonist fascinating long before we've even begun to get acquainted with her crisis.
The film left me speechless. In a good way.
Dreamchild
(1985)
One of those truly beautiful films nobody has ever seen.
29 November 2014
The fate of movies is a mystery.
Why should it be that certain mediocre films draw crowds large enough to wrap twice around the block, only to be just as soon forgotten, while others, marvelous films, never catch on at all, and end up lost through decades, waiting only to be rediscovered one day, when a DVD edition suddenly blesses them with a second life?
DreamChild is a monumental work of art that rests on another monumental work. Of course, it helps that as a kid, I was fascinated by Lewis Carrol's famous adventures of Alice in Wonderland and Thru the Looking Glass, as well as the wild and often creepy, psychedelic universe beautifully rendered by artist Sir John Tenniel. It's worth noting that, to this day, we owe Tenniel most of the representations we have of the worlds and characters described by Carrol.
DreamChild a beautiful film in so many respects. Deeply moving and inviting us, the viewer, to reflect upon the true forces that guide the murky, and sometimes tortuous process from which art is born.
The screenplay by Dennis Potter is airtight, witty, often funny, but also dark and complex. Ian Holm as the Reverend Dodgson delivers one of the two best performances of his life (The Sweet Hereafter being the other). Curiously, both deal with the agonizing pain of holding back.
Even little Amelia Shankley, who plays young Alice Lydell, the muse throughout the film, is deeply haunting and complex, juggling the tricky emotions that carry the entire picture through to its resolution.
This was a fairly low budget production, shot entirely in the UK, but Roger Hall's masterful art direction can convince even a savvy movie buff that he is watching a pricey period picture set in New York City's Great Depression era. Gavin Millar, the director, is mature enough to let his camera witness a powerful story without artifice.
There is not one bad choice in this picture, right down to a gorgeous musical score by Stanley Myers. Finally, Jim Henson and his team of artists recreated the wildest and most beloved characters of Alice in Wonderland as animatronic puppets which, thirty years on, hold up perfectly and allow the film to soar with its unique, organic, and at times theatrical charm.
I saw this picture in New York City, in 1986, when it received a limited release, and I recall being instantly enchanted by it. I had to accept a poor videotape copy for years and years, until one of the film's crew members in the UK was kind enough to obtain a better copy for me, which I have cherished. But now, a DVD-R has been released in the film's original 1:85/1 ratio and I was recently able to watch it all again, at last in a perfect presentation.
DreamChild is a great big film which only had a small life, but it is worth discovering on DVD. It's a picture that could well stay with you for the rest of your life.
It did with me.
Why should it be that certain mediocre films draw crowds large enough to wrap twice around the block, only to be just as soon forgotten, while others, marvelous films, never catch on at all, and end up lost through decades, waiting only to be rediscovered one day, when a DVD edition suddenly blesses them with a second life?
DreamChild is a monumental work of art that rests on another monumental work. Of course, it helps that as a kid, I was fascinated by Lewis Carrol's famous adventures of Alice in Wonderland and Thru the Looking Glass, as well as the wild and often creepy, psychedelic universe beautifully rendered by artist Sir John Tenniel. It's worth noting that, to this day, we owe Tenniel most of the representations we have of the worlds and characters described by Carrol.
DreamChild a beautiful film in so many respects. Deeply moving and inviting us, the viewer, to reflect upon the true forces that guide the murky, and sometimes tortuous process from which art is born.
The screenplay by Dennis Potter is airtight, witty, often funny, but also dark and complex. Ian Holm as the Reverend Dodgson delivers one of the two best performances of his life (The Sweet Hereafter being the other). Curiously, both deal with the agonizing pain of holding back.
Even little Amelia Shankley, who plays young Alice Lydell, the muse throughout the film, is deeply haunting and complex, juggling the tricky emotions that carry the entire picture through to its resolution.
This was a fairly low budget production, shot entirely in the UK, but Roger Hall's masterful art direction can convince even a savvy movie buff that he is watching a pricey period picture set in New York City's Great Depression era. Gavin Millar, the director, is mature enough to let his camera witness a powerful story without artifice.
There is not one bad choice in this picture, right down to a gorgeous musical score by Stanley Myers. Finally, Jim Henson and his team of artists recreated the wildest and most beloved characters of Alice in Wonderland as animatronic puppets which, thirty years on, hold up perfectly and allow the film to soar with its unique, organic, and at times theatrical charm.
I saw this picture in New York City, in 1986, when it received a limited release, and I recall being instantly enchanted by it. I had to accept a poor videotape copy for years and years, until one of the film's crew members in the UK was kind enough to obtain a better copy for me, which I have cherished. But now, a DVD-R has been released in the film's original 1:85/1 ratio and I was recently able to watch it all again, at last in a perfect presentation.
DreamChild is a great big film which only had a small life, but it is worth discovering on DVD. It's a picture that could well stay with you for the rest of your life.
It did with me.
Interstellar
(2014)
That's not shinola you see thru that black hole, Grasshopper.
9 November 2014
A good friend of mine, the writer Mark Shulman, once pointed out that our standards are being gradually eroded, so that sadly, we are left with less and less in lieu of a threshold of acceptability, finding ourselves not unlike frogs in a pan being brought to a slow, imperceptible boil.
Christopher Nolan and some of his cast are telling the press that Interstellar is a love story. I will take them at their word and assume that whatever else I picked up on was left there unwittingly, for the rest of us to parse through.
Considering how much pain is involved in traveling to and from a crowded movie theater on a Saturday night, I feel like it's my prerogative, when I have paid good money, to take a film apart if I am still hungry for substance at the end of it; and I WILL get my nourishment from something or other, if not from the movie's plot itself.
The first thing that strikes me, when I think back to the experience of Interstellar, is that it leaves me with nothing, emotionally - no takeaway. I did not care about any of its characters, or believe they were real, and I did not really worry about the fate of humanity (any more than the film itself actually does, beyond paying it casual lip-service).
I wasn't awed like I may have been by other wondrous space movies that Interstellar measures itself against (or steals from), and I am not compelled to go back and see any part of it ever again. (I suspect most viewers won't either, once the collective neophile contact high has passed.)
For starters, I do not like the moral core of the story: Interstellar is a film about "saving humanity" but it is unclear who will pay for humanity's failures. The film offers a great debate over where to repopulate, but none about what we have learned from having to leave our home in the first place. There is no therapy, no penance, no sacrifice. In a way, this represents a subconscious confession about our culture's moral failures: when we run out of spaces to consume, and out of fertile ground to slash an burn, we will have to look for new worlds to expand out into, since we cannot show self control and learn to care for what we have...
But enough psychobabble. A dysfunctional moral compass is not the worst thing about Interstellar.
The worst thing about the film is that, to quote my girlfriend, "It's OK to for characters to talk in pseudo-scientific gobbledygook when the show is Star Trek, because in Star Trek, they all have pointy ears."
Interstellar may be worth a glance, certainly for the photography and exciting visuals, but it is a buffet of messy ideas that fire in all directions. Clearly the script is not written by career screenwriters, but by a director who has freed himself from gravity and has achieved his own artificial self-sufficiency amid the vast nothingness.
The result is an often far-fetched and unintelligible, outlandish tale which takes an awfully long time to suspend the viewer's disbelief (and cringing), to finally arrive at a tepid plot after about an hour or so.
In hindsight, it makes perfect sense that Nolan's 'tightest' film is Memento, a dis-cognitive story told from the point of view of a man who is unable to string two events together, or to remember where he started.
Interstellar is not an intelligent picture, but a pseudo-intelligent one. It seems designed to appeal to the sort of audience who loves to be flattered with cheap shots - a sort of space odyssey version of "who wants to be a millionaire?" Its success resting entirely on the fact that every member of the audience gets to feel superior. To whom? No one knows. This technique seems to be trending within the Nolan's filmography.
For the rest, the picture is a narrative mess that trivializes space travel on a galactic scale, (black hole, wormhole, same difference,) and is often plagued by ridiculous star-studded cameos that shatter the viewer's concentration by landing in the middle of tense emotional scenes like a cockroach in your soup.
The film is oddly timed with elliptical cuts that compress the action into some often confusing edits, and only leave in lieu of dialog some awful scenes of trite, contrived exposition, filled with emetic pseudo physics, sure to give an immature modern audience raised on Batman a sense that they are building their cultural ego by agreeing with this farce. Worst of all, it feels long and never ending.
Sadly, good science fiction is hard to come by, harder than a good ordinary film even, and although this picture is somewhat entertaining, it fades away from the heart and mind, like the flickering green of the traffic light we just passed, as we head home from the cinema, once more.
Christopher Nolan and some of his cast are telling the press that Interstellar is a love story. I will take them at their word and assume that whatever else I picked up on was left there unwittingly, for the rest of us to parse through.
Considering how much pain is involved in traveling to and from a crowded movie theater on a Saturday night, I feel like it's my prerogative, when I have paid good money, to take a film apart if I am still hungry for substance at the end of it; and I WILL get my nourishment from something or other, if not from the movie's plot itself.
The first thing that strikes me, when I think back to the experience of Interstellar, is that it leaves me with nothing, emotionally - no takeaway. I did not care about any of its characters, or believe they were real, and I did not really worry about the fate of humanity (any more than the film itself actually does, beyond paying it casual lip-service).
I wasn't awed like I may have been by other wondrous space movies that Interstellar measures itself against (or steals from), and I am not compelled to go back and see any part of it ever again. (I suspect most viewers won't either, once the collective neophile contact high has passed.)
For starters, I do not like the moral core of the story: Interstellar is a film about "saving humanity" but it is unclear who will pay for humanity's failures. The film offers a great debate over where to repopulate, but none about what we have learned from having to leave our home in the first place. There is no therapy, no penance, no sacrifice. In a way, this represents a subconscious confession about our culture's moral failures: when we run out of spaces to consume, and out of fertile ground to slash an burn, we will have to look for new worlds to expand out into, since we cannot show self control and learn to care for what we have...
But enough psychobabble. A dysfunctional moral compass is not the worst thing about Interstellar.
The worst thing about the film is that, to quote my girlfriend, "It's OK to for characters to talk in pseudo-scientific gobbledygook when the show is Star Trek, because in Star Trek, they all have pointy ears."
Interstellar may be worth a glance, certainly for the photography and exciting visuals, but it is a buffet of messy ideas that fire in all directions. Clearly the script is not written by career screenwriters, but by a director who has freed himself from gravity and has achieved his own artificial self-sufficiency amid the vast nothingness.
The result is an often far-fetched and unintelligible, outlandish tale which takes an awfully long time to suspend the viewer's disbelief (and cringing), to finally arrive at a tepid plot after about an hour or so.
In hindsight, it makes perfect sense that Nolan's 'tightest' film is Memento, a dis-cognitive story told from the point of view of a man who is unable to string two events together, or to remember where he started.
Interstellar is not an intelligent picture, but a pseudo-intelligent one. It seems designed to appeal to the sort of audience who loves to be flattered with cheap shots - a sort of space odyssey version of "who wants to be a millionaire?" Its success resting entirely on the fact that every member of the audience gets to feel superior. To whom? No one knows. This technique seems to be trending within the Nolan's filmography.
For the rest, the picture is a narrative mess that trivializes space travel on a galactic scale, (black hole, wormhole, same difference,) and is often plagued by ridiculous star-studded cameos that shatter the viewer's concentration by landing in the middle of tense emotional scenes like a cockroach in your soup.
The film is oddly timed with elliptical cuts that compress the action into some often confusing edits, and only leave in lieu of dialog some awful scenes of trite, contrived exposition, filled with emetic pseudo physics, sure to give an immature modern audience raised on Batman a sense that they are building their cultural ego by agreeing with this farce. Worst of all, it feels long and never ending.
Sadly, good science fiction is hard to come by, harder than a good ordinary film even, and although this picture is somewhat entertaining, it fades away from the heart and mind, like the flickering green of the traffic light we just passed, as we head home from the cinema, once more.
Maps to the Stars
(2014)
That queasy, uncomfortable Hollywood Bidet-Cam...
20 September 2014
It's not unusual for long-haul film makers to succumb to the temptation of pointing their camera lens toward the anthropological habits of their peers, sooner or later.
This act of breaking the fourth wall of movie deity has precedents, indeed. The tradition is well inscribed in film and has on occasion produced interesting, albeit always slightly uncomfortable portraits.
On some level, a director has to see himself as an outsider in order to pull off the trick and feign the objectivity required to cut open the Hollywood beast for our amusement and pleasure.
But watching movies about Hollywood demands an acquired taste and I wouldn't blame anyone for showing disinterest at seeing what the flatulent gods of Mount Olympus look like riding the porcelain Honda.
David Cronenberg's "Maps to the Stars" is on the money for its depiction of the Hollywood package; outrageous as all this behavior may seem to the casual viewer, it is dead on! The film is scripted by Bruce Wagner, a veteran insider, so clearly, it is he, not Cronenberg who brings the big ax to grind to this party; that said, I found myself wondering how Cronenberg himself fits in all this. His archetype is inconspicuously missing from the satire, and yet, at this point in time, star directors themselves can be as grotesque as the actors they love to complain about.
The film is intriguing - like watching a train wreck is intriguing - and it holds up for most of its narrative, offering surprises and payoffs on the mysteries it sets up along the way.
I am critical of one contrived trajectory, that of the Havana character (played flawlessly by the great Julianne Moore) whose own karmic path confused me as an audience by shuffling around some clumsy metaphors that failed to really connect with the larger puzzle as a piece of "clean" screen writing. We shouldn't have to think too hard about it when we're trying to follow the story... This did cut into my enjoyment of the film.
All the rest of it is tight, curiously. The music is gorgeous, and punctuates the film beautifully. The picture, though it is often sexual and at times violent, shows mature restraint.
If nothing else, this picture is sure to make a few pompous LA types squirm with denial, as they writhe in their $12,000 sofas. Good enough!
This act of breaking the fourth wall of movie deity has precedents, indeed. The tradition is well inscribed in film and has on occasion produced interesting, albeit always slightly uncomfortable portraits.
On some level, a director has to see himself as an outsider in order to pull off the trick and feign the objectivity required to cut open the Hollywood beast for our amusement and pleasure.
But watching movies about Hollywood demands an acquired taste and I wouldn't blame anyone for showing disinterest at seeing what the flatulent gods of Mount Olympus look like riding the porcelain Honda.
David Cronenberg's "Maps to the Stars" is on the money for its depiction of the Hollywood package; outrageous as all this behavior may seem to the casual viewer, it is dead on! The film is scripted by Bruce Wagner, a veteran insider, so clearly, it is he, not Cronenberg who brings the big ax to grind to this party; that said, I found myself wondering how Cronenberg himself fits in all this. His archetype is inconspicuously missing from the satire, and yet, at this point in time, star directors themselves can be as grotesque as the actors they love to complain about.
The film is intriguing - like watching a train wreck is intriguing - and it holds up for most of its narrative, offering surprises and payoffs on the mysteries it sets up along the way.
I am critical of one contrived trajectory, that of the Havana character (played flawlessly by the great Julianne Moore) whose own karmic path confused me as an audience by shuffling around some clumsy metaphors that failed to really connect with the larger puzzle as a piece of "clean" screen writing. We shouldn't have to think too hard about it when we're trying to follow the story... This did cut into my enjoyment of the film.
All the rest of it is tight, curiously. The music is gorgeous, and punctuates the film beautifully. The picture, though it is often sexual and at times violent, shows mature restraint.
If nothing else, this picture is sure to make a few pompous LA types squirm with denial, as they writhe in their $12,000 sofas. Good enough!
Norma Rae
(1979)
Complex and dark, beneath its veneer of heroic optimism.
11 March 2014
Warning: Spoilers
It's only after talking through the movie's perplexing character arcs and symbols with a friend that I realized it offered, potentially at least, a much deeper reading that suggested a murky darkness lurking behind human goals, as we strive to make sense of our positions, be they static or transient.
On the surface, Norma Rae is a delicate story about empowerment and heroic triumph, that trumpets the self evident values of Union-organizing in poverty stricken rural America. "Feels good," right? But then, we can peel the layers of the onion and we see emerging a fatalistic portrait of the savior myth, amid a hopelessly static universe where the protagonists perform a dance, each their own, from which they will never escape.
The film is complex indeed, and with great stealth, managed to lay its message dormant through many years, awards and praises, and many layers of American denial and self imposed censorship of its own dissenting views.
There's a very symbolic shot in a deserted church, early on in the film, when Reuben Warshowsky, a union organizer newly arrived from New York, sits alone with his back against the wall and we can clearly see that the art department has staged the casting of the shadow of the cross next to him. If we assume for a moment that nothing at the movies is really an accident (nothing like this anyway), we might infer that on a symbolic level, Warshowsky who is a Jew, an outsider, represents the savior archetype that Norma Rae, the eponymous protagonist has been yearning for.
She lives a hopeless life from which she has never ventured out, and never will, but the arrival of Warshowsky seems to focus her pain and help articulate both a definition of a problem and its cure, as in any archetypal cult experience. And indeed, once we look past the veneer of apparent pro-Union propaganda which the film uses to masquerade its way into mainstream acceptability, it is easy to distinguish that Union-organizing is portrayed much like the tedious seduction of cult members, from one box into another box, as they abdicate self-interest in support of a greater force.
The film makers never inscribe a larger context from which we can comprehend the ills of Capitalism, or the need to escape the inherent slavery of menial factory work, but instead, they insidiously move their characters around the chess board as if to show that they need one another to continue their compulsive dance. One passes through towns, ministering the good word, building concepts, printing leaflets, the other fuels dreams of transgression, of faraway exotic places, and finally of marriage offers that keep her safely fastened to her neurosis. Neither factory nor Union proposes to rescue the sinking human heart from its ghostly, zombified inertia, or from its constant uprooting, as the case may be, but the characters in this play use one another to express their personal drama and their attachment to it. They meet at a crossroad, and ultimately at cross purposes. One second, Norma Rae gleefully boasts "Rueben, I think you like me," but moments and a handshake later, she may realize that she never for her moment found her footing.
Midway through the film, at a worker's meeting, a woman played by a younger Grace Zabriskie laments that her husband has died and offers for the congregation to take some of his clothes off her hands; the plea is delicate and tender. A second later, Warchowsky, in a blunt edit, sighs "I'm not getting my message across!" He has no care for the heart of these people; he is ministering, and he will pass through these parts when he has handed over his burden to an heir. But once he's gone, what will remain of the spirit, the cause, and the Holy Grail? What myth will sustain to remind the town of its passing savior?
Will we stand at the end of the road, stunned at the gaping hole he left behind once he took away the names of our ills and the jars containing the cure?
On the surface, Norma Rae is a delicate story about empowerment and heroic triumph, that trumpets the self evident values of Union-organizing in poverty stricken rural America. "Feels good," right? But then, we can peel the layers of the onion and we see emerging a fatalistic portrait of the savior myth, amid a hopelessly static universe where the protagonists perform a dance, each their own, from which they will never escape.
The film is complex indeed, and with great stealth, managed to lay its message dormant through many years, awards and praises, and many layers of American denial and self imposed censorship of its own dissenting views.
There's a very symbolic shot in a deserted church, early on in the film, when Reuben Warshowsky, a union organizer newly arrived from New York, sits alone with his back against the wall and we can clearly see that the art department has staged the casting of the shadow of the cross next to him. If we assume for a moment that nothing at the movies is really an accident (nothing like this anyway), we might infer that on a symbolic level, Warshowsky who is a Jew, an outsider, represents the savior archetype that Norma Rae, the eponymous protagonist has been yearning for.
She lives a hopeless life from which she has never ventured out, and never will, but the arrival of Warshowsky seems to focus her pain and help articulate both a definition of a problem and its cure, as in any archetypal cult experience. And indeed, once we look past the veneer of apparent pro-Union propaganda which the film uses to masquerade its way into mainstream acceptability, it is easy to distinguish that Union-organizing is portrayed much like the tedious seduction of cult members, from one box into another box, as they abdicate self-interest in support of a greater force.
The film makers never inscribe a larger context from which we can comprehend the ills of Capitalism, or the need to escape the inherent slavery of menial factory work, but instead, they insidiously move their characters around the chess board as if to show that they need one another to continue their compulsive dance. One passes through towns, ministering the good word, building concepts, printing leaflets, the other fuels dreams of transgression, of faraway exotic places, and finally of marriage offers that keep her safely fastened to her neurosis. Neither factory nor Union proposes to rescue the sinking human heart from its ghostly, zombified inertia, or from its constant uprooting, as the case may be, but the characters in this play use one another to express their personal drama and their attachment to it. They meet at a crossroad, and ultimately at cross purposes. One second, Norma Rae gleefully boasts "Rueben, I think you like me," but moments and a handshake later, she may realize that she never for her moment found her footing.
Midway through the film, at a worker's meeting, a woman played by a younger Grace Zabriskie laments that her husband has died and offers for the congregation to take some of his clothes off her hands; the plea is delicate and tender. A second later, Warchowsky, in a blunt edit, sighs "I'm not getting my message across!" He has no care for the heart of these people; he is ministering, and he will pass through these parts when he has handed over his burden to an heir. But once he's gone, what will remain of the spirit, the cause, and the Holy Grail? What myth will sustain to remind the town of its passing savior?
Will we stand at the end of the road, stunned at the gaping hole he left behind once he took away the names of our ills and the jars containing the cure?
Eden
(I) (2012)
A non-confrontation with a tough subject...
4 March 2013
I realize this subject carries gravitas, and I also realize that the intentions behind the film are good, but this is presented as a dramatic piece and not a documentary, so, to speak of it only in terms of the merits of its subject matter is not particularly helpful if the object of a review is to also address film-craft. Understandably, this movie deals with "white-slavery" and is not purporting to be about inner city black teen prostitution, but I couldn't help notice that the film makers walk an ambiguous aesthetic line when it comes to portraying exceedingly beautiful girls in detention whose hair and makeup is rather inexplicably ready for prime-time whenever the camera cuts to a close-up to show them rolling out of bed in their underwear. No effort is given to show the day to day crafting of that beauty image if that is supposed to be the point; rather, we are left to wonder how much of our own voyeuristic sentiments are being teased by this somewhat glamorous dramatization. Characters are not well defined in this film and their dialogs are piling up the missed opportunities to deepen our understanding of their merging predicaments. Though much attention seems to be given to the protagonist, little is in fact discovered about her transformation. The "Eden" script often feels like it resulted from a weekend course in screen writing, after the author learned to plug-up emotional holes with convenient tricks, like losing a high school ring that is supposed to symbolize the link to family, etc. The henchmen and orderlies in the "prison facility" where she is held are cut out of cardboard and resemble the comical beefy sidekicks in low brow action flicks. It is wholly unclear what they get out of this deal, or why they stay at all. If indeed their motives and rewards are sexual, we would never know it, because the picture dances around its main horror-show: forced sex. I know that in America, sex is and will always be a problem to be skirted, however, since this is a film about forced prostitution, and it is implied that the main character might be a virgin at the onset of her ordeal, it boggles the mind that the story is presented so as to avoid direct confrontation with its own most pressing crisis: violence and rape. Understandably, portraying those in the correct measures is challenging but that is precisely what determines the measure of quality, and craft, in a film which is supposed to tackle such a hard and mature subject - on the other hand, it seems inconceivable to me to deal with sex-trafficking as a dramatic piece by prudishly dancing around the reality (I am tempted to write Reality with a capital "R") of sex being forced on young women as their lives are being destroyed. Whitewashing is the word that comes to mind. Even if we agree that some things cannot be shown, Eden's own dialog persistently avoids confrontation with her own sexual experience and discovery. Clearly, good intentions went into this picture, and actors Jamie Chung, Bo Bridges, and Matt O'Leary give it their best shot, despite having little to work with most of the time; still, after viewing the movie, I listened to a 20 minute pod-cast interview of Chong Kim, the woman whose ordeal this film purports to be based on, and discovered that her (real) story is in effect a much stronger dramatic piece. Incidentally, when I first watched the movie Taxi Driver in the 70s, I was still a teenager, and the portrayal of the fictional teen prostitute played by Jodi Foster affected me deeply - one reason is that her character's plight is distinct, and strong. She is not the protagonist in the film, but so much was accomplished with so little, because the picture as a whole was so well crafted that its impact reverberates on and on. Film is craft.
Side by Side
(2012)
Still misses a key (technical) point about cinematography!
21 September 2012
The takeaway in the documentary is given by Lorenzo Di Bonaventura when he says "everyone will eventually be making films but there will no longer be a taste-maker in the process." Sadly guests like Greta Gerwig ("Like, oh my God..."), or Lena Dunham ("I was afraid you'd have to be a dude who operates machines to do this job") are not taste-makers. If gender balance was an issue, it is regrettable that someone like Kathryn Bigelow was not interviewed instead. Testicles are not required to give expert insights into cinematography, but unbeknownst to Miss Dunham, operating machines and having taste, talent, and knowledge - craft as it was once known - were always the qualities that made film so special, and one can question the point of consulting philistines on a subject such as this one; after all, we already know what those who can't be bothered with technique prefer, and we already know why NYU film students shoot low-tech...
Similarly, Greta Gerwig coyly offers "We process digital like film, as if film is inherently better which is, like...arbitrary." Well Arbitrary to your eyes, perhaps, sweetheart On this pressing issue, it is paramount to hear what James Cameron, David Fincher, or Christopher Nolan and all their cinematographers have to say because they use cinematography deliberately and with savvy, on the other hand, the lesser able and technically challenged have already won the race to the bottom by making film emulsion irrelevant by default and I am not sure that their "I can't be bothered to operate equipment" view of the world matters anymore at this point.
The trouble with giving the same platform to a non-discerning wannabe as to a seasoned chemist/artist - those who manipulate emulsion, and capture light on a highly sophisticated level, and treat it like a character in the film - is that the discussion quickly gets dragged down to the bottom of the pond by the least able and talented among the bunch— the schoolgirls and schoolboys who caught their break on a whim, so to speak— and are now using cameras to create the filmmaking equivalent of Hip-hop or finger painting (democracy for all, etc. -- the same story has already plagued art and music throughout the 20th century: a descent into the lowest common denominators becomes the norm ) This documentary is interesting, but quickly meanders into debates over whether or not a technician on a ladder is distracting to an actor, yet only lightly touches on a key technical point which is that the disappearance of emulsion photography is a vastly different problem from the fact that digital processes have undeniably improved delivery and visual effects, as well as distribution to many formats. They're significantly different issues and must not all be confused. The joyful experience felt in seeing the Blu-Ray copy of Michael Powell's The Red Shoes, or Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo, for instance, indicate that older films, indeed, have never looked better thanks to digital remastering – all the digital processes involved in post production seem mostly like a blessing in this and many other instances, but only to the degree that the wondrous Technicolor/Ektacolor/Fujicolor/KodakVision film emulsions were so tangibly flexible, unpredictably alive, and beautiful – the digital process has simply served to reveal that original beauty and flexibility But it had to be there in the first place. Those who are not able to "see it" didn't use to weigh-in when cinematography was seen as "voodoo," and that was probably for the best.
Cinematography itself is the stage at which artistry is either captured organically or condemned forever to pixel-uncertainty.
Finally, this documentary assumes that the world is divided into two camps: expensive Hollywood VFX pictures and low-balling "Dogma 95" street films – somehow, the discussion only appears to navigate those ridiculous extremes. Somehow, Christopher Kenneally and Keanu Reeves seem to forget to focus the conversation on "capturing the light, the tones, the hues in all their definition and organic life" for the many adult-age films that embrace a balance of well crafted stories and intimate humanity, and require to be shot using subtlety and delicate mix of artful, painterly light – that only organic emulsion seems to have been able to capture all this time -- with no visual effects in mind, and no special DI grading tricks in post production – just beautiful cinematography, thank you very much!
There's much more to be said in another film on the subject, no doubt, and the discussion must be even more technical and specialized - because bastardizing every topic in film for the comfort of rubberneckers is exactly what has gotten us into this predicament in the first place.
Similarly, Greta Gerwig coyly offers "We process digital like film, as if film is inherently better which is, like...arbitrary." Well Arbitrary to your eyes, perhaps, sweetheart On this pressing issue, it is paramount to hear what James Cameron, David Fincher, or Christopher Nolan and all their cinematographers have to say because they use cinematography deliberately and with savvy, on the other hand, the lesser able and technically challenged have already won the race to the bottom by making film emulsion irrelevant by default and I am not sure that their "I can't be bothered to operate equipment" view of the world matters anymore at this point.
The trouble with giving the same platform to a non-discerning wannabe as to a seasoned chemist/artist - those who manipulate emulsion, and capture light on a highly sophisticated level, and treat it like a character in the film - is that the discussion quickly gets dragged down to the bottom of the pond by the least able and talented among the bunch— the schoolgirls and schoolboys who caught their break on a whim, so to speak— and are now using cameras to create the filmmaking equivalent of Hip-hop or finger painting (democracy for all, etc. -- the same story has already plagued art and music throughout the 20th century: a descent into the lowest common denominators becomes the norm ) This documentary is interesting, but quickly meanders into debates over whether or not a technician on a ladder is distracting to an actor, yet only lightly touches on a key technical point which is that the disappearance of emulsion photography is a vastly different problem from the fact that digital processes have undeniably improved delivery and visual effects, as well as distribution to many formats. They're significantly different issues and must not all be confused. The joyful experience felt in seeing the Blu-Ray copy of Michael Powell's The Red Shoes, or Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo, for instance, indicate that older films, indeed, have never looked better thanks to digital remastering – all the digital processes involved in post production seem mostly like a blessing in this and many other instances, but only to the degree that the wondrous Technicolor/Ektacolor/Fujicolor/KodakVision film emulsions were so tangibly flexible, unpredictably alive, and beautiful – the digital process has simply served to reveal that original beauty and flexibility But it had to be there in the first place. Those who are not able to "see it" didn't use to weigh-in when cinematography was seen as "voodoo," and that was probably for the best.
Cinematography itself is the stage at which artistry is either captured organically or condemned forever to pixel-uncertainty.
Finally, this documentary assumes that the world is divided into two camps: expensive Hollywood VFX pictures and low-balling "Dogma 95" street films – somehow, the discussion only appears to navigate those ridiculous extremes. Somehow, Christopher Kenneally and Keanu Reeves seem to forget to focus the conversation on "capturing the light, the tones, the hues in all their definition and organic life" for the many adult-age films that embrace a balance of well crafted stories and intimate humanity, and require to be shot using subtlety and delicate mix of artful, painterly light – that only organic emulsion seems to have been able to capture all this time -- with no visual effects in mind, and no special DI grading tricks in post production – just beautiful cinematography, thank you very much!
There's much more to be said in another film on the subject, no doubt, and the discussion must be even more technical and specialized - because bastardizing every topic in film for the comfort of rubberneckers is exactly what has gotten us into this predicament in the first place.
Another Happy Day
(2011)
Another dysfunctional family drama leading up to a wedding, anyone...?
26 July 2012
Before I realized that Sam Levinson, the writer of this film was also the director, I watched and wondered why so much technical fancy and stylish conceits were working so hard to sabotage the source material. All too often, it seemed like the hypnotic charm building up to a good scene would snap under the weight of slick camera move or a clever manipulation of sound, perhaps the result of immaturity or lack of faith in the writing itself. This made me think that the script did have some qualities, but most of the characters still lack an "arc" – the film introduces a wide array of folks, each with an apparent story to tell, but few if any have a chance to resolve their yearnings one way or another (sometimes just one line of dialog would be enough). This strips the film of the sort of satisfaction that a good drama offers. The cast is A-list, a fact that is both attractive and suspect, and although it is tempting to say that "performances are great" in truth, they mostly consist of fidgety and hysterical behavior, a touch overboard as always, when actors run a bit unchecked. Obviously, many viewers relate to this, and connect with these less than subtle displays of erratic emotions
"good acting" however, may entail a tad more
To be fair, it is nice to see Helen Burstyn not behave as the most hysterical of the bunch, for once – she delivers a nuanced performance and her role is held-back. Ellen Barkin, a powerful actress as always, brings her familiar intensity and pain. She always lifts a picture, provided that her character is sufficiently aware of its own processes. Here, again, I am not entirely convinced that she is given enough to work with, particularly when her big moment is handed down, and she has to deliver an impromptu speech, bearing all; if we were rooting for her all along, we the audience are abandoned without as much as a narrative footnote to help us understand why we must care. It occurred to me that the art direction of the picture is spot-on, and measured, masterful indeed in its restraint, as is the photography (the quality of the light) which never tries to upstage the performances; this only amplifies the sense that the director himself is drowning in his own pretensions (He did pick his subject matter, one I might add, which we have seen many times before). Ultimately, I would be tempted to ask what if anything this movie proposes to add to the list of depressing dramas about twitchy family dysfunction (Think "Rachel getting married," "Margot at the Wedding," etc.) I did not see anything new, nor did I walk away with any insights.
This may be the sign that the apocalypse of film is upon us.
6 February 2012
This is empty, calculating, condescending, trite, stilted... It is the most sickening concoction I have ever subjected myself to. I would even think this work is wholly insulting to families of 911 victims because it is so pathetically designed to please and so ill equipped to provide any meaningful insight beyond vacuous and overly didactic commentary, running on and on; it drowns its desire to cater to an America still in need of a catharsis inside a tub of flatulent and opportunistic overreach. If we, as a culture, are still forbidden to talk about 911 in any sort of a meaningful way, then this picture is the gag order - and gag we do. It is our creative Patriot Act. Where are the film makers with guts, and anger? Where are the writers who bleed from the groin, and are willing to die writing? They have been bought up by comfort and self-congratulatory lifestyles - they are poised to win Oscars for pandering instead of screaming with all their might. This film is here to show us that after over 100 years of trying to live, movies have finally died. Good riddance! Maybe we can finally see some real film making rise up from this mountain of ash which Hollywood has become.
Glorious 39
(2009)
Glorious... 39 out of 100.
28 February 2011
Much as Glorious 39 tries to be a genre film, rife with mystery, prewar intrigue, romance, and drama, the picture falls strangely short of living up to the tall order it sets for itself.
Perhaps the trouble lies in the disconnect between the highly competent cinematography, art direction, and score, which all conspire to setting a high cinematic benchmark, and the slightly off the wall, not always terribly cogent script at the root. Further, film maker Stephen Poliakoff indulges in many clumsy choices: Long winded "Steadycam" shots, heavy handed (at times stilted) dialog by cardboard villains, weird close-ups and pieces of information that seemed to be plucked out of the sky, for no reason other than to fill-in the glaring blanks in the narrative A general lack of subtlety, at times when subtlety is most needed. Sadly, he asks actress Ramola Gary to recoil in overacted fear for most of the movie – ignoring the adage that less is more, and that the camera is always content with the slightest quiver. Of course, since she plays an on screen movie actress, one would think she knows all about it. Further, one would think the very movies she plays in might have acquainted her with all the need for a hero on a mission to watch his or her back. What's perhaps most painful is the effort required of the audience as we try to identify with Anne Keyes, the protagonist, who seems to be so daft that she sleepwalks through the entire plot, getting people and herself hurt repeatedly, seemingly unable to demonstrate the slightest bit of caution or wit. This makes her very difficult to like, and more likely compels any audience to want to slap her out of her coma and ask her to put two and two together once and for all. Surely if WE can do it, so can she! This is too bad, for the stellar cast and skillful crew are very commendable, and the idea at the center of Glorious 39 is worthwhile –
This film wants to approach classic excellence, but falls flat on its ass, in the end, because writer-director Poliakoff has failed to trust his own tale, and his own audience's maturity, and the mystique of the era he chose, enough so as to create a story infused with a simple sense of truth; instead, he overburdens his film with at an times bloated acting, and often gratuitous visual dramatic clichés that snap us repeatedly out from the hypnotic potential of this otherwise beautiful nightmare.
Perhaps the trouble lies in the disconnect between the highly competent cinematography, art direction, and score, which all conspire to setting a high cinematic benchmark, and the slightly off the wall, not always terribly cogent script at the root. Further, film maker Stephen Poliakoff indulges in many clumsy choices: Long winded "Steadycam" shots, heavy handed (at times stilted) dialog by cardboard villains, weird close-ups and pieces of information that seemed to be plucked out of the sky, for no reason other than to fill-in the glaring blanks in the narrative A general lack of subtlety, at times when subtlety is most needed. Sadly, he asks actress Ramola Gary to recoil in overacted fear for most of the movie – ignoring the adage that less is more, and that the camera is always content with the slightest quiver. Of course, since she plays an on screen movie actress, one would think she knows all about it. Further, one would think the very movies she plays in might have acquainted her with all the need for a hero on a mission to watch his or her back. What's perhaps most painful is the effort required of the audience as we try to identify with Anne Keyes, the protagonist, who seems to be so daft that she sleepwalks through the entire plot, getting people and herself hurt repeatedly, seemingly unable to demonstrate the slightest bit of caution or wit. This makes her very difficult to like, and more likely compels any audience to want to slap her out of her coma and ask her to put two and two together once and for all. Surely if WE can do it, so can she! This is too bad, for the stellar cast and skillful crew are very commendable, and the idea at the center of Glorious 39 is worthwhile –
This film wants to approach classic excellence, but falls flat on its ass, in the end, because writer-director Poliakoff has failed to trust his own tale, and his own audience's maturity, and the mystique of the era he chose, enough so as to create a story infused with a simple sense of truth; instead, he overburdens his film with at an times bloated acting, and often gratuitous visual dramatic clichés that snap us repeatedly out from the hypnotic potential of this otherwise beautiful nightmare.
The Tourist
(I) (2010)
First of all, THIS IS A REMAKE!
21 December 2010
I am amazed at how few reviewers, especially the professional kind, bother mentioning that this movie is a remake. This is incompetence!
A remake, by definition, is the fruit of a paid-for ripoff by someone who likes an idea and cannot bother to come up with one of his own. In America, it is common to take ideas from foreign pictures and dress them up as local star vehicles, while remaking them for audiences that are too lazy to get out and discover that other cultures exist, and also make films (sound familiar?). Self-congratulation is another one of America's greatest exports.
What really stinks is that so few Hollywood remakes bother to cite their sources clearly, and that reviewers are too busy loving their own voice to take pains to use their forum to properly explain to an audience how the world works; this is a form of cultural protectionism designed to polish our medals for our local manufacturing genius while furthering the notion that only we Americans know how to entertain and that everyone else simply ruins an occasional good idea with their pitiful attempts at film making and their inability to concoct a by-the-numbers Syd Field 3-act structure.
So, this is a remake of a French film (itself loosely inspired by Hitchcock's North by Northwest's red herring) called ANTHONY ZIMMER. Every year, movies come out which are remakes of (often wonderful) foreign pictures. Other recent examples: Dinner for Schmucks (Dinner de Cons), Let me in (Let the right one in), etc...
Reviewers: Do your job!
A remake, by definition, is the fruit of a paid-for ripoff by someone who likes an idea and cannot bother to come up with one of his own. In America, it is common to take ideas from foreign pictures and dress them up as local star vehicles, while remaking them for audiences that are too lazy to get out and discover that other cultures exist, and also make films (sound familiar?). Self-congratulation is another one of America's greatest exports.
What really stinks is that so few Hollywood remakes bother to cite their sources clearly, and that reviewers are too busy loving their own voice to take pains to use their forum to properly explain to an audience how the world works; this is a form of cultural protectionism designed to polish our medals for our local manufacturing genius while furthering the notion that only we Americans know how to entertain and that everyone else simply ruins an occasional good idea with their pitiful attempts at film making and their inability to concoct a by-the-numbers Syd Field 3-act structure.
So, this is a remake of a French film (itself loosely inspired by Hitchcock's North by Northwest's red herring) called ANTHONY ZIMMER. Every year, movies come out which are remakes of (often wonderful) foreign pictures. Other recent examples: Dinner for Schmucks (Dinner de Cons), Let me in (Let the right one in), etc...
Reviewers: Do your job!
Autumn in New York
(2000)
Estrogen-based materialism wrapped in tragically-correct chocolate.
2 August 2009
Perhaps Autumn in New York professes to be a romance movie with an alternative twist, or perhaps it simply wishes to appeal to feminine romantic sensibilities to the exclusion of masculine viewers, but either way, it doesn't say much for the standards of its makers. Indeed, it is worth noting that our little heart-on-her-sleeve protagonist, even in her desperate bid for true love, is savvy enough to be sure to target a real catch and date upwards – considerably so. The film cannot escape the clichés of all anti-male biases that exist among female writers portraying modern love – i.e.: guys are irresponsible and should be chastised when they display an aversion to attachment – they must be punished when they wander or cheat - because they invariably do – or when they just want to be free, (how dare they?) and most of all, no matter how women love to complain about men, they will persistently dream of being swept off their feet by the most beautiful and glitzy-rich among them, as they stage foggy erotic fantasies of wealth wrapped in obligatory tragedy. Precious Manhattanites with great penthouse apartments and seven figure lifestyles suffer too, wouldn't you know
So does everyone else on earth, of course, even if the Hoi Polloi haven't got the great view to reflect on it. If this a glimpse into someone's idea of what women might want as a conflict and resolution fantasies - an alternative to Hollywood's male driven macho escapist dreams - it is easy to see why smart men and women may prefer to stick with the unpredictable twists of our mundane reality; this may explain why this film did not meet with success. The fires of hell and the pain of solitude seem like heaven compared to this shallow and materialistic estrogen-driven daydream - Iron John to the rescue, please!
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