At the Movies: Triple Bill

Amelia

Taking Woodstock

Jennifer’s Body

On a precious day off from my current excuse for employment, I thought I’d treat myself to day of fun at… well, let’s not be predictable shall we. I squeezed in a triple-bill of new releases I’m worried shan’t be around for long or films already out I’ve been meaning to catch, so here is a quick wrap-up of my experience.
I began with Amelia, a rather old-fashioned biopic of Amelia Earheart. I really did have my tongue sharpened for this one, having read some scathing reviews of it and being the new vehicle of one of my least favourite actresses working at the moment, the fearsome Herman “Hilary” Swank. To get the Mr. Swank rant done quickly: she’s awful, awful in everything, rubbish in everything. Everything, everything, everything! Her best role was in Karate Kid IV and she really hasn’t progressed since then. I hated her in the 90s, where she specialised in mugging the camera in Oscar-pleading performances where she pretends to be a bit butch (see Boys Don’t Cry and Million Dollar Baby). However, I’ve hated her even more since she decided to be all effeminate and girly in the awwwwful Freedom Writers and P.S. I Love You. Now, she is back to her trouser-wearing best and, true to form, she is the worst feature in this film. Having said that, the framings around her are actually perfectly fine. Richard Gere’s natural screen charisma injects some investment in a rather bland role as her husband and some rather nice photography and pacing makes its skip along hastily enough. The final sequence of her inevitable demise in particular has a degree of tension; I found myself casually gripping me watching a sequence I already knew the outcome to. I give some credit to Mira Nair for this, who is a good director, but not too much. The film is far too unfocused, meandering between Amelia: The Lover, Amelia: The feminist icon, Amelia: The Adventurer and Amelia: The Herman Swank Story. It’s just a bit wet and bland feeling like a well-shot wikipedia entry rather than a dramatic biopic. Not terrible, but not great either.
Next up, Taking Woodstock, the new Ang Lee film, who I’m not entirely sold on. Lust, Caution: yes, Croaching Tiger, yes. Brokeback Mountain: yes, a little dull. Hulk: most definitely not, and this falls in this category I’m afraid. Telling the story surrounding the story of the Woodstock festival, the film is really nothing more than a rather broad and very, very safe look at a 60s America hippie culture that never really happened. Despite strong performances from Imelda Staunton, Liev Schreiber and comedian Dimitri Martin, the film fails to anything but nostalgically gaze at hippy culture without scrutinizing its hypocrisies or paradoxes (it was after all a movement that preached changing the world by doing a lot of self-indulgent partying). Rather than engage with these issues, it just shows the obligatory acid-dropping scene, featuring Paul Dano (of course!) and some fatuously shallow characters of wild, experimental theatre groups and troubled Vietnam vets, played by Emile Hirsch (of course!). It reminded me most of the South Park episode where Cartman has to save the town, Armageddon style, from a hippie festival, and one hour in a kind of wished the little 8 year old Nazi would turn up and spread some hate over the annoying proceedings. Ang Lee, you clearly understand American culture and history even less than I do.
Finally, after all this, the new movie Diablo Cody. The more I think about Juno the more I don’t like it. I think it’s full of itself. This isn’t, it wants to have fun and take the audience on a ripping scary adventure. It’s also a rather smartly written satire on high-school culture, how it borders on body fascism and how its obsession with aesthetics is cripplingly shallow. Jennifer literary kills to stay beautiful and without her beauty is mortally empty. However, the film is also guilty of some hypocrisy, attempting to lampoon this focus on beauty but also doing that ridiculous casting decision that teen movies often do of taking a clearly beautiful actress (Amanda Seyfried), putting glasses on her and calling her a dork as well as pandering to the teenage boy market with its advertising and the occasional unnecessary lesbian scene. However, its script is largely neat and tidy, a bit too many Juno-like-isms such as wetties and FTRY’s and diggedy-wiggidlys. However, it is nice to see Megan “I’m clearly just a well-paid pole-dancer” Fox using her shallow identity for something vaguely smart, even is she is still a vacuous force in herself. The best of a very flawed day really. Next day off? Who knows.

At the Movies: Up

Rating:

It’s time to be controversial. Sometimes a film fan just has to step up and speak their heart, regardless of the tides of popular opinion or the potential backlash he may receive. This is one of those times. So, here we go. Pixar are brilliant. There, I said it. Phew. It felt good to get that off my chest.
In all seriousness though, Pixar are animation wizards. If they’d have enjoyed the success they having at the moment a few hundred years ago I’m confident they would have been burnt at the stake. Since stepping up to bat way back in 1995 with Toy Story, which is an absolutely perfect movie and still probably their finest work, they’ve just gone from strength to strength, none more so then in the last few years. Wall-E, from last year, was a technical marvel that manages to pull of the incredibly ambitious silent majesty of its character with a frightening degree of execution, particularly that bit where Wall-E and his love, EVE, dance in the open space with a fire extinguisher, a scene that had me in floods of tears. Ratatouille is a gloriously complex film, on one level a bright, comic story of a Rat who yearns to be a chef and on another a celebration and mediation on the process of art itself in manner of Fellini’s 8 ½ or Godard’s Le Mepris, except neither of those thought to use the vocal talents of Peter O’Toole, a mistake I lament in many films throughout cinema’s history.
There latest work, Up, surely can’t be up there with these works (see what I did there). The film tells the story of Carl Frederickson, a cantankerous curmudgeon mourning the death of his wife who decides to pick up his things and fly off to South America, quite literary, to pursue the adventures the two always dreamed of but never quite imagined. On his way, and the with help of a boy scout named Russell who pitches along for the ride, Carl learns the true value of his life lived and the portion of it left to live. Up is an existential treaty, a celebration of laughter, a virtuoso of storytelling and a joyous, joyous, joyous journey of a film.
Ten minutes in and a sensation of almost fearful dread comes along as you realise that not only is this thing as good as the studios best efforts but, if anything, it might actually be better. If Pixar deserve any criticism at all for there latest efforts it is that, although richly engaging to adults, they might risk alienating their core child audience. Ratatouille’s concerns are, after all, in the adult world of the modern kitchen whilst Wall-E’s technical bravery might come at the expense of making a film too tough a ride for children. Up is funnier and brighter than both these efforts. Its story is adventurous and brisk, dealing with a broad palette of adventure and journey that succeeds in engaging children in a thrill ride they can enjoy. The comedy is also broad, with the side characters the characters meet on the way hilarious in a physical way that engages children and adults at the same time. The very design of Kevin, the exotic bird they locate and look after, succeeds in making the audience chuckle, as does its well-crafted mannerisms and movements. For around five minutes after his introduction, I lost my way in the plot because I was laughing too hard at it just standing there twitching. The film succeeds masterfully in engaging its dual audience of child and adult alike in a spellbinding journey.
But it doesn’t sacrifice Pixar’s emotional and intellectual complexity to do this. I do admit to not crying in the film like I did in Wall-E but I don’t admit it didn’t deserve my tears. The opening montage is one of the most effective ten minutes of cinema I have witnessed recently and the characterisation of both Russell and Carl is complex and interesting without distracting from the wild plot. It’s also intellectually deep. The film’s mediation on life through Karl’s situation, mourning is wife’s death yet trying to live on in her name at the same time, is on a par with something like Antonious Block’s struggle with Death in Ingmar Bergman's classic The Seventh Seal, it really is, and how on earth a kid’s cartoon can get that deep without getting dry in the slightest is surely the manner of some strange witchcraft.
So the film is brilliant, Pixar are brilliant. Perhaps the only down side of the film is the villain of the piece, who does come across as a little lacklustre. This does bring me to a general point: Pixar have yet to create a truly memorial villain to rival the likes of Disney’s pantheonic greats such as Cruella de Vil, the Wicked Stepmother or Scar. This perhaps remains the only fence they still have to jump through if they are to rival Disney for the title of greatest animation studio ever. But, for now, Up is a true delight and one of the most rewarding films of the year. Pixar, you’ve done it again.

It's Not Me, It's You: The State of the Modern Rom-Com

I’ve been thinking quite a lot recently about the state of the modern romantic-comedy. This reflective stance was brought on by what seemed like a brief festival of genre, the major players of this year all releasing themselves onto the market within a month or so of one another. In one corner we had Queen Sandra Bullock, stalwart of the genre with her latest offering The Proposal. In the other we had new contender to the throne Katherine Heigl with The Ugly Truth. In the third corner, or perhaps as the colour commentator, there was also the post-modern indie surprise hit (500) Days of Summer. All came, all saw, yet for my money neither really conquered. Some were better than others. (500) Days of Summer was emotionally interesting and I think I fall in love deeper with Zooey Deschannel the more I watch her, thus a story basically about how awesome and completely unattainable she seems acutely on-the-mark. However, this was diluted by a gratingly pretentious feel as a film that was basically a not very good version of Annie Hall presented itself as the all-knowing, omnipotent voice of a generation of alternatives (Who seem to all be Smith’s fans). The Proposal was so achingly average that it was a chore to watch, yet Bullock’s ability to play leading comedienne in 12A fair seems as fresh and unrivalled as ever: how many other forty-something leading ladies in Hollywood can command our attention without their age being an issue? As for The Ugly Truth? Well. The less said about that nasty little thing the better really.
So some got the com right and some got the rom right and some got neither right. Yet, none were that mix of laugh-out loud freshness and sweeping romanticism that the greats of the genre possess. In fact, I’m now struggling to think of the last romantic-comedy I really thought was any other than fine. I don’t even mean great, I mean above average. Competently executed. Enjoyable and interesting. My quest to find such an example ultimately concluded with Notting Hill, a film made ten years ago. What has happened to make such a genre, historically so rich, so moribund.
Perhaps it is a slight oxymoron to bemoan the lack of artistry in the romantic-comedy genre. After all, its basic premise seems intrinsically commercial. In its creation, the genre saw the merging of popular slapstick and satirical comedy, the comedic style of silent and early sound cinema of Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy and the Marx Brothers, and fuses it with a plot reminiscent of the traditional women’s weepy picture. The basic formula was: Romance for the girls + laughs for the boys = lots of cash for the studios, and essentially that formula remains. Yet, like everything to do with Hollywood, this blatant consumerism is somehow also entrancing and beautiful. This is perhaps because, with many examples of the genre, beneath the light and breezy surface, buried in the simplistic plot and stock characters, is a foundation based on emotional resonance and, perhaps unknowingly in some cases, a really deep philosophical treaty of sex relations through the times.

And I really mean that. The romantic-comedy can be as complex and intellectual engaging as any Oscar-bait feature or art-house cornerstone. Ok, so it communicates its intellectualism through prat-falls, one-liners and a romantic narrative vested in ideals of true love but that doesn’t mean it is necessary shallow. If you require further proof then let me take you through some of my favourites. Bringing Up Baby is a goofy, ridiculous and absurd film that also happens to comment on the rising economic and social importance of women during the 1920s. Breakfast at Tiffany’s, whilst being overtly romantic and stylised, asks questions about the true nature of sexual independence and the consequences of consumerism in the character of Holly Golightly. Annie Hall is a fantastic, witty, nonsensical elegiac soliloquy on the failings of love in the modern world. And then, of course, we get to When Harry Met Sally.
When Harry Met Sally is, in my ever-accurate opinion, the best romantic comedy ever made and probably one of the finest films ever made. It has as much to say on romance than any sonnet by Browning or Keats and is much funnier than both. Why is it so good? Well, let me count the ways. Number One: It is obscenely witty and funny. Number Two: It is touchingly romantic and engaging. Number Three: The performances and chemistry of the two leads are utterly hypnotic. Number Four: It manages to comment on gender relations, sexual politics, the collapse and merge of the private and public spheres without ever loosing sight of its basic purpose to entertain. Number Five: Carrie Fisher. Number Six: THAT scene in Katz’s deli involving a rather excited Meg Ryan (…or is she?). Number Seven: Well, I could go on and on and on.
So when a genre can produce something as good as Nora Ephron’s script amazingly mastered by Rob Reiner, frankly, The Proposal isn’t good enough. Not even close. These days, the genre seems more interested in regurgitating its past recipes with a staleness that is yawn-inducing. It’s seems to have returned to its route principles, throw in an A-lister here, a romantic plot there, that scene where they hate each other, that scene where they don’t, that scene when they hate each other again and that scene when they don’t, again. Where is the magic? Where is the romance I can actually invest in between two leads that seem more than irritating pastiches of other films? Where are the well-produced comedy scenes and characters the warrant more than a passing chuckle? Is it just me or have a few titters and nostalgic storyline become the benchmark for an acceptable rom-com?
And I know the criticisms that could be thrown at me. The first is that I’m a bloke and thus don’t understand rom-coms, which I’ve hope to demonstrate is just not true because I do love a whole lot of them. What I’m complaining about is not that they make romantic comedies but that they make bad ones. Maybe I’m expecting too much, that I should stop expecting every multiplex fare to be thoroughly unique and that all genres have their goods, their bads and their oks. But I’ve watched decent action films this year, I’ve seen decent horror. If these genres, which are as long lasting as the rom-com, can do it, why is it ok that the supposedly female audience get pawned off on mediocrity? Maybe I’m romanticising the old a bit, but then I’m happily to accept that all decades had many, many bad examples to counter the good. But still, the fact remains the 1960s had The Graduate, the 70s, Annie Hall. The eighties, When Harry Met Sally, the 90s While You Were Sleeping and Four Weddings and a Funeral. The noughties? Nope, still can’t think of one.
Love Actually is a sickly pic-n-mic of a rom-com film. Bright Jones’s Diary, a shallow celebration of the Sex and the City aesthetic of handbags and Weightwatchers membership as somehow representing some sort of sexual independence. Legally Blonde? No thanks. The Wedding Planner? Go away. How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days? Repugnant. 50 First Dates? Flirts between partially good and partially awful. Where have they gone? The rom-com seems to have hit a vacuous patch and the question remains as to how long audiences will be prepared to accept new products that are simply reminders of how good the old ones were and how far we’ve fallen. For me, rather than spend around £8 to watch something that reminds me how good it once was, I’d rather just re-watch an old DVD. Until something comes along to freshen it up and do something new, the genre appears to be dying a slow and painful death, a fact that’s neither funny nor sweet.

I'm back

Well.... that took a long time, didn't it!

At the Movies: Public Enemies

So Michael Mann makes a gangster movie. Interesting. A director championed by many for works such as Ali, Manhunter and Collateral yet a figure I have always been somewhat lukewarm to. Plenty of his films have entertained me, but none really wow me, Collateral getting perhaps the closest if it weren’t for a very generic final act. Also, for every worthwhile addition to his not insignificant collection of works there are plenty that muddy the waters. Miami Vice springs instantly to mind, not to mention Last of the Mohicans. If anyone dares to try to make me watch another two hours of Daniel Day-Lewis and Madeline Stowe jump through waterfalls whilst seeming to diffuse their mutually length brunette bushes together, then I will find them, “NO MATAR WAT OKKKURRRRSSSS!!!!”
However, Mann does at manage to make major studio productions with some sort of thought-process behind them, even if they are not always to my taste. Therefore, at a time where Terminator: Salivating Boring and Transformers 2: Because the First One Made Money are clogging up our multiplexes, I welcome Mann’s latest film with a warm heart and a sense of trust. Here we might have an antidote to the various summer blockbusters that insist on emphasising smashing over story: Transformers in particular I see as a misogynist, egotistical, offensively corporate, idiotic, episodic example of smashy-smashy stupidity that I really do hate in modern cinema. Compared to Michael Bay or McG (I mean, come on, seriously, McG, that’s not even really a sound, let alone a name), Michael Mann is Orson Welles, he is Francis Ford Coppolla. Even at his worst, he makes spectacle that attempts to mean something to someone. That he fails often is forgivable.
I am rather pleased to report that I do not count Public Enemies as one of his failures, but it’s hardly a roaring success either. In the film, Johnny Depp stars as John Dillinger, a real life figure from the Great Depression who became known in popular folk lore as a Robin-Hood-esque hero for a series of Bank Robberies as well as for escaping jail twice. The film tells the story of this man’s successful, and unsuccessful, attempts to evade a police force that are becoming increasingly obsessed with obtaining his capture, led by the almost pathological Melvin Purvis (Christian Bale, thankfully free of his growly Batman voice). What makes the film interesting beyond this rather been-there-done-that narrative is the visual palette. Mann’s continued experimentation with digital technology, used effectively in Collateral, Public Enemies employed light-weight, handheld, cameras and digital video technology to create a look that is grainy, personal and contains something of the real about it. Despite being a 30s period piece, despite displaying a vast array of flashy suits, vintage cars and antique Tommy-guns, the film’s aesthetic keeps the film enthused with an actuality, as if some bystander had filmed Dillinger’s actions and posted it directly to Mann’s editing suite. This new take on a genre that has traditionally been stylised and, at its worst, rather antiquated allows the proceedings to carry with a sense of significance, like the actions on screen really happened and thus are worthy of the audiences full attention. The footsteps crackle and the gunshots deafen.
This aesthetic is aided by Depp’s central performance. I know it rather boring to praise the acting in another Johnny Depp film, hardly the most shocking or original of analysis as he’s clearly a very fine actor, but this performance is another to add to his vast collection. Far from the theatricality of Jack Sparrow or Sweeney Todd, this represents a display of cinematic nuance. His face is rigid and unchanging, his voice monotone and emotionless, displaying largely the everyday masks that we place on ourselves when we’re out in town, at work, or even at home. He is gloriously enigmatic: you want to stare at this face forever to work out what’s behind it. This realism is also present in the film’s references to other gangster works, distancing it from fiction to present it as fact. Dillinger is seen to have a fascination with screen gangsters, a particularly pivotal scene revolving around him going to see Clark Gable in Manhattan Melodrama, and I can’t help see the film’s title itself as a cinematic confrontation with the classic film James Cagney film The Public Enemy. These various touches give the film’s make-up a sense of realism to the action and suspense and make the proceedings fascinating to look at.
Yet, Michael Mann's faults still remain. Beneath the visuals, beneath the flash, beneath the score and the stuff and the bangs and the cameras, there not much else that succeeds. That isn’t to say the film is without substance, quite the opposite in fact, the trouble is there is way too much. The narrative and thematic core of the movie is an unfocused mess, unsure of its central loci. It seems at points to be a tale of two opposing yet parallel forces of Dillinger and Purvis, except the latter is slightly one-dimensional to be really interesting. At times, it attempts to present a tragedy of heroism or the creeping cult of celebrity, ala The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, as the film touches on Dilinger’s desire and attempts to be larger-than-life making him ultimately larger-than-life. Except, this is really only hinted at in places and the lack of any real attempts to portray the man of Dilinger, the romantic subplot very minor and Marion Cotillard’s electrifying screen presence criminally underused, creates a situation where the final showdown and fate of Dilinger feels more an inevitable full stop than a tragic dénouement. There seem to be even vague attempts at a modern allegory: it is important to remember Dillinger was loved by many not for giving to the poor but robbing the rich, reflecting a public distrust and distain of the institutions of banking that have crippled their country. Surely, the modern day similarities did not escape Mann but very little is made of it, but enough to feel that you can’t help missing something as eerie crowd shots occasionally infect the mise-en-scene. I’m sure, if asked, Mann would suggest the film in fact all of these things but it really isn’t. It’s none of them. It’s just a melting pot of ideas and a really long one at that at roughly 140 minutes. Way too long. Way, way too long. In the end, it’s like orange cordial with too much water, something rather tasty in their diluted with too much waffle. Still, a lot, lot better than Transformers.