MY LIFE TO LIVE
(Jean-Luc Godard, 1962)
Reviewed: 10/31/02
They say beauty fades, and the most disconcerting way to illustrate is watching
a gorgeous, 22-year-old Anna Karina in her then-husband's My Life to Live,
followed by clicking over to imdb and taking a gander at how she looks now. Not
to be crass, and not to say she doesn't look fine for her age, but this discussion
is apt considering My Life to Live is about Karina's looks -- her movements,
her gestures, her expressions, her very presence -- as much as anything else.
She's in every scene, Godard having designed the film for her startling beauty,
for her incredible face, for the way it's both intensely alluring and completely
distant. Or was, rather. I have to fess up to being disappointed Karina
is merely mortal and never discovered a fountain of youth during the 40 years
since this film's release. Per Godardian standards, My Life to Live is
maddening and genius, veering between sad, incisive, haunting vignettes and boring-as-shit,
pretentious philosophizing. Many other Godard trademarks are present -- the frequent,
blatant allusions to film and literature (so excessive they start to annoy me),
characters having conversations with their backs facing camera, playful interludes
(there's a glorious stop-everything-and-dance sequence that's just like the one
in Band of Outsiders) -- but here Jean-Luc has traded his legendary, anything
goes jump-cutting of Breathless for unbroken masters that often last over
five minutes (and proves himself just as adept at using either style). Every image/moment
is a visual marvel (cinematography by Raoul Coutard); I can't think of a single
frame I wouldn't kill to have blown up into a huge mural.
TO DIE FOR (Gus
Van Sant, 1995)
Reviewed: 10/30/02
Still upsets me every time I watch Nicole Kidman's drop-dead brilliance in the
lead role and remember she wasn't Oscar-nominated (as G. Siskel once remarked
about this particularly grievous offense: some performances are just too good
to be recognized by the Academy). Perhaps this is where the ridiculous complaint
re: Kidman's alleged coldness (entirely fucking unfounded, mind you) first rooted.
Her character Suzanne Stone -- media/self-obsessed up the wazoo -- is an ice queen,
no doubt. But Kidman has our sympathy every step of the way precisely because
she's so unapologetic with her audience, precisely because she's unafraid
to be so true to her character, precisely because she never seeks any faux-empathy
tricks like most actors would. Speaking of faux, I don't like the "documentary,"
talking heads approach (feels tired) in which Buck Henry's screenplay shifts between
great, witty passages and pathetic gun-jumping (Joaquin Phoenix in the car after
Suzanne lies to him, saying her husband beats her: "A guy that does that
to someone like you doesn't deserve to live." Couldn't her convincing him
to kill her husband/his agreeing have been, uh, a lot subtler?). Van Sant's
perfect visual calibration more than makes up for any scenario deficiencies though,
particularly his inspired use of slow motion.
THE WEDDING SINGER
(Frank Coraci, 1998)
Reviewed: 10/14/02
Agreeably warmhearted. Sandler is funny, restrained and mature as the fairly well-adjusted
title character (well-adjusted in the scheme of Sandler films, at least); Drew
Barrymore's amply cute as his love interest. Kooky minor characters factor kept
nicely in check and narrative focus maintained. Also does a commendable job of
recreating the 80s in all of its pastel, garish, mullet-ridden, wristbanded horror.
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