CATALOGUE
OF AN ADDICTION: 2003 ed.
Slashes and numbers and asterisks, oh my?
001.
(02 Jan) Repulsion (1965, Roman Polanski)
[Yes, Polanksi, all men are lecherous fiends, all women are naive and pure, and
Catherine Deneuve can act in English. Keep telling yourself that.]
002.
(02 Jan) /California Split/ (1974, Robert Altman)
[Among Altman's top three (with McCabe & Mrs. Miller and The
Long Goodbye); an exuberant portrait of gambling's essential emptiness.]
003.
(02 Jan) Belle de Jour (1967, Luis Buñuel)
[Dissatisfied housewife seeks escape blah repetitive blah with very few daring
scenes.]
004.
(02 Jan) Chicago (2002, Rob Marshall)
005.
(03 Jan) /25th Hour/ (2002, Spike Lee)
006.
(03 Jan) \Catch Me If You Can\ (2002, Steven Spielberg)
007.
(03 Jan) /Buffalo '66/ (1998, Vincent Gallo)*
[Strange, almost experimental love story shines via the inarguable conviction
of Gallo's suffering.]
008.
(04 Jan) Scarecrow (1973, Jerry Schatzberg)
[Rich study in friendship and alienation; stunning performances from Hackman and
Pacino.]
009. (05 Jan)
Love Liza (2002, Todd Louiso)
010.
(05 Jan) /Defending Your Life/ (1991, Albert Brooks)*
[Don't live in fear says this movie again and again and again and again,
but there's enough invention and funny moments to keep things moderately entertaining.]
011.
(06 Jan) /Band of Outsiders/ (1964, Jean-Luc Godard)*
[Dear Young Anna Karina: Please marry me. Love Jared.]
012.
(06 Jan) Intacto (2002, Juan Carlos Fresnadillo)
013.
(06 Jan) /Days of Heaven/ (1978, Terrence Malick)
[Hardly engaging, but haunting and beautiful enough for me not to care.]
W/O.
(06 Jan) The Hole (1998, Tsai Ming-Liang)
014.
(07 Jan) Talk to Her (2002, Pedro Almodóvar)
015.
(07 Jan) /The Good Girl/ (2002, Miguel Arteta)*
016.
(08 Jan) Ikiru (1952, Akira Kurosawa)
[At least fifty minutes overlong, like a lot of Kurosawa's work. I quickly got
the point; the emotion's eventually deadened by massive overkill.]
017.
(08 Jan) Divine Intervention (2003, Elia Suleiman)
018.
(08 Jan) /Deconstructing Harry/ (1997, Woody Allen)*
[Allen once again tries to reconcile the artist with the man, discovering here
that a tumultuous life doesn't always make for better creative output.]
019.
(10 Jan) /Heaven Can Wait/ (1978, Warren Beatty,
Buck Henry)*
[The air of whimsy and possibility is irresistible; makes you feel better about
death.]
020.
(11 Jan) The Awful Truth (1937, Leo McCarey)
[Delightful, touching screwball detailing the aftermath of a divorce with a young
Cary Grant at his finest.]
021.
(12 Jan) An Affair to Remember (1957, Leo McCarey)
[Delicate first hour nearly ruined by offensive second half in which we learn,
yes, even Cary Grant can love a cripple.]
022.
(13 Jan) /Chicago/ (2002, Rob Marshall)
023.
(13 Jan) Going My Way (1944, Leo McCarey)
[Rare that a movie can be this kindhearted without being maudlin; Bing Crosby
and Barry Fitzgerald are an acting duo to be treasured. But there's too much lame
singing, and alas, not much else here.]
024.
(14 Jan) /About a Boy/ (2002, Chris Weitz, Paul Weitz)*
025.
(14 Jan) /Blue Crush/ (2002, John Stockwell)*
026.
(15 Jan) /Chungking Express/ (1996, Wong Kar-Wai)*
[Not a big fan of the first story, but the second's brand of fairytale romance
-- in which the delicious Faye Wong incessantly dances to "California Dreamin'"
-- more than makes up for it.]
027.
(15 Jan) The Son (2003, Jean-Pierre Dardenne, Luc
Dardenne)
028.
(16 Jan) Le Cercle Rouge (1970, Jean Pierre-Melville)
[Impossibly cool, containing everything I want in a movie: beautiful women, taciturn
criminals, trains, snow and heists. Almost functions as a silent film, with the
gripping compositions and ambience of decay virtually unrivaled.]
029.
(17 Jan) The Piano (1993, Jane Campion)
[Tedious, annoying, pretentious, cruel.]
030.
(17 Jan) The Lady Eve (1941, Preston Sturges)*
[Can someone who was alive in the 1940s tell me why everyone in 1940s movies treats
getting married as the modern day equivalent of going out on a date?]
031.
(18 Jan) Red (1994, Krzysztof Kieslowski)
[Spell of intrigue woven with care. Irène Jacob is luscious as can be.
Hell of an opening and a kicker of a finale, too.]
032.
(18 Jan) City of God (2003, Fernando Meirelles)
033.
(18 Jan) /Shampoo/ (1975, Hal Ashby)*
[Hedonism brought to a close. The fun masks the sadness, the neediness, the loneliness,
all given song by the tiny, brilliant Paul Simon refrain that pops up from time
to time. Featuring one of the best endings ever.]
034.
(19 Jan) Fallen Angels (1997, Wong Kar-Wai)
[Inferior Chungking Express, but more gorgeous and funnier.]
035.
(19 Jan) Happy Together (1997, Wong Kar-Wai)
[Whatever.]
036.
(20 Jan) /Ed Wood/ (1994, Tim Burton)
[Affectionate, tender, oft-hilarious study of the tenuous line between the greats
and the not-so-greats.]
037.
(22 Jan) /The Curse of the Jade Scorpion/ (2001,
Woody Allen)*
[Underrated; there's some laugh-out-loud stuff here even though most of the one-liners
fall flat.]
038.
(23 Jan) My Darling Clementine (1946, John Ford)
[Is "civilization" a positive or negative influence on the frontier?
The nice thing about this film is it isn't sure.]
039.
(24 Jan) Gremlins (1984, Joe Dante)*
[Promising first act degenerates into empty, endless violence. Would have vastly
preferred a movie about the inventor father.]
040.
(25 Jan) Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989,
Steven Spielberg)
[Superfluous, extended opening announces the abundance of fat that mars most every
Spielberg film. Plot driven right off the freeway and into a ditch; actively avoids
any opportunity for characterization or interest. Boring setpiece after boring
setpiece after moderately exciting setpiece after boring setpiece...]
041.
(27 Jan) Pierrot le Fou (1965, Jean-Luc Godard)*
[Dear Young Anna Karina: Surely you cannot be happy with this Godard fellow. You
give his films their only bit of life and he seems incapable of human speak or
emotion. I imagine he can't even tell you he's going to the bathroom without saying
something like, "Anna Anna Kar The bathroom is a place where we excrete the
poison of the... what is poison if not the opposite of sweetness, I am made of
poison and sweetness and I dream of the mixture, dancing on the belly of the eternal
beast." I, on the other hand, can talk like a real person. I am capable of
asking you if you want a cup of coffee when you wake up and having the statement
mean nothing more than do you want a cup of coffee. I am capable of listening
to what you have to say and loving you and not boring you with my insufferable,
incomprehensible gobbledygook like someone else we know. I'll be good to you.
God damn good for you. Marry me. Love Jared.]
042.
(27 Jan) /12 Monkeys/ (1995, Terry Gilliam)*
[The rarest of all cinematic breeds: a massively unnerving, hugely intelligent
and absolutely apocalyptic möbius strip financed by a major studio with big
movie stars and the bleakest of possible endings. I still can't believe Gilliam
pulled this all off for only ~$29 million; the level of invention here is astonishing
no matter what the cost, the craft impeccable, the implications quite literally
mind-bending. (Think you've got the finale figured out? I dare you to Google "ending
of twelve monkeys," without quotes.) Reminds me just how much we're missing
with every passed year in which Gilliam hasn't made a new film.]
043.
(28 Jan) Spider (2003, David Cronenberg)
044.
(28 Jan) /The Hamster Factor and Other Tales of Twelve Monkeys/
(1996, Keith Fulton, Louis Pepe)*
[Two most telling revelations: (1) Gilliam -- in a bizarre act of personalization
-- eventually ends up mirroring the state of his film's protagonists during the
course of shooting. Since his protagonists are usually crazed lunatics, well,
you do the math there. (2) With each new movie, Gilliam finds the filmmaking process
progressively less satisfying. (1) + (2) = No surprise he hasn't completed
a new flick since way back in 1998.]
045.
(30 Jan) Johnny Guitar (1954, Nicholas Ray)*
[For awhile the utter phoniness, excessive melodrama, over-the-top dialogue, frequent
grandstanding and atrocious acting were hilarious. Then they just got tedious.]
046.
(30 Jan) /North By Northwest/ (1959, Alfred Hitchcock)*
[A smidgeon overlong, but so purely enjoyable no one cares. Few action-adventures
can match this movie's flair for dialogue, fiery romance, expansiveness and the
elegant delicacy with which Hitch controls every frame (though I maintain subtext
is nonexistent here). That James Mason sure was a marvel, huh?]
047.
(31 Jan) Lost in La Mancha (2003, Keith Fulton, Louis
Pepe)
048.
(31 Jan) A Shot in the Dark (1964, Blake Edwards)
[Way too goofy and slapstick-driven for my tastes; I prefer my comedy with some
bite. The bumbling Clouseau shtick gets old real fast.]
049.
(01 Feb) The Recruit (2003, Roger Donaldson)
[Could have been something, considering the first half hour -- in which Colin
Farrell tries to become a CIA agent -- immerses us in a new world (CIA boot camp)
with straightforward knowledge. Too bad the screenwriters had no idea where to
go from there. Gotta note I'm ecstatic the stupid "I love my missing daddy"
sub-thread led exactly nowhere, though, even if it did confirm my immediate suspicion
the damn thing should have never been there in the first place.]
050.
(02 Feb) demonlover (2003, Olivier Assayas)
051.
(03 Feb) /Dr. Strangelove, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying
and Love the Bomb/ (1964, Stanley Kubrick)
[Many things at once: One of only a handful of perfect films ever made; drop-dead
hilarious comedy; horrifying look at nuclear holocaust; most potent cinematic
illustration of war's inherent absurdity; showcase for two of the greatest performances
ever (Seller's trifecta, Scott's Buck Turgidson). Astounding to think this ostensibly
political film hasn't aged a day in 39 years. Dr. Strangelove will be
around as long as Earth is left standing, which, come to think of it, might not
be that much longer...]
052.
(03 Feb) The Ladykillers (1955, Alexander Mackendrick)
[One note drawing-room comedy -- about the chasm between a kindly old lady and
a bunch of thieves -- benefits from the presence of Alec Guinness and Katie Johnson
(as the lady). Made me smile sporadically, but I expected more (the thieves should
have been better developed/distinguished). The Coen Bros. are currently remaking
with Tom Hanks in the lead. Not sure what promise they see in this source material,
though.]
053.
(03 Feb) A Woman Is a Woman (1961, Jean-Luc Godard)*
[(Your wish is my command, baaab.) Dear Young Anna Karina: You know that moment
towards the beginning of A Woman Is a Woman where that girl reads you
some typically Godardian claptrap about the nature of art and you just shrug your
shoulders, smile and amble away? That is why I love you, Anna. Here you
are in the midst of another of your lover's self-reflexive incoherence-fests (characters
address the audience; wonder aloud if their movie is a comedy or a tragedy; call
their movie a masterpiece; Jean-Paul Belmondo talks about watching Breathless
on TV; superimpositions inform us how the characters feel), and you imbue the
film with such guilelessness that any accusations of pretension are rendered moot.
I like to think I can watch your ravishing-as-ever face (accompanied by Michel
Legrand's cooly whacked-out score) cavort around for an eternity, but, alas, that
devious husband of yours always has to rain on my parade by exasperating me with
his consistent nonsense (honestly dear Anna, at only 84 minutes A Woman Is
a Woman is still a bit of a chore to sit through). But Anna, know that moment
when the tears blur your mascara and that sometimes-genius husband of yours cuts
out the music and you talk about how women who don't cry are jerks? God,
you broke my heart. Marry me. Love Jared.]
054.
(04 Feb) What's New, Pussycat? (1965, Clive Donner)
[Somewhat schizophrenic, with Woody Allen's (this is Allen's first produced screenplay,
though he claims it was butchered) I-have-nothing-to-do-with-anything character
and Peter Seller's annoying, out-of-place cartoon (although he does provide the
movie's sole laugh), playing against Peter O'Toole's less wacky and trite womanizing.
Honestly, only the abundance of beautiful women kept me happy, since it'll take
till at least tomorrow morning to forget the images of Paula Prentiss dancing
up a storm and Ursula Andress prancing around in her bra and panties. Everything
else, on the other hand, was immediately erased from my memory banks as soon as
I exited the theater.]
s01.
(05 Feb) Cosmic Ray (1961, Bruce Conner)
s02.
(05 Feb) Report (1967, Bruce Conner)
055.
(05 Feb) /Bonnie and Clyde/ (1967, Arthur Penn)*
[Still doesn't hold a candle to Badlands and still slow in patches, but
this -- one of the most seminal of all America films -- also still packs a large
wallop thanks to the complexity of Beatty's characterization, the presentation
of murderous outlaws as anti-authoritarians of the people, the final shoot-out,
the show-stopping Gene Wilder setpiece, the odd aw-shucksness of Michael J. Pollard's
performance and the superlative manner in which Penn intertwines these elements
and a vivid portrait of drab Depression-era South with the grace of a weeping
willow swaying to a gentle summer breeze.]
056.
(05 Feb) The World of Henry Orient (1964, George
Roy Hill)
[Being a world in which god awful, androgynous, young actresses become obsessed
with phony Peter Sellers characters. The makers really screwed this one up; what
wants to be a poignant, coming of age tale about a young girl without strong parental
guidance is consistently undermined by the occasional focus on the tries-way-too-hard-to-be-funny
titular character (played by Sellers in another of his hammy, shielded by fake
accents personas). Only the wonderful Tom Bosley engages.]
057.
(06 Feb) /McCabe & Mrs. Miller/ (1971, Robert
Altman)*
[Here's my old review. Here's
my new, better written, addendum.]
058.
(06 Feb) Miami Blues (1990, George Armitage)*
[The idiosyncratic, cheapie crime flick Jonathan Demme never made. Miami Blues
is probably so similar to Demme's breezy 80s aesthetic, in part, because
it was produced by Demme himself, shot by Demme's longtime DP and cut by Demme's
longtime editor. What plays like an adaptation of a lesser Elmore Leonard novel
shares Demme's affection for oddball, underbelly-residing characters and his gleeful
mixture of violent abandon and loopy humor. Alec Baldwin is a scene-chewing blast,
while Jennifer Jason Leigh and Fred Ward provide convincing support. The plotting's
implausible, but that's almost irrelevant.]
059.
(07 Feb) Happy Here and Now (2003, Michael Almereyda)
s03.
(08 Feb) Junior the Cat (1988, Gus Van Sant)
s04.
(08 Feb) My Friend (1988, Gus Van Sant)
s05.
(08 Feb) Ballad of Skeletons (1996, Gus Van Sant)
060.
(08 Feb) Mala Noche (1985, Gus Van Sant)
[So fucking boring I wanna fall asleep just thinking about it. Van Sant's feature
debut is only 78 minutes, but sitting in the theater I felt as if a zero had been
tacked onto that number. The acting -- obviously by non-professionals -- is horrific
and managed to consistently ruin whatever momentary investment I might have had
in the story. The plaintive guitar strumming is frequent and annoying as shit;
the voiceover, ditto. Understated, has some nice photography and is fairly evocative
of seedy 1980s Portland, but really, who cares.]
s06.
(08 Feb) Flea Sings (1991, Gus Van Sant)
s07.
(08 Feb) /Junior the Cat/ (1988, Gus Van Sant)
061.
(08 Feb) My Own Private Idaho (1991, Gus Van Sant)
[Found this one to be almost as god damn tedious as Mala Noche. Separation
from family unit yields marginalized, sometimes gay hustlers (yeah, I got the
point without the constant 16mm flashbacks to River Pheonix's mom) -- their life
is aimless and bad. This movie travels nowhere slowly, with uninvolving scenes
going on way too long and Van Sant convinced he can trade crucial elements like
plotting, conflict, evolution and momentum for the occasional surreal sequence.
Sorry Gus, but I'll take the former.]
062.
(09 Feb) /Panic Room/ (2002, David Fincher)*
063.
(10 Feb) The Secret Lives of Dentists (2003, Alan
Rudolph)
064.
(10 Feb) /Point Break/ (1991, Kathryn Bigelow)*
[Leave it to Kathryn Bigelow to take two of my least favorite actors (Keanu Reeves
and Patrick Swayze) and craft a massively entertaining action pic with some actual
meat on its bones. This is a triumph of the spirit story where crime = the spirit.
Point Break's particularly notable for its juxtaposition of the elemental
against the mundane ("We stand for something to those dead souls inching
along the freeways in their metal coffins," growls Swayze) and for letting
its surprisingly tranquil "bad guy" have a profound effect on his pursuer.
With spectacular aerial work and rousing chase sequences, to boot.]
065.
(11 Feb) The Hit (1984, Stephen Frears)*
[A sparse, sanguine, serene crime flick about coming to terms with your mortality.
Pity the ending strikes me as a betrayal, then.]
s08.
(12 Feb) Spirit of the Navajo (1968, Maxine and Mary
Jane Tsosie)
066.
(12 Feb) Medium Cool (1969, Haskell Wexler)*
[Wexler's cure for insomnia. Creates its environment of social turmoil amidst
political guises with authority and ease, while pointedly blurring the line between
fiction and documentary; meanwhile, all I can do is shrug my shoulders and ask
to what end? Old fashioned as he might be, Jared wants his didacticism with real
characters or a story. If he just wants to take a snooze, he'll drink camomile
tea.]
067.
(12 Feb) /My Cousin Vinny/ (1992, Jonathan Lynn)*
[Hadn't seen this one since the start of Clinton's first term. The script's rarely
more than adequate, but Pesci and Tomei are never less than marvelous. A bucket
of fun.]
068.
(13 Feb) The Searchers (1956, John Ford)*
[John Ford tellingly started his career playing a klansman in Birth of a Nation
and his racial attitudes never evolved. Yes, there are images of exquisite visual
beauty here. Yes, there are assorted moments of heft and emotion and power. Yes,
the movie was hugely influential (including directly inspiring one of my ten favorite
films of all time, Taxi Driver). But how can all you guys strongly embrace a movie
so disgustingly racist? All Movie writes that The Searchers is a "profoundly
ambiguous critique of the genre's (and America's) racism," then doesn't even
begin to justify that ludicrous claim (obviously because it can't). Ebert's
whole feeble justification is essentially predicated on the fact that "Wayne
was in his personal life notably free of racial prejudice, and [...] Ford made
films with more sympathetic views of Indians." Yeah, well that's not good
enough. What Ebert somehow forgets is that people do not approach this movie with
an intimate knowledge of John Wayne's real-life behavior or John Ford's entire
oeuvre. The film must stand alone, and through my dying day I will never believe
this is anything but bigotry writ fifty feet large. All you need to know can be
found in the final ten minutes: After calling the Comanches "my people"
many scenes before, the kidnapped Debbie inexplicably has a change of heart and
suddenly and without cause, embraces coming home. But since this change of heart
is unbeknownst to Wayne, his last minute decision not to kill her (which he's
wanted to do since he found out she was content with Comanche life) -- just so
the film can show him carrying her in his arms and returning her to her family
and being the "hero" -- is offensively ridiculous. Ebert acknowledges
that "the Wayne character is racist without apology--and so, in a less outspoken
way, are the other white characters" but then poses "Is the film intended
to endorse their attitudes, or to dramatize and regret them?" as if that
is even really a consideration. Indeed, the final shot of Wayne carrying Debbie
away from the Comanches -- sun shining brightly behind him -- is a horrifying
endorsement of his behavior, and thus, so becomes the film. Ford wanted to have
it both ways; he wanted to make his intense racism a tad easier to stomach so
he tacked on the nonsensical ending. The final shot of the door shutting on Wayne
is not the condemnation or ostracizing some -- in their typically desperate efforts
to excuse the movie's attitude -- claim it is. Wayne was a transient to start
the film with; his (by this point glorified) outcast behavior will of course continue.
And so, from beyond the grave, will Ford's prejudice.]
s09.
(13 Feb) Fear and Loathing on the Road to Hollywood
(1978, The BBC)*
069.
(14 Feb) All the Real Girls (2003, David Gordon Green)
070.
(14 Feb) Gerry (2003, Gus Van Sant)
[Pulchritudinous vision of nature's brutal indifference that doesn't emphasize
this indifference nearly as much as I would of liked; the most puissant moments
are when we're twittery, truly fearful for the Gerries' fates. Too bad these moments
are rare because of Van Sant's inexplicable decision to: (A) Not have the Gerries
be the least bit frightened about the mounting terror of their situation until
over a day after the film begins (which I just didn't buy, frankly); (B) Rarely
have the Gerries even mention how disastrous their situation is. They can and
should still be in a sort of denial, of course (maybe using trivial chit-chat
to mask their fears), but the desperation should have crept through more often
(best example: the scene where Casey Affleck cries and Damon can't face the implications
of those tears). Surprisingly humorous at times, never tiresome and both actors
are splendid, but I can't shake the feeling this could of been a masterpiece.
PS: The ending stinks.]
071.
(15 Feb) Meet Me in St. Louis (1944, Vincente Minnelli)
[Was initially nicely surprised to discover this is a discursive, musical portrait
of a family, with little plotting and a focus on personality. Gratitude quickly
ceased since nothing much of interest ever happens (focus on personality = focus
on two stupid romances), the music is mostly stale and I didn't agree with the
movie's choice of which family members to hone in on (i.e. Minnelli, of course,
chooses the three young females instead of the grandparent and parents; even though
the father is clearly the film's most fascinating and conflicted character, he
receives exceedingly little screen time). St. Louis is the kind of movie
which features characters earnestly spouting lines like, "Nice girls don't
let a man kiss them until they're engaged." Do we really have a place for
this sort of thing in modern society?]
072.
(15 Feb) The Clock (1945, Vincente Minnelli)
[Even worse than Meet Me in St. Louis, this is essentially a bland, boring
rendition of Before Sunrise if the Hawke/Delpy departure was only imminent
because Hawke had to go back to war (remember, instead of a floundering, charming,
pseudo-philosopher, Hawke is a guileless soldier) and, oh yeah, they get married
first. Also imagine if the last half hour of Before Sunrise -- instead
of being devoted to sparkling, engrossing, touching dialogue -- was focused on
the inane procuring of said marriage's license.]
073.
(15 Feb) Near Dark (1987, Kathryn Bigelow)*
[Bigelow's formal command is dazzling, creating the rococo mood with deft, precise
strokes. Way too precise, though; this sucker is sinfully dull for any
genre, let alone a fucking vampire flick. Bigelow and her co-writer seem to be
willfully alienating their audience with the snail pacing, the uneventful narrative
and the shallow characterization. Give me Buffy over this any day of
the week.]
074.
(16 Feb) The Marriage of Maria Braun (1978, Rainer
Werner Fassbinder)
[Alright, now I'm getting really fucking frustrated. After my incredible Friday,
I've -- as you can see -- been stuck in a major weekend rut. All Movie 5 stars
this, David Thomson calls it extraordinary, Ebert places it amongst Fassbinder's
top three films, m'da ranks it the second best film of 1978 and I'm as apathetic
as ever. Starts off with a bang, has a smattering of strong moments, but continuously
devolves. Frankly -- and I know I'm starting to sound like a goddamn broken record
-- I was pretty much bored off my ass by the midway point. Only thing maintaining
my interest at all was Hanna Schygulla's brazen, enigmatic performance as the
titular Braun, but even ice cream grows tiresome after you've ingested enough
of it. I guess the root of my whatever attitude is me never being one for political
allegories; that is, do I really need a film to tell me that -- big surprise
-- post-WWII Germany was a bad, generally fucked up place to inhabit? Do I really
need a film to tell me that -- big surprise -- post-WWII Germany's reconstruction
was faulty and not all it was cracked up to be? Politics aside, I still hate the
cruel, abrupt, forced ending as well as the still photos that appear after the
closing credits. While at first inexplicable to me since I had no idea who they're
of, they turned out to be an obnoxious sledgehammer when I discovered they're
images of German leaders. For someone who made up to nine films a year, worked
quick, lived fast and died young, why couldn't Fassbinder filter some of that
boundless real-life energy into this film? I'm conquering a big Fassbinder retrospective
in the upcoming weeks, so lemme pray this is not the peak of his canon as some
suggest.]
075.
(16 Feb) The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964, Jacques
Demy)*
[Here we go again. Yes, I detested it, didn't buy a single moment of it, found
the performers (I am not a Catherine Deneuve fan) to be utterly lacking in conviction
and emotionally barren, and found the singing every single line conceit to be
nothing more than a transparent gimmick. That said, I'm more than happy to acknowledge
that some of the critics I respect most think this (a true balls-to-the-wall,
love it or hate it film if there ever was one) is among the greatest movies ever
made.]
076.
(18 Feb) Breathless (1959, Jean-Luc Godard)
[(Note: I tried taking the movie-day off yesterday in order clear my head and
make sure I hadn't gone movie-mad. Alas, I've determined I haven't and these overrated
films themselves are indeed to be blamed.) Quoth David Thomson: "[Godard]
is the first director, the first great director, who does not seem to be a human
being." Quoth Jared: And thus most of his films do not seem to be inhabited
by human beings. Certainly Breathless is not; for all its notorious (alleged)
spontaneity, its lively jump-cutting and its blasé attitude, it is a listless
film almost entirely devoid of compassion or feeling. Belmondo has neither the
charisma nor the charm to elevate his character into something beyond redundant
repugnance; American co-star Jean Seberg is barely competent, let alone anywhere
near the glory of my beloved Anna Karina. The nonsense factor is not as pronounced
as in, say, Pierrot le Fou (and the affecting moments are slightly more
common) but characters still frequently speak in rhetorical paradoxes like "I
love you. But I can never love you." and "I want to be immortal so then
I can die." Am I really the only one who is consistently annoyed by Godard's
dumb, pseudo-profundities? Nowhere are these more abundant than in the inordinately
garrulous Belmondo/Seberg bedroom scene which rambles onward for an eternity,
eating up a fourth of the whole movie's runtime. I know Breathless was
the first major film to incorporate pop-cultural allusions, but while Belmondo's
Bogart posturing certainly works, the references to Renoir, Faulkner, Cocteau,
Dylan Thomas, etc. still grate. Godard seems to be making a statement about how
we're losing touch with each other and genuine interrelations are fading, but
his targets and methodology are easy and amateurish. Characters say things like
"All men are only interested in women and all women are only interested in
money" which is pessimism as cheap as the comments found in Chicago.
Wildly important, groundbreaking and influential, yes, but let's not kid ourselves
that this is actually a great movie.]
077.
(18 Feb) Marty (1955, Delbert Mann)*
[About as pure and lovely a character study as one can ask for. Irreplaceable
Paddy Chayefsky crafts the titular, lonely butcher as a patisserie might prepare
an elaborate cake, carefully layering each ingredient, with one hushed, revealing
scene shading the next; Ernest Borgnine plays Marty with a heartfelt combination
of resigned, baronial self-loathing and sweet insouciance. Never obtrusive, cautiously
optimistic, possessing a keen sense of community (a supporting gallery shines
on Borgnine while also given their own moments in the sun) and vigilant of love's
hypocrisies, this Best Picture winner is a rare instance of the Academy not fucking
up.]
s10.
(19 Feb) Scorpio Rising (1963, Kenneth Anger)
078.
(19 Feb) /Midnight Cowboy/ (1969, John Schlesinger)
[A shattering incineration of the American dream. Instead of heading West, good-natured,
wannabe hustler Voight heads East, his masculinity thoroughly impaired, a new
life waiting to be claimed. The heart-wrenching friendship he forges with Ratso
Rizzo is one of the most indelible bonds ever put on celluloid. As Ratso, Hoffman
turns in one of his greatest performances (which is to say one of the greatest
performances ever), nervous energy and miniature bursts of rage masking a crippling
vulnerability. This is a brave, devastating movie about the margins (of sexuality,
of the swinging 60s, of New York City), something so raw and desperate I still
can't believe it won Best Picture (the only X-rated movie -- a rating that was
eventually knocked down -- to ever do so).]
079.
(20 Feb) The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962,
John Ford)*
[There's some real nice stuff here (understated, interior, mournful tone; well
drawn supporting characters; good use of flashback structure; strong leads; evocative
of the sadness sometimes inherent in change) but I can't help but wish the fat
was trimmed (speeches rattle on and on for light years; scenes amble way too long).
Casting the stoic John Wayne opposite the impassioned Jimmy Stewart has its benefits
(Wayne's iconic status means the movie doesn't have to spend much time on characterization;
Stewart's nice guy, non-violent persona seems ingrained in his soul long ago)
though their bipolarity in acting styles draws attention to each of their deficiencies
(Wayne's resignation has always seemed more a product of being a poor actor than
a genuinely weary presence; Stewart -- so great in Anthony Mann's gritty Westerns
of the 50s -- has a tendency to overact). The first, early face-off between Valance
(a superb Lee Marvin) and Wayne is stirring as hell, so gripping in fact that
the rest of the movie seems a bit anticlimactic. All Movie writes "Stoddard
(Stewart) has to come to terms with the fact that the legendary words that fuel
his success erase the truth of the genuine charismatic heroes (Wayne); as a place
of literary and cinematic legend, the West has no room for such veracity."
This seems a problematic assumption to me since I'm of the (maybe too cynical)
mind that true heroes never existed in the first place. That is, the Western had
always been about the selling of false myth but The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance
is an important acknowledgement of that statement on (according to All Movie,
at least) the wrong terms (instead of admitting "John Wayne" never existed
in the first place, it bemoans the fact that his existence was never recognized).
Maybe this was not Ford's intention. Maybe Ford was indeed apologizing for ever
giving us -- in his past films -- that archetypical Wayne hero, deciding here
to scale back and diminish the icon as penance.]
080.
(21 Feb) /One Hour Photo/ (2002, Mark Romanek)*
081.
(22 Feb) Dark Blue (2003, Ron Shelton)
082.
(22 Feb) Le Samouraï (1967, John-Pierre Melville)
[Melville can create a stern, joyless world of worn sterility -- a world where
men in suits, trench coats and fedoras exit rain-drenched Parisian streets to
play backroom games of poker -- like no one else. It's a world I love (although
I prefer a touch of joy, personally = I much prefer Bob le flambeur),
a world I instinctively respond to. What I don't instinctively respond to, on
the other hand, is Melville's brand of real-time (= turtle) momentum ("I
don't like to force the pace," says a detective, obviously on behalf of the
director). While it's a theoretically interesting conceit to play a straightforward
procedural out in rhythms mirroring quotidian life, the idea quickly (or should
I say slowly) wears thin as you realize that being a detective or a criminal can
be an amazingly tedious line of work (which I'm not even sure is Melville's point;
he might adore these occupations without equivocation). Melville stretches his
hackneyed (and maybe one could argue in 1967 it wasn't hackneyed, but sorry, this
is 2003 now) set-up as far as it'll possibly go (let's put it this way: the plotting
would barely hold a full episode of "Law & Order: Special Victims Unit"
together) and the grabbing scenes only surface on occasion. Melville's Le
Cercle Rouge is over half an hour longer than Le Samouraï and
also contains little in the way of dialogue, but it's monumentally more stimulating.
PS: Can someone explain to me why Delon does what he does in the film's closing
scene? Merci.]
s11.
(23 Feb) The Cathedral (2002, Tomek Bagiski)
s12.
(23 Feb) The ChubbChubbs! (2002, Eric Armstrong)
s13.
(23 Feb) Das Rad (2002, Chris Stenner / Heidi Wittlinger)
s14.
(23 Feb) Mike's New Car (2002, Pete Docter / Roger
Gould)
s15.
(23 Feb) Mt. Head (2002, Koji Yamamura)
s16.
(23 Feb) Fait D'Hiver (2002, Dirk Beliën)
s17.
(23 Feb) J'Attendrai Le Suivant (2002, Philippe Orreindy)
s18.
(23 Feb) Inja (2002, Steven Pasvolsky)
083.
(23 Feb) The Crossing Guard (1995, Sean Penn)*
[sometimes tense as fuck takes big risks about a man sliding down down down because
david morse who gives a fucking exquisite performance accidentally killed his
daughter nicholson is that man of course and his sad uncontrollable work here
shames that stuff he did in that schmidt movie anjelica huston and robin wright
penn who has never looked more beautiful also provide small but strikingly nuanced
supporting turns because its a movie about tragedy breeding irrational vengeance
and about how maybe were not all different also about forgiveness at the expense
of what question mark consistently surprising too though admittedly coulda done
without all the hoity toity slow motion and on occasion penn lays it on a tad
thick but thats imminently forgivable given how sheerly emotional the movie is
also has some wonderfully strange oddly touching moments like I wrote this song
for you freddy and some less strange but still a little strange ones that are
a major success like hiding in the little girls bedroom and that beautiful robin
wright i mentioned dancing to what a man what a man what a mighty fine man by
the way the music supervisor is wes andersons music supervisor randall poster
and he litters the track with some strong eclectic choices im even a sucker for
the jewel tune and the dp is vilmos zsigmond but aside from some nice cityscape
shots youd never really know it thats the dps job here though no doubt its not
the kind of a movie where you wanna be taken out and start noticing all the fancy
schmancy camera work although you inevitably do cause of all that damn slow motion
sean penn who also wrote this should really make a lot more movies but they dont
pay him enough theres absolutely no justification to have written the review like
this im sorry]
084.
(25 Feb) Stone Reader (2003, Mark Moskowitz)
085.
(27 Feb) Laurel Canyon (2003, Lisa Cholodenko)
[Look! It's a bird... it's a plane... it's.... Laurel Canyon's Entire
Outline Detailing Every Single Thing That Will Happen In Every Single Scene flying
into our brains within the film's opening seven minutes! Standard fish-out-of-water
premise is kept watchable due to the L.A./music-industry bonhomie vibe, lively
acting (by McDormand, Beckinsale, Bale and especially Alessandro Nivola, though
Natascha McElhone's "Israeli" accent is atrocious) and Cholondenko's
mostly keen ear for every day dialogue. Can't say I gave a shit, but also can't
say I didn't kinda enjoy myself for an hour and forty-five minutes anyhow. Best
moment: As Beckinsale strips a man in the audience screams out,"Ye-AH! It's
'Bout Time!"]
086.
(27 Feb) White (1994, Krzysztof Kieslowski)*
[In stark contrast to a film like Laurel Canyon stands White,
in which I was never once able to predict just what the fuck will happen next.
It's a mysterious film, pitched sharply by Kieslowski with a wise sense of (economic)
possibility and a dark understanding of the inordinately vicious depths to which
gender wars can plunge. Ultimately, though, it's just a little too glib and I
find its depiction of women (i.e. they are crazed sex fiends who require nothing
more than a good fucking to be satiated) extremely problematic. I'm sure many
people dissent with my reading, arguing that Kieslowski hints there was a deeper
chasm in Delpy and Zamachowski's relationship, and it's not his literal impotency
and subsequent virility that turns her off and on so much as the ineffectualness
and strength the two attributes represent in a larger sense. I, too, was grasping
onto this tenuous interpretation, praying Kieslowski would never root his movie
in such a facile depiction of females. Then, unfortunately, I watched the interview
with Delpy on the new White DVD, and she -- when discussing the talks
she had with Kieslowski about her character -- confirmed all my worst suspicions
viz. Mr. K's attitude. Still, there's much to like here, from the performances
(I've long thought Delpy to be among cinema's finest current actresses; Zamachowski
nails his evolution) to the drollness to the way Krzysztof can turn clean imagery
into haunting forebodes.]
087.
(28 Feb) Blue (1993, Krzysztof Kieslowski)*
[The arresting opening had me convinced this might very well be the best in the
trilogy, but turns out it's certainly the worst (not that that's much of an insult,
of course). Main problem is that it's too somber and inert, a surface-level study
in grief that is morose to the point of dullness. Stunning imagery abound, typically
marvelous performance from Juliette Binoche, but blue = liberty = at the expense
of love = yeah, we get it = there ain't much else here.]
s19.
(01 Mar) The Passion of Martin (1990, Alexander Payne)
088.
(01 Mar) Citizen Ruth (1996, Alexander Payne)
[Clearly even-handed, but too concerned with making fun of both sides to bother
analyze why it's making fun of both sides. The point is that pro-life
and pro-choice groups get so wrapped up in their own agendas that the individual
-- in this case, Ruth (super performance from Laura Dern) -- gets lost in the
shuffle. Reason why this idea doesn't work for me, though, is that Ruth is so
incessantly confused and carefree she doesn't have the slightest idea what she
wants herself, so how can anyone else be expected to be concerned with her nonexistent
feelings? Also doesn't work for me cause Payne never bothers to explore just why
people on both sides of the abortion issue hold their fervent beliefs in the first
place. It's easy to satirize people when they are empty caricatures rather than
satirizing people who hold deep opinions for complex reasons. Funny, sometimes
clever, but never probing and it all quickly wears thin.]
089.
(02 Mar) Ride in the Whirlwind (1965, Monte Hellman)*
[A punishing, terse, unforgiving tale about cutting your losses in untenable situations.
While extracting considerable tension from a simple premise (a group of cattle
hands are mistakenly pursued as murderers) Whirlwind speaks more lucidly
and profoundly about the death of the frontier -- imagined here as a lonely wasteland
filled with resigned, dutiful workers, vigilantes and killers -- than anything
in John Ford's oeuvre. Trivia note: Whirlwind was written by Jack Nicholson, who
also starred.]
090.
(02 Mar) /Ferris Bueller's Day Off/ (1986, John Hughes)*
[The timeless voice of past, current and future generations of disillusioned students
with uncertain futures; many movies have included a scene with a young guy complaining
he has no idea what he wants to do with his life, but few movies have a moment
as truly affecting as Alan Ruck's reply -- when asked the follow-up question What
are you interested in? -- "nothing." No movie better captures
the disgust that school can so easily illicit and the glee in saying "Well,
Fuck You Too" to educational institutions. Broderick's great, but special
mention must again go to Ruck for managing to create a genuinely poignant characterization
of a scared, browbeaten teenager, a portrayal far more convincing than the majority
of the innumerable other teenage portraits that have cropped up before or since.]
ZZZ.
(03 Mar) The Band Wagon (1953, Vincente Minnelli)
091.
(03 Mar) The Shooting (1967, Monte Hellman)*
[Simply the most frightening, haunting Western I've ever seen. Gerry
meets Ride in the Whirlwind meets Don't Look Now. I'm still
trying to wrap my head around this; all I can really say at the moment is wow.
Warren Oates is one of the all time greats. Updated to add: Simply
one of the most frightening, haunting movies I've ever seen; combines
a transcendent simplicity with a shocking elusiveness. Millie Perkins comes off
as the (possibly) wicked witch of Mars and for all of its existentialism, the
curmudgeonly yet pure friendship between Oates and Hutchins is extraordinarily
moving. As if any Shooting virgins need any more incentive to see this as soon
as humanly possible, lemme note (A) It was written by Carole Eastman, who also
wrote Five Easy Pieces and (B) David Thomson calls The Shooting
more authentically Western than even The Wild Bunch. Get out to the video
store tonight, folks.]
092.
(04 Mar) Easy Riders, Raging Bulls (2003, Ken Bowser)
[I'm friendly with Bowser so you can take my comments with salt grains, should
you be so inclined: I went in apprehensive and was delighted to find this a completely
worthwhile companion to Biskind's brilliant book. Commendable for the way it condenses
a sprawling, multi-hundred page tapestry of a tome into two tight hours of enlightening
visual stimuli (including excellent use of archival materials) without compromising
any of the book's integrity (i.e. the film fully cops to the excesses of the decade
and the way Spielberg and Lucas -- inadvertently? we'll never know -- destroyed
the glory of 70s filmmaking), while still, of course, romanticizing the said glory
of said decade just as Biskind's book rightfully does also. People who've read
the book won't learn much, but there's still, for instance, an irrepressible kick
in watching Peter Bogdanovich, Polly Platt and Cybill Shepherd being interviewed
on camera, fully candid, with Shepherd saying how yeah, she's sorry she hurt Platt
but hell, she'd do it all over again the same way. I'm sure it was a coup for
Bowser to get those three involved, and he also got Hopper, Fonda, Penn, Schrader,
Milius and many other giants to come aboard, but the film inevitably suffers a
huge hole from the participation absence of Altman, Scorsese, Coppola, Polanski,
Spielberg, Lucas, Rafelson, De Palma, Burt Schneider, Beatty etc. Despite being
generally faithful to Biskind's document, one major change Bowser does implement
is the concentration of Peckinpah over Friedkin, and it's an interesting, in some
ways gainful choice. Favorite anecdote (which might be in the book but I can't
remember at this point): Producer Jonathan Taplin discusses an Alfred Hitchcock
awards ceremony where half of the attendants were removed from the festivities,
snorting up in the restrooms.]
093.
(04 Mar) Two-Lane Blacktop (1971, Monte Hellman)*
[Wish I could go higher, but -- to quote my friend Neil (who adores the picture)
-- the "glacially slow pace" keeps me from being able to do so. Warren
Oates -- with his perpetually changing sweater-color and constant myth weaving
-- delivers a hypnotic performance, befitting his status of one of cinema's finest
actors. Hellman isn't concerned with the central race (which you initially think
will drive the plot) instead concentrating his energy on a rambling, middle-American,
laissez-faire vibe and a robust sense of early 70s landscape. Hellman seems to
be pointing to the emptiness, the futility, the meaningless of these drifty lifestyles
(a resigned hitchhiker can only say, "It doesn't matter. Whatda we have?
30... 40 years?"; Oates comments, "...if I'm not grounded pretty soon
I'm gonna go into orbit"; "the girl" is the only entity anyone
seems interested in (besides their cars, of course) and yet she's not interested
in a damn thing herself). I just wish Monte sped to these ideas somewhat faster.]
s20.
(04 Mar) Monte Hellman: American Auteur (1997, George
Hickenlooper)*
094.
(05 Mar) /The Conversation/ (1974, Francis Ford Coppola)*
[Stands right next to Taxi Driver as the two most powerful cinematic
studies of urban alienation and demolition we have. Originally intended as a Watergate-era
comment on the infringement of personal liberties, these themes are as timely
as ever circa 2003. It's paranoia made poetic, not just because of the dignity
and sadness in Hackman's performance or Coppola's unfailing restraint, but because
of the beautifully plain piano score and the gently downcast aura that it hangs
over every single scene. The ending is perhaps my all time favorite. R.I.P., John
Cazale. You died way, way, way too fucking young, bro. No one's ever
left this planet with a more perfect filmography.]
095.
(05 Mar) Cockfighter (1974, Monte Hellman)*
[Sometimes a movie's greatest asset can be a main character whom you desperately
want to be. Such is the case here with me and Warren Oates's titular fighter;
mute to the point he makes Ed Crane positively garrulous by comparison (a erstwhile
blabbermouth, he swears not to speak until he wins a big fight), always donned
in just-chillin'-on-my-ranch cowboy garb, impassive and vigilant, it's a cool-as-fuck,
tour de force performance from Oates, single handedly carrying this peculiar but
unfortunately redundant film. This is a story about a man bored with life, seeking
thrills the only way he knows how ("I learned to fly a plane, I lost interest
in it. Waterskiing, I lost interest in it. But this is something you don't conquer."
announces Oates at the outset); ultimately, though, there's just not enough here.
While an uncompromising look inside a foreign subculture is always welcomed by
yours truly, a narrative that doesn't amount to much more than cockfight ->
cockfight -> cockfight -> cockfight is not; when even Warren Oates and Monte
Hellman can't prevent the proceedings from becoming tiresome, you know you're
in trouble. Has some wonderful scenes (the hotel stick-up is a major highlight)
but the very promising romance angle isn't dealt with enough to justify the ending.]
s21.
(05 Mar) Warren Oates: Across the Border (1993, Tom
Thurman)*
096.
(06 Mar) Big Trouble (1985, John Cassavetes)
[I can't figure out why Vincent Canby and I seem to be the only people on the
planet who like this movie (including both Cassavetes himself, who publicly called
Big Trouble a disaster after it was recut by the producers, and screenwriter/at-one-point
director Andrew Bergman, who quit helming duties one week into production and
demanded his writing credit be changed to pseudonym "Warren Bogle").
Sure, there are some stretches that go on a bit too long (and perhaps before outside
interference the film was a masterpiece), but who of sound mind and body can resist
the comedic repairing of The In-Laws' co-stars Alan Arkin and Peter Falk,
which is maybe the most inspired laugh-duo in all of cinema. Like all of the legendary
and hilarious couplings, it's a study in contrasts: Arkin with a lifetime of 9-5
grinds running roughshod on his face; Falk, so fucking suave and nonchalant he
makes me giddy; Arkin increasingly flustered, then eventually prone to mimicking
Falk's behavior. This is unadulterated fun, the plot being Double Indemnity
imagined as a willfully silly and ludicrous comedy with Tom Powers in on MacMurray
and Stanwyck's scheme; bonus points added for a creepy set of college-bound Stepford
brothers (triplets) who watch TV in bed together and harmonize at the breakfast
table, plus the inimitable Charles Durning in a strong supporting role. "Sometimes
things just work out right," shrugs Arkin after the bizarre denouement (which
has to be seen to be believed) and only the most cynical among us could dare resist
his delicious sentiment.]
097.
(06 Mar) Gloria (1980, John Cassavetes)
[Don't have much to say about this shallow thing; it's far too long, consistently
uninteresting and precious, imagining Gena Rowlands as a tough-as-nails terminatrix
on the run who shoots anything in her path, whipping out guns against innocuous
bellhops and blasting away Mafioso's on crowded NYC streets. Which admittedly
sounds pretty cool, but it's seemingly played for laughs (Maltin's not certain
if Cassavetes intent is indeed comedic and I'm not positive either, but I can
tell you that the audience I saw this with was virtually uproarious every time
Gloria blew someone away), a big problem since the movie's centered around a supposed-to-be-moving
relationship between Gloria and the six-year-old-kid-w/murdered-family-being-hunted-by-the-mob
she's extemporaneously left to care for. Far more problematic is the fact that
I hated this precocious kid with a furious passion; every time he spoke Cassavetes
might as well have cut to a woman post-manicure running her nails across a goddamn
chalkboard (note: it's just come to my attention the little bastard justly won
Worst Supporting Actor @ the Golden Raspberry Awards that year). The ending's
a shamelessly manipulative, elongated travesty, shot in slow-motion for maximum
cheese.]
098.
(06 Mar) Assault on Precinct 13 (1976, John Carpenter)*
[The violence comes in brief, brutal bursts; not many directors have the balls
to film young blond girls being shot to death at point blank range while eating
ice cream, but Carpenter's attitude towards the carnage is never fetishistic as
he seems less interested in this bloodshed than anything else. It's merely par
for the course here, the inevitable product of cops and criminals holed up in
an about-to-be-shuttered police station while hoards of gang members turn the
area into a war zone and a city remains blinded to its internal horrors. Even
back in '76 Carpenter's preeminence over widescreen framing and his ability to
swiftly and cleanly build mounds of suspense while carefully modulating shifts
in tone were completely unmistakable; with Assault as its worthy precursor,
the genius of Halloween should have come as no surprise to anyone. This
is taut, tight and invigorating filmmaking, with its humanity left fully intact.
The station-defenders are real characters, even condemned murderers coming off
as three-dimensional. Life-or-death situations have a way of leveling the playing
field; every man's no longer an island and past notions of morality no longer
have a place. I'm starting to think every director should be forced to make at
least three movies with extremely limited funds. Give me this over Rio Bravo
any day of the week.]
099.
(07 Mar) Love Streams (1984, John Cassavetes)
[According to MoMA's program notes Cassavetes knew he was dying of cancer while
making Love Streams and (even though the information does strike me a
little strange since he lived another five years after Streams was released)
I chose to take the declaration as fact, a decision which colored my viewing experience
in a key, hugely melancholy hue. Thus the central performance from Cassavetes
as a hedonistic writer rockets from great to magnificent (with his supposed to
be joking, offhand lines like "If anyone calls, tell them I'm dying"
now given mondo sorrow) and while critics like Dave Kehr claim he's playing a
man incapable of love, they're missing an important distinction. He can love (he
loves his sister and probably even his son dearly) but he's incapable of romantic
love, and more importantly, he recognizes that love is so fucking fragile, subject
to death as easily as life. He's a carefree but fundamentally kind-hearted man
who shrouds himself inside a vast tent of nameless women because he has severe
trouble being alone. What's remarkable is that there's almost no desperation in
Cassavetes's performance, just an overwhelming sense of (somewhat artificially)
constructed -- via cigarettes and whores and booze -- ease, a man who suspects
(or knows) his time's limited and just wants to enjoy himself the only ways he
knows how. The final image of Cassavetes saying goodbye is forever seared into
my brain; it's a devastating swan song of a shot, a portrait of a real person
whose career was an endless tug-of-war between acting and directing (with his
acting jobs raising the money for his films), simultaneously standing in front
of and behind the camera, blurring the line, saying goodbye to his singular audience
forever (Cassavetes would go on to direct one more film, Big Trouble,
but as I mentioned above he publicly denounced the film and in no way could the
argument be made Trouble resembles anything approaching a typical Cassavetes
flick). My only problem with Love Streams is it veers on the long side
at 141 minutes, with the running time split between Cassavetes's character and
his arguably even more fucked up sister (played by Gena Rowlands). I didn't find
the sister nearly as compelling as the brother because her problems are too precisely
fingered: her husband divorced her and her daughter chose to live with him. Still
this is a small complaint, for Rowlands interplay with Cassavetes is superbly
dynamic and her storyline provides the opportunity for the movie to launch into
surreal dream sequences and a show-stopping musical number. "Life's a series
of suicides," announces Cassavetes without a trace of self-pity and somehow,
miraculously, it's too matter-of-fact to be depressing.]
100.
(07 Mar) Irreversible (2003, Gaspar Noé)
101.
(08 Mar) /The Killing of a Chinese Bookie/ (1976,
John Cassavetes)
[This was the shorter, ~1h 45 min cut (even though MoMA's program notes erroneously
claimed it was the 135 min cut). I'm not sure I've ever seen the longer version,
but I can't imagine it's an improvement considering Bookie's already
too lengthy in this briefer incarnation; to say Cassavetes's naturalistic aims
result in "leisurely" pacing would be putting it mildly. The plot focuses
on an average club owner (Ben Gazzara, excellent), in debt to the mob, asked to
kill the titular chinese man to erase his debt. Cassavetes has almost no interest
in exploring the moral dilemma of such a situation, instead surprisingly ambivalent
about his main character. The pointedly noirish aspects are tense -- Cassavetes's
style is so convincing you'll always buy what happens -- but when all is said
and done the ambiguous ending (as well as most everything else) leaves you shrugging,
rather than affected.]
102.
(08 Mar) Faces (1968, John Cassavetes)
[NEW YORK, New York (AP) -- In a move met with full bipartisan support from Congress
and an enthusiastic head nod from President Bush, the American Association of
Anesthesiologists have unanimously elected to cease all chemical anesthetization
for the indefinite future. In its stead they have resolved to knock people out
via strictly organic means: screening John Cassavetes's inexplicably lauded 1968
feature film Faces, which any sentient being recognizes to be the most
torturously motherfucking ennui-inducing narrative film this side of the Atlantic
and the only film known to be less exciting than planting a flower and watching
it grow in an abandoned field. "Wow, great idea. That movie's more goddamn
boring than even any of my movies," said Jim Jarmusch when asked to comment
on the decision. Meanwhile the Pentagon announced initiatives to begin researching
how they might siphon Faces' immeasurable soporific powers to craft Sleep
Missiles, which could be used in future wars to force battlefield opponents into
immediate slumber.]
103.
(09 Mar) A Woman Under the Influence (1974, John
Cassavetes)
[Felt like I'd emerged from a battering ram session after exiting the theater;
unrelentingly grim and despairing for 99.999% of its two and a half hour runtime,
this is as accurate a portrait of psychological meltdown as I've ever seen. No
fake or forced note to be found anywhere, completely harrowing, etc. But will
I ever wanna watch it again? Not for at least a decade. What does that say about
Cassavetes's motives? That maybe they're more sadistic than some people realize.
He carefully builds to the breakdown, then never lets up the pain... the pain...
the pain... and I, for one, would have preferred a little more light let into
this oh-so-dark tunnel. The narrative is soooo uneventful (most of the movie takes
place on the bottom floor of a house) and the scenes go on soooo long, all of
which is true to life, yes, but verisimilitude is not automatically a virtue.
Really, how much of this stuff can you watch? Cassavetes hammers home the point
that people are forever inconsiderate and awkward in uncomfortable, foreign social
situations (like being around a woman under the influence of mental duress), always
unsure how to handle themselves with even a modicum of tact. Most discussion focuses
on the (undisputable) brilliance of Gena Rowlands's ability to disintegrate, but
critics neglect to mention Falk's ferocious performance -- as a man torn between
love and denial -- which is every bit her equal. In many ways he is the protagonist,
not Rowlands (he has more screen time than she) and Falk's pulverizing in his
depiction of a husband barely able to keep the last inches of family yarn from
unraveling. A pessimistic vision, but one not easily forgotten.]
104.
(10 Mar) Withnail & I (1987, Bruce Robinson)*
[Excessively grimy, with the end of England's swingin' sixties giving way to a
more turbulent decade ("London's coming down from its trip"), and people
like Richard E. Grant's (in a refulgent performance) incredibly petulant, always
drunk off his ass Withnail left an alienated, unemployed relic; desultory non-narrative,
with most of the running time eaten up by Withnail and his somewhat more conservative
friend taking a wacky vacation in the countryside (escape from city); countryside,
however, revealed to be just as problematic as urban areas (the decade's dead
any which way you splice it so "find your neutral space"). Occasionally
funny but not really, with the same not-remotely-amusing-in-the-first-place homosexual
("society's crime, not ours") gags being resurrected an hour later;
basic idea is to run Withnail and I (as the credits literally bill the friend)
up against people who are even more eccentric than they are, which meets mixed
results depending on the person in question; aggressively asexual movie, with
only two women ever on screen (and for less than two minutes a piece), both over
60, both barely capable of forming complete sentences. It's a hang-out movie,
probably hardly matters where you start it from. Might play great when stoned...]
105.
(11 Mar) In My Skin (2003, Marina de Van)
[A crushingly dull vanity piece that finds de Van incompetently directing and
acting nude, always happy to gratuitously show off her ass or her vagina or fondle
her breasts for you in close-up. See, the movie's about realizing that your body
is its own entity -- separated from your mind -- and wanting to explore it. The
way that probing manifests itself here is by de Van chopping off her skin, sticking
knives into her severed body parts, mutilating her face, eating chunks of her
flesh, etc. All of this is set against the daily tedium of office life so the
dialectic between the boredom of jobs/boyfriends/friends/rivals and the sensual
pleasure of self-cannibalism is abundantly apparent. Suffice to say that as our
heroine becomes more and more in sync with her body she becomes more and more
ostracized from her concerned pals. Unfortunately the movie never really goes
anywhere and every scene of masochism is shot in the same extreme close-up used
for the breast fondling shots, so you don't buy any of it, and all the blood and
gore and deep cavernous wounds feels supremely artificial.]
106.
(12 Mar) /All the Real Girls/ (2003, David Gordon
Green)
107.
(12 Mar) /Irreversible/ (2003, Gaspar Noé)
108.
(12 Mar) /The Awful Truth/ (1937, Leo McCarey)*
[Joyous screwball about growing apart in order to grow back together; practical
in its idea marriages must be "based on faith," filled with rueful quips
("I shall think of you every time a new show opens and say to myself... she's
well out of it") and a sharp, sexy, bubbly Irene Dunne playing off an amiable,
sarcastic Cary Grant (as well as a creepy, Oedipal Ralph Bellamy). Never mean-spirited,
Dunne and Grant seem genuinely amused by each other's antics, both taking everything
in stride. Their opening scene decision to get a divorce (which won't take legal
effect for 90 days) plays more like a temporary spat rather than a marriage truly
at its wits' end: it's a bluff and we wonder who will fold first. The candid dialogue
has Dunne and Grant maintaining an effortless shorthand, a rapport that signals
history. This is a couple you wanna believe in.]
ZZZ.
(13 Mar) Little Big Man (1970, Arthur Penn)*
109.
(14 Mar) /Tin Cup/ (1996, Ron Shelton)*
[Meet Roy McAvoy, "chock full of inner demons" or "inner crapola"
depending on your POV. I'd argue both, and this is what makes McAvoy not only
a venue for Costner's best performance, but also a venue for what Theo calls "...among
the best, most richly-detailed movie portraits of an Artist (albeit in the rugged,
Hemingwayesque mould)" in all of cinema. I'd even go a step further. Roy's
not just an artist, he's also among the best, most richly-detailed movie portraits
of the (kinda special) common man, the (maybe-not-so) average Joe who refuses
to submit to society's omniscient sublimation of greatness and perfection ("Qualify?
I want the course record"). Tin Cup is among the most forceful opponents
of mediocrity I've ever seen, advocating grandeur, the best and the pursuit
of perfection (which is inevitably unattainable, and thus the quest is inherently
bittersweet), and being remembered ("immortality") through your greatness
at the expense of all else. It's sublime romantic comedy about living life to
its fullest ("ya ride her till she bucks ya, or ya don't ride at all")
and not forgetting to value the small treasures, like eating dinner with your
closest friends at the local waffle house. Instead of playing pointlessly coy
games for two hours and -- surprise! surprise! -- repulsion attracts, Tin
Cup has the Guy baldly tell the Girl he wants her within the movie's first
third, continuing to repeat this refrain every so often and thus allowing some
time to be focused elsewhere, split amidst boy-girl pursuits and (among other
stuff) a poignant friendship between artist (McAvoy) and mentor (the caddy, played
gorgeously by Cheech Marin), a relationship which takes an interesting corkscrew
here because a caddy is not so much a golfer's mentor as his mentor and protégé
wrapped up into one conflicted package (he dishes out sagely advice and sturdy
support, but he also knows he's the inferior artist). Bonuses: Rene Russo, nicely
frazzled; Don Johnson, suitably smarmy; and a relaxed, knowing picture of deep
South livin', right down to the beads of sweat that forever hang off everyone's
brows. It doesn't get much better than this.]
110.
(15 Mar) They Live by Night (1949, Nicholas Ray)
[I am perfectly willing to accept this was a masterful movie back in 1947; I also
(still) fully acknowledge the impressive achievement of They Live by Night
as a debut film. What I am not willing to accept, however, is that this (at one
point) wholly original template for the countless other lovers-on-the-lam films
that have surfaced since, has not been so far eclipsed by its successors that
it has been rendered all but moot. It's a shame to have to say this, but such
truly great films as Bonnie & Clyde, Badlands and True
Romance (and even such not-so-great films as Altman's Thieves Like Us,
which is based on the same novel as They Live by Night and is thus
quite similar) are so superior they make watching this oldie pretty tiresome business.
The way Ray pioneers the hopeless desire for peace within a deadly atmosphere
and the way Ray utilizes claustrophobic dread via extreme close-ups and the way
Ray carefully engineers a lost bliss that'll never be found, must all be wholeheartedly
commended. But I could never shake the feeling I was watching a prototype, rather
than a genuinely terrific movie which has passed time's unforgiving exam. It ain't
always easy being first.]
111.
(15 Mar) /Rebel Without a Cause/ (1955, Nicholas
Ray)
[This, on the other hand, has hardly aged a day; James Dean's mesmerizing, groundbreaking
performance still sends shivers down my spine fifty years later. No praise is
too high for his shattering, naturalistic work here, every bit deserving of its
unrivaled iconic status (suffice to say it wasn't even nominated for an Oscar).
With Rebel's mysterious score, Ray's slightly off-kilter shots and the
lush Technicolor of the wide CinemaScope frame (Dean moving through the compositions
like a splash of blood red paint), the movie itself is nearly up to the caliber
of its acting, though I maintain the last third falters in its decision to largely
switch focus from Dean to his arguably even more disturbed friend, Sal Mineo.
Still, it's a portrait of adolescent alienation (if not all of circa-1950 humanity's
alienation and ultimate insignificance; ref. the planetarium scene) with few peers,
seeming to argue that parents distancing themselves from their children -- parents
giving their children space and freedom -- is even more detrimental behavior than
smothering them. Rebel never offers any solution to this conundrum because
there probably isn't one: sometimes you just have to grow up and it's heartbreaking
to keep on remembering Dean never got the chance.]
112.
(15 Mar) Bitter Victory (1957, Nicholas Ray)
[(Note: I watched the 103 min cut.) War films have never been my bag so feel free
to upgrading accordingly if they're yours (file this one away in the men-on-a-mission
cabinet). What's primarily notable about Bitter Victory is its staggering
vision of the Libyan desert, an endlessly expansive, brutally beautiful locale
where much of the action here unfolds. Shot in stark, black and white CinemaScope,
Victory's acrid imagery appropriately compliments the moral quandaries
faced by opponents Richard Burton and Curd Jürgens, who are also -- it goes
without saying -- both in love with the same woman. Ray's ever observant of the
hypocrisies of warfare ("I kill the living and I save the dead" etc.),
but frankly, who isn't?]
113.
(15 Mar) All the President's Men (1976, Alan J. Pakula)*
[What All the President's Men does better than any other film I know
of -- what elevates All the President's Men above just another crackling
detective yarn with an inordinately high pedigree (Redford, Hoffman, Warden, Robards,
Pakula, William Goldman, Gordon Willis)-- is the way it takes us deep inside the
throat (insert rimshot here)of investigative journalism. This is a movie that
understands the hard florescent glow and the perpetual clack-clack-clack of a
major newspaper's offices, a movie that'll shoot the breeze in editorial meetings
just to get a feel for the environment and the process, a movie that will take
the time to stick with Woodward or Bernstein as they try and break down a source
over the phone while simultaneously jotting down feverish notes, quickly piecing
together these notes into an impromptu, semi-coherent whole and then rushing onward
to make three more phone calls based on that makeshift new lead. Of course the
story W&B are working on also happens to be the story of the century, and
even though it's a bit difficult to get invested in the outcome of a mystery you're
already so familiar with, nobody understood 70s paranoia and intrigue better than
Pakula (few people can make the thriller's form more gripping); at a hefty 139
minutes Alan and William keep the President's Men marching briskly from one plot
command post to the next. It's a shame the film never lets us into Woodward and
Bernstein's interior lives and I have to confess to eventually zoning out on the
thirty-five trillion new names Goldman throws at the audience every scene, but
the complex plotting seems clean and I'm sure 1 + 1 would indeed = 2 if you actually
expel the energy required to concentrate on all that stuff. I was too busy drinking
coffee by the water cooler to bother.]
114.
(16 Mar) The Vanishing (1988, George Sluizer)*
[Unnerving in a way few cinematic riddles are, making unsettling use of discontinuity,
shuffling the chronology ever so slightly here and there (just enough to keep
us on our toes while methodically sketching gray lines and gliding us along).
Everything is underplayed, which is the movie's major strength as well as its
achilles heel: I never truly believed the husband as a man driven by an unrelenting,
obsessive curiosity (doesn't he stop for three years before resuming his search?),
something that is desperately required to take the final leap. Performances could
be better on both sides of the morality fence; the criminal is also a touch too...
normal (he needs to be normal to be scary, of course, but not quite this normal;
I rarely felt an evil buried in the recesses of his mental shadows, ready to lurch
forward at any moment). A bigger problem is the criminal's pat, psychological
motivation; these things always work better (besides a rare exception like
Se7en) if it's left entirely implicit. Along these same lines is the utterly
stupid, golden egg dream foreshadows which do nothing but alleviate some of the
(otherwise massively disquieting) ending's surprise. Caveats aside, this an undeniably
potent picture of the gloom which often clouds sunny domesticity.]
115.
(16 Mar) Escape from New York (1981, John Carpenter)*
["City's War Plans... Cops Grid For Terror" reads the front page of
today's New York Daily News. Twenty-two years ago John Carpenter prefigured
these events with this startling, epic, dystopian vision (which, bear in mind,
was released a year before even Blade Runner), an imagining of a nation
on the brink of war, too distracted to be concerned that its biggest, most prosperous
city has been converted into a calamitous death park, an every-man-and-woman-for-themselves,
maximum-security, wasteland prison. The scarily prescient plot is set in motion
when Air Force One is hijacked by terrorists and crashed into a skyscraper; the
implications of nuclear holocaust are nicely hinted at, without ever being explicitly
stated. Carpenter -- working with more than his previously nominal resources (though
still an only $7 million budget) -- executes a wide scope and furthers a vast
level of invention (a few of the FX are inevitably dated, but most everything
holds up remarkably well; it's awe-inspiring to see what Carpenter was able to
accomplish over two decades ago without the assistance of computers), while still
clutching on to his typically high level of restraint: Snake Plissken is a bad-ass
loner hero who is smart enough to frequently run away from his
countless aggressors instead of (like he would in any other action film) constantly
and unrealistically destroy them all. Plissken is an angry anarchist but there's
a devil's logic in the way he wants to teach the (concentrates-on-the-wrong-problems-and-
uses-the-wrong-methods) United States an important lesson. It's a lesson Bush
would be wise to learn on the eve of a day which will contain -- what he calls
-- "the moment of truth." Brace yourselves.]
116.
(16 Mar) Ocean's Eleven (2001, Steven Soderbergh)*
[Permanently rewatchable and impossible not to enjoy, yet still disappointing
in so many ways.]
117.
(17 Mar) Flying Leathernecks (1951, Nicholas Ray)
[On the plus side is the extremely advanced and deft usage of galvanizing, archival
war footage, so seamlessly integrated I was sometimes at a loss to distinguish
what exactly was filmed by Ray and what wasn't. Without that footage we're looking
at a completely mediocre pro-warfare statement (opening credits scroll thanks
the Marines; beaming images of American flags commence and close the film etc.),
although still a surprisingly ambivalent one at least w/r/t its central characters.
John Wayne's tougher, more aggressive vision of war (duh) is evenhandedly pitted
against Robert Ryan's slightly lighter ideology. The movie even makes a point
of showing the chasm between the gigantic challenge and responsibility
of dishing out successful orders and the easy-to-dissent stance of simply
having to follow them, thereby neither dismissing Wayne nor letting him entirely
off the hook (he feels some remorse for his actions and seems uncertain about
his personal style).]
118.
(17 Mar) Knock on Any Door (1949, Nicholas Ray)
[So earnest it'd make Capra blush; Ray self-righteously blames society for turning
inherently good young men into criminals, offering up John Derek as a martyr who
must be sacrificed for the cause of sociological improvement. Bogey is the kid's
lawyer who parades around the courtroom delivering overblown rants indicting us
all. Decently crafted, but its ideas are stunted generalities, almost completely
devoid of interest. Yes, society usually has a hand in turning people bad, but
not always and certainly not completely. The people themselves must also take
some responsibility.]
119.
(17 Mar) The Lady From Shanghai (1948, Orson Welles)*
[Typically baroque Welles vision, masterfully lit and composed, drenched in an
eerie vibe of fatalism and moral degradation. Totally convoluted too, so I stopped
caring about the plot machinations (they're completely irrelevant, anyhow). This
is a complete imagining of a world gone corrupt, barren of innocence ("there's
a fair face to the land, surely, but you can't hide the hunger and guilt"),
fearful of war's annihilative grasp ("First, the big cities, then maybe even
this! It's just got to come!") with men who want to vanish to remote islands
and live life far away from humanity's atrocities. It's a portrait of a place
where (minor) solace can only be found in coming to terms with the badness. The
bravura hall of mirrors climax -- fracturing this nightmarish world into dangerous
shards -- deserves its prominent placement in the pantheon of cinematic setpieces;
Rita Hayworth is a Marilyn Monroe who can actually act. Could of done without
Welles's annoying faux-brogue, though.]
120.
(17 Mar) The Killers (1946, Robert Siodmak)*
[Also totally convoluted; once again I stopped caring about the (implausibly over-convenient)
plot machinations, but unfortunately here they are most certainly relevant, since
this flick has exactly nothing else going for it. It's no surprise the opening
ten minutes -- which follow Hemingway's titular short, short story -- is the only
footage which piqued my interest; the rest -- the whole hour and a half back story
motivation mumbo jumbo that Hemingway wisely omitted from his piece --
is low-rent noir, with your standard web of deceit and your standard femme fatale
and your standard double crosses ("the double cross to end all double crosses,"
remarks a character; "uh, hardly," replies Jared) and your standard
everything the standard hell standard else.]
121.
(19 Mar) The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948,
John Huston)*
[Wouldn't this work a lot better if someone besides Bogey was so ridiculously
over-suspicious he makes Gibson's character in Conspiracy Theory seem
relaxed by comparison? I just didn't buy most of his behavior; he starts out a
decent fellow and then in no time at all he's already threatening to bash people's
skulls in for innocuous jokes, the movie rushing to foreshadow its exceedingly
obvious plotting (c'mon, when you hear Bogart proclaiming 'not me! I wouldn't
get greedy and keep mining for more than I came for!' is there a person in the
audience who doesn't know he'll do the exact opposite in under half an hour?).
Perhaps the movie should have just come right out and titled itself Money
Corrupts! since it's not like it makes any attempts at subtlety. Also --
and maybe I watch too many films, but I'd have taken sixty-to-one odds by the
twenty minute mark that this sucker ends the exact same way as The Killing;
I mean is there ever any way to end these things other than a note of glib irony?
(Though the laughter coda is a wonderfully inspired touch.) All
my complaining aside, Huston embraces the virtuous simplicity of his dynamite
set-up; Treasure is consistently rousing, and -- at least one scene at
a time -- consistently suspenseful as it unfurls in a virtually lawless landscape
where killing is not much more objectionable or out of the ordinary than breathing.
Plus it's huge fun to watch Bogart go unshaven, tussled and manic, and the unfailingly
jovial Walter Huston delivers a beaut of an (Oscar-winning) performance, unforced
and natural as freshly fallen snow.]
122.
(20 Mar) In a Lonely Place (1950, Nicholas Ray)
[Now this is how you deconstruct the Bogart persona, gradually peeling
away the cynicism and staring at the unwieldy, crushed soul and the root of the
damaged romanticism which lurks beneath. Many people believe this is Humphrey's
greatest performance and, as of now, I'd wholeheartedly agree (but then again,
some people unaccountably think he's a poor actor so that praise won't mean much
to them). The film itself is the best Ray I've ever seen, a decoy noir cum thick
love story cum (primarily) character study, a finely tuned and sometimes laugh-out-loud
(though mostly anguished) study in male rage and unchecked frustration. (Hmm,
oddly that sounds quite similar to Punch-Drunk Love, but imagine Punch-Drunk
Love as written and directed by circa-Magnolia PTA, bleak and tortured
as all hell. Yes, this is what my generation of film criticism is regrettably
reduced to: using modern greats to describe past classics.) In a Lonely Place
also delivers crisp punches into Hollywood's gut. Really, what more could you
want?]
123.
(20 Mar) On Dangerous Ground (1951, Nicholas Ray)
[Much wrong here; most prominently awry are the lead performances by Robert Ryan
-- who I usually like, and can be considerably effective (Flying Leathernecks,
where he's all good; The Naked Spur, all bad; The Wild Bunch;
somewhere in between) and Ida Lupino; to be blunt, they stink. Ida is overcooked
as a blind saint and Ryan is flaccid and dull as a detective who moves way too
smoothly from intriguing shades of gray (curtsey of the script, not the acting)
to a simply damn nice guy. Like In a Lonely Place, more than anything
else On Dangerous Ground wants to function as a character study, but
as soon as this city dweller is transported to the countryside he's hardly worthy
of being eyed, let alone studied. The movie's conception of a love to heal a loneliness
plays manhandled and phony. What works is Ray's typically transfixing and elusive
imagery, the city a glittery sewer, the countryside a forbidding, desolate snow
zone as perilous as its urban counterpart.]
124.
(20 Mar) Mikey and Nicky (1976, Elaine May)*
[I'd been of the mind never to proclaim a movie a masterpiece until at least two
viewings but I'm breaking that policy in this case. Some foolish losers dismiss
Mikey and Nicky as bargain-bin, knock-off Cassavetes, but -- despite
May's obvious debts to him -- I'll be damned if Cassavetes has ever created something
as perfect or profound as this film (even A Woman Under the Influence
is not as moving). I have neither the time nor the energy to do this movie justice
here, so I'll have to quickly reduce it to its one-sentence essence: Mikey
and Nicky is as efficacious and mighty a portrait of the tenuous, invaluable
thing we call friendship as I have ever seen in cinema. Starring Cassavetes and
Peter Falk, who were, suffice to say, very close friends in real life, the movie's
structure is basically Before Sunrise if Ethan Hawke was being pursued
by a killer: a rambling day into night into morning, (almost exclusively) two-person
gabfest odyssey, where a city's locations are sprawled, the conversation burns
like a forest fire and one of two smalltime "gangsters" attempts to
dodge his death sentence. I don't know about you, but as soon as I see the word
gangsters I'm immediately turned off. Rest assured though that Falk's and Cassavetes's
occupation is so incidental here it's hardly even worth mentioning (I find it
specious the movie's own advertising uses the word mob in the tagline because
since when does the mob hire freelance hit men to do their dirty work?). As I
said, May earns her frequent comparison to Cassavetes; it's indisputable that
his cinema verite aims rubbed off on this movie, so raw and spontaneous and hurried
(in a scenes-are-capable-of-going-on-for-over-ten-minutes-sorta-way) that sometimes
not only can the boom be seen in frame (entire length of pole included), but the
overhead lights and floorboards of the sound stage they're shooting on can be
glimpsed as well. I don't know how much dialogue was improvised, but I'm willing
to bet a lot less than most people think. This is too supremely exacting a script
to have been created on-the-fly, with key moments of talk fastidiously sprinkled
at carefully chosen moments, crucial bits of information divulged on an organic,
need-to-know basis (with one exception that I'm still trying to wrap my brain
around). I assume it goes without saying that: (A) Cassavetes is superb, balancing
desperation, neediness, aggression and snaky allure; and (B) Peter Falk is even
better, dismantling layers to reveal deep wounds, confirming my suspicion that
he's easily one of absolute finest -- if not the most underrated -- actors moving
pictures has ever known.]
125.
(21 Mar) A Woman's Secret (1949, Nicholas Ray)
[An unfortunate realization: maybe I try and update this screening log daily not
so that I don't fall hopelessly behind, but because the movies are all too often
forgettable. I saw this particular flick around 36 hours and 6 films ago, and
already I have to rack my brain. I remember that I was gonna remark it's the least
visually stimulating Ray film I've ever seen, but then today I went ahead and
saw Born to Be Bad, so that criticism already needs to be amended to
second least visually stimulating. Herman "I co-wrote Citizen
Kane" Mankiewicz's pretty sharp script -- replete with some killer quips
and a well-drawn supporting gallery -- makes up for those sight deficiencies though,
and the mystery held my attention (which is to say, I was genuinely curious how
it would be resolved), even if the conclusion is a predictable disappointment.
Otherwise, nice to see genre cliches upended; not only in this a strange hybrid
of -- to quote Jeremy -- "crime/women's [melodrama]/screwball" where
both the victim and criminal are women, but the eventual mystery-unwrapper is
a woman as well (men taking a back seat to everything). The movie's about
the inherent problems of a mentor/protégé relationship, and the
power of a creation to destroy its creator; overall, nothing special, besides
the performances from Jay C. Flippen and Gloria Grahame, whose persona here is
so far removed from her In a Lonely Place character, I'm embarrassed
to report I didn't even realize it was her until the end credits scroll informed
me such.]
126.
(21 Mar) Hot Blood (1956, Nicholas Ray)
[Personal biases divulged up front: I'm about as interested in the gypsy milieu
(where Hot Blood exclusively unfolds) as I am in hockey (NB. I have no
interest in any sport, but if I had to choose the sport I am absolute least interested
in, it would undoubtedly be hockey). If, however, you are among the seven people
who have forever longed to see a humorous take on the gypsies' idiotic marriage
practices (hint: it involves buying women to marry men they've never met), look
no further. As for everyone else: the periodic, CinemaScope musical explosions
-- particularly the initial Jane Russell/Cornel Wilde "whip dance" --
are quite nice. Let's leave it at that.]
127.
(21 Mar) Juggernaut (1974, Richard Lester)*
[Such a frustrating experience for so many reasons. Considering Lester's Petulia
is one of the best films ever made, and considering people ranging from Theo
to Soderbergh proclaim this a true classic, and considering I find few things
more enticing than action movies involving mad bombers, and considering I find
even fewer things more enticing than action movies (of any variety) directed by
idiosyncratic grandmasters of modern cinema, and considering there are so many
glorious elements here (Richard Harris's reckless performance; Lester's montages;
the frantic land to sea rescuers dismount; the haunting, ethereal score that is
nothing like anything an action movie has ever heard but so grievously underused;
the way, despite paltry amounts of screentime, a number of the cruise liner's
-- on which the fateful action takes place -- passengers come off as full-bodied
humans with three dimensional lives; the supremely jittery sequences involving
bomb disarmament; the sense that anything is possible; the speech about one life
in the grand scheme of things; do I really even need to go on?), it enrages me
to have to report there are nearly as many flaws, some of them gaping, made all
the more infuriating because Juggernaut's a film in walking distance
of greatness, held back only by a sloppy script that needed a few more polishes.
It's too damn upsetting to go through each of the problems, so I'll just hit on
the biggies (being very wary of spoilers): (i) The potential menace of the bombs
is not nearly amplified enough. (ii) It's utterly ridiculous that the bomber never
addresses what would happen if people try and disarm the bombs and every authority
dealing with the bomber immediately takes for granted that disarmament is a wholly
viable option. (iii) Why is the quest to catch the bomber given so little weight?
(iv) Why is the bomber himself given so little weight, rarely surfacing, all but
removed from the movie? (v) Tension doesn't escalate often enough. (vi) Why introduce
Anthony Hopkins's having a family on board if he couldn't care less about them?
That said, I'm hoping some of my major concerns fall by the wayside once I get
to see this on a big screen (attn NYC rep houses: when are one of you bastards
gonna program a long overdue Lester retrospective?) as it demands to be viewed,
not on the piece of shit, fucking pan and scan VHS I was reduced to watching.]
128.
(22 Mar) Run for Cover (1955, Nicholas Ray)
[Interesting as a companion piece to Knock on Any Door since
-- under the scaffolding of a Western -- Run for Cover uses John Derek
in a similar manner while Ray plays devil's advocate, arguing the opposite of
Knock's message. Cover (which would have more aptly swapped
titles with the film below) says that some people are simply incarnated evil and
that despite whatever bum hands life deals these dudes, they must ultimately take
personal responsibility for both their flaws and their quest to become a better
person (which, sadly, is sometimes futile since their evil is indeed inborn at
the core). Granted the flick also allows that others must still assist these fuck-ups
as best they can -- and in this case, the helper is James Cagney, playing a sheriff
-- but still makes clear we must not throw the blame for our actions to others.
Unfortunately Derek has a tendency to overact (I find him shrill, grating and
unconvincing) and there's a stupid subplot involving Cagney's romance with a Swedish
woman thrown in for useless measure.]
129.
(22 Mar) Born to Be Bad (1950, Nicholas Ray)
[Tomorrow on As The World Turns... Will Barbara and Dusty talk at Lakeview?
Will Dusty put the moves on Rose? Will Rose get engaged to Vincent? Will Alain
confront Marshall on what exactly happened between him and Cassandra? Seriously
though, Joan Fontaine's like this hot scheming bitch from hell and the thing is
that it like takes a long time for all the males to realize she's like using her
wily feminine charms to be a scheming bitch and like seduce them and kinda take
all their money and then something happens and then it all works out in the end.
Sorry to spoil the surprise.]
130.
(22 Mar) Party Girl (1958, Nicholas Ray)
[The plot's formulaic: ethically-conflicted (in this case mafia) lawyer
wants to carve out new life for himself and his paramour; fearsome mafia boss
looks to stop them. What places Party Girl at the head of its respective
ethically-conflicted/gangland pack is Ray's superlative formal chops (do you have
any fucking clue how difficult it is to come up with a new synonym every other
day to freshly describe Ray's pictorial prowess?) and its presentation of Prohibition-era
Chicago in all its tawdry glory, the glitz punctuated by gaudy, eros-charged musical
numbers and angular bursts of violence. The other notable element here is Lee
J. Cobb's delectably brash performance (channeling George C. Scott before there
was a George C. Scott), all menacing growls and chomping cigars and unsavory threats.]
131.
(23 Mar) Bigger Than Life (1956, Nicholas Ray)
[Perhaps I'm getting my mind's wires crossed, but I could swear I once saw a review
refer to Bigger Than Life as one of cinema's first attempts to address
chronic depression. Regardless of my memory's accuracy (and regardless of the
fact Bigger Than Life is not literally about chronic depression), it
was this thought that remained at the forefront of my brain (and almost definitely
still woulda popped up unbidden had I never seen that alleged review) while watching
this remarkable, mentally and visually dense film, which melds dabs of bold surrealist
flourishes and a dynamic control of the 'Scope frame with dazzling colors and
a firm sense of place, the warm, inviting hues of home and school given a sterile,
frightening gloss. As I said, technically James Mason's character is not depressed;
he's virtually psychotic due to his daily ingestion of cortisone which he must
take in order to keep his life-threatening arterial ailment at bay. It's an implacable
situation, much like chronic depression both still is and was infinitely more
so back in the 50s when it was hardly, if ever, diagnosed: either endure the vicious
side effects of cortisone or die without this "medicine" that converts
sanity into manic-depression. The repercussions on family and work are imaginably
fierce, and Bigger Than Life depicts a devastating (though sometimes
hilarious) downward spiral with a kind of expressionistic, yet precise, fervor.
In many respects it's also a grand, broad film (I don't use that word as a negative
criticism), over the top (and yes, quite literally bigger than life), which was
probably the correct mode of attack to wake the 50s outta their repressive stupor.
Mason's performance is stupendous, exploiting his urbane British attitude and
demeanor, distorting his classiness into a demonic zeal that veers between kindness
and madness like an out of control see-saw.]
132.
(23 Mar) Rolling Thunder (1977, John Flynn)
[A ostensibly straightforward, deceptively atypical revenge yarn (yes, yarn is
the only noun allowed when quantified with "revenge") that seems to
suggest the threat inside burnt out, post-Vietnam War America was just as potent,
scary and fucked as the Vietnam War itself. William Devane plays what surely must
be billed in the credits as The Unluckiest Motherfucker Who Ever Lived, since
-- after enduring prolonged POW torture at the hands of the Vietcong -- he returns
home and is publicly presented with a $2,500 bonus from the government, only to
have a bunch of low-rent thugs come to his house to request the modest sum for
themselves. He refuses to hand the dough over and thus, (A) His wife and young
son are shot dead at point blank range right in front of his face; (B) His arm
is shoved into the local garbage disposal; (C) The thugs still walk off with all
the money. Sorry for the extensive (kidding; that's only the set-up) plot summary,
but I wanted to provide context so that you can understand where I'm coming from
when I inform you the subsequent image of Devane sharpening his new hook-hand
racks up more gleeful, holy shit awesomeness points than most revenge yarns can
ever muster over their complete runtimes. Many additional points allotted for
the hot blond chick (who describes herself as a military groupie obsessed with
Devane) joining William on his quest for hook-hand retribution.]
s22.
(24 Mar) Final Flight of the Osiris (2003, Andy Jones)
133.
(24 Mar) Dreamcatcher (2003, Lawrence Kasdan)
134.
(25 Mar) Fulltime Killer (2003, Johnny To, Wai Ka-Fai)
[Apathetically lost track of the plot around seven minutes in since these enormously
convoluted I-Am-An-Asian-Filmmaker-So-Life-Has-No-Value-To-Me montages are rarely
of interest to me. Pretty pictures abound and a spectacular fireworks setpiece,
but that's all I can say for this. Feel free to upgrade accordingly if whack-sockey
fests are your brand of whiskey; hell, Jared doesn't even dig Johnny Woo.]
135.
(27 Mar) The True Story of Jesse James (1957, Nicholas
Ray)
[Seemingly evenhanded treatment of James (can't say for sure if it's "true"
because I don't know shit about his real life), that tries to justify why he became
an outlaw, but still makes a point of critiquing James for quickly losing sight
of just what the hell that justification was all about. The performances are constructed
from cardboard and save one gripping bank robbery sequence all the plotting and
action is pretty damn humdrum, but Ray's command of 'Scope imagery remains in
tact and the movie's treatment of outlaw-as-celebrity/ultimate-impossibility-of-outlaw-way-of-life
seems to have paved the way for Bonnie and Clyde et al.]
136.
(28 Mar) /Bitter Victory/ (1957, Nicholas Ray)
[The first time I saw Bitter Victory it occupied the tail end of a Nick
Ray triple feature and I was both tired and hungry; in light of many people's
intense lauding I thought I'd give this sucker another chance tonight. Indeed
it washed down better this time around (I suppose this has something to do with
the fact our nation's now at war, though mainly it's because I was far less antsy
than during Round #1), but still, I am not convinced Bitter Victory is
a great, or even very good, film. The most significant problems boil down to me
finding the characterizations -- featuring stiff performances from Richard Burton
and Curd Jürgens, though I can't blame Ray since he rightfully did not want
to cast those lame guys -- too cut and dry, with the movie out to scoff at Jürgens
and his craven ways while it places Burton's bravery on a pedestal. I've grappled
a lot with making that accusation, but ultimately I've decided the movie is less
uncertain about its characters than some fervent Ray supporters in the audience
allot credit for. I'd feel a lot more uncertain myself if Ray hadn't included
(although it's difficult to blame Ray for anything in this movie given how voraciously
he fought the studio about its various elements) the totally undeveloped, glib
romance angle, which serves no other purpose than to reinforce underline underline
exclamation point exclamation point just how heroic Burton was and just what a
sniffling, lying coward Jürgens is: Burton deserves the woman for
he is the one who nobly rhapsodizes about the futility of war, kills enemies with
his bare hands, kindly puts the injured out of their misery (alone and without
hesitation, to boot!) and dies selflessly saving his opponent Jürgens's life.
Meanwhile Jürgens doesn't even have the integrity to tell the woman (I continue
to refer to her as the woman because Bitter Victory -- in the manner
in which it treats her -- demands I do so) his savior Burton's oh-so-lovely last
words.]
137.
(28 Mar) /Bigger Than Life/ (1956, Nicholas Ray)
[Round #2 confirms my suspicion this is a masterpiece; what struck me most during
this viewing is the astonishing fifteen minute denouement, a fury that whirligigs,
a sustained tour de force of splintering cinema that indicts domesticity while
revealing it as nothing more than a demented circus act.]
ZZZ.
(29 Mar) The Lusty Men (1952, Nicholas Ray)
138.
(29 Mar) /Johnny Guitar/ (1954, Nicholas Ray)
[It's Nick Ray Redux Weekend! Gonna have to swallow my pride here; obviously I
shouldn't have spent the last few months bashing Johnny Guitar on 'net
film boards far and wide. Here's what I wrote first time around: "For awhile
the utter phoniness, excessive melodrama, over-the-top dialogue, frequent grandstanding
and atrocious acting were hilarious. Then they just got tedious." My expectations
were sky high and I was let down and maybe I was in a particularly vicious mood
(or perhaps it made a big difference second time around watching a restored print
with a maximum capacity audience as opposed to the garbage VHS I first saw this
on). Who knows, who the fuck cares. The past is behind us. What I realized during
Round #2 is Johnny Guitar is not phony and its acting is not atrocious;
everything in this oddity -- including the grandstanding and the melodrama --
is all of a piece with the treasured, fucking bizarre-ass, stylized world Ray's
created from the ground sideways. It's about repressed lust and love lost, and
sure, it can also be read as a McCarthy allegory though that interpretation does
absolutely nothing for me personally. No Western has ever given more screentime
to romance (passion controls everyone) or subverted gender roles more thoroughly
(the hero is a heroine; the villain is a villain-ess; the titular Johnny is a
supporting character). There are fabulous images here as stirring as anything
Ray's ever crafted: Vienna's progressively aflame; Crawford and her blood red
lips/snow white dress playing piano alone, waiting calmly for the posse; Crawford
and Sterling awake in the middle of the night, their faces ablaze with shadows.
And yes it's all definitely hilarious (my audience was laughing their asses off),
but the camp is adroit and knowing and put to loftier aims: which is to say the
dialogue's over-the-top-ness is incisive and evocative, strange but straight and
to the point, cutting razor sharp, everything stated with such furious conviction
we're often floored while we chuckle. Not to mention Victor Young's vehement score
is a thing of profound emotion. I still think the film's too long, but Johnny
Guitar is Ray's fourth best. I admit I was wrong: forgive me, we all make
mistakes.]
139.
(29 Mar) /The Royal Tenenbaums/ (2001, Wes Anderson)*
[Speaking of stylized worlds... This remains a completely overwhelming experience
for me, filling my heart with boundless joy while stealthily tugging its strings
= one of the funniest movies I've ever seen, but also one of the saddest (there
are tears in my eyes when Stiller, voice cracking, says his final line). I respectfully
submit Tenenbaums as a cinematic balancing act without much precedence:
I don't know of any other movie that is so delicately heartbreaking and still
so fall-on-the-floor funny (ex: the suicide attempt here, my vote for the most
devastating I've ever seen on screen because of its matter-of-fact simplicity,
is quickly followed by the suicide victim's savior -- when asked where the victim
is -- responding "Who?"). Clearly you have to be on Anderson's
wavelength -- the frequency of Gypsy Cabs, 375th St. Ys, a single citywide font,
character costumes, characters who can't tell time, Dalmatian mice etc. -- to
agree with me, but if you are in tune, this is an immeasurably cherished film
with few peers. Most prominently peerless is the staggering level of visual invention;
nearly every shot -- and many of them only last for under a second -- can be paused,
stared deeply into, studied, probed, the far reaches of the frame demanding nothing
less than comprehensive examine (and really, how many movies can you say that
about?). Accuse me of hyperbole if you must (and I'm sure many of you are indeed
already groaning), but I can't think of a single other director at work right
now (or perhaps ever) whose frames are so loaded (the groaners will say overloaded,
but they're wrong) with such astoundingly gargantuan amounts of detail (I get
blue every time I see a shot with a melancholy Paltrow slouching against the far
off reaches of the frame or Luke Wilson casually reading Margot's book of plays;
images like these say more about disconnect and desire than gobs of dialogue ever
could and those who accuse Anderson of sketching everyone besides Royal -- for
my money, the apex performance of Hackman's remarkable career btw -- in broad
strokes are advised to look further into the compositions). Anderson's meticulous
attention to detail also leads to the inevitable, hugely misguided complainers
labeling him arch and fey, detractors bitterly claiming Anderson cravenly hides
behind artifice because he can't deal with the truth. To call Tenenbaums
artificial is to woefully miss the point: Yes, duh, The Royal Tenenbaums
unfolds in a world removed from reality, a shimmering fantasy land, glorious and
heightened but still incredibly tender (when else has the sharing of a cigarette
been given such solicitude?), rooted firmly in universal emotion and a child's
sense of purity. It's a story of arrested development filtered through the perspective
of adults who never had a youth, and it's this longing for a past that never existed
that lends the movie's its prodigious compassion. "A big, dark, toy box of
a movie," quoth my friend Neil and that's as succinct and graceful a way
to describe The Royal Tenenbaums as any other I've heard.]
140.
(31 Mar) Night and the City (1950, Jules Dassin)
[Dassin knows his noir and oh, what noir it is: rich blacks, deep shadows, everything
cast in the bleak fatalistic glow of post-WWII London, which looks far closer
here to The Third Man's Vienna than anything of the swinging variety.
As the movie's title attests, both this austere city and the eternal night are
characters themselves, and almost the whole film unfolds under a transient shroud
of blackness. In the center of the murk is Richard Widmark, a hustler always on
the prowl, so manic I stopped caring if Widmark's acting was over baked and just
chowed down on his delicious scenery chewing. It's a story of misspent ambition.
Unlike most noir, Widmark's not planning a heist or plotting a murder; he just
wants to be someone, to be someone important and in this case all that means is
controlling... the London wrestling scene. Nope, that ain't a typo; by the time
I wrapped my mind around, 'yes, this is really the plot,' I was already entranced
by the jolting wrestling sequences themselves. We're talking pre-WWF, bear in
mind, back when the grudge matches were real and the fighting was genuinely vicious
and the outcomes weren't prefigured.