Month: June 2008

This is not my favorite Pixar feature. I’d put it a notch above Cars. WALL-E (or Waste Allocation Load Lifter – Earth class) is the last remaining moving thing on the planet (apart form a dedicated and unnamed roach). The year, we learn later, is roughly 2815, and for approximately 700 years, the WALL-E units have been cleaning up the Earth in order to make it, once again, life sustainable. All of the other WALL-E units have fizzled out and stopped working, but our one little WALL-E happily goes about his business compacting units of waste and piling them into tall, sky scraper-like formations. If one of his parts breaks or malfunctions, there are plenty of other dead Wall-E units lying around to pilfer from. In fact, WALL-E keeps a large supply of spare parts (and other curiosities, ranging from rubber duckies to zippo lighters) in his little home, which is something of a shrine to the mindless consumerism that destroyed the planet. This is one of the few interesting ideas of the story: WALL-E is pretty much like us. He’s a pack rat. But the idea isn’t really developed into something one can wrap one’s head around. Anyway, while at work, WALL-E finds a small plant growing in an old refrigerator. He takes it back to his home and puts it with all the other stuff he’s accumulated. Continue reading WALL-E

Has anyone watched this? All I can find on the blog is a brief but positive aside from Jeff. It airs on Showtime, which I don’t get, but season 1 is available to watch instantly on Netflix. The concept seemed rife with opportunities to produce something really horrible: forensic investigator with the Miami police who specializes in tracking down serial killers, and he is especially good at his job because he himself is a serial killer. He handles his urges to kill by only going after those who has escaped punishment by the criminal justice system. Three episodes in, I am very impressed. Michael C. Hall (of Six Feet Under fame) plays the lead, and he owns the role. Many of the characters are pretty flimsy (especially Jennifer Carpenter who plays his sister), but Hall give a multi-layered performance managing to convey vulnerability and menace at the same time. A small smile plays across his lips most of the time, and his shows genuine delight at coming across a true master serial killer. The series plays cleverly and in non-obvious ways with issues of abuse, emotion, sex and vengeance. Hall has chosen to be in a relationship with a deeply damaged woman in part because it avoids the need for sex. His foster father, a cop, recognized his urges and essentially taught him how to get away with it, but also how to channel it towards “taking out the garbage.” Creepy, clever, compelling.

Steve Martin is the first comedian I mimicked, whose work I eagerly bought up, whose routines I (pathetically) aped in my room. Richard Pryor was the most lacerating and challenging (the impact of which hasn’t faded, whenever I rewatch), but man he was funny, even when I got the edge and anger more than the punchline; Richard Belzer’s breezy nihilism (on a talk show, no less!) gave the adolescent Reynolds too much confidence in his own sarcasm, and; Albert Brooks was the guy I loved to love ’cause so few other people seemed to know him (or, as often, understood or found him funny)–my god, a parody of the Mr. Jaws records that was patently unfunny?–Brilliance!

But George Carlin. Ah, damn. I can come upon an old routine–about planes, pieces of corn in shit, God (“But he loves you!”), the infamous seven words and the lovely extended riff of further words (“Mongolian cluster-fuck” the one that sticks with me)–and I pull up short and watch, as I did about seventeen times today, and they still make me laugh. Routines from the ‘seventies, ‘eighties, ‘nineties, and more recently–funny, pushy, witty, biting stuff in each decade. No one pitched as neatly smart and silly and scatological as Carlin.

Better than I expected. It is quite intelligently directed with strong supporting roles from Arkin and The Rock (I’ll never call him Dwayne Johnson), and a lovely cameo from Bill Murray. I even liked Terrence Stamp’s bitter one-liners about Hollywood actors. The moments of homage to the TV series are unobtrusive so that the younger set can enjoy the movie. There are a couple of set-piece action sequences and a handful of silly jokes, but overall it is actually quite a sweet movie, which seems an odd description for this genre of remake of old 60’s TV show. This quality comes from Carell’s portrayal of Maxwell Smart as not so much dumb, arrogant and loud, as awkward, perceptive and surprisingly skilled as an operative. Smart is the one who is right more often than more experienced agents. The central part of the movie follows Smart and Agent 99 (Anne Hathaway) on a mission to Russia. The object is to show how they grow to respect each other as agents and even fall in love. The movie doesn’t quite pull off this feat, because too often the gags get in the way, but it comes close. This is probably not the place for an examination of Carell as a comic actor, but he has carved out an interesting space between the sad sack bumbling fool and the self-assured spewer of one-liners.

A while back I raved about The Death of Mr. Lazarescu, noting in particular how despite the bleak portrait of a bureaucracy which bogged the sick and dying down, the film depicted how consistently the humans the doomed Lazarescu came upon connected with him, fell into rich and personal conversations with others around them–in short, how the community’s compassion and connections thrived despite, around, underneath this oppressive system.

4 Months… is the flipside: here, the pervasive systemic bureaucracy and oppression manifest in each person and every interpersonal interaction as an inability to connect, breakdowns of trust, persistent lying, an endless struggle out from under or around rules both large and trivial. There are moments of compassion (a kitten given powdered milk, a bus rider offering a ticket to a freeloading passenger as the official comes around seeking proof of payment), and the film is centered on a roommate going above and beyond to help her roommate get an illegal abortion. But even that central act of compassion is marred by anger, frustration, lies, and–ultimately–a wall between the two women. The final scene (I’m giving nothing away) sits on the two, having endured much, sitting at a restaurant table, one pondering the menu, the other staring out the window–a shot held, silently, for an uncomfortable, meaningful stretch. This film is rather brilliantly done, again in the Lazarescu mode of a fly on the wall, the acting so naturalized, the scenes often playing out in a dazed and difficult real-time. But it’s harrowing, gripping, draining.

I’ve now seen 3 of the films of what some are calling the Romanian new wave (also including 12:08 East of Bucharest), and they are as dazzling and exciting as A. O. Scott raved (in an article to which I’ve linked under the Lazarescu post). I’m kind of fascinated at how a very common stylistic sensibility emerges, despite quite distinct tones: long takes, very precise production and composition yet a filmmaking style that resists showy technique, acting so subtle and precise it seems unacted, and an investment in (or even a reinvigoration of) social realist concerns.

Pity the poor screenwriter, saddled with the necessary nonsense of extensive historical “situating.” Lines like “We have just had 400 pounds of tea dumped in Boston Harbor, by vandals dressed as Indians!” The sort of stuff which would be a drag on even the sleekest, most energetic of historical dramas.

And John Adams moves more like a dirigible. Often pretty, but ponderous, gassy, its movements slow and wholly predictable. I keep hoping it’ll bust into flames, and go down in a blaze of destructive insanity. Maybe Paul Giamatti will go a little Harvey Pekar or (even better) Pig Vomit, kick the hammy Danny Huston (Sam Adams! That crazy!) in the codpiece. But I fear it will not come to pass.

This miniseries is lavishly produced, and shot quite beautifully by Tak Fujimoto. And I’m only one episode (of six total) in, so this isn’t fair, but…. Harrumph harrumph.

I’ve seen a few good films the last week or so, and haven’t piped up because they’re generally good–in fact, I enjoyed each of them quite a bit–but there wasn’t much ‘meaty’ to my initial reactions. But what the hell… I’m sitting in Nebraska, and I may as well do a post. Continue reading Pleasures

I thought there was at least a post about this but damned if I can find it. Anyway, Control is a semi-fictional account of Ian Curtis, lead singer of Joy Division (based on a memoir by Curtis’ wife). It covers the period from 1973 to Curtis’ suicide at the age of 23 in 1980. The depiction of Curtis’ personal life, his doubts, epilepsy and depression, is fairly run-of-the-mill. The movie mostly avoids melodrama and relies instead on the haunted expression that almost never leaves the face of Sam Riley, who portrays Curtis. Little moments such as when he comes home and his eyes take in the drying diapers and bottles of baby formula; nothing is said but you know this will not end well. Samantha Morton, as Debbie Curtis, gets first billing (presumably because Riley is unknown) and she plays the loving but bewildered wife well, but she is not given a great deal to do.

The revelation comes whenever the band is on stage. Joy Division’s songs are performed by the actors, with Riley’s voice standing in for that of Curtis. Riley stands clutching the mic, looking like a somewhat manic Harry Potter, and completely inhabits Curtis. I saw Joy Division live in some grimy dance hall back when I was in school, and I was mesmerized by Curtis then, and mesmerized again by Riley in this movie. That voice was Joy Division, and even New Order at its best could never come close to the hypnotic trance induced by Curtis’ vocals. There is a wonderful scene in a sound studio when Riley is laying down the vocal track to ‘Isolation’ and the studio is packed with people but nobody is paying attention to Riley and behind the soundproof glass he is indeed completely isolated. Highly recommended.

The fourth Rambo, and one assumes the last, is not horrible. It is crafted pretty simply and runs to a little over 80 minutes. Rambo is living a peaceful life on the river in Thailand. Missionaries ask to be taken by boat into Burma. After initially refusing, and insisting that words will never change anything, Rambo takes them. Missionaries are captured and imprisoned by brutal Burmese army, and Rambo takes a group of mercenaries back to retrieve them. Mayhem ensues. Continue reading Rambo

I have heard that comedy is greatly dependent on the specific manner of its delivery, and I will be undertaking an experiment to best evaluate this hypothesis. I started watching Ferrell’s last sportsy crazy-arrogant-guy-who-yells-a-lot movie in Widescreen, and never laughed once. I might have even been scowling. So I’ve just returned to the menu, opened the set-up, and arranged the film to be shown in Full Screen, with Mono sound. I’ll let you know how it goes.