Category: classic

Days of Heaven (1978)

Last summer I tried to watch The Thin Red Line. I didn’t get too far. All of the huge name actors showing up throughout reminded me too much of It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what Terrence Malick was going for. (Isn’t Phil Silvers in the Thin Red Line for a minute?)

The New World, well, Colin Farrell insured that I’d stay away from that one. But I was really struck by the cinematography of the Assassination of Jesse James, which of course got compared – poorly often – to Malick, though I thought the shots there were quite beautiful.

So, heartened by its 90 minute running time, I picked up the new Criterion edition of Days of Heaven. Anyone seen this recently? It’s really an impressive piece of work. The cinematography, of course, but also Sam Shepard’s performance – just the way his face looked throughout – was wonderful. Richard Gere, alas, looked like Richard Gere. Usually movies in the 1970s had the decency to cast actors who didn’t look like freaking models from the pages of Vogue. Except for Gere. He looks like the Fonz when he’s supposed to be working in a filthy Chicago factory.
Continue reading Days of Heaven (1978)

Syndromes and a Century

This is such a warm, engaging and magically entertaining film. The narrative begins in the early eighties at a hospital in rural Thailand and mostly follows a young, strong-willed female doctor as she negotiates her position in a world divided by traditional beliefs systems and late-modern efficiency. The second half seemingly takes place in the present but tells (more or less) the same story with many of the same actors, focusing mostly on a young male doctor (we meet him in the first section) working in a very modern, urban hospital. I can’t tell you what it all means–Apichatpong Weerasethakul is a kinder, gentler David Lynch–but the film has a kind of dreamy, Proustian quality as it dances lightly around such themes as time, memory, repetition, and the mystery and impermanence of beauty. Of course, Syndromes is very elliptical but not frustratingly so (its ninety-minute running time breezes by). In fact, I’d describe the tone of the film as comically effervescent. In terms of form, this may be one of the most beautifully shot films I’ve seen all year.

There Will Be Blood

Wow. I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like it. Sure, there are echoes of Griffith, Welles, Wyler, Huston, Kubrick, Malick, and Coppola but There Will Be Blood is its own beast—a remarkably assured, unpretentious, muscular work of American filmmaking (I’ll compare it right now to Citizen Kane, The Godfather, Part II and Raging Bull). Anderson tells an epic narrative of power and providence, fathers and sons, religion and commerce, sin and hypocrisy; and he is assisted by a towering, career-defining performance from Daniel Day Lewis. Lewis is rail-thin, his shoulders hunched forward, his body askew and slightly out of balance; nevertheless, his Daniel Plainview is a determined, singularly-obsessed yet tortured maverick of a character, and Lewis fills the screen with a searing, charismatic, misanthropic intensity. He is equally matched by Paul Dano who mesmerizes as the evangelical preacher who won’t back down as well as this preturnaturally astute child actor, Dillon Freasier, who plays Plainview’s son H.W. Jonny Greenwood’s score punctuates Robert Elswit’s hardscrabbled images with scraping discordant notes. I can’t think of a thing I would want changed and can’t wait to see it again. Run, don’t walk.

Once

The premise of this little musical about an Irish street busker/vacuum repairman and a Czech immigrant is so simple you wonder why it’s never been done before. Over the course of a week or so, these two meet cute and you think, OK, indie musical rom-com, but all generic expectations get thrown out the window as the film slowly but surely evolves into something completely different–a moving testament to creativity, determination, love, loss, compromise, stasis, and the never-ending joys of a melodically infectious pop song. Noel Coward would be proud.

Sweeney Todd

The first forty-five minutes or so are slower than expected (there’s a lot of musty exposition to wade through and all is delivered via solemn arias, duets and trios). This, I thought, was for fans of Tim Burton, Johnny Depp, Stephen Sondheim and Dante Ferretti only (OK, so that’s a pretty big group of fans and they were being well-rewarded, but still). Then the blood starts to flow (and flow) and the mood grows darker, more macabre, more wickedly comic, and the narrative’s original melodramatic leanings give way to something best labled Jacobean revenge tragedy. I’m a fan of Hal Prince’s 1979 staging–which can be found on VHS and DVD here and there–with its Brechtian flourishes and its larger than life Grand Guignol gestures; but Burton strives for something more intimate, more interior, less stagy. Poetic justice has no room in Burton’s version of Sondheim’s musical and, therefore, sweet sailor Anthony Hope and Judge Turpin’s “pretty little ward” Johanna are somewhat minimized in order to focus more specifically on Sweeney Todd’s obsessive desire to avenge the destruction of his family. The film has its share of flaws, but I think it may be one of Burton’s greatest achievements. The stunningly beautiful, stunningly grotesque, stunningly bloody final tableau may be Burton’s most compassionately horrific image ever committed to celluloid.

A Woman Under the Influence (1974) / Cassavetes / Peter Falk

We talked a while back about the remarkable movie Keane, and a couple questions were brought up concerning depictions of mental illness on film that don’t collapse into the redemption-by-love / Sally-Field-TV-movie stereotypes.

We had just finished watching Return of the Secaucus 7 and were talking about filmmakers who self-financed their work through acting and writing for other people’s movies. So we decided to watch a few Cassavetes films.

This is a tough one to start with. Continue reading A Woman Under the Influence (1974) / Cassavetes / Peter Falk

man push cart

i have no idea, now, how i got onto this film. i wish i knew. ramin bahrani visits some of the same haunted post-traumatic territory touched upon in red road, and it seems to me he may possibly do it with even greater focus. ahmad is a young pakistani man with a push cart and a stack of porn dvds in nyc. very early every morning he takes his push cart from the depot where it’s housed to his allotted spot on the sidewalk, by hand. after work he sells his dvds to people he meets on the street. the pulling of the cart in the liminal area between the large, heavy trafficked, still nocturnal new york avenue and the sidewalk is harrowing and, on occasion, heartbreaking, especially because bahrani puts it squarely at the center of his film and shows it to us over and over and over (it also puts one in mind of those films one has seen about subcontinental streets, full of lawless traffic and the constant threat of being run over: except, wrong time, wrong place). the light is orange-brownish and there are mostly taxis about. ahmad looks like the loneliest man in new york. Continue reading man push cart

the 70s

i just saw california split and the conversation and i have decided that the 70s might be my favorite decade. i ask the members of this group: what are your ten favorite 70s films? and, if you feel inclined, what are the defining features of 70s cinema? (i suppose we can start with america, and maybe sprinkle in some france, but no italy please i don’t do italian cinema only italian soccer).