we like to watch

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.

The latest Indiana is exactly what you’d expect, for better and … well, maybe not “for worse” but certainly not for the best. The film hews exactly to its boilerplate, and it was never less than diverting, amusing. But only once–one glorious, extended, escalating car-chase in the jungle–is it enormous fun. If I really sat down to rewatch the first film, I might find that its flaws have been recreated each go-’round: a slew of great set-pieces, sewn together with Ford’s creaky charisma and hoping for a supporting cast that is equally lively. That latter element is true, I think, in Indy 1 and 3, and mostly true in 4. (Cate Blanchett, tongue circling around her “wowels” in a gloriously loony accent, clearly is having great fun; LaBoeuf, Winstone, and Hurt get saddled with less interesting characters, and do less interesting things.) So… sure, why not? It’s summer. And did I tell you about that chase?

But now that I have your attention, let me direct you to the far better, far more challenging, really damn interesting Aussie film Noise. Matthew Saville’s 2007 film attends to the aftermath of a massacre on a train, which left one survivor; we follow her, a low-level cop suffering from vaguely-sourced tinnitus (and maybe psychological problems?), and an assortment of well-drawn supporting characters, the importance of whom we are always trying to untangle. A note: any summary does injustice, fools you into certain expectations, when the film was dazzling in its confident refusal to collapse into a particular kind of story. Continue reading Me & Mr. Jones (and a special guest)

I agree with Jeff: Arnab sucks.

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I’m not sure Teeth deserves its own thread (I tried posting a comment elsewhere but Word Press wouldn’t let me) but there’s something slyly (and comically) subversive about this story of a teenager, a good Christian girl who preaches abstinence and chastity, who discovers her vagina is blessed with a bite (a nuclear power plant forever looms in the background). It is crude and crass (there are a copious number of severed penises), but the film could also be read as a post-feminist, coming-of-age, “superhero-esque” origin story of a serial killer with a code (a la Showtime’s underrated “Dexter”) who targets brutal, oppressive, sexually abusive misogynists (teenage boys, wacky gynecologists, dirty-old-men). Though a favorite at Sundance in 2006, it didn’t do too well at the box office . . . will audiences be willing to line up for Teeth II???