jay4stein79-1 Reviews

Underground (1995)

Farcical Phantasmagoria of Yugoslavian History

[10/10 · 20 February 2007]

Underground is the greatest film of the 1990s and, potentially, the greatest film of the last 25 years. It's terribly funny but ultimately heartbreaking and, yes, it's about war. In fact, it's among the greatest war films ever conceived.

The film follows Marko and Petar, small-time Communist gun-runners in pre-WWII Belgrade. The movie opens as they drunkenly make-off with an arms-cache to the tune of a gypsy band. The next day, their city is destroyed and the animals have escaped from the zoo, metaphorically and literally. With their families, Marko and Petar escape underground to Marko's uncle's cellar where they intend to wait out the war. The war stops, but Marko fools the cellar-dwellers into thinking that the war rages on and enlists their help in building guns. Of course, those living in the cellar eventually learn the truth.

With this movie, Kusturica created a hermetic world that is witty, farcical, surreal, and ultimately sublime. The photography is stunning and Kusturica's shot-composition is painterly. Underground is an amazing work of art, one that should be treasured not only for its cinematic value but for its cultural and historical values as well.

Deep Red (1975)

Masterpiece #1

[10/10 · 20 February 2007]

Deep Red is Argento's first masterpiece, every bit as good as (or maybe better than) Suspiria and Tenebre. The narrative follows Marcus Daly, a British jazzman in Italy as he attempts to discover the murderer of his neighbor--a murder that, as it happens, wants to kill him too.

Marked by the intermittently silly dialogue that marred all of Argento's work (hey, you don't watch gialli for their scintillating conversations), Deep Red strikes me as a remarkably notable achievement in Argento's oeuvre inasmuch as its the most viscerally affecting of his major works.

From the moment the camera miraculously parts the velvet curtains at the film's beginning, the audience is faced with inexorable tension. The only relief is when someone is actually murdered. Otherwise, you're left dreading, know what is going to happen but not knowing when. Argento does that in all of his movies, but here it seems more central to his narrative style. Suspiria and Tenebre, though they have vignettes of excruciating suspense, also have down-time--moments that allow your anxiety to subside. Not so in Deep Red: I was a nervous wreck throughout but unable to look away. I felt very ambivalent when it was over--energized and enervated.

Fat City (1972)

A Fine Mess

[7/10 · 16 February 2007]

I've never been a huge fan of John Huston, though I have great admiration for Treasure of the Sierra Madres, The Man Who Would Be King, Beat the Devil, and The Maltese Falcon. I find him a decent enough filmmaker, but there always seemed to be something pedestrian about his work, in overpraised pieces like The African Queen and Asphalt Jungle and especially in films like the bloated Moby Dick.

Fat City is somewhere in between his run-of-the mill work and his finest achievements. There's a lot that's wrong with this morose examination of how the other half lives--cliché-ridden dialogue and a tendency toward shoddy editing are the most flagrant faults--but the central performances and the non-boxing moments achieve such glorious heights that its impossible to ignore the movie.

Fat City follows two men, more or less, Ernie and Billy, scarcely a decade a part in age, but looking as though there's a much greater distance in years between them. Billy is down & out, a has-been one-time coulda-been boxer who spends his days on the sauce, even when he's out in California's growing fields, gathering walnuts or onions. Ernie is young, still has his baby fat, and meets Billy at the gym. Billy sees something in Ernie and sends him off to become a fighter, which he does, though not terribly well.

The film, at the start, has the trajectory of something like, say, Million Dollar Baby. It's going to be your traditional sports movie (older man takes on a protégé and shows him how to succeed in ways he could never quite achieve). Except, fortunately, Fat City takes a u-turn after Ernie's first loss. It's at that moment that you realize Fat City isn't about boxing at all--it's about the underclasses of America. It's about the people that work shifts in factory only to then spend hours chopping onions out of the dirt. It's about people who can't hold any jobs, so all they do is chop onions out of the dirt. It's about people who dream of becoming championship boxers only to settle into domestic life because simple economics tell you that you can no longer pursue your dream. And it's about people so beaten down by life that, more or less, they give up and hit the bottle.

When this movie is examining what it means to be poor in America, it cannot be beat. When it heads to the gym, it starts to stumble. The scenes of training, and any involving Ruben feel like they came out of screen writing 101. I read pithier dialogue during my intro creative writing class in college. It just falls dead when his character is around. I understand that he serves the role of eternal optimist, but, eek, his part is just dreadful.

The rest of the moving demonstrates some stellar writing and amazing performances, especially from Stacy Keach, Jeff Bridges, and Candy Clarke. But the bit players put on a sterling show, too. Curtis Cokes, in his, unfortunately, sole credited performance, has one speech, towards the end, that is better than anything else in the film. His performance in that scene is impeccable and puts even Keach and Bridges to shame. And then there's Sixto Rodriguez's role as Lucero. He says no words but perfectly captures the sadness at the heart of this film better than anything else. It's a remarkable performance, filled with such pathos, that it's hard not to get worked up thinking about it.

All in all, Fat City is a wonderful achievement, but it has its share of flaws.

Daisies (1966)

The Stunning Nadir of the Czech New Wave

[2/10 · 16 February 2007]

I worry about being the lone voice of dissent in regard to this film. It makes me think I might be wrong, especially since people whose opinions I respect enjoy this film. I think it's garbage.

The film follows two Maries as they embark on their route to badness. What they do, though, isn't particularly malevolent or, I'd say, bad. They string men along, more or less, behave outrageously/obnoxiously at bourgeois entertainment, and use scissors frequently. There are some not so subtle nods to castration here and there and some not so subtle undermining of traditional feminine ideals.

I fear that summary makes the film sound somehow worthwhile. The fact is that the movie brings nothing new to these topics and, really, barely scratches the surface of being a woman in the Soviet bloc. The filmmaker is, ultimately, more concerned with the superficial "pleasures" of psychedelic film making (lots of colors and odd noises) than the plight of women during the Communist era. And the psychedelic style seems to be the end unto itself. Not that Vera Chytilova got that right either. The film seems more like a high school stoner art project than anything else.

Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: Take One does a much better job of exploring psychedelia and a much better job of creating the anarchic joy Daisies aims for. It seems like the director was shooting for Bunuel and wound up with, oh I dunno, a Jefferson Airplane album.

The Czech New Wave, a grossly overpraised movement in terms of film quality, is besmirched by this movie, with its inane pretensions and obnoxious tedium. It looks bad (the framing is, um, nonexistent; it's as if the director never learned to compose an interesting shot) and it does a grave disservice to politically-charged film making.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand (1978)

Frequently Excruciating With Bouts of Brilliance

[7/10 · 7 February 2007]

I don't love Robert Zemeckis; he always seemed a shadow of his sage and master, Steven Spielberg. Oscar wins or not, he's simply not as talented as his teacher. That being said, he's had some seriously, delirious high points (Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, Contact, and Back to the Future), but the rest of his oeuvre is, well, cloying at best (Forrest Gump) and atrocious at worst (What Lies Beneath). He's a capable mid-level director who was rocketed to superstardom by his association with a true master of the cinematic artform (though, truth be told, Spielberg has missed the mark on numerous occasions).

In any event, one could view I Wanna Hold Your Hand as a microcosm of Zemeckis's entire career--frequently excruciating with bouts of brilliance. Where are the lows? How about the saccharine reiterations of the three four central female characters. For the first 45 minutes, the women are defined by repeated phrases that beat into the audience's brain their too-flimsy characters. Rosie loves Paul, Janis loves folkies, Grace wants to take some photos, and Pam wants to get married.

Ultimately, the arcs for the former three characters follow predictable patterns. With Pam's storyline, however, Zemeckis finds the heart of this film and creates a lasting tale that, more or less, makes this movie recommended (though not necessarily essential) viewing.Pam's conflict is fairly straightforward until she finds herself in the Beatles' suite. Then something interesting happens--she does something to a guitar that, well, I don't want to mention here for fear of having the post deleted. She cowers in front of that guitar and she shudders. Later, she clenches the hem of her dress in tightly wound fists between her thighs.

What Zemeckis finds between Pam's legs is the nascent youth movement of the 1960s. Pam's running away from her betrothed at the end of the film to the Beatles and that funny feeling causing her to quiver, demonstrates the shift from the cleancut, conformist ideals of 1950s America to what would become a more liberating--sexually and emotionally--period in the late 1960s. The Beatles were at the forefront of that youth movement and, here, the rumblings of the movement are present.

What Pam reveals in this movie is among the most emotionally and sexually truthful representations of that turbulent decade. I credit Zemeckis for his willingness to not ignore the sexuality inherent in Beatlemania, and I credit too Nancy Allen for an amazing performance. It's a real shame she's never received the recognition she deserves (for this movie, Blow Out, and Dressed to Kill).

The rest of the movie, though, is hysterical, in the late-19th century definition of the word. Mostly, it's a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Bobby Di Cicco turns in a performance that is worth seeing, as he's able to find, by movie's end some level of truth in Smerko's character. And then, of course, there's the overzealous Eddie Deezen's overacting, which is shrill beyond all reason. It's rare to find a performance that strident and, at the same time, ingratiating due to the actor's prowess for physical comedy (again, his physical shenanigans are, well, overblown, but I somehow found them riveting).

All in all, this movie really isn't a seven--it's probably a six at best--but I cannot shake those scenes of Nancy Allen nor do I want to. They're probably the most wonderful moments Zemeckis ever contributed to celluloid. For that it gets an extra point.

Hard Eight (1996)

A package of matches...

[9/10 · 4 February 2007]

During my teenage years, I did not have much of a life. I don't have much of one now either. My time was filled, then and now, with work, words, and images. School has become a stressful mid-management position, but the words and images remain the same--slightly offbeat.

Unlike my friends and peers, I watched a lot of randomly selected independent films during adolescence. I'm not sure who else in my rural town was renting Cold Comfort Farm or The Funeral (maybe the video store owners). In any event, as a preview, I first came to know this tale of down-on-their-luck individuals in the vast emptiness of Reno. I loved the look of Philip Baker Hall and John C. Reilly. I fell in love with Gwyneth. I additionally laughed gutturally when the pack of matches in John's back pocket self-combusted.

Mind you, this was before I saw the movie.

Eventually, the video came to Hudson Falls, and I dutifully rented it, watching it one evening when my parents were out. I must admit that I expected a comedy (based solely, of course, on the pack of matches), but what I found was something better and something that left an indelible mark upon me for the rest of my high school years. I've come to appreciate Boogie Nights and Magnolia more than Hard Eight, but this film still stays with me.

There is terrible sadness in this film--in the eyes of the characters, for the most part--that you cannot escape. Gwyneth's mascara caked orbs haunt me to this day, as do the sacks under Philip's eyes. The one bright spot too comes from the ocular apparatus--that of John C. Reilly. Though he has come to play a similar role in many films, here is the first time you see him as the naive innocent. He performs beautifully, as does everyone else.

It's truly a remarkable, though minor key, film. Magnolia and Boogie Nights are epic, in a sense, but Hard Eight, with its slim plot and grim photography, is a sonnet of awful beauty. One is not blind-sided by the movie; you can see easily the direction it is heading. It's impossible to look away, even though one knows they are awaiting a train wreck. For all the (welcome to me) bombast in Boogie Nights and Magnolia, I am happy to know that PT Anderson has the ability to subdue his more manic and excessive tendencies, as he does here. This is a movie for those that love Boogie Nights and Magnolia; it might also be a movie for those that hate Boogie Nights and Magnolia.

The Rapture (1991)

Minor Masterpiece

[10/10 · 22 January 2007]

Like After Dark My Sweet or Odd Man Out, The Rapture is a minor masterpiece. It will never attain the accolades heaped upon high profile successes like Chinatown or 2001, but, in terms of ambition and achievement this film belongs in their company. Like those other films, The Rapture is an uncompromising cinematic exploration of spirituality and existence in late-20th century America.

Through the central character of Sharon, writer-director Michael Tolkin examines the jaded ennui to which many succumb. Sharon seeks solace in the arms and loins of others the way some people turn to chemical dependence or fundamentalism. Finding the embrace of her lovers lacking the vitality she needs, Sharon finds God in the vision of a rotating, heavenly pearl. Flash forward--the apocalypse is nigh and, following the death of her husband (another reformed "sinner"), she treks to the desert, daughter in tow to await Jesus's return. Ultimately, Sharon finds herself on the precipice between paradise and eternal loneliness; she chooses solitude.

What is ultimately remarkable about this film is the way in which it doesn't reject the tenets of fundamentalist Christianity; it engages these beliefs in a respectful but critical dialogue and leaves the viewer to decide where they stand. Belief in the rapture is not dismissed--Tolkin buys into it for the sake of his film and allows his characters to encounter the end days. A lesser movie would have undermined the final 20 minutes by explaining it away as delusion. Tolkin does no such thing. In The Rapture, the verity of the apocalypse is never explicit, but there is little within the film to offer a notion that it's simply Sharon's imagination. Or a lesser movie would have found Sharon reuniting with her deceased husband and daughter. She would have chosen to submit herself at the end, ascending, like Deputy Foster.

That's the point of the movie, though, and the mark of Sharon's progression as a character--she moves away from submission to independence. At the beginning, she is a slave to men, following Vic out on his nightly prowls. Finding that lacking, she turns to another man--Jesus--in the hopes that he will fill her with the sense of purpose she desires. Upon killing her only child, she realizes that this man too has left her empty and caused her to lose the only thing in her world that mattered. In the end, Sharon chooses independence and stand alone, surrounded by the void. It's an incredibly liberating denouement (for women) and an intriguing premise.

It's all the more interesting in that it does this without taking pot-shots at religious faith. In my reading, the movie does not fault Christianity or any religion--it faults the people that blindly look to some crutch for happiness in guidance before finding it in themselves. In other words, first know thyself, then know God. Religion does not cause Sharon to shoot her daughter--she chooses to do so on her own

The Wild One (1953)

Exhibit # 3A in the Case Against Method Acting

[3/10 · 25 November 2006]

Allow me to blaspheme: Marlon Brando is not one of the greatest actors to grace the silver screen--not even one of the greatest American actors. He's certainly capable and turned in consistently good performances throughout his career, but something is missing from his body of work, I think, that is essential to transcending the status of "good" actor and becoming great: humility. Marlon Brando thought he was hot stuff, and he was pretty good, but that egotism, I think, prevented him from ascending to the level of a Jimmy Stewart or Robert De Niro or Al Pacino. Those men were great, must have known they were great, but it never showed in their performances. The latter two owe a debt to Brando, for sure, but there is a naturalism that they brought to their defining roles; Brando has always seemed too mannered for me and in all the wrong ways. He served his era in the same way Brad Pitt serves ours: A Serious Actor.

The Wild One is a prime example of what is wrong with Brando. The man undoubtedly threw himself with vigor into all of his roles. Sometimes that worked (see The Godfather or Apocalypse Now, though his performances in both occasionally border on comical), but it does not here. Why? This situation occurs, primarily, because the film is risible. I understand that I have 53 years of perspective on this movie, but I cannot imagine that it was not perceived as a little too worked up for its own good in 1953. The plot, which follows a couple of bike-gangs as they rampage through a southern Californian town, while one gang leader woos a local beauty, is told with straight-faced earnestness, which makes it difficult to swallow and equally difficult to mock. How can one pick on a film whose heart's on its sleeve? I won't belittle it more than I already have, but I will say that watching it today you'll undoubtedly find yourself snorting derisively at times.

However, it's not simply that the story is naive and simplistic--the narrative is relayed visually in the most banal ways. The photography is dull and the framing barely competent. The editing and pacing are miserable and, frankly, I found myself dosing in what should have been a delicious melodramatic romp. I mean, the story is a soap- opera, but it's told without relish (go to Rebel Without a Cause for that--there's an outdated film that still musters enough energy and delight to keep you watching).

And then there is, as I said, the acting, particularly by Brando. He is as earnest as the screenplay, which is to his detriment. The performance is mannered, like his turn in Streetcar Named Desire, but it just doesn't work for me. It also doesn't help, as I said, that I cannot take this movie seriously. That he does makes me respect him less. It's not only Brando, though, as everyone seems to have missed that the tale is laughable-- everyone, that is, except the always brilliant Lee Marvin, who stumbles into this film as Chino (the only interesting character) and walks off with the picture. The movie is worth watching for his performance alone, but, then again, almost any movie with Lee Marvin was worth watching for his steely, sadistic gaze. In a just world, Marvin would have become a star of Brando's magnitude, but, I guess, Hollywood isn't a just world, forever rewarding mediocrity in favor of true talent.

The Long Goodbye (1973)

Return of the Shaggy Dog

[10/10 · 24 November 2006]

The way a film starts can tell you a lot about where it's going. When Marlowe stumbles out of bed, mumbling and beholden to a mewing feline, you know you will not witness a typical translation of Chandler's work. I had reservations before seeing this movie the first time, worried, as I was, that Altman, by taking liberties with the novel upon which its based, was somehow mocking the source material. I was wrong. The Long Goodbye isn't a loyal translation of the novel, in terms of narrative, but it maintains the spirit, at least, and updates it for a new era. It's as cynical as Chandler's novel, but it's a different (and, perhaps, more justified) cynicism. If anything, Altman chose not to mock the source so much as to mock the continuing glut of crime films that refused to update their heroes for a post-Kennedy, post-King, Vietnam world.

What happens when you take a retro gumshoe and drop them into the southern California of the early 1970s? They seem distinctly out of place. They don't seem to get it and, as a result, they find themselves in a lot of trouble. Marlowe, in this version of the Long Goodbye, spends much of his time as a fish out of water. He's fairly ineffective as a private detective, though he does achieve a certain amount of success finding Roger Wade and deducing what truly happened with Terry Lennox. He's stumbling in the dark for enough of the film, though, to make his successes seem the product of chance, not skill. Some may call this the inversion of the genre--I would say, however, that Altman takes a familiar genre and all its trappings but places it anachronistically in the then-present to show the failure of the genre's tropes to universally translate.

Without the Long Goodbye, would there have been a Chinatown? A Farewell My Lovely? Perhaps, but Altman's masterful rendition certainly paved the way for those arguably more successful pictures.

In addition to upsetting a genre, though, the Long Goodbye contains an amazing performance by Elliot Gould, who more or less carries the film by himself (no one else has enough screen time), as well as a marvelous turn by Sterling Hayden, who seems to channel Ernest Hemmingway and Raymond Chandler simultaneously. The other supporting roles are filled with equally effective performances. There is also the sun- drenched photography. The Long Goodbye might be a noir, but it's not particularly dark, in terms of its colors. Much of the action takes place in the daylight, which, I think, makes it all the more ominous.

All in all, this is a fantastic film and one of Altman's best.

Kicking and Screaming (1995)

I'm reminiscing this right now...

[9/10 · 24 November 2006]

I saw this film when it first came out on VHS because it had Eric Stoltz on the cover and, I thought, anything with Eric Stoltz must be good. It was the mid-1990s, after all, and I had first become acquainted with the man through Pulp Fiction--he was so cool! He was also everywhere, even in some particularly banal films (Killing Zoe, anyone?), and, at the time, I grouped this flick with those.

Having sat down and watched Kicking and Screaming (in the wake of absolutely adoring the Squid and the Whale), I am sorry I relegated this movie to a "lesser Eric Stoltz film." It should be in the category of stellar post-collegiate ennui films. The wit and insightfulness, as well as an unwavering decision to present people as they really are and not idealized versions of themselves, are here, as they were in the Squid and the Whale.

Kicking and Screaming is not quite so acerbic as the later film (rightly so, says I, the subject matter doesn't warrant it), nor is it as slick a production. Baumbach was clearly learning what it meant to be a director, so while his writing is, as always, top-notch, visually speaking, there's something lacking. I don't find that to be too much of a detriment to the film, though, because, sometimes, we go to the movies to listen to characters talk. Baumbach has a great ear for intricate, though slightly unrealistic, dialogue. The writing in this movie owes a lot to Whit Stillman's Metropolitan and Barcelona (and Chris Eigeman's presence only makes this connection more apparent), but rather than a drawing room comedy for the UHB crowd, Kicking and Screaming is determinedly middle-class (upper-middle class, probably).

The narrative arc of this film is inessential. Basically, four guys refuse to move on after their college graduation. Nothing momentous happens in their lives; they simply live like, gulp, I have in the few years since finishing my bachelors. I mean, I don't work in a video store (thank you very much, I have a respectable office job), but the concept of dragging your feet into adulthood is a feeling I, and a lot of my friends, often feel. Watching a movie like this, then, as much as it makes you laugh, can also make you wince knowingly.

It's that knowledge that I now have that I think made it possible for me to see the wonderful nature of this film. I have lived this life, so now I see the humor.

Pulse (2001)

Transmissions from the End of the World

[9/10 · 23 November 2006]

Let me be perfectly clear: I am not a fan of J-Horror. Ringu and the Grudge were tedious. That was enough for me. Audition? Forget about it. I guess it is, as they say, different strokes for different blokes. Pulse, though, rises above the other scary movies finding their way out of Japan because it's not small--Pulse is an epic, apocalyptic nightmare of a movie.

It's terrifying but the terror boils under the surface. The film didn't make me jump, but it got under my skin and gave me chills. Like the novel the House of Leaves, the premise is just twiggy enough to tolerate for a while. When the movie gets deeper and deeper into its tale, though, you start feeling those claws grip at you. By the end, you're in its vice- like grip, chilled to the bone. It's an awesome experience and very much unlike my other favorite horror films. It's a more visceral conceptual terror than you have in Romero's Dead films but it's not as visceral as Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It's not as beautiful as Argento or Bava, but it has crisp lines and significantly better acting than the films of those masters.

I'm not going to try too hard to describe the plot of Pulse. Basically, the Internet kills people. I think. Some strange explanations are thrown out but they really don't suffice as explanations. If you're looking to be spoon fed rational horror, watch the American remake. You have been warned.

Why was this scary? I dunno--I think it was because about three-quarters of the way through, you realize that everyone is disappearing. It's a terrifying though. Here you are, a young person trying to make their way through contemporary life in Tokyo and then it hits you--there's no one around any more. This concept preys on our most basic fears of isolation and disorientation. It's something out of a dream. The ghosts just sort of serve as conduits for Kurosawa to explore contemporary isolation and alienation. It's a brilliant maneuver. Like I said, though, if you're looking to jump out of your skin, go elsewhere. If, however, you get chills thinking about being completely alone in a megalopolis or if the thought of a house bigger on the inside than it is on the outside frightens you, then this is the movie for you.

Beau Travail (1999)

Billy Budd as African Fever Dream

[10/10 · 3 September 2006]

Films with traditional narratives are all right, I guess, but once in a while it becomes necessary to immerse yourself in a movie that eschews complete narrative coherence. Beau Travail, which follows a tale similar to Melville's Billy Budd, is one such movie.

It's not confounding in the manner of an Eraserhead; you will not find yourself forever scratching your head, wondering what on earth the director was aiming for. Quite the opposite: It's a languid dissection of one (noticeably ugly) man's attempt to destroy a thing of beauty--Sentain. What's most interesting to me is that, in the sand of Djibouti, Sentain is not the only beautiful man, nor is he the only thing of beauty. Galoup's desire to destroy Sentain is, as a result, slightly arbitrary and therefore more resonant than it would be in another setting.

What is astounding, and slightly confounding in this film, is its slightly elliptical story-telling. The scenes here do follow a chronology, but, simultaneously, layer upon one another. The moments depicted could occur at any moment in relation to any other moment. The precise connection between one scene and the next is not entirely necessary to watch the film. This is a frustrating position for some viewers, I suppose, because it demands a little more of your attention. However, the feelings conjured by this sort of narrative style are immensely pleasurable. I feel, watching this movie, as if I am floating, eyes-closed, upon the sea at night; the loss of concrete perception thrills and frightens you at the same time.

Such storytelling also gives Beau Travail a hallucinatory quality that complements the equally hallucinatory visual scheme. Claire Denis is among the most impressive visual stylists working in cinema today. She has a sense of color, composition, and light that is both painterly and remarkably cinematic. Her framing and compositions are not quite epic, but they approach that feeling.

All in all, Beau Travail is truly a handsome work and one that I urge adventurous movie- lovers to seek out.

Elephant (2003)

No Whys or Wherefores

[10/10 · 23 July 2006]

Allow me to set the stage: The year was 1989--the year of Driving Miss Daisy, Dead Poets Society, and Field of Dreams. While not exactly a cultural wasteland (it was, after all, the year of My Left Foot and Born on the 4th of July), 1989 saw the independent young guns of the mid-1980s falter slightly (see Mystery Train, a slight disappointment after Down by Law and Stranger than Paradise) and left those who care wondering who would reign supreme over independent cinema? What would the year bring? Ultimately, it brought the great Drugstore Cowboy, heralding an interesting new voice in American cinema. All was well and good, I guess, but the honeymoon was over far too quickly. My Own Private Idaho was an excellent follow-up (no sophomore slump here boss!), but misgivings began with the unwatchable Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. Yes, To Die For is excellent, and Good Will Hunting has some nice, viscerally emotional moments, but Psycho (a nice, um, stab at some sort statement I guess but an unnecessary film) and Finding Forester (Good Will Hunting without emotional moments that ring true) are awful awful movies.

I apologize for the lengthy prologue, but one must understand the mindset I was living with when I saw Elephant. One must understand that I loved Gus Van Sant from an early age (too early an age: what mother lets their 12 year old son watch My Own Private Idaho) and one must understand that I felt, to a degree, betrayed by Van Sant starting with Good Will Hunting. That film had hints of insincerity--I didn't feel Van Sant's presence as much. Psycho and Finding Forester removed whatever vestiges of his film-making found in Good Will, creating in me the sense that Gus Van Sant had fallen prey to the body snatchers. He looked and sounded like Van Sant but his films were either awful or awful and maudlin.

I went to Elephant with high expectations (it won the Palme D'Or, after all, as well as the best director award at Cannes) and I was, perhaps, never more satisfied than I was seeing that film. It was beautifully photographed and wonderfully acted. It was harrowing too. It was everything I'd wanted Van Sant to achieve and, well, he did. It was an amazing feeling.

No single reason is given for the violence that takes place in the film's final act, though it could be argued all the standard reasons are given. The killers are ostracized youths who watch Nazi propaganda films, play violent video games, and might be gay. By including all of these characteristics, though, Van Sant refuses to point the finger at any single element. As the film makes clear, some of the other kids are coming from rather problematic upbringings (the kids with the drunk father or the clearly left-behind girl working in the library), but they don't kill anyone. Van Sant seems to be saying: "Look, this violence is a problem, but blaming the sexuality or hobbies of the murderous teens gets us nowhere." It's a brave statement and one that, in choosing not to explain actions, does us far more good than any movie that would try to explain away the reasons for a high school shooting. To explain the actions allows us to see the events as an isolated incident and not as a symptomatic occurrence of a certain cultural milieu. Elephant says "This is what happens now. This is who we are. We need to change it."

Beyond thematics, though, the film is photographed gorgeously, returning to some of the visual tendencies that marked Van Sant's earlier work. Everyone was screaming Bela Tarr this and Kiarostami that, which was accurate (this is a very calmly paced film with a lot of silence). However, Van Sant's style has always tended toward the minimal side of things. He rarely showed active camera-work in the style of Scorsese or De Palma; he was always more reserved (just look at the wonderful scenes of lovemaking in My Own Private Idaho). It was nice to see him return to his roots and abandon the lackluster photography found in his work from the late 1990s.

Elephant is a fantastic film. It is on par with Van Sant's greatest achievements and is one of the best films of this current decade.

The Last Days of Disco (1998)

There's something sexy about Scrooge McDuck.

[9/10 · 23 July 2006]

Like his first film, Metropolitan, Whit Stillman's The Last Days of Disco is about young, white kids from an upper middle-class background with a talent for witty repartee and intelligent conversation. More importantly, like Metropolitan, Last Days is also about group dynamic in the late 20th century. In other words, this engaging, and entertaining, film is an anthropological study of a certain subtype of human-being: WASPy disco dancers from the early 1980s.

As such, it should be reprehensible, right? I mean, didn't American Psycho set us straight on yuppie-dom? Well, evidently not, because Last Days of Disco is a wonderful achievement for a number of reasons.

First, there is the satire. Yes, the film likes its characters, but it is not above acknowledging their inadequacies. No one is entirely likable nor is anyone a clear cut bad guy. They're all vaguely reminiscent of college-educated adults in their early 20s: smart and funny but still occasionally mean and prone to bouts of foolish behavior. They're not great people but you can't hate them.

Second, there's the narrative style itself. It focuses, more or less, on Charlotte and Alice but involves their friends, acquaintances, and lovers as well. In doing this, characters will show up unexpectedly (like Charlotte and Alice's roommate) and disappear just as quickly. I like movies that acknowledge that they're concerned with a certain number of characters and regard everyone else as incidental. Minor characters in a film need not remain static. They can and should change from time to time, for such is life.

Third, Last Days of Disco is a paean to that danceable sound. For all the truck disco has been given over the years, it really was a remarkable period of music. Yes, there was a lot of garbage--as there is with any musical movement--but the amount of innovation that took place during the years of 1976-1980 is impressive. We continue to feel the effects of disco and are beginning to accept it as a viable musical outlet. One of the nice points made subtly by Last Days is that, in a sense, discotheques were Utopian communities at night where the Upper East Side WASPS danced next to (gasp!) blacks and gay men! The climate of the discos was accepting of people of all colors and sexual orientations. It's nice to have a film display this belief and show the disco movement its due credit.

As much as I love Last Days of Disco, I think it is nevertheless an acquired taste. The dialogue, which I find scintillating, grates on the ears of others. Like the films of Wes Anderson, Whit Stillman's movies are a little precious. I like them; not everyone does. If you like interesting, though arch, dialogue and well-constructed characters, I suggest this fantastic film to you.

Return of the Secaucus Seven (1980)

Charges Dropped

[7/10 · 23 July 2006]

I will be completely frank upfront: I hate the Big Chill. I think it's vapid and boring. The only reason people still watch that superficial piece of trash is because the actors in it are eminently watchable. Every time I flip past it on AMC, I groan. How dare it have two of the finest actors of the last 30 years (William Hurt and Jeff Goldblum)? How dare it have Kevin Kline? How dare it, because of these terrific actors, take over the place in cinematic history rightfully held, at one time, by Return of the Secaucus 7? Usurper!

Return of the Secaucus 7, the first film directed by Piranha scribe John Sayles, is a marvelous little gem that explores the lives of several friends and former radicals as they approach 30 and spend a weekend together in New Hampshire. There's not much plot to speak of, but there is a vibe. It's organic and lazy and real. I felt, watching this movie, that John Sayles set out to make a movie that mirrored a reunion weekend he once had with his friends: There was some barbecue, volleyball, and beer-drinking; there was some drama too but nothing, you know, major--minor spats and an unexpected sexual encounter or two but nothing much. That's basically the plot. Long segments revolve around montages of men sweatily playing basketball and men skinny- dipping. Shorter scenes occur in which characters have "deep" conversations. For the most part, though, there's some talk of politics, tales of olden times, and updates on what's happening now.

Frankly, it feels like when my friends and I get together for a weekend. Consequently, since so little happens, if you don't like the characters, you're unlikely to appreciate the film. I found the characters interesting, human, and imperfect, so I like both them and the film. Visually, Return is uninspiring, but that doesn't really matter because of the vibe these characters give off. I don't mind that nothing is resolved (well, nothing happened that needed to be resolved). I don't mind that the dialogue doesn't "pop" the way Tarantino's or Mamet's does (it doesn't need to--the movie's about real people and not caricatures of conmen and gangsters). I liked the characters and the way the movie felt. It has a genial attitude and a worn-in feel. Return of the Secaucus 7 is far from Sayles's greatest work, but it's a great start.

Assault on Precinct 13 (1976)

I'll Tell You Sometime

[10/10 · 23 July 2006]

A thoroughly obvious riff on Rio Bravo, Carpenter's Assault ratchets up the tension and creates, more or less, the template for all action movies. It's unfortunate too few films designed to thrill and excite follow the pattern.

This very lean urban western tells the tale of several Los Angelinos of various colors trapped in a police station under siege by a faceless, ethnically mixed street gang that practices, I think, a form of nihilism. Except that isn't the whole story, which is precisely why this film is terrific. The actual siege doesn't begin until at least halfway through the movie, and, up until that point, Carpenter spends his time establishing his characters and building suspense. Until, as I said, the halfway point, Carpenter tells three separate stories--Bishop and Leigh babysit a vacant precinct; Wilson and Wells are being transported; and a man and his daughter are trying to find grandma. Ultimately, of course, these tales merge into the siege, but it is a wonder to watch it all come together. As I said, Carpenter is taking quite a bit from Rio Bravo, but the editing--the way in which he mixes the stories together--is incredible and leaves you breathless from start to finish. It is an incredibly paced film--one to which others should look for inspiration.

Aside from the actual story telling, the framing and photography of the film is really superb. John Carpenter does not get the credit he deserves, I think, in these areas. He receives praise from all corners for his atmosphere and thrill-inducing direction, but no one comments on how amazing his films look (watch Escape from New York and tell me it's not gorgeously shot). Take, for instance, this film's shots of the gang members standing guard between two Do Not Enter signs or the framing of the scenes inside the precinct--they're so tight you cannot help but feel claustrophobic.

Most importantly, Assault on Precinct 13 shows Carpenter at his most Romero-esquire. This means that, though dealing with a very conventional genre, he infuses it with social criticism and concern. Like Romero's first two Living Dead flicks, the protagonists from the start are black and female and the most sympathetic white characters are either a sniveling wreck of a man who not only lost his daughter but became a murderer or a hardened criminal. There is definitely an us versus them theme going on in this film as well,but, notably, it's not black versus white or good versus bad. The good guys have a criminal among their ranks, for instance, and they're busy protecting a man, who, though justified, committed a crime. Given the post-Watergate/Vietnam era in which Carpenter filmed Assault, the moral ambiguity should not surprise anyone. Furthermore, that he doesn't proselytize and explain what's right and wrong--that he acknowledges that right and wrong can sometimes appear to be the same thing simultaneously--is to Carpenter's credit. Very few films are willing to reside, thematically, in such a grey area. It's a pleasure to see one that does.

Assault on Precinct 13--intelligent and exciting--is a high watermark for American adventure film-making. Find it, watch it, and behold its brilliance.

The Gospel According to St. Matthew (1964)

Gorgeous

[10/10 · 18 June 2006]

I finally made my acquaintance with Pasolini with this film the other night and only wish I had encountered him sooner. I also wish I had encountered a subtitled version of The Gospel According to Saint Matthew rather than the English dubbed version. So please, take these comments with a grain of salt--I turned the sound off half way through because it was impossible to take the movie seriously when the solemness of the visuals are juxtaposed with over-emoting, ham-bone voice talent.

The Gospel According to St. Matthew is as close to a brilliant cinematic adaptation of the New Testament's opening book as you're likely to find. The eloquence and beauty captured here are amazing, as are the performances by citizens leaving near the filming site--their faces carry more weight and emotion than those of top-flight actors--they're simply beautiful.

So is the photography and camera-work. The film has very languorous cinematography that likes to dwell upon the landscape, allowing you to take it in. The camera wants you to see all around, which is a striking aesthetic choice. Moreover, the camera-work has a spontaneity to it that makes the film feel more natural. At one point, the camera pans over the faces of a group of young men, then backtracks to show the face of one originally out of the frame. It's a brief moment, but I think it's entirely indicative of the placid, natural style to the film. It feels very organic.

The actors add to this sense of naturalism. Their faces are so expressive and so beatific that it's impossible to not be enthralled by them. This goes for everyone from Mary to Judas--and it especially goes for Irazoqui's Christ. I am not a Biblical scholar, but I have read the New Testament numerous times, and I can say that no performance of Jesus has ever approximated the man captured in the Bible's pages as well as Irazoqui's. He looks so calm, compassionate, and strong--it's the perfect combination. Moreover, his eyes beckon you and his demeanor comforts you. When he tells his future disciples to come follow him, "to learn how to catch men," toward the film's beginning, their immediate departure from their boats and netting makes perfect sense--you too would follow this man, as he exudes the sense of the Holy Spirit.

The Gospel According to Saint Matthew really is the best Biblical adaptation ever made. The Last Temptation of Christ represents an interesting take on the gospels and is a fairly strong film, and there's something admirable in the brutality of The Passion, but neither of those films come close to matching the beauty, artistry, and spirituality of this film. It's odd, then, that such a good, religious movie should have been made by a Marxist. I think, though, that Pasolini's atheism helped him create a very spiritual film: He respects Jesus for his ideals and for his revolutionary demeanor, but he refuses to avoid the contradictions inherent within the gospels. I've still never reconciled Jesus imploring you to love your neighbor/turn the other cheek with him describing himself as "coming with the sword" rather than with peace--and Pasolini doesn't change a thing. He lets Jesus, as he does in the New Testament, say all of this. This film is a major achievement by a director for whom I now have profound respect.

Secret Honor (1984)

People are into all sorts of weirdness nowadays

[10/10 · 11 June 2006]

During the late 1970s, Robert Altman started to get weird. 3 Women was wonderfully strange, and certainly more enigmatic than many of the films this maverick had released before, but nothing prepared me for the unhinged brilliance of Secret Honor when, thanks to Criterion, I was finally able to see it. I had become aware of the film sometime during high school, when I became obsessed, more or less simultaneously, with Richard Nixon, Philip Baker Hall, and Robert Altman. Obviously, then, Secret Honor would have to be some sort of Holy Grail for me.

When I finally saw it, my obsessions with Nixon and Hall had waned, but my Altman fixation had only grown. How did I find this film? I found it miraculous. I simply cannot believe how awesome a filmmaker Altman truly is. He's masterful with ensembles (see Gosford Park, Nashville, and Short Cuts), but here he shows himself king of the one- man show. Philip Baker Hall is magnetic as a fictionalized Richard Nixon and puts Anthony Hopkins's swell performance to shame. Hopkins may have gotten the syntax and speech patterns down, but Hall, and his thoroughly beaten physical demeanor, seems to embody Nixon more fully. Hall is a fantastic actor, but Altman must have been doing something right to pull this performance--which is tragic and absurd in equal measures--from anyone, no matter how talented. It's the perfect pitch to play the film, as playing Nixon with too much or too little pathos would have killed the movie.

The staging of Secret Honor is also a marvel. It takes place in one room, which instills a wonderful sense of claustrophobia, and this room is absolutely cluttered, it seems, by objects that haunt Nixon. It's an amazing design and fits the story perfectly.

Secret Honor rests among the greatest Altman films--McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Nashville, the Long Goodbye, 3 Women, and Short Cuts--because it's not only a terrific film but also because it shows how masterful Altman is with a range of styles. It's simply brilliant.

Short Cuts (1993)

What we talk about when we talk about love

[10/10 · 11 June 2006]

Dear Mr. Altman,

Short Cuts wasn't necessary. You'd already assured your place in cinematic history with a string of great films in the 1970s and some adventurous, stagy productions during the 1980s. You'd even staged a comeback of sorts with the bitingly funny The Player. You could have rested on your laurels. Instead, you made your most ambitious and rewarding film if not your greatest. I cannot tell you how many times I've promised myself I'd only watch half of it and then head to bed; I cannot tell you how many hours I've spent engrossed in the trials and tribulations faced by these various couplings and families over the course of a few days. Would I give any of those hours spent in the dark back? Never.

Sincerely,

Jason Forestein

Short Cuts is among my favorite Altman films (quite possibly my favorite) and among my favorite films of all time. It's three-plus hours unfold smoothly in an amazing display of editing and pacing. I've seen 80 minute movies that are interminable, yet I often want to start Short Cuts over as soon as it's finished. It's simply amazing on every level.

First, and foremost, there's Altman's direction, which is at the top of its form here. Yes, The Player is a fantastic satire (and really really funny), but Short Cuts has the subdued cinematography and jazzy editing we've come to expect from an Altman film. It also, of course, has the requisite layered conversations. Like Nashville, Short Cuts is the definition of an ensemble piece, where no character takes precedence over any other. There are, I think, more than 20 characters integral to the stories in one form or another and Altman has the unimaginable ability to give them all enough space to come to life. You do not feel that there is a single two-dimensional character in the bunch; that's a major achievement.

Then, you have amazing performances from the usual suspects (Time Robbins, Lily Tomlin, Jack Lemmon, and Robert Downey Jr.) as well as amazing performances from some soon-to-be household names (Lili Taylor, Frances McDormand, and Julianne Moore). This doesn't even count the wonderful turns from the criminally underrated Fred Ward, Tom Waits, Chris Penn, Peter Gallagher, and Matthew Modine. Huey Lewis even delivers a reputable performance. Like Gosford Park and Nashville, the ensemble is perfectly cast and they all perform above and beyond what is necessary. You expect a few duds (like, say, Robin Williams in Branagh's Hamlet); you don't expect perfect characterizations from everyone--especially when you have at least three musician- cum-actors.

The writing is also superb. Sure, Altman was working from stories by Raymond Carver (who you all should go out and read immediately), but the tales were not told by Carver in such an inter-related fashion. He wrote short story collections not connected short story collections. Thematically, his tales resonated with one another, but there was not the crossing-over that takes place here. Altman and Barhydt do a simply amazing job translating those tales to the screen (they also do a commendable job translating from the Pacific Northwest to Los Angeles).

Short Cuts is an ambitious film that, in the hands of a lesser director, would have likely lost its way. It's probably not perfect (is any film perfect?), but it comes as close to perfection as any film can. It's one of a kind and a film that has had its own effect on cinematic history (Magnolia and Crash crib, to a degree, from this film). It's a monumental achievement and beautiful and wonderful and I love it.

Game 6 (2005)

It's a big mess

[8/10 · 11 June 2006]

I'm particularly fond of Don Delillo's novels and especially enamored with his dialogue. He has a way of writing conversations that defy logic and coherency and yet are totally enthralling in their own enigmatic way. He can turn a descriptive phrase too, but his dialogue has been a source of pleasure for me for a long time. It's pretentious, I think, but not in any way that grates. It's just wonderful.

On a page, such pyrotechnics are superb. On the stage they fare less well (I'm not a fan of Delillo's dramatic works) and I was terrified how his writing style would translate to cinema. It doesn't, really, and I think I should probably not like this movie as much as I did. I should have hated it--the overt symbolism (the camera's dwelling on a sign that says Dead End for far too long at the beginning), the obvious structure (those interrupted cab rides), and the presence of Delillo's obsessions (baseball, disintegrating relationships, an airborne toxic event) all indicate an intelligent and literary man behind the scenes but they also point to someone who has, unfortunately, an all too great grasp of literary language rather than verbal language.

And yet...And yet I was totally enthralled with the dialogue. It certainly helps to have three actors as talented as Michael Keaton, Griffin Dunne, and Robert Downey, Jr. What's more-- those actors have often played characters who must save themselves with words rather than heroics. They're just the people to play characters in a Don Delillo story. As a result, the arch-ness of the dialogue is lessened. Yes, it's entirely unrealistic, but having seen these actors before, you know that's how they act--they talk and talk and talk. It's perfect casting (especially Griffin Dunne, who returns, sort of, to territory he encountered in After Hours).

There are also some pitch-perfect moments regarding baseball and baseball fan-dom. I enjoyed Fever Pitch, but Game 6 nails, as near as I can tell, the Red Sox obsession to a T. (Full disclosure: I'm a Yankees fan, so the pathology of a Red Sox fan is understood second hand.) Or maybe it nails the obsession with baseball in general--an obsession that I recognize in myself and my friends. I could understand the feeling that baseball was personal. It is, if you love it. I could understand Robert Downey's character when he talked about only watching highlights of the games because it killed him too much to sit through the up and downs of a game. It's excruciating to watch your team lose, moment by moment. It hurts less when it's been condensed into a one-minute segment. This film gets a lot of those aspects of being a baseball fan correct, and that was something to see.

As for everything else? Well, the exploration of other facets of Nicky's character are far from perfect. His relationships with his family are far less convincing than his relationship with the Red Sox (though his relationship with his daughter comes close). I found the movie worked much better in its second-half, when it really dwells on the relationship of baseball and Nicky's life. Baseball is life, as he says--well, it's his life. Juxtaposing the Sox's failures and his own worked well.

All in all, I thought the movie a minor major achievement. Delillo is a masterful literary artist, whose wonderful stories have great potential for the screen. He needs to rein in a few of his habits that are not exactly flattering before he'll write a cinematic masterpiece, though.

Dazed and Confused (1993)

The High Watermark of Teen-films

[9/10 · 21 May 2006]

When I was in high school during the late 1990s, I always wanted to watch this movie but was afraid people would automatically assume I got high were I to actually rent it. I finally watched it during my junior year with some friends who did "smoke mad reefer" and watch, you know, Cheech and Chong ad nauseum. A sucker for the 1960s and 1970s who constantly spun Pink Floyd's Meddle in his CD player, I immediately fell in love with this movie without realizing that it was, in fact, a brilliant film.

Initially, I thought that my worship of Dazed and Confused revolved around my adoration of the period. The film evoked a time period that I did not know firsthand and did so convincingly. For me, at first, it was like a time machine. Then I watched it again and again and again. I noticed how well-drawn the characters were. They were, to a degree, stereotypes, but they were given depth that you don't typically find in movies about adolescents. I also noticed how, really, the narrative style didn't match what I was accustomed to. There was a plot, sort of, or maybe there were many plots. There were so many plots, in fact, that the movie appears plot less. That blew me away. I had never seen a movie that so wholeheartedly avoided a traditional narrative style. I had seen Pulp Fiction and understood non-linear narrative, but this monstrosity of plotlessness was totally foreign to me. Like Linklater's Slacker, Dazed and Confused has an anthropological fascination with a time and place and sets about recreating that time and place.

Oh, and it's really funny. It doesn't surprise me that Linklater found some cross-over success with this movie. It has several good belly-laughs in addition to piquing the nostalgists' interest. If you've avoided this movie because you think it's a stoner flick or a typical teen movie in the vein of Porky's or American Pie, I heartily urge you to seek it out, especially now that Criterion is putting it out in a refurbished DVD package.

Slacker (1990)

That's okay, time doesn't exist

[9/10 · 21 May 2006]

Evidently, narratives in the early films of Richard Linklater don't exist either. Slacker is a meditative film that, though it has a very discernible forward momentum, lacks a discernible story. Slacker is concerned with a certain group of people in a certain place at a certain time. It's philosophical and an interesting satire of a particular sub-group wandering through a post-Reagan haze. These people are rootless and aimless; consequently, the narrative is as well. It's a perfect representation of form following function.

It's also incredibly anthropological. As I mentioned, the film has no pretensions of plot and is not really concerned with the lives of the people the camera encounters. It is more concerned with what they believe and how they act. A vignette is a large enough canvas on which to sketch the dimensions of these lives: the conspiracy theorists, the musicians, the artists, and the celebrity-obsessed can be made real with only a few minutes of our time. The multitude of people walking through this film give us a more complete sense of a time and place and type of person than could ever be achieved with a traditional narrative style. We see the variations on this type and the sub-types within the slacker sub-type itself. This film, though artful and amusing, would live on if it were not so well done--it's pitch-perfect rendition of Austin in the late-1980s and early 1990s depicts immaculately Generation X before it discovered the Internet and made something of themselves. It's a time-capsule of a film and should be watched for that reason.

It should also be watched because, frankly, it's terribly droll. It's not riotous and its humor doesn't grab you by the lapels (like Linklater's School of Rock), but it is subtly amusing and has a nice satirical edge to it. Linklater likes these characters and understands them, but he's not above nudging us in our ribs when they become too esoteric, too self-indulgent, or too inane.

Slacker is a great film and among the finest of the 1990s's independent revolution. Like Metropolitan or Pulp Fiction, it's a unique movie and one many people will enjoy.

Jubilee (1978)

Why don't you take up embroidery

[7/10 · 21 May 2006]

An utterly bizarre film to be sure, Jubilee is an anarchic take on history and science fiction that tells, simultaneously, of Queen Elizabeth I's reign and a dystopian England in 1977 where gangs of women roam the countryside.

Punk-SciFi would reach its apogee with Repo Man, but here's where it more or less starts: With Adam Ant and a host of nameless actors gallivanting about London in outrageous garb. It's an amateur production, I think, that lacks in acting and cinematography. Even the dystopian vision of the then-present, though squalid, lacks snap. Derek Jarman, the director, would go on to do greater, and more adventurous, work that this, most notably Blue.

So why an 7 out of 10? Because polish and anything more than a DIY sensibility would have ruined this film. What it lacks in technical ability (and it pretty much lacks entirely of technical ability), it makes up for in energy and spirit and ideas. In many ways, it reminds me of Night of the Living Dead--a rather amateur production that, despite technical faults, rises above its limitations and is entirely effective. It's not a great film, but it's an incredibly interesting one.

Jubilee is a cinematic experience unlike very few others. It's about as far from mainstream as one can get in non-avant garde English language film (no concessions are made to the middle of the road), so I cannot recommend this to everyone. If you want to see something different (are you a fan of Repo Man, for instance) and something rather unique, check the movie out.

PS You can also snobbishly remark that Sofia Coppola's upcoming Marie Antoinette is nothing but a rehash of most of the ideas put forth here, when it comes out later this year.

Xtro (1982)

Five Points for the Cover Art

[5/10 · 20 May 2006]

I fondly remember going to the movie store during my youth and always walking quickly by the horror section, stealing furtive glances at the boxes. I loved/feared those nightmare- inducing images of vampires and ghouls--it was, I think, a formative experience.

When I was in my teens, I often sought out these films, wanting to encounter the horror that undoubtedly lurked beneath the menacing packaging. I was so disappointed. These films-- Ghoulies, Critters, CHUD, and this one here--weren't terrifying; they didn't leave me anxious and paralyzed as Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Halloween did. They were just funny.

XTRO was soooooo bad. I can't even recall the plot, really, but I'll try and unwittingly combine it with other schlock I saw at the time: A kid's dad is abducted by aliens but returns a few years later, except it isn't his dad--it's an alien impersonating his dad! And that alien gives the kid powers for some reason. That's it. Oh, I'm sure other stuff happens, but you don't really watch this type of movie for the plot. You watch it for what's on the cover of the VHS cassette tape box.

I truly wish IMDb had an image of the picture I know, love, and cherish. It's a starscape backdrop replete with spacecraft. In the lower right, there's a young man with marvelous hair and a turtleneck. He looks mysterious, interesting. Behind him, jaws agape, is the bust of a terrifying monster from behind the stars. He's brown, has giant red eyes, nifty fangs, and drool. He looks a little like a housefly mated with a human skeleton. He's remarkable. Unfortunately, the beast in the film doesn't quite live up to his artistic rendering. Neither does the young man for that matter.

Do you like bad horror films from the 1980s? If so, you should see this. It's quite terrible, but it had nice artwork on its box. Now there's some photo of the alien on the DVD case and it's so totally lame.

The New World (2005)

Dinosaurs

[10/10 · 20 May 2006]

Terrence Malick is a dinosaur--the one holdover from that gilded era of American cinema, the 1970s. While audience have bore witness to the erosion of his contemporaries' artistry (seriously, when was the last time Coppola or Rafelson or Bogdonovich made a worthwhile flick?), Terrence has stayed true to his early ethos by continuing to create lyrical, beautifully photographed, and not-entirely-narrative films. Of course, it's easier to keep your edge when you've only made four films in 32 years.

The New World, though I don't yet think as highly of it as Badlands, is a great film and certainly on the same level as his other bona fide masterpiece, Days of Heaven (gosh, that his weakest film is the amazing The Thin Red Line is absurd, especially since it could have been the magnum opus of a lesser director). What I think is the film's greatest achievement is its ability to take figures that have become larger than life and make them real. In a sense, the film guts the mythology of Pocahontas but doesn't really give an un-idealized version of early colonial settlement--it simply doesn't give an idealized version of that time. Though it bemoans, to a degree, Pocahontas's "crossing over" from native to Englishwoman (the scenes of her first adopting European garb are very poignant and melancholy, I think), New World does not make out the Englishmen to be evil, invading monsters. They are well-meaning, but they're not necessarily heroes. They're real men with real faults. Malick has done a great service to the story of early Colonial times by not elevating it to the level of epic; it is a very simple story of a very important encounter told without, really, too much looking forward. We bring historical baggage to the film, but New World does not really bring baggage of its own. That's amazing.

The performances are wonderful with Kilcher and Bale the real standouts (Farell and Plummer are also excellent, but, let's be honest, at this point I expect that). Of course, it's tricky to judge a performance in a film by Terrence Malick, since much of the film's story is told through voice-over narration, but the faces of the actors he uses convey more emotions and thoughts than thousands of words could. In other words, if anyone could make a silent movie now, it would be Terrence Malick.

As expected, the photography is also immaculate. Watching New World reminds me of all those things I adore about the geography of this country. It will make you realize why the colonists looked to this land as a sort of Paradise and why it still is a gorgeous land.

New World will, I think, stand the test of time and be long remembered along side Malick's other masterpieces. It's a great film that lovers of cinema will enjoy. If you're looking for a rollicking adventure, though, you might want to go elsewhere.