Jane Eyre is not my favorite adaptation of Jane Eyre, nor is it a strictly faithful one. It relies heavily on its “literary” merits, demonstrated by passages of typed exposition that do not actually appear in the novel (though large parts of the dialogue do). Its 96 minutes necessitate gross cutting of major subplots. And at no time does anyone look remotely like they're outside, in England or anywhere else. But there is much to love about this version, and in many respects is beautifully done.
( Don't you agree it gives me the right to be masterful and abrupt? )

After Citizen Kane failed to reach audiences (for various reasons) in 1941, Orson Welles set out to make an even better film. Thus began the tortured pattern of Welles’ relationship with Hollywood, as he negotiated away final cut, had forty minutes removed without his consent, and was in South America on another project as an upbeat ending was tacked on. The film was The Magificent Ambersons, and as charming and tight a family drama as it remains, one cannot help but wonder what it would have been if it had remained in his hands.
( The magnificence of the Ambersons began in 1873 )

When it comes right down to it, the superhero as a concept is a troublesome being. Useful when s/he's under control, a benevolent para-law enforcement agent, exercising great responsibility over their great power. But in the end, we're still dealing with a group of people outside the law because there are no laws which can touch them, and precisely there to combat those villains the same laws can't touch either. Superman, for instance, is tolerated because everyone knows he's a boy scout who will do no wrong. But isn't it taking a lot on faith to assume that this godlike being isn't going to figure out that we're all inferior?

( Read more... )

It must be hard, being David Lynch's kid. Let alone one who wants to make movies. Jennifer Lynch's best chance was probably to do a 180° from her dad's stuff and leave all the weirdness behind. Instead, Boxing Helena is a mess of weirdness and pat symbolism that never goes beyond “um, ew” for the audience. That said... it's magnificent. It's so amazing that any review is beside the point, so you'll have to settle for an irreverent summary.

The fact of this movie alone assures its greatness, which is significantly diminished when one watches it. At the center is a plot about a brilliant doctor who confines the unreciprocating object of his desire (and one-time one-night stand) via a series of bizarre misogynist acts. Or, as I like to call it, Julian's Disease of Sweaty Obsession.
( WARNING: There is no way to review this film without spoiling it. )

Like most of my reviews, this one is behind the times. Even more so, I think, because of the critical reception this film got and the accusations of “backlash” one might feel inclined to make towards what I am about to say.

I did not like Juno.
( Read more... )

Rarely has ambiguity been so gorgeous. Innocence is, perhaps predictably, a French film made by people who, not so predictably, like David Lynch. Or at least the visual/sonic atmosphere of David Lynch. The film takes place almost entirely at a mysterious, sylvan school where girls from about 6 years old to puberty are secluded until release, like the butterflies so often evoked. The story, such as it is, opens with a new arrival being delivered in a coffin, greeted by the other girls, and inducted into their color-coded system: in each house, the youngest girl wears the red ribbons, the next youngest orange, and so on up. The adults seem to be there to serve and teach the girls; no punishments are meted, but an enormous stone wall blocks the outside from view.

Viewers expecting all this to coalesce into a narrative will be disappointed. It's more a study, and it might be unbearable if it were not one of the most beautifully photographed and sound designed films I've ever seen. Everything about it is aesthetically perfect, and yet, despite a suggestive quote and Lolita-like photo of a girl's legs on the DVD cover, non-exploitative. I was prepared for the rampant sexualization of the prepubescent girls (remembering Brooke Shields in Louis Malle's Pretty Baby) but amazingly, the camera is merely an observer, not a voyeur. This phenomenon is highlighted during an episode in which the girls are being watched, the contrast striking simply because the audience, for once, is not implicated. The difference is subtle, but plain, and that is an accomplishment in itself.

It's not that the school holds no threat, or that this idyllic life should be read as genuinely utopic. I kept waiting for the secret that would reveal the school for what it was, and while there were dark hints it never happened: the sinister feeling of the woods after dark, the strange concentration of nymph-like, but not nymphet, children, was chilling enough, not because of what lay outside the walls. My conclusion, for the film holds none, is that the state of innocence is sinister in itself, completely apart from what lies in store for the innocent once she is exposed to the real world. Perhaps it is not reality we should fear, but the attractive/creepy connotations of the blithe, childlike state. (I can see many other possibilities here, some more concrete than others, but the reading I mention is my current favorite.)

Whatever it is, unless you are willing to put in two hours for a payoff as unstructured as this, you will not enjoy the film. As narrative, which is what we all expect, it fails entirely and in fact judged on those merits has major structural problems. As a meditation, a visual event, it is breathtaking, and if you are willing to ask something different from your movie watching experience you should attempt to find your own meaning. And let me know.

This is not a proper review. I have too much invested in the subject matter for that, and there will be far too many screencaps. Be that as it may, I must bring your attention to a little-known tv-movie called A Dangerous Man: Lawrence After Arabia. A sort-of sequel to Lawrence of Arabia (obviously), it's an uninspiringly shot-and-directed look at the efforts T.E. Lawrence and Emir Feisal put forth at the Paris Peace Conference to put Lawrence's "chosen" Arabs in power in a Middle East already being torn into oil-rich chunks by France and Britain.

My history is pretty fuzzy, and the record as pertains to Lawrence is more complicated than I want to make the effort to interpret in relation to this film. What I find interesting about it is the relationship between Lawrence and Feisal, who in this film seems to be an amalgamation of Lawrence's Sherif Ali and Prince Feisal. They are political allies with a comrade-in-arms history, and the deep feeling between the two is palpable. What it lacks in plot, the film makes up in painting an interesting portrait of a friendship that is doomed to fail in the wake of the world events that threw the two together and now must take them apart. Siddig el Fadil (or Alexander Siddig, of Deep Space Nine and Syriana) plays Feisal with less intensity than Sherif and a lot more youth than Guinness. It's interesting to watch him and Lawrence attempt to outwit the much older, and much more powerful, heads of state they're up against. You know they don't have a chance--not just from history--and the stress of losing is compounded by Lawrence's increasing popularity.

And that's another aspect--the seeds of Lawrence's legend being sown and his own complicated relationship with it. Just like Peter O'Toole, this was Ralph Fiennes' first film and it's a perfect fit (though he's far too pretty). I can even forgive the several fourth-wall breaking scenes in which he recites passages of Seven Pillars of Wisdom to the camera, because of his delivery. A special favorite is his reaction to finding a naked, willing woman in his hotel room: Fiennes fails to stifle his nervous laughter at being presented with a situation he cannot handle, despite everything else he's capable of. O'Toole's Lawrence is a man who thinks he's a god who thinks he's a man; Fiennes' is more like a hero as frighteningly precocious boy whose armor has suddenly been rendered unhelpful.

It's not an illuminating film, and it doesn't explain Lawrence or Feisal or the murky politics of oil-driven colonialism. But there's something beautiful about it anyway, in the performances and the contradictions that drive the two men. I hope to be better able to articulate something about these films and how I feel about Lawrence (they are two different subjects, in the sense that I'm willing to appreciate both truth and legend) in the future, but right now I'm a bit overwhelmed and I'll have to settle for some very slightly moderated "squee."

And since a google search renders nothing but the cover, here are some photos taken of my VHS copy.
( dangerous! )

For most of Hollywood's output, the task of director falls to someone perhaps more aptly described as Entertainer, someone whose job it is to string together the elements of story into something a wide audience will enjoy. But There Will Be Blood reminds us of the great joy that can be had when a Director strings together these elements in service of the story first, audience to follow as they will.

I have enjoyed P. T. Anderson's previous films, but a certain perceived self-consciousness in his style kept me removed from them emotionally. Blood is devoid of many of his quirks which, enjoyable as they are, in their absence give this particular film a leaner, more “classic” style. Gone is the huge cast, the interweaving stories, the intertextual popular soundtrack. This is the story of one man, and a sociopath at that, playing unerringly by Daniel Day Lewis. (The one complaint I have about Lewis is that his cinematic reclusiveness, while perhaps refreshing in the sense that he is not overexposed, may in fact have had the same effect by overdetermining his presence in any film he's in.)

The cleanly-told story find parallels in Citizen Kane, Kane's inspiration Hurst, and the story of the West's activities in the Middle East. There's a moment where Plainview (Lewis) sells a small town (whose land is good for virtually nothing but goat-herding and oil) on his schemes by telling them that he's going to bring them education and roads, and I could not help but add “democracy” to his litany. Plainview is also, in a sense, the Devil, a view enforced by what I think is the most significant single shot in the film: a long take of Plainview's face, streaked with oil and blending into the black night behind him, as he watches his own derrick burn. The flames dance in his eyes as he seems to revel in the destruction even as it represents a loss, both financial and personal.

The film, as the above indicates, is beautifully shot. Nothing distracts from the desolate, 100 year old landscape. The soundtrack is bizarre and brilliant, and its seamless construction makes it a pity that, because it is not entirely original music, it cannot get Johnny Greenwood (Radiohead) nominated for an Oscar. The acting, too, is fantastic; Lewis is the obvious one here, but the revelation is Paul Dano as brothers Paul and Eli in a performance so committed and skillful it makes me wonder what the film would have been like without him, as it almost was. There are some child actors who do amazing jobs here as well, especially a baby who, in one long take on a train with Lewis, acts so perfectly I had to wonder if it was a puppet or something.

Like his other films, There Will Be Blood is about people it is difficult, if not impossible, to like, but Anderson pulls it off. I would argue that this one offers what I hope is a new era for him as a director, in which he will continue to succeed at doing this without the quirks which may have mitigated audience reaction in his previous films. It is starker than Magnolia or Boogie Nights, even if it is more beautiful. Films like this are expensive and time consuming to make, which is a pity, since it really makes me wonder what cinema might look like if more actual Directors were involved.

[Note: Because the first murder happens at the beginning, and we see who does it, I don’t believe I give much away in this piece. But you might want to skip this if you’re adverse to reading about a film before seeing it. My previous review also discusses plot, but it shorter and less in depth.]

Last night, I saw Peeping Tom on the big screen for the first time (the third time overall). It’s gotten better with every viewing. There were times last night when I almost cried, not from emotional involvement but from the sheer perfection of the scene I was watching. It’s the sort of movie which adds layers of meaning the more you know about it.

The story concerns a young man, Mark Lewis, who is a focus puller for a movie studio and in his spare time takes nudie pics for the underground trade. He’s also working on a “documentary,” part of which is actually the first scene of the film. He follows a prostitute to her room, filming her all the while, and kills her with the camera on her face. What follows is an obsessive look at his psychosis and the meaning of looking, including how that relates to filmmaking and viewing.

The film, though it came out the same year as Psycho, was buried under critics’ affront at the blatant identification of voyeurism and movie watching, not to mention a plot and characters that still seem heavily messed up today. Foremost is the “sympathetic” portrayal of the murderer. There is never any doubt that the main character is a serial killer. The suspense comes not from “who,” but “when.” And in the meantime, we get to know Mark (as well as we can) and essentially see all the action through his eyes and camera. For me at least, the suspense becomes "will they catch him... I hope not!"

Now, I’ve seen this film several times. And even knowing what was coming (as you do from the first five minutes of the film), I couldn’t help but like Mark. A lot. My reactions are suspect considering how hot I think Norman Bates is, but I don’t think there’s any doubt that Mark, like Peter Lorre in M, is an insidious sort of villain. The soft-spoken, pitiable kind. (The fact that Mark’s Austrian accent is totally inexplicable, considering that the character explicitly states he was born in his home in London leads me to wonder if Powell made that connection as well.) What’s more, I get swept up in downstairs neighbor Helen’s (Anna Massey, once married to Jeremy Brett by the way) attempts to get through to him, and touched by his refusal to hurt her. I love them together, despite everything.

There are a lot of comparisons on the web of Psycho and Peeping Tom, which is understandable considering their common year and themes. (I haven’t read them yet, because I wanted to get this out of my system first.) But I think there’s an important difference in the two characters. Norman never knows that he’s crazy. He’s almost completely blameless, aside from the cover-up of what he believes to be his mother’s crimes. Mark knows exactly what’s wrong with him. And while he is the result of systematic torture by his scientist father to make him into what he is today, the fact that he admits to being crazy, and knows why, removes that padding of victimhood from him. And it therefore makes our identification with him even more uncomfortable.

The other major difference, and I’m going to come out and say it, is that Peeping Tom is a much more complex, and far better, film. I love Psycho. But while it’s a forerunner of psychological horror, its psychology is facile. Most of Norman’s behavior has little to do, directly, with the explanation we’re given. So while Peeping Tom is far from realistic, it all makes sense in a way Psycho doesn’t. The famous shower delivers more thrills from a visceral standpoint. But Norman’s voyeurism, for instance, seems incidental as opposed to the foundation of his personality and insanity. There are endless chains of voyeuristic pleasure and condemnation in Peeping Tom which make it, in the end, a far more rewarding experience. And Mark’s complete understanding of what he is and why makes his helplessness in the face of his own psychosis all the more poignant.

All this is only enhanced by those layers I was talking about before. Like the one where Mark’s father, who used him in his studies of fear in children and voyeurism in general, is played in old films by Michael Powell, the director. Mark is played by Powell’s son. So we essentially have the creator of the film as the creator, both genetically and psychologically, of the “monster” in the film. Mark himself is in the film business. His victims all earn their living (and dying) by being looked at. The only people who “escape” his fatal gaze are Helen, who never seems to know what she’s seeing but is fascinated by him, and her blind mother who (of course) sees everything too clearly.

So was Powell, as some critics complained, condemning the film industry? In some way equating the voyeurism of the audience with the voyeurism of sexual deviants? I don’t think it’s that simple. To me, it seems like he’s having fun with the concept. He’s pointing out some extreme implications of our behavior, mapping Mark’s crazy onto a framework which allows for numerous meanings, but in the end he made his living in film. At least until the critical reaction to the sex and violence (and our complicity with such?) of this film ruined him. For me, the unease of this position between voyeuristic pleasure and deviance is what makes the film so shiveringly good. I like being held in that difficult state and I appreciate a film that can keep me there so long.

I’m not sure exactly why that is. But I’m not alone. And the alternative explanation is that I just dig hot, mild mannered, voyeuristic serial killers.

Ever since we watched Hedwig and the Angry Inch last Sunday, tkp's been announcing how much she loves it. Which is awesome, and makes me wish to address my own feelings about the film, which are so different from what they were when it came out.



( Hedwig and Me )

As one of those people who knows all the words to Sondheim’s 1979 musical, I was certain to hate the movie, even as I secretly hoped for the opposite. I had heard clips of Johnny Depp singing and it had incensed me, and I threw myself into repeated listens to the Len Cariou original cast recording. “Why are they compromising on voice?” I asked anyone who would listen. “It’s a musical!”

Because, as I found out last night, the mechanics of Depp’s vocal cords make no difference when a movie is this beautiful. I hardly noticed the little deficiencies of his and Helena Bonham Carter’s instruments in the thrill of seeing a movie of a musical I loved and loving it, too.

Burton’s London is a comic book inhabited by his personal avatars (Carter and Depp) looking strangely attractive despite their deathly pallor and moral decrepitude. For those who don’t know, Sweeney Todd concerns the return and revenge of a mild-mannered barber turned to bloodthirstiness by the machinations of a lustful judge, who sent him away on a trumped-up charge to gain access to Todd’s wife. He now holds Todd’s daughter, Johanna, in his house, and may have designs on her as well. Todd’s neighbor, Mrs. Lovett (Carter), is an unsuccessful meat pie seller who remembers Todd and aligns herself with him in a scheme to kill the judge and revitalize her pie shop. Oh, and they sing.

For those who fear the musical part, I should inform you that the music and lyrics are significantly darker than anything you’ve seen on screen. It’s not Mary Poppins up here. One song cut from the film includes the line “Lift your razor high, Sweeney/Hear it singing, ‘Yes!’/Sink it in the rosy skin/Of righteousness,” and Burton doesn’t shy from demonstrating what happens when you do so. Gallons of red blood suffuse the dim landscape of blacks, whites and blues. The design rides a fine line between realism and Burton’s characteristic style—very successfully, in my opinion. The supporting cast is excellent, young Johanna resembling a blonde Christina Ricci and Alan Rickman deliciously lecherous as Judge Turpin. Sacha Baron Cohen as Pirelli the rival barber is outrageously perfect as well.

What works about Sweeney Todd despite my prior reservations is that the actors on screen are arresting, no matter how they sound. The music alone could support worse, and the experience of watching Depp mitigates my problems with his singing. I wouldn’t, couldn’t listen to this soundtrack on its own. But in the course of the film I hardly noticed. Likewise the numerous cut songs, some of them among my favorites—I will allow it in the interest of finally seeing a good movie made of a musical I like. And this is a good movie, surprisingly so in my opinion. And I think that if musical geeks like me can get around our vocal dubiousness, non-musical fans might be able to get over their resistance to people singing their plans to one another. It won’t be all things to all people, but it’s an amazing accomplishment and I, for one, am happy to have been proven wrong.

Richard Matheson’s 1954 novella I Am Legend is one of the best stories I’ve read recently. It concerns the last man in a post-apocalyptic world which has been decimated by a vampire-like infection, but it deals with the details of his extraordinary yet mundane existence in such a gripping fashion I didn’t want it to end. So I was cautious about the new film version. I steeled myself for the changes, and consoled myself with the fact that the trailer looked good, even if it didn’t look like the book. That was fine, I thought. The transfer between mediums can excuse a lot.

The extra background info, for instance, might be a consideration for Hollywood audiences who don’t want to jump right into the post-apocalypse trope. Robert Neville’s dog, Sam(antha), gives Will Smith something to act against, essential if we’re to know him without the benefit of narration. And New York City in ruins is inherently interesting. The film could certainly have Hollywoodized things more than they did. Essentially, we watch a surprisingly good Smith wander around the city with his dog, stuck in an endless loop of video “rentals,” zombie-hunting and a futile search for a cure. He is the only one left, but he cannot give up. Because what else would he do? It is only when someone else does show up that we see how damaged Neville really is; how far apart he has grown from “humanity,” just like the creatures he hunts. What’s entertaining about the film (and book) are the little details of execution; Neville’s daily life, his rituals, the archived television broadcasts and clipped newspaper articles. Though I was disappointed to see that Hairspray is still on Broadway in 2009.

Now, this all sounds like I’m pretty happy with the film. And I was, until about ¾ of the way through. The minute Neville shouts that there is no God, that we did this to ourselves, I knew that the film was going to have to prove him wrong—no mainstream movie in America could get away with that sort of sentiment unpunished. Indeed, the film moves from being understandably updated from the book to being a complete repudiation of Matheson’s essential, and essentially dark, point. Neville is not a legend because he is a beacon of hope to guide humanity into some promised land; he is a legend to the inhuman creatures who seek to wipe him out. Hollywood has, for once, preserved enough of the original to make my sense of betrayal that much greater.

Because for an hour, I thought someone had gotten something right. And that little beacon of hope turned out to be less real than that which Neville offers humanity. It’s almost better when I know they’ve only stolen the title and don’t have to see the travesty.

In 1962, b-movie mogul and directorial impresario Roger Corman made a black and white “problem film” about, well... black and white. It is notable for two reasons: it tackled the tricky subject of a small town's reluctant school integration, and it starred one William Shatner.

( Yes. That William Shatner. )

I have a bad habit of reading books just before seeing the movies they’re made in to. It’s the perfect formula for disliking something—the comparison is almost never flattering. In the case of The Golden Compass, I hadn’t been blown away by the first book in the trilogy. Even so, the film is a mishmash of prettily illustrated Cliffs Notes; interesting as a companion, but incapable of standing on its own.
( Read more... )

I married into the PKD cult. It was more or less a requirement for our involvement, a love for We Can Build You. Combined with an instinctual hatred for Blade Runner. So it was interesting, on Saturday, to go see a new play about him and a screening of the aforementioned film in its new, “Final Cut” incarnation. The play is called 800 Words: The Transmigration of Philip K. Dick, written by Victoria Stewart and premiered here at the Live Girls theater (a dangerous name, seeing as it's a group committed to staging new works by women rather than to taking their tops off).

PKD died three months before Blade Runner came out, having only seen a few minutes of it. He didn't live to see the plethora of adaptations of his works, most of them atrocious, or to feel his influence. Or to see plays written about his final days and talking cat. If you think that last one would have been impossible, you don't know Dick.

The play is entertaining; it weaves one of Dick's ex-wives, an FBI agent, Stanislaw Lem, Sacha the cat, and a muse/seductress/other half who is by turns his dead twin Jane, an East Berlin communist, and a teenage drug dealer. The playwright knows a lot about him, and the stuff she gets wrong seems to be intentional. “History is not kind to Linda Ronstadt fans,” the playwright-as-actress tells Dick late in the play, after proving he's in a play by pointing out that the first act was accompanied by the Beatles, whom he hated. This being a play about Dick, reality is mutable and authorship in question.

Unfortunately, Stewart isn't as smart as Dick. I think the same would be true for nearly anyone—no one was better at adulterating our senses through mere words than Dick, and he is the only person I believe was qualified to write this play. Maybe Tom Stoppard. There are some touches of genius, however: the talking cat, played by a puppet and an actress dressed in black from head to toe, is a perfect commentator and companion for both the reclusive Dick and the audience, and knows more than she lets on. There is some nice play with theatrical conventions. But what should have been a gradual breakdown of reality until neither we nor Dick knows what's going on is more like a stab at revelation; the point seems to be that the character Dick knows he's in a play. It reads like one of the spate of new films which plays with meta-cinema but only coyly--I Heart Huckabees comes to mind.

The acting was variable, with the cat and Jane/Commie/Muse/Girl With Dark Hair as the standouts. Phil was excellent in some scenes, and generically manic in others. Then again, he's on stage the entire play and the part isn't simple. I thoroughly enjoyed it, since it was far better than I expected; but it could have been so much more.

After a run through Subway, we found ourselves in front of the enormous Cinerama screen downtown. Both Mr. Daroga and I had seen the film before, separately, and both hated it. It seemed, however, that if we were ever going to give it another chance, this was the time. And that turned out to be a good decision.

I enjoyed “The Final Cut” much, much more than the original film I saw. I don't remember enough of either the book or the other versions to honestly review its differences. In short, Blade Runner captures the atmosphere it should and in Rutger Hauer as Roy finds a heart. But it is a shallow reflection of a much larger work; my emotional involvement came wholly at the hands of the enemy android, whose performance lends him more sympathy than I suspect he was supposed to get. I'm not saying the film is unambiguous, but I'm not convinced Hauer was supposed to be quite that good. The new version seems seems to do a better job at drawing the subtle inference that anyone (hint hint) might be a replicant, and mercifully cuts out the pointless voiceovers. The music by Vangelis and Sean Young's shoulder pads are the only dated things about the film, so it holds up well.

It's just not PKD. The play is more true to his spirit, but there is no replacing him. Imitators beware.

For years, I considered the 1983 Hungarian tv-movie of Phantom of the Opera to be unavailable. I hadn’t exhausted every avenue, perhaps, but it had proven much more difficult to find than any of the others. This is for two reasons. One, that it is only available on DVD in PAL format.

Two, that it is very, very bad. Not even the good kind of bad; and it’s marred even further by the inclusion of some actual dialogue from Gaston Leroux, shoehorned into a completely unlike plot and character.
( the review )
( every photo here could be labled: YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG )

If you’ve been reading me for any length of time, you’ll have heard me rant about the dearth of decent science fiction film. There are lots of different kinds of science fiction novels; even television is doing okay. But how many movies are about people in extreme situations, rather than natural disasters or big aliens or nifty lasers? I still maintain that 28 Days Later is one of the best science fiction films of recent years, and luckily for me Danny Boyle is back with Sunshine.

It’s more “classically” science fiction, in the sense that I’m not going to get any arguments this time about whether it’s scifi or zombies. The plot is, in fact, almost absurdly simple: seven astronauts and scientists are traveling towards the sun with a payload that (the film remains cleverly vague about the details, which is always better than trying to blind us with lots of jargon) will reignite the dying star and temporarily relieve the permanent winter of the Earth. As always when you put humans in a small space with no chance of rescue, stuff happens. Bad stuff. There’s a failed mission from seven years ago! There’s a fire! There’s human error! And there’s a strange turn towards horror in the last act, which in my opinion was fairly unnecessary.

But that’s not really what you’re watching. What you’re watching is basically a feature-length exploration of Man’s timeless urge to look directly into the sun, despite certain destruction. Eyes abound here, from Cillian Murphy’s icy blues, to the psychologist’s shades surrounded by skin fried from his obsessive observation, to the round heat-shields of the ship itself, designed to stare constantly because blinking or looking away will spell death for the crew.

Of course there’s madness, and there’s a race against time. And it’s all artfully done, with a clear directorial hand. It’s not perfect, but it is impressive. Best of all, it’s thoughtful and entertaining without being obtuse, and the Transformers and War of the Worlds-style summer blockbuster has a viable alternative.

My biggest problem with Michael Moore Is that I agree with him. In principle. It is one thing to denounce the propaganda of the other side; a much more disagreeable task to have to decry the means being used to further the ends you support.

But perhaps this is where we should be especially vigilant, lest our efforts be put to use against us—are you listening, Mr. Moore?

I thought not.

Sicko is everything the anti-universal healthcare side could wish for. Over the years, Moore has only gotten more anecdotal and polemical with his films until we are faced with two hours of stories told by crying Americans and shiny, bouncy ex-pats taking advantage of their country of choice. It's not that I think he lied, necessary. You don't have to. But he doesn't tell the whole truth, either, or give sources or statistics. The issue of healthcare can stand the harsh light of reality. This is a murky, manipulative film that only provides ammunition against the very position it takes. And Moore's self-congratulatory "man of the people" shtick is wearing thin; cutting to your own reaction shot when an interviewee mentions "educated, confident" Americans, or running a boatload of 9/11 workers to Cuba to give that country some free publicity, is not clever.

This country needs health care reform, and making a film about it is commendable. But we already know it's an issue; what it needs now is a debate. With facts, comparisons, and valid (i.e. systematic and not anecdotal) evidence. How can you sit and listen to a man tell us that true democracy requires an informed populace and then refuse to offer anything approaching a balanced look at the issue? If you don't want us to be stupid, treat us like we're rational people and inform us. Because you're not convincing anyone smart enough to see the holes in your argument, and the people already on your side don't want to be seen next to you.

As you may recall from my review of 300, I found it to be unequivocally and unapologetically racist and homophobic. Now, I don't contend that anyone intended to make such a statement explicitly (except, perhaps, for Frank Miller--but that's another fish).

This morning I've been listening to back programs on BBC Radio 4, including this interview with director Zack Snyder. When asked about the issues I cited above, this is what he said:

It's not my intention to make a film that's upsetting to anyone.

Well, fine. It's an apology that's not an apology ("some of my best friends are Persians"), but not surprising. But here's more:

Francine Stock: Is there any historical basis for suggesting that Xerxes was dressed like some kind of bondage queen?

Snyder: No, there's none at all. As a matter of fact, I would say that part of the reason that we did that was, I mean, it's the way that Frank drew him, exactly, but it's also, for me, a way to stay away from the reality of the moment. And I would say that it's the same with the Spartans; it's not like the Spartans looked like that either. It was an attempt to kind of separate the movie from reality so as not to make a comment on those culturally sensitive issues. [emphasis mine]

This is an amazing example of doublespeak. "I'm using stereotypes to stress the fact that I don't believe them. Anyone who sees something offensive in that must be a racist homophobe themselves." Which is somewhat permissible in satire; Dave Chappelle, for example, deals in stereotypes of, say, racist bigots in order to make a statement about bigotry. Even if it's primarily humorous, and potentially offensive, there's a kernel there of social motivation.

But it's illogical to allow anyone trafficking in any stereotype leeway by saying they were using the stereotype because it's wrong. That's like putting a show on tv that has a blonde actress being stupid and getting in lots of trouble every week and then saying, "Oh, it's funny because it's not true" instead of "Oh, it's funny because she's blonde."

300 repeatedly portrays the enemy (as well as the less-useful ally) as effeminate, gay, or monstrous, without ever indicating that there is any possible subtext which would lead to Snyder's above remarks. It's not enough to tell us (or rather the limited audience who listens to him talk about his film) that your decisions mean the opposite of what we see on screen. We are not stupid, and subtext, satire, and wit are all appreciated and discernible when they're there. When you present something and your intent is the exact opposite of that thing's face value, there's something wrong with your reasoning. Irony, after all, requires the difference between explicit text and implicit meaning to be, well, understood by the audience. Nobody assumes the shark in Jaws is intended to be understood as the victim, after all.

In sum: THIS IS CAKETOWN!

The latest, and hopefully last, of the Hannibal Lecter movies is a triumph of marketing over character. Ever since The Silence of the Lambs, Thomas Harris has made a career of making over his accidentally ambiguous villain, rendered fascinating primarily by Anthony Hopkins’ performance and chemistry with Jodie Foster, into a stale anti-hero. What was a playful subtext in Lambs became ridiculously overt in Hannibal and starkly and uninterestingly un-mythologized in Hannibal Rising.

The film is constructed of moments which tease the audience about the mature killer to come; knowledge, and indeed some amount of worship, is required to make this film make sense. Not that it’s terribly complicated: war scavengers in WWII Lithuania eat his sister and he grows up into a sadistic cannibal. Naturally. Unfortunately, the film only uses this premise as license to be sadistic itself, rather than actually attempt to create a plausible backstory. And perhaps it is impossible, not to mention unadvisable, to try to explain a monster.

And sadistic the film is, not because it deals in cannibalism or revenge or gore, but because it does so gleefully, like Hannibal himself. And perhaps that’s why the film takes him as its hero—if we are to be implicated along with him, we will likewise be exonerated. The movie’s message is that Mankind did this to a boy who grew up to dish it back to Mankind; and the path that Hannibal’s later life follows does nothing to counter this view or tarnish his tragic anti-hero image.

My contention is not that Hannibal is not an interesting character, or is unworthy of our consideration as representative of something we, as a society, find endlessly fascinating. But Hannibal Rising deprives the character of his mystery, and has nothing on the original. It is one thing, after all, to read against the grain and find something attractive or heroic in the bad guy’s subtext, and quite another to take the text and shine all the ambiguity, all the fun of transgressive viewing, out of it. And for “transgressive,” read “fun.”

Hannibal Lecter, the character, is no fan of subtlety when it comes to his crimes. But in his tastes, he is a gourmet, and I can’t help but think he’d hate this movie. Then again, he likes to eat brains, so maybe he shouldn’t be our guide in these things. But it is altogether a different meal from Silence of the Lambs, and the fact that it is meant to be does not, in my opinion, excuse it. I didn’t want Silence of the Lambs Redux, but I’d have been much happier leaving it as my sole entrée into the mind of this particular killer.