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Battleship Pretension
The official blog of movie podcast Battleship Pretension.
2 - Skeleton Business, by Matt Warren
3 - Man Without a Plan, by Kyle Anderson
4 - To War Is Human, by Daniel Bergamini
5 - Must Be The Season, by Tyler Smith
6 - The Would-Be Oscar Contender, by Daniel Bergamini
7 - Guns and God, by Kyle Anderson
8 - A Tale of the Human Spirit, by Daniel Bergamini
9 - Hammer's Finest Hour, by Kyle Anderson
10 - I Have a Bad Feeling About This, by Daniel Bergamini
11 - Somebody Might Blow You A Kiss, by Kyle Anderson
12 - Scott Pilgrim vs. The Box Office, by Daniel Bergamini
13 - Who Was He? by Daniel Bergamini
14 - Catfish, by Daniel Bergamini
15 - Let Me In, by Daniel Bergamini
16 - The Oscar Nominated Live Action Shorts, by Josh Long
17 - The Oscar Nominated Animated Shorts, by Josh Long
18 - Does Pixar Get A Free Pass? by David Bax
19 - It's Horrible, by Tyler Smith
20 - Comic Melodies, by David Bax
21 - A Story That Can't Be Screwed Up, by Tyler Smith
22 - The Best of the Decade, by Tyler Smith
23 - The Best of the Decade, by David Bax
24 - Moore Hate, by Tyler Smith
25 - When Style Overwhelms Substance, by Tyler Smith
Ivan Reitman's career began with exuberant and vivacious celebrations of a male juvenilia that followed his characters humorously deep into what should have been adulthood. Meatballs, Stripes and Ghostbusters, along with searing the imprint of Bill Murray's id into popular culture, were broad precursors to the extended adolescence of Judd Apatow and his imitators. Of course, the success of those films pushed Reitman into long period of middle-of-the-road family comedies, with wildly varying success. So it's a pleasant surprise to see him taking on a story that involves actual grown-ups, even if it is, ultimately, a failure.
Ashton Kutcher's Adam and Natalie Portman's Emma may not have settled down in the traditional marriage-and-kids way by the time we catch up with them at the end of their 20s but they have jobs they take seriously, their Ozomatli posters have frames on them and they spend their weekend perusing the farmers' market. In fact, the one character who does refuse to grow up - Adam's dad, played by Kevin Kline as if he's doing Reitman a favor - is not a lovable scamp but a cautionary tale, a concrete and pitiful example of what Adam should absolutely try to avoid becoming.
No Strings Attached uses its R rating well, largely sidestepping crudeness in favor of the frank and unembarrassed way actual adults would talk about cunnilingus and menstruation (and a few things that have nothing to do with vaginas as well). Some of the best comedy in the movie comes from the unadorned performances of Greenberg's Greta Gerwig and Mindy Kaling ("The Office") as Emma's friends. They, along Lake Bell ("Children's Hospital"), in a winning performance, make up a trio of real, hilarious women that I would much rather watch a movie about than the one I got.
Sadly, apart from the elements outlined above, the rest of No Strings Attached consists of a bunch of cliches jostling uncomfortably against each other like a sack full of stray kittens. Portman's Emma is one of those women who's so driven and career-focused that she's terrible at relationships. In movies like this one, such women just need the scales to fall from their eyes. Their control and trust issues are only skin deep and can be shattered provided she meets a guy attractive, charming and persistent enough.
Kutcher's Adam is that guy and that's about all he is. Faced with the example of his father, he wants very much to be a good person. Which is lucky for him because he is. Problem solved! His friends are played by Jake Johnson and Ludacris, though it may not be correct to say Ludacris plays a character who is barely there and speaks only in one-liners that seem to have come out of a handbook. Johnson is provided with only slightly better opportunities but still has to be the horny roommate who does mushrooms and masturbates a lot.
Speaking of the roommate situation, perhaps the most exasperatingly worn-out cliché of the characters who seem to live in homes far out of their price range or the price ranges of almost everyone I've ever met. I'll allow Emma her apartment because, nice as it is, she does share it with three other people. Adam, on the other hand, lives in a house in the hills with his one roommate. Any chance of this being attributed to his rich father is dashed by his proudly insisting that he paid for his own car. Apparently, this lovely home is the reward for fiscal independence, even on the salary of a television writer's assistant.
The final nail in the coffin is the film's use of location. This is a spotless and up-to-date version of Los Angeles that would be recognizable only to those who can not only afford to live on the West side of Los Angeles but also have maids and assistants and therefore never have to venture beyond its borders. Certainly, that is not a tax bracket that includes industry bottom-rungers and medical students.
No Strings Attached is a better film than its premise and release date would suggest, but there is a point at which most everyone involved seems to have decided to coast the rest of the way on what they already had and what they already knew. 
It was slightly disturbing how much fun I had watching Hunger, director Steve McQueen’s grimmer-than-grim, fact-based interpretation of the 1981 Irish hunger strike to protest the political status of IRA members imprisoned in Northern Ireland. “Fun” maybe isn’t the first word you would associate with such a stone cold bummer of a film, but somewhere amid all the brutal prisoner abuse, body horror, and shit-smeared walls, the film helped me forget my own troubles, and, perversely, helped cheer me up. When people talk about film being an escapist art form, I guess what they usually mean is something fun and frothy involving Avatarism or Hogwarts or whatever. But sometimes something as miserablist as Hunger can be just as effective. While back in Utah to visit the family over Christmas, a cheerful outing to the ol’ ski hill quickly turned into a thrice-fractured shoulder, emergency surgery, and twenty thousand dollars of medical bills not covered by my insurance, which was due to be activated-I shit you not-THE VERY NEXT DAY following the 30 day waiting period for coverage for new employees at my new job. I know, I know. Boo fucking hoo. But there’s more. The day I flew home, my girlfriend was in a huge car wreck on the 405 and was spirited away via ambulance to Long Beach Memorial. I rushed directly from the airport to the hospital in my narcoticized, oxycodone-addled state to the hospital busted wing and all to find my best friend/life partner laying flat on a backboard, neckbrace on, face covered in blood (she was ultimately OK, thank God). Also, I broke my glasses and my cat was mildly sick for about a day and a half. So far, 2011 = total fucking clown party. Which is why it was such a relief to dial up Hunger on Netflix Watch Instant. Sometimes you watch a film for the right reason, like to educate yourself about important goings-on in recent world history, or to feel inspired by the depths of one man’s total devotion to a single cause, even at the expense of his own life. But other times you just wanna see somebody get their shit wrecked even harder than yours did. And in Hunger, protagonist Bobby Sands and his IRA cohorts get their shit wrecked wrecked. We’re talking brutal beatdowns at the hands of overstressed, ill-tempered prison guards. We’re talking damp, dirty jail cells caked in urine and feces. We’re talking indelicate anal cavity searches. We’re talking suicide via the most protracted, painful, and aesthetically upsetting means possible. Hunger depicts suffering with the kind of fetishistic detail not seen since Mel Gibson’s The Passion, which is why I found my response to it so odd, and maybe a little disturbing. Was it schadenfreude? Or was I just relieved that my situation wasn’t that bad. It’s comforting to know that, despite how profound your own psychic and physical pain may feel to you, you’re usually only scratching the surface of human misery. Maybe that’s why, as I sat in bed hunched over my laptop, Netflix open, unable to move even one inch for fear of sending tendrils of pain shooting through my entire body, I finally, for the first time since the accident, felt… OK. But maybe it was just the simple pleasures of watching a well-made movie. Cinema’s ability to distract is the primary component to its appeal. At this point in popular culture, the examination of entertainment’s narcotic-like effects is an entire sub-genre unto itself, turning up as the key plot point in both David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest and William Shatner’s TekWar, the two most important literary works of the last 25 years. Generally, these works take a reliably critical attitude toward the idea of turning off one’s consciousness in favor of being swept up in Entertainment’s loving, smothering embrace. But sometimes escapism is necessary as a survival mechanism. But conversely, the virtues of escapism have themselves become cliché. Think Jonathan Pryce’s fantastical flights of fancy in Terry Gilliam’s Brazil, or the imaginations of the young heroes (?) of Peter Jackson’s Heavenly Creatures. These films act as antidotes to kind of anti-entertainment paranoia on display in such techno-thrillers as Strange Days and 1995’s era-defining TekWar: The Movie, starring William Shatner. Neither Days nor Creatures end well for their protagonists, but each film illustrates what is beneficial about leaving your earthly worries behind in favor of immersive fantasy narratives. Both films are, at their core, movies about escapism. But what is escapism, and how does the term apply to Hunger? For most, a film’s escapist value is directly proportional to its ability to create an immersive, wholly-realized word as separate and distinct from the viewer’s own reality as possible. This is because most people’s lives are shitty and boring. Even people with awesome lives think that their lives are boring and shitty, and if they don’t, they usually have some sort of major personality disorder. This is why audiences generally prefer to spend time in places with names like Pandora, Middle Earth, and the Grid. Places without office parks or Buffalo Wild Wings. Places without Lady Footlocker. Places where every moment is thrilling and every action meaningful. This is usually what we mean by “escapism.” But if you’re like me (and probably like you, too, if you’ve read this far in an article on fucking Battleship Pretension), you’ve wasted the best years of your life and a huge chunk of your parents’ hard-earned/inherited money attaining a certain degree of film literacy. And once you reach a certain level of film literacy, an expertly crafted movie becomes its own kind of thrilling adventure, regardless of the content of the narrative. For most filmgoers, the enjoyment derived from a movie is based solely on the film’s ability to wow them through a handful of flashy, turbocharged action set pieces. But a film nerd delights in excellence in every discipline involved with filmmaking: acting, direction, sound, costumes, production design, etc. Some people get excited by explosions; I get excited by the texture of wallpaper on a well-built set. And Hunger is all about amazing textures. If you didn’t already know that director Steve McQueen came to film from the world of visual art, you may have guessed, given the film’s careful production design, framing, and lighting. One shot lingers on the wall of a prison cell covered is dried shit smeared into a spiral. A hose is turned on and, slowly, the shit flecks away to reveal the surface underneath. In other shot, prisoners empty their bedpans into under their doors into the hallway, flooding it with piss. The camera holds on the empty hallway. All at once, liquid pools under the row of doors and bubbles out into the hall, pools gradually connecting to cover the smooth concrete surface. Another shot later on reverses the process, with a lone custodian sweeping the hallway clean of pee. These moments are all about texture and surfaces, and are, for all their inherent ugliness, both beautiful and hypnotic. But what, you may ask, is the metaphorical significance of all this piss-and-shit business? Well, I could sit here and conjure up some pile about how it all represents the cleanliness of the soul transcending the limitations of the flesh or something, but I’d be a liar. I don’t know that any of it means anything. In a way, Hunger is a film less about protest and political struggle than it is a film about scabs and bruises. It’s a film about the moist center of the open sore and its dry, flaky outer ring. It’s interested in the body as architecture, as a structure on the verge of collapse. It’s not a biopic about Bobby Sands (Michael Fassbender in a fearless, Christian-Bale-in-The Machinist-esque turn that no doubt upset his mother very much), but rather a film about a group of desperate people who turned their bodies into a weapon simply by pressing the self-destruct button. In a recent episode of BP, Tyler and David discussed whether film is inherently a storytelling medium, or if it is simply the art of pairing sound and moving image, with its narrative capabilities being mostly incidental. I tend to favor the latter point of view, which is another reason why I found Hunger so resonate. I enjoy when filmmakers don’t try to fit difficult material into the sort of neat little story arcs advocated by screenwriting books like Save the Cat. It’s frighteningly easy to imagine a glossy, Miramax-style version of the Bobby Sands story, complete with a script by Akiva Goldsmith and a Best Supporting Actress turn by Gwyneth Paltrow’s Irish accent as Sands’ steadfast gal Friday on the outside. But McQueen’s film is not a Bobby Sands biopic. It’s an impressionistic portrait of events told through a series of highly stylized, stand-alone vignettes. It reminded me in ways of François Girard’s cubism-influenced Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould. There are long takes, flashbacks, dream sequences, and in-camera SFX sequences. There’s even one moment of unexpected and, for lack of a better word, awesome violence that wouldn’t feel out of place in something like Out of Sight or Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Like all great films, Hunger casts a spell. It was a spell powerful enough to transport my mind elsewhere and allow me to forget my problems. The destination may have been a cold, damp prison where terrible things were going on, but it was still somewhere I was relieved to be for 90 minutes. But I suppose the oxycodone didn’t hurt, either.
Of the five filmic collaborations between German auteur Werner Herzog and manic film star Klaus Kinski, three of them deal with egomaniacal men from a “civilized” country going into a wild, “uncivilized” country via a boat to tame the land, make their fortune, and become legends. Most critics and scholars name the first two of the three films, 1972’s Aguirre, the Wrath of God and 1982’s Fitzcarraldo, as companion pieces without much of a nod to the third of these, 1987’s Cobra Verde which would also be the last time Kinski and Herzog worked together. While it’s true that Cobra Verde is less technically remarkable than the other two, it is nevertheless the film that best exemplifies the director’s ongoing theme of a single man triumphing over adversity, only to be defeated by himself.
Kinski plays Francisco Manoel da Silva, a Brazilian rancher who has lost everything in a drought. Kinski was adept, especially when working with Herzog, at playing a number of different nationalities, even though a more German-looking man cannot be found. Reluctantly, he goes to work for a gold mining company, but when he discovers he is being cheated, he murders his boss and goes on the lam to start a life as an outlaw. He adopts the moniker “Cobra Verde” (or “green snake”) and becomes notorious as the most feared bandit in inland Brazil. During his nomadic life, he comes across and subdues an escaped slave, impressing wealthy sugar baron, Don Octavio Coutinho. Don Octavio hires da Silva to oversee the slaves on his plantation and da Silva then promptly impregnates all three of the baron’s young daughters. Outraged, Don Octavio confronts da Silva, only learning then that he is, indeed, the legendary Cobra Verde.
As punishment, the Don sends da Silva on an impossible to Africa to reopen the slave trade. The bandit knows he is likely to be killed, but decides to accept the task regardless. Once in Africa, da Silva negotiates with the murderous King Bossa for the use of his people as slaves. These negotiations work, miraculously, and soon the slave trade is again up and running. However, not long after, the King accuses da Silva of a number of inexplicable crimes, of which the bandit has no knowledge, and sentences him to death. Narrowly escaping, da Silva then trains an army of African women to overthrow the King and reclaim his stranglehold on the trafficking of people.
The alternate title for this film could easily be: When Life Gives You Lemons, Do Any and Every Terrible Thing You Can Think Of To Get Back At Life, though surely that wouldn’t have fit on a marquis. It is the story of an unsympathetic man doing unsympathetic things, and yet somehow gaining the audience’s sympathy by the end. In this way, the film falls totally in line with every collaboration between Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski. In each film, Kinski plays the title character and anti-hero of the piece and with the exception of Aguirre, where the character of Aguirre is totally and completely reprehensible, each of them are successful at evil deeds while still being tragic figures. Knowing anything about Klaus Kinski as a person and his penchant for flying off the handle into fits of uncontrollable rage, it’s a wonder A) that he could turn in anything resembling a sympathetic performance and B) that these movies got made at all. It speaks great volumes of Kinski as an actor, surely, but it speaks even greater to the patience and prowess of Herzog as a director.
Cobra Verde is the ultimate “Up By Your Bootstraps” picture. Kinski’s character at the beginning truly has nothing. He was once successful, or at least stable, but then loses his livelihood via an act of God. He then is forced to take a nothing, low-level job and is cheated by his employer at it, precipitating his greater success as a bandit. Indeed, the more deplorable the task, the better Cobra Verde seems to be in performing it. He single-handedly jumpstarts the dormant African slave trade with nothing but sheer will and endurance. Then, when his needs suit it, he trains a massive horde of women to be warriors to get back at the king who double-crossed him, and his supremely effective in doing that. It’s perversely captivating to watch him do horrible things so astonishingly well. The same can be said for Kinski himself. He seemed right at home playing some of the most deplorable characters in screen history (see my earlier review of Il Grande Silenzio) and yet he always brings a distinct individuality to them. As Herzog himself has often said, no one but Kinski could have played these roles.
It’s incredibly rare for people to know while it’s happening that they’re doing something for the last time. One always laments it in retrospect, thinking there should have been more fanfare or hoopla to commemorate such a moment. Such is arguably the case with Cobra Verde. Kinski passed away four years after completing the film, meaning we’d never get another Herzog/Kinski collabo, nor a proper sendoff. For a last movie together, it’s fairly unceremonious. Perhaps why it’s not regarded as highly as either Aguirre or Fitzcarraldo is that it does mostly just build on those earlier themes, and the quite awesome shot in Cobra Verde of all of those native African women in battle formation does, sadly, pale in comparison to Aguirre’s 360-degree shot around the raft and Fitzcarraldo’s pulling a steam ship over a mountain. It is pretty unremarkable, but that is precisely why it is remarkable. Instead of trying to outdo their previous work in terms of scope and visuals, Herzog rests the entirety of the action on his lead actor’s shoulders. He gives Kinski perhaps his most varied and interesting character. While not nearly as iconic as the others, Kinski has a much more realistic person to play, one whose delusions of grandeur reach only as far as his next battle. He is no longer “The Wrath of God,” but the wrath of man, one man, singular. For all his posturing and blustering, Francisco da Silva is just a simple creature who can’t even pull a boat into the water by himself. In Werner Herzog’s view, there’s no better metaphor for Klaus Kinski. 
However, after some thought, I realized I was not biased. The fact he is my favorite filmmaker just adds more evidence towards my argument. But as much as I would like to call Terrence Malick's The Thin Red Line the greatest film of all time, I do realize I cannot. I have not come close to seeing every film ever made, making that declaration not very accurate. That being said, I can confidently say that I truly believe this film is one of the greatest accomplishments in cinematic history, as well as being my favorite film of all time.
I have discussed previously on this blog whether or not Lawrence of Arabia is the greatest film ever made. While I still stand by my review, I have realized that while the film tells more about one human being than possibly any other film, it doesn't tell us much about humanity as a whole.
This is where Terrence Malick's greatest achievement, The Thin Red Line, comes in. His film, which is on an equally grand scale as Lawrence of Arabia, doesn't tell the story of one man, or even one group, rather, it tells the story of dozens of men and through its own success, tells us about humanity as a whole. While it is undoubtedly an anti-war film on the surface, the point it is making isn't a comment on war, but rather a comment on what it is to be human, and all the unanswerable questions we must ask ourselves.
Taking place during the second world war at the battle of Guadalcanal, it opens with Private Witt, played by James Caviezel, an AWOL American soldier living with the natives of the island. Just as we get to know this man, the film shifts focus to another soldier, and from there we are constantly moving perspectives. Unlike previous Malick films, the narration is not coming from one character, instead it is coming from almost every character we meet. While at times we will return to the perspective of someone we have already met, others we never see again.
During post-production, Malick instructed his editors to edit the film as if it was a river, and this is exactly how the film feels. It is constantly flowing, changing focus but always moving forward. In general, frequent change of perspective can leave a film feeling impersonal. This is something Malick has been accused of. That being said, with repeat viewings, I find it strange that anyone could feel this way about the film.
While I cannot write a review of The Thin Red Line without mentioning John Toll's stunningly beautiful cinematography, unlike many people I do not consider that the great accomplishment of the film. Since Malick's first feature, Badlands, he has proven his ability to capture beauty in just about any situation. As he continues to do this with seemingly no effort, it is the use of narration that Malick has been progressing and perfecting since his first film.
Unlikeable characters become human, side characters become fully fleshed out, all due to his masterful use of narration. We become fully immersed in these people, as we can relate to the feelings, questions and pain they feel. The example that best displays the power Malick has, is that of Private Bell, played by Ben Chaplin. He is one of the characters we spend the most time with, as he thinks of his wife back home, the love they feel for each other and whether or not he will one day return to her. Through flashbacks and reminiscent thoughts, we see the beauty and love between these two characters, and once Private Bell receives a letter from his wife requesting a divorce, we feel utterly devastated. No scene nor entire film has ever affected me as strongly as that short sequence does.
When The Thin Red Line was released, it was unfairly overshadowed by Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan, leaving Malick's masterpiece to be only remembered by film fans. It is possible general audiences do not have the patience to fully grasp the film as it is a film that not only deserves, but demands full concentration. To fully appreciate the film, one must fully give into the beauty on screen, the truth held in the dialogue and narration. I can safely say, if people were to turn off their cellphones, not check their emails or talk, and be enveloped by the film, all those other things will seem minuscule compared to the greatness that is The Thin Red Line. 
There are so many things wrong with Dominic Sena’s Season of the Witch, I literally don’t know how to start this article. Do I lead with the film’s thematic inconsistencies or do I opt to point out everything that’s artistically wrong with it? As I ponder this question, it occurs to me that I’m perhaps putting too much effort into this thing. Maybe I should take my cues from the phoned-in performance of Nicholas Cage and do only the absolute minimum, then put my efforts into things that matter more.
Ah, but then I wouldn’t be able to truly convey just how frustrating this film is.
Caution: Spoilers ahead!
Season of the Witch feels like a straight-to-DVD movie that somehow managed to get a Oscar-winning star attached. In doing so, the film immediately qualified for a theatrical release, but the studio seemed conflicted on where on the 2010 release schedule to put it. It certainly didn’t have the budget to compete with the usual summer blockbusters, nor did it have the artistic bona fides to be released in the fall. Originally scheduled for a March release, it quickly became clear that it would have been swallowed up by the Alice in Wonderland box office juggernaut. So, what to do? Nicholas Cage does not star in straight-to-DVD movies.
Finally, it became obvious what to do. Dump the film in early January 2011. There won’t be any competition from bigger budget films, and it might find an audience in those wanting a break from those depressing Oscar bait movies. Who knows? It could actually win the weekend before being immediately forgotten by audiences and critics alike.
I wouldn’t usually spend so much time talking about a film’s box office prospects, but I really want to stress just how much this film, by all standards, should never have been released in a theater. It just doesn’t feel right. The scale of the film, while not being particularly ambitious, is just a little too large for the obviously modest production budget.
The script has a specifically small screen feel to it, complete with a short running time, archetypical characters, and on-the-nose dialogue. The screenplay, however, is not wholly without ambition. The story of a crusading knight’s growing dissatisfaction with the church’s constant invocation of God in the midst of bloody massacres could be the stuff of well-funded, critic-approved films like Kingdom of Heaven or Agora. And the constant accusations of witchcraft brings the message to our own doorstep, where the Salem Witch Trials determined the tragic fate of countless young women.
The problem with the film’s damning commentary is that it doesn’t have the artistic conviction to carry it through. The primary story concerns a small group of men escorting an apparent witch to a monastery, where she is to stand trial for bringing plague to the land. Throughout the film, there is some nice ambiguity, as we ourselves doubt the evil of the accused young girl. She seems decent enough, causing most of the men to question the church's certainty of her supernatural abilities. Chief amongst the doubters is Nicholas Cage's character, whose loyalty to the church- both literally and philosophically- ended shortly after the slaughter of heathen women and children; as he is our protagonist, we take our cues from him. And, yet, she does seem surprisingly strong, and occasionally quite vicious. The "is she or isn't she" dynamic could have really been rewarding, if the filmmakers developed it further and continued it to the end.
Unfortunately, all ambiguity melts away by the end of the film, as the girl is revealed to, in fact, be possessed by a very powerful demon. Suddenly, the actions of the church in its rooting out of evil seems pretty rational. A bit overzealous, to be sure, but certainly warranted. After all, if there is a demon roaming the countryside, spreading a deadly plague everywhere it goes, one could say that any effort to kill said demon is justified. I'm reminded of a quote by C.S. Lewis, in which he says, "the reason we do not execute witches is that we do not believe there are such things. If we did-if we really thought that there were people going about who had sold themselves to the devil and received supernatural powers from him in return and were using these powers to kill their neighbours or drive them mad or bring bad weather-, surely we would all agree that if anyone deserved the death penalty, then these filthy quislings did."
For the briefest of moments, I found myself tempted to think that perhaps the filmmakers were trying to use this story- a tale of the pursuit of a few truly evil people resulting in the killing of thousands- to make a commentary on modern "holy wars," such as the War on Terror. Then, upon looking back on the film's complete lack of subtlety, I realized that I was giving the writer and director far too much credit. This is not an allegory. It is, first and foremost, a period thriller, using words like "witch" and "demon" to capitalize on exotic supernatural imagery. A bit of social commentary is thrown in- perhaps to make the writer feel as though he is doing something important- but is soon smothered by the commercial instincts of the director.
Much has been made in the last few years of Nicholas Cage's questionable choices. I used to think that these objections may be unfounded. But, then, of course, I never took the time to watch any of the movies in question. As far as I was concerned, Cage followed up his brilliant performance(s) in Adaptation with his junkie cop in Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans and his Adam West-like sociopath in Kick-Ass. I had not seen Knowing or Next or Bangkok Dangerous or The Wicker Man. But, now, I have seen Season of the Witch and I get it.
In this film, Nicholas Cage brings none of the charisma and life that he has to many of his best (and even some of his worst) roles. His delivery of the admittedly less-than-stellar dialogue betrays what I would suggest is a lack of faith in the material. He looks bored and, given the lack of dimensions of the character, I'd say he probably is bored. It is one thing to have opted to be in the film, but it is quite another to indicate your distaste for the role in your performance.
The supporting cast- lesser known though they may be- certainly does what they can to imbue their characters with something unique. Ron Perlman can always be counted on to, at the very least, have fun with any role, but, for me, the standout was Stephen Campbell Moore as the suspicious priest. As the church's official representative, we found ourselves immediately distrusting him, but Moore soon wins us over by refusing to judge the character. Though he is still given lines like, "We're going to need more holy water," his commitment is admirable.
I could go on, listing off the things that the film failed to do, but I won't. Because those are largely incidental. The most frustrating thing about Season of the Witch is that it actually had potential. In spite of a fairly low budget, it was directed by the man who made Swordfish and Gone in 60 Seconds; certainly not high art, but at least adequately made. It stars an actor whose commitment to making his characters distinct and interesting is his greatest talent. It has a very willing and eager supporting cast of actors clearly looking for the opportunity to turn in solid work. All in service of a story that could have been thrilling and suspenseful while also containing social commentary and satire.
Unfortunately, it was not to be. What could have been a modest thriller wound up being a forgettable collection of compromises. A supernatural shrug that should never have even been considered for a March release. Season of the Witch is, to its very core, the quintessential January movie. 
The first viewing of Mark Romanek's Never Let Me Go left me in my seat, emotionally wrecked. It was a truly unique movie-going experience -- as it is so rare for a film to have that sort of effect on me. While emotionally difficult, the film still left me with a certain joy as I knew I had just seen something brilliant and beautiful. It was this joy that prompted me to see the film once more, and it was during this second viewing of Never Let Me Go that I realized how truly special a film it is. The film, written by Alex Garland and based on the book by Kazuo Ishiguro of the same name, is part coming-of-age, sci-fi and period piece all wrapped into one. And while a film that mixes genres as Never Let Me Go does can often feel like a mess, Romanek manages to create a subtle devastating drama that never calls attention to itself. The subtle touch that sophomore director Romanek brings to the table is what makes the film work, it is also what will likely lead to a lack of attention come Oscar season. Upon release, the film did not reach the audience it deserved. It merely appeared and went away without much notice from mainstream audiences. This is a shame, yet, with the Oscar attention the film deserves, it could certainly have a new life on home video. Unfortunately, the film does not seem to have any chance this season. That being said, Never Let Me Go has many of the aspects that usually garner Academy attention. Had this film been released next year, it may have had a completely different release schedule as one of its leads, Andrew Garfield would have already become a huge star as the new Spider-man. It is not only Garfield that should have attracted more attention to this film, as the rest of the cast is filled with young rising stars, from Keira Knightly to Carey Mulligan. Each of these stars give incredibly mature performances. They are not showy or over-the-top. The actors do exactly what is needed from them, without ever going too far. The subtle touch and understanding of cinema that Mark Romanek shows as a director is truly incredible, as this is only his second film. With his first film, One Hour Photo, we saw a director who had yet to found his footing. With Never Let Me Go, we see Romanek completely mature as a filmmaker. With a beautiful score and gorgeous cinematography, almost every aspect of the film could be nominated for an Oscar. However, all these aspects combine into a very subtle piece of filmmaking, which, while emotionally devastating, is still never obvious. The story this film tells is one of friendship, love and the acceptance of death. It is also a story that is told in such a mature, understated way that any Oscar attention seems utterly unlikely. Romanek has crafted one of the most impressive features of the year, one that continues to haunt for weeks after. 
The image of a lone figure on horseback, riding with purpose through rough and rugged terrain is as indelible as it is cliché. A hundred western films have begun in this way and one can almost guess from the outset what the conflict will be. All American westerns are the same after all, aren’t they? Director Henry King’s The Bravados, a little-seen film from 1958, sought to shake up the tropes a little bit. Starring Gregory Peck as the aforementioned lone rider, The Bravados is a moralist western turned on its ear, a good-versus-evil story where not even the main character can tell who’s who. Revenge stories are predicated on the belief that the one seeking revenge is fully in the right. This film wonders what if he wasn’t, and would anyone care? The film opens with Gregory Peck riding up to the small town of Rio Arriba (or “River on High”) and is stopped by a Sheriff’s deputy who says the town’s been closed. The man claims he only wants to see the hanging that is scheduled for the next day. The deputy reluctantly lets him by, on the condition that he checks in his firearms. Upon, arrival, he draws the eye of literally every one of the townsfolk. Most of them assume he’s the hangman come to perform the execution of the band of knaves they have in the jail. He seems unwilling to give any details about himself to anyone, even the sheriff, and only says he’s been following the four men set to hang for six months and is happy the law is handling their disposal. One person, it turns out, does know this man: Josefa Velarde, played by a young and much less slappy Joan Collins. Josefa used to be in love with this stranger, whose name is Jim Douglas, a rancher. In a conversation with her, Douglas reveals that his wife was raped and murdered by four men matching the description of the men in jail cell, and that he’s been on their trail ever since, leaving his very young daughter at home with neighbors.
Finally, another man arrives and introduces himself as the hangman. The sheriff asks if he’d like to see the prisoners, which he declines, but Douglas asks if he might see them. The band of criminals is a very specific grouping: “two white men, a half-breed, and an Indian.” Douglas is let into the room and stands opposite the cell. The four men, who have already been shown to be irreverent to the last, get nervous when they stare back at the sullen and embittered face of Jim Douglas, though they claim never to have seen him. These scenes in the jail, in particular, are very well directed by Henry King, as the camera, standing in for Douglas’ POV, gets a good look at each of the men. Unlike later films by the likes of Sergio Leone, these extreme close-ups are not done in an overly-stylized way, but in as realistic a way as possible. This saddened man wants to look into the eyes of the men who’ve done him such a horrible wrong.
While there, the “half-breed,” (played by Lee Van Cleef) is informed that his mother and brother have arrived to see him, but he yells vehemently that he doesn’t want to see them. Immediately, this film attempts to humanize the criminals. Everyone, even a man condemned to swing from the gallows, has a mother. As I said, this is a very moralistic film, as well as a very religious one, which is what sets it apart. When Douglas leaves the jail, he accompanies Josefa to church for the evening mass. They pass by the town square, where workmen are still building the gallows, to an enormous Roman Catholic church. The interior of the church is as elaborate and decked in shiny metals as anything found in Rome. There is even a full children’s chorus singing in full ceremonial robes. Surely, this church is far too large for such a small Western town, but every seat is filled when the priest begins. The priest, too, recognizes Jim Douglas kneeling in the pew, but does not have the opportunity to speak to him. The priest begins his sermon by saying that gallows can cast a shadow even at night, but that they must all remember that even though the four outlaws have been condemned to death by man, they are still entitled to God’s forgiveness. It’s this sentiment which becomes so important later on in the film.
During mass, when everyone else is in the church, the hangman says he’d like to see the four outlaws. The hangman draws a knife and stabs the sheriff in the back, to which the sheriff draws his gun and fires, killing the hangman. The sheriff lies bleeding on the ground while the outlaws are able to get his keys and escape. They take as their hostage the local store owner’s daughter, who just happens to have left church for a moment to retrieve something. One of the men, Zachary (Stephen Boyd), is known to have a “weakness” for the ladies, and takes it upon himself to be in charge of the pretty young girl. Zachary is portrayed to be the most violent of the bunch, a trait that, to Douglas and the audience, makes him the likeliest candidate for actually perpetrating his wife’s rape and murder.
The sheriff staggers into the church to tell everyone the men have escaped and it sends the town into a frenzy. Every able-bodied man grabs a gun and a horse and gives chase. Josefa, too, goes along for really no other reason than to see to the girl’s safety. Everyone goes, except Jim Douglas who reasons they’ll be held up at the pass, where one man could easily defend the whole area, and he decides instead to go to the hotel and get a good night’s sleep first. Josefa is aghast. It’s this cold, calculated, methodical way of dealing with the tracking down of these men that makes Douglas such an interesting lead character. It’s not that he’s a callous individual; it’s that he just knows full well he’s going to catch them. Not a doubt in his mind. And so, he’d rather have a full night of sleeping before he begins his inevitable task.
In order to properly analyze the film, I’m going to have to talk about the ending of it. Anyone worried about spoilers, I would recommend stopping now, watching the movie on Netflix Instant Watch, and then coming back. I don’t feel that this will ruin your enjoyment of the movie, but I know some people are very particular about it.
So the next morning, Jim catches up to the posse of townsmen, exactly where he said they’d be, and begins his quest. At first the men are wary, and even fearful of Douglas’ involvement, saying he has no business helping them. He says, of course, he’s not doing it to help them. It’s the classic revenge line. Eventually, he gets the first member of the gang alone, Parral, the half-breed. He makes him toss his weapons down and shows him a picture of his wife in a pocket watch. Parral denies ever having seen the woman, being anywhere near Douglas’ ranch, and even ever having killed anyone. Douglas just gets angrier as he demands to know which of them actually performed the horrible deed, and finally Parral pleads, cries, for Douglas not to kill him, but the grief-stricken rancher shoots the man dead in cold blood. Rarely has an American western, especially one made in the ‘50s, depicted an act of murder perpetrated by the film’s “hero.” And certainly, even in the nihilistic Italian Westerns of the 1960s, when Clint Eastwood would routinely murder bad guys, they never begged for their life. Bad guys are bad guys, but not in this case.
Still no happier, Douglas goes after the next member of the band, Taylor played by Albert Salmi. He chases him down, hogties him, and strings him up by his feet. He is caught, 100%. The action fades away to the posse coming across Taylor’s body, still hanging by his feet, but dead. Douglas has killed another unarmed man. He is operating on nothing but blind hatred.
The remaining bandits, Zachary, the other white man, and Lujan, the Indian (played by Henry Silva and his face), come across the small cabin of a miner. They ask the miner for some food and coffee, which he agrees to, only because there’s a lady present. He asks where they’re headed and they say Rio Arriba, to which the miner replies they’re going in the wrong direction. The only thing the way they were headed is the Douglas ranch, four miles t’other way. The miner, knowing these men to be dangerous, decides to let them stay while he goes to work. Before he leaves, he takes something from a satchel and exits. Lujan sees it and says he must have taken something valuable. Zachary shoots the miner and instructs Lujan to retrieve whatever he took. Lujan finds that it’s a bag of gold. Zachary takes the opportunity to, we can assume, rape the young woman. We hear her screams and shrieks while Lujan sees the posse approaching. The bandits take off again, leaving the poor girl in the miner’s house.
Douglas finds the body of the miner, whom he identifies as his neighbor, and Josefa finds the girl inside the house. Douglas asks Josefa to go to his ranch and stay with his daughter while he and some of the other men go after the bandits again, finding that they must have crossed the border into Mexico. The deputy says they can’t cross since they have no jurisdiction, but Douglas continues on. He eventually finds Zachary at an eatery with a Mexican woman. One can only assume what he intends for the lady once they leave the establishment. Lucky for her, Douglas appears and confronts Zachary. He shows the man the picture of his wife and, like the others, Zachary claims never to have seen her before. Douglas draws and fires, but not before Zachary can draw his own pistol and fire a bullet, grazing the rancher’s arm. Lujan, who must have been in the john, comes in and then makes a run for it when Douglas sees him.
Lujan makes his way to a small farmhouse where a woman and little boy come out to greet him. He has made it home. However, Jim Douglas has made it there too. As he is about to shoot Lujan, Douglas is hit on the head by Lujan’s wife, knocking him cold. When he awakens, he finds Lujan holding his own gun on him and asking why he’s chased them all this way. Douglas shows him the pocket watch and tells him that his neighbor, the dead miner, told him that four men matching the description raped and murdered his wife while he was away and that he’d spent six months searching for them. Lujan assures Douglas that they have never been to his ranch, nor have they done any harm to his wife. Douglas then sees the bag of gold and knows it to be his own, taken from his house during the crime. Lujan says he took it from the miner. This realization causes Douglas great dismay. It was his own neighbor who had committed such a heinous act on his wife, all for a bag of money. He is then hit with the gravity of what he has done: killed three “innocent” men. He gets up and leaves Lujan in peace.
Douglas, now a broken man, heads back to Rio Arriba and goes into the enormous church. The priest, an old friend of his, approaches and asks what the problem is. He tells the priest the whole grisly story and that he is guilty of murder. The priest tries to calm him by saying he was part of an official posse and that they have the power of justice on their side, but he says it wasn’t for justice that he killed the men, but for revenge. The priest, again, says that everyone is entitled to God’s forgiveness. Josefa arrives with Jim’s daughter and the three exit the church only to be met with the entirety of the town applauding him and saying he’s done them a wondrous service by killing those evil men. Douglas says only that he is grateful for their praise and wishes only that they pray for him. He, Josefa, and the girl, walk off into the sunset.
This ending is truly what sets the film apart from other westerns. So many films in the genre depict white-hatted heroes killing black-hatted villains with no real examination of the toll that must take on their psyche. Indeed, rare is it that the death of a character, especially a “bad” character, is met with such remorse. Jim Douglas is the quintessential “God-fearing man,” but he had justified his crimes in his head to the point where he felt he was doing the work of God, only to find out he had been betrayed and sent astray by a friend who was now already dead. Doing bad for good reason is the cornerstone of the Western, as is doing bad for bad reasons, but this is an instance where the lead has done bad for NO reason. On top of it all, he is not met with shame or castigation from his peers, but with thunderous, hearty applause. To them, the ends have completely justified the means, and even the priest himself feels he’s probably done okay in the grand scheme of things. With Douglas’ final line, “Pray for me,” he proves that, in the world of The Bravados, there is only one true authority. 
British director Danny Boyle has made a career of making films that center around men pushed to their absolute limits. 127 Hours, his latest film, is no different. It tells the true story of Aron Ralston, the mountaineer who famously was forced to cut his own arm off to save his life. What makes 127 Hours such a cinematic accomplishment is Boyle's ability to focus on the strength of the human spirit without ever getting sentimental. Much noise was made about how difficult the film was to watch and sit through, amid stories of people fainting during screenings. After seeing the film with an audience, it is hard to believe these stories are true. The film is not the difficult, punishing piece of work that it was made out to be. In fact, I would go so far as to say it is one of the most entertaining films of the year. That may sound like Boyle has done a disservice to the material and to Ralston's horrible ordeal, however it is just the opposite.
The film opens with a kinetic energy that is strangely refreshing and shocking, as you do not expect it from a film of this nature. Boyle and his team of two directors of photography- Enrique Chediak and Anthony Dod Mantle- do a fantastic job of placing you in this beautiful but isolated place. It is the combination of editing, stylistic choices, and James Franco's performance that put us in the same mindset that Ralston was in before the incident occurred, and this pushes the film from good to great.
In an interview, Boyle talked about how his interpretation of Ralston's book was not that Ralston was a hero, but rather survived an ordeal by doing what anyone else would have to do. This interpretation is quite obvious in the film, as Franco's Ralston is not heroic, but survives by seeing the possibilities his life will have. Almost every one of Boyle's films have men who are pushed to their limits, and these films always leave you feeling inspired. It is not sentimentality or inappropriately joyful scenes, but rather Boyle's ability to find the strength of the human spirit within characters and situations.
127 Hours is one of those rare films that will leave an audience in their seats long into the credits as the essence of the film washes over them: a combination of energy, horror and inspiration.
Of course, we all know how the film will end, and what Aron must do in order to live longer than just a few more days, however it does not make the impact of the amputation scene or the rescue any less powerful.
The amputation scene, which is the thing that has garnered the film the most attention, is truly horrifying and punishing, however that is just one scene in a beautiful film. The scene may live in infamy, but I hope that people move past it and are willing to see this inspiring and beautiful film.
Certainly come Oscar season, the film will not enjoy the kind of success of Boyle's previous effort Slumdog Millionaire, however, in many ways, this film is far more deserving.
It takes a truly special director to come from such a surprise blockbuster as Millionaire and decide to make something so small. 127 Hours is no doubt one of the best films of the year, not to mention of Franco's and Boyle's. 
In the 1960s, there was no stopping the machine that was Britain’s Hammer Film Studios. They made genre films, specifically of the horror variety. They churned out nine Dracula movies, seven Frankenstein movies, a handful of Mummy movies, and one-offs featuring werewolves, zombies, and even reptile people. While the bulk of their output fell into the gothic realm, with lavish sets, tight corsets, and long capes, they occasionally dipped into the offshoots of suspense, occult, and sci-fi. The 1968 film, Quatermass and the Pit, ties all three of those together into what is probably one of the best examples of smart, British science fiction ever made. The film was based on the third season of the popular "Quatermass" television series, concerning the adventures of rocket scientist Bernard Quatermass as he works to thwart alien menaces. Hammer had already made the first two seasons into films in the ‘50s with The Quatermass Xperiment, (1955) and its aptly titled sequel, Quatermass 2, (1957). American tough-guy actor Brian Donlevy was hired to play Professor Quatermass in the first two films in an attempt to make them play better in America, where they were titled The Creeping Unknown, and Enemy From Space, respectively. The author of the TV series, Nigel Kneale, absolutely hated these films and thought that Donlevy in particular was guilty of turning his quiet, thoughtful protagonist into a loud, boorish thug, which is code for “American.” A decade later, when Hammer finally decided to make Quatermass and the Pit, (U.S. title: Five Million Years to Earth) Kneale wanted to ensure the film stuck more closely to his original intent and wrote the screenplay himself. Donlevy was replaced by Scottish character actor Andrew Keir, who lends Quatermass a great deal more believability.
Directed by one of Hammer’s three resident directors, Roy Ward Baker, Quatermass and the Pit, opens with a work crew building an extension to the London Underground in Hobbs End, where they dig up skeletal remains. Paleontologist Dr. Matthew Roney (James Donald) is called in and deduces that the bones come from an ape man, probably around five million years ago, more ancient than any known ancestral humans. One of Roney’s team discovers a huge metallic object under the ground and, believing it to be an unexploded Nazi missile, they call in the army bomb disposal unit. Elsewhere, Professor Quatermass is more than a little displeased when he learns that his planned experiment to colonize the moon has been turned over to the military and is even further put off when he finds that Colonel Breen (Julian Glover) has official been assigned to his Experimental Rocket Group. Before much of an argument can take place, Breen is called in to assist with the bomb disposal and Quatermass tags along. Further digging reveals the object to be hollow, and inside are the remains of a second apeman, meaning the “bomb” must also be around five million years old.
Right away, the mystery is building and as of this point, there has been nothing “horrific” onscreen. Good science fiction is about ideas and the action or terror comes from them, not the other way around. When the alien itself is finally revealed, it’s as a function of the story and not for shock value alone. Quatermass does some investigating of the area of Hobbs End, remarking that “hob” is an old name for the Devil. He finds that through the centuries, Hobbs End has been plagued by reports of haunting and other spectral activities. With this, the film begins to bring together the worlds of horror and science fiction. The more that is learned about the ancient alien creatures, with their horn-like antennae, the more we discover that they were the catalyst for demonic and satanic mythology. Something British science fiction is known for is giving a scientific explanation for horror events and this film goes even further by giving an extraterrestrial cause for humanity’s fears and, indeed, their very existence.
It’s pretty clear from this film that Nigel Kneale had a definite dislike of the military, as Colonel Breen is depicted throughout as pigheaded and shortsighted. It’s the warmongers that get in the way of true discovery. Still, I think the film succeeds in presenting that side’s point of view in, at the very least, a respectable way. Breen, while a moron, does truly believe he’s acting for the good of the British people, albeit at the expense of learning and understanding. On the other hand, Quatermass and Roney, who we’re meant to side with, also believe they’re acting in the best interest of the people and they too are to a degree mistaken. Perhaps, then, we are meant to take from this film and others like it that it’s only when brain and brawn work together that anything substantial can be achieved, but it seems an unlikely prospect even outside of the parameters of the film.
Part of the charm of Hammer films is their sometimes laughably low budget special effects. The blood is usually Dayglow pink and the creature makeup, while elaborate, is painfully obviously caked on. Quatermass and the Pit, luckily, does not suffer too much from this. The aliens are depicted mainly as specters and things that zig and zag quickly across the frame making any seams or strings far less noticeable. The film also benefits from having a strong script being delivered by a fantastic cast, anchored by Andrew Keir’s grounded portrayal of the title character. For movies like this, the lead needs to play it as straight as possible and Keir, a veteran of these kinds of films, truly shines, as does his excellent beard, which looks like it would go on forever if not bound by the restrictions of his face.
Quatermass and the Pit, stands as one of Hammer’s finest hours and an excellent science fiction film. An influential one at that; Stephen King and John Carpenter have both cited the film as having a huge impact on their work, and its importance to TV shows like “The X-Files,” “Doctor Who,” and “Fringe” cannot be overstated. The film is hard to find these days as the Region 1 DVD has fallen out of print, but it can be seen semi-regularly on Turner Classic Movies or in the form of a bootleg like yours truly purchased off of Ebay. It’s a movie so worth seeing, it warrants breaking piracy laws. 
Since elementary school I have been obsessed with film, but there has always been one film series that brought my bona fides as a film fan into some question: Star Wars. It is not that I disliked the films but rather for some unknown reason I never saw them.
It is fair to say that most kids would have seen the films from their parents showing them, however mine never did. They opted for the Indiana Jones trilogy. I'm not sure what it says about my parents, but, for me, it was the Jones films that captured my imagination while Star Wars remained a series of films I knew only due to the prequels.
As I got older and began to realize Star Wars' importance in pop culture, I decided I wanted to experience the films correctly. But years passed and no screenings ever took place in my local cinemas, so I finally gave in and watched A New Hope for the first time. After watching this film, knowing that it is one of the most beloved films of all time, I almost felt guilty for not liking it. While I certainly did not hate it by any stretch, I simply did not feel the magic that millions of others have and still do feel for it.
Immediately after the credits began to roll the fact that I did not connect with the film started to bother me. What was a mediocre film to me was a revolutionary film experience for others, and I wish I could have shared this feeling. What kept me from enjoying the same passion that so many others felt for the film? Has it aged too fast; or was it hyped into oblivion? I do not think that either of those are the case, but rather maybe because I lost my chance to fall in love with this universe.
As a kid seeing this film would have been both breathtaking and revolutionary, but as an young adult it came off as mediocre and stale. It wasn't the visuals, which even today still look great. In fact, they have aged considerably less than the prequels. The hype did not affect my experience either, as I have sat through both Citizen Kane and Lawrence of Arabia recently and neither of those were effected by the hype. Rather, the problem appears to have been that, by this time, through secondary sources, I have seen all these scenes before; heard all these references again and again, without truly understanding them.
As much as I wanted to enjoy this film and be taken into the world it created, I just couldn't. Certain aspects of the film I loved, such as the Han Solo and Chewbacca characters, but overall it just did not click for me. I found myself more interested in the influences that Lucas had when making A New Hope. From Akira Kurosawa to westerns to Lawrence of Arabia and 50s war films, all of these are obviously huge influences on Lucas and, as a film fan, it is fun to spot them, however that did not equal to a enjoyable experience.
George Lucas' Star Wars is the first film I reviewed where I consciously took into account not offending the fans. I did this not from fear of backlash but rather from understanding the affection that people have for this film. I cannot say how I feel about the trilogy as a whole, as I have yet to view the two others, but I wanted to give my impressions of A New Hope without being tainted by the other two films.
I certainly wish I could have fallen for Star Wars, but I would have needed a child's eyes. Watching it as a young adult, 30 years after the fact, the magic was gone. 
Fade in on a pair of legs running down a dark, desolate highway. They belong to a woman wearing naught but raincoat, trying desperately to flag down a passing automobile. The film’s soundtrack kicks in almost immediately with sharp bursts of horns, signifying excitement and danger. Finally, the woman gets brash and stands in the middle of the road as a white convertible approaches. The car swerves to miss her and ends up in a bush off the shoulder. The man inside is less than pleased about being forced off the road, but almost immediately, and, it seems, against his better judgment, he tells the woman to get in the car. As they drive down the almost pitch-black highway, the credits begin to roll, inverted and coming from the top of the screen, accompanied by the sounds of Nat King Cole on the radio and the woman panting/sobbing in the passenger seat.
This begins Robert Aldrich’s 1955 film, Kiss Me Deadly, an unconventional Film Noir even by Film Noir’s already boundary-pushing standards. The film was independently funded and the opening crawl tells us that Aldrich not only directed the film but produced it, a ceremonial title meaning he had complete creative control, and it shows. Kiss Me Deadly, is a master class in direction and camera techniques. For being such a small film, one can find its influence in much higher-profile outings like David Lynch’s Lost Highway, and even Orson Welles’ masterpiece, Touch of Evil. Aldrich’s film, however, is not a pastiche of Noir tropes, at this point in time, it’s cutting edge. Stark shadows, tracking shots, and low-angles are all considered used here to great cinematic effect. Filmed on a budget of $410,000 over a period of less than a month, Kiss Me Deadly, is a down-and-dirty movie befitting the characters it depicts.
Back in the car after the credits have subsided, we learn tiny bits about the girl and why she’s running. A police checkpoint is asking if anyone has seen a woman in a raincoat who escaped from a mental hospital earlier. The man in the car says he hasn’t seen anyone and his “wife” had been sleeping, which leads to the police waving them on. Only four minutes into the movie, we know exactly what kind of man we’re dealing with, though we still don’t know his name or who he is. He’s a tough guy all right, but with a soft spot and eagerness to help damsels in distress. This is emblematic of almost all Noir heroes, especially in the hard-boiled detective sub-genre. In fact, as is always the case, it’s this weakness that will ultimately lead to his downfall.
The man finds out the girl’s name is Christina, named after the poet Christina Rosetti, and she tells him that if they get to the bus station, he can forget her, but if they don’t, she says, “Remember Me.” These two words hold the key to all that follows. Her warning is strangely prophetic as they are again forced off the road and three men, only seen from the knees down, capture them while Christina screams. A fade shows Christina’s legs dangling and kicking as she screams. The man in the car is in and out of consciousness, but can eventually make out that Christina has been killed, tortured too hard. They are put back in the man’s car and pushed off a cliff to a fiery end. But, of course, the man doesn’t die. Someone’s got to solve this perplexing predicament. After he wakes up from his coma, he is questioned by the Feds and it is here for the first time that we truly know who he is, not through his own words, but from the agents themselves. He’s Mike Hammer, private detective, usually in the employ of jealous spouses looking to catch each other in the act. For cheating men, Hammer makes his secretary-girlfriend Velda spends some time with them, and for cheating women, Hammer himself does the dirty work. Hammer won’t talk to the FBI, and they have nothing for contempt for this “bedroom dick,” so they send him away. His friend at the police station, Lt. Pat Murphy, wants some answers too, but Mike is again unforthcoming; obviously he’s going to figure this one out on his own. Murphy has his P.I. license revoked and his gun taken away in hopes of stopping him, but even that doesn’t stop him.
From this, we know Mike Hammer as the typical pulp-Noir hero, someone who is immensely gifted at solving crimes, but has for one reason or another taken to doing sleazy, simple work. Pulp heroes had their own moral code, not unlike the heroes from Hollywood Westerns, the difference being they usually have no qualms about doing rather unseemly things to get to the truth. They’re knights, but their shining armor is grimy; they’re cowboys, but their white hats are soiled. Hammer in particular is a murky sort of protagonist. Created by paperback novelist Mickey Spillane in 1947, Mike Hammer is perhaps the pulpiest of all the hard-boiled detectives. While Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe are gruff and cynical, Mike Hammer is often brutally violent, misogynistic, and filled with a genuine rage that Hammett and Chandler’s heroes never possessed. In this film, Hammer is portrayed by Ralph Meeker who plays him with the right mixture of menace and sympathy. On a dime, Meeker can switch from smiling to snarling and it definitely adds to the characterization. Hammer gets his answers whether he asks nicely or smacks somebody around a little for it.
There’s a wonderful scene in the middle of the film where Hammer is walking down the sidewalk and a shady man begins to follow him. Mike keeps veering off to casually get a better look at this man, buying a bag of popcorn and checking his hair in a mirror, all the while keeping one eye on this character. Finally, the man pulls a switchblade and Hammer spins around and pelts him in the eye with the popcorn. In a flash, Hammer has the man’s arm pinned behind his back and orders him to drop the knife and when the man complies, the P.I. hurls a few strong punches at his face, eventually grabbing the unknown assailant by the lapels and slamming the back of his head against the side of a brick building a number of times. When this doesn’t stop the man, Hammer tosses him down an incredibly long, stone staircase. He never once asks who this man is or why he’s trying to kill him, but instead seems gleefully uninterested in answers and revels in beating the tar out of him. In a movie where the lead character is never seen holding a gun, he proves himself an extremely dangerous sort of fellow, the quintessential hard-man.
As Hammer’s investigation leads him through the twisty underbelly of Christina’s past, he learns that everyone is after a mysterious object, referred to several times as “The Great Whatsit.” Hitchcock coined the term “MacGuffin” to describe the mechanical element that drives the plot forward. It’s not particularly important what the MacGuffin is or if the audience fully understands it, it needs to merely exist for the characters to have something to seek. In Film Noir, the MacGuffin tends to be a piece of stolen merchandise or a missing person, something to look for while the main character is encountering the world of night. The story, after all, is about the protagonist’s journey rather than the artifact itself. Kiss Me Deadly takes this idea a step further and makes The Great Whatsit something no one understands and are only given a vague idea of where it came from, but when it appears, it immediately signifies danger. Aldrich does a wonderful job of depicting it and, without giving too much away, creates the precursor to films like Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Pulp Fiction. The finale, while perfectly set up in the story, seems like it comes right out of a science fiction film rather than a crime thriller and this is what makes Kiss Me Deadly so important and cutting-edge.
When all is said and done, the star of Kiss Me Deadly is Robert Aldrich. His camera is always where it needs to be, yet it always seems like a surprise. Few directors in the late-Noir period were able to do interesting things with the format and in that regard this film ranks with Kubrick’s The Killing made the following year. The sheer strangeness of Kiss Me Deadly is one reason the film is not better known, though it should be. Many times, Aldrich bucks convention to create further intrigue, like introducing villains by their shoes and only later on matching those shoes with a face. He also depicts much of the violence off camera accompanied by blood-curdling screams and we’re only left to wonder exactly what Mike Hammer did to a bad guy. In every aspect, Kiss Me Deadly delivers innovation where lesser films would have stuck to the norm. This is an example of the crime film transcending mere sensationalism and moving to true art. 
As unlikely a film Edgar Wright's Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World was for a studio production, it is even stranger that Universal put $60 million on the table for this comic book romance. As most predicted, the film did not do well at the box-office or even come close to breaking even. Even with the ridiculously glowing buzz leading up to its release, mainstream audiences seemed skeptical of the film, leading to it being a major financial letdown. But while its theatrical run may have been disappointing, with this week's release of Pilgrim on DVD and blu-ray begins the films real chance for widespread viewing.
Often, films undeserving of the title are advertised as instant cult classics, but when Pilgrim is called that it is probably a fair assessment. If a recent packed screening of the film in Toronto at the Bloor Cinema is any indication, the film is already a cult classic. An hour and a half before the screening a line was already wrapped around the block with fans dressed as the characters battling it out on the street. It is not so much a question of whether Scott Pilgrim will be considered a hit or not, but when. To the fans, myself included, the widespread reluctance to see this film was bewildering. Even though on its face this film appears to be relevant to only a niche audience, the relationship themes are universal and the references are those anyone who uses the Internet will understand.
You have to ask what kept people from wanting to see this film. Was it the film's strange concept, the trailer or was it Michael Cera?
The trailer and marketing, while off-beat, was certainly not bad, in fact it was quite brilliant.
And it is true that Cera often plays similar characters, in very similar ways, however he is always entertaining and in Pilgrim he shows more talent than usual. Are audiences really that sick of him that they could not bother seeing this critically acclaimed film?
It was as if audiences put an effort into having this film become a home-video hit as opposed to a theatrical one. With the film is out on DVD and blu-ray this week it is only a matter of time before die-hard fans begin to force their friends to watch the film and at that point the general perception of the film should change.
I am fairly certain that Scott Pilgrim will be enjoyed by nearly everyone who watches it. It is a film that rewards repeat viewings as it is masterfully crafted with jokes and gags hidden in the background throughout.
Pilgrim’s box-office failure does not appear to have damaged anyone’s career, especially not Wright's. Once everyone starts talking about the film, as fans, we can only say, “I told you so." 
Only a handful of films are commonly accepted as being among the greatest of all time. These films include The Godfather, Citizen Kane and Lawrence of Arabia. Never having seen Lawrence of Arabia, I jumped at the opportunity to see a restored 70mm print at The Lost Dominion, Ottawa's second annual 70mm film festival last month.
As with any film, it is best to go in with no expectations and judge the film on its own merits--not someone else’s opinion. Unfortunately, this is near impossible with Sir David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia as it is held at such high regard.
It was a film I knew almost nothing about, other than the fact it starred a young Peter O'Toole and was considered in the upper echelons of film. Sitting down for the almost four hour film, I prepared myself for the possibility of disappointment and even boredom. While this may appear to be a strange way to prepare myself for a film that is so highly regarded, I thought that if I were to expect something life-changing, I would surely be disappointed.
Sir David Lean's film not only lived up to expectations, but it greatly surpassed them.
It is not a film that is revolutionary, or unlike anything I have seen, but rather it is a film that is built upon the traditions of classical filmmaking, and accomplishes something fantastic. During the near four hour run time, not once was I bored or even aware of the time. From the opening shot of Lawrence on his motorcycle I was enveloped in the film until the final credits.
The film delves deep into the mind and personality of T.E. Lawrence, keeping its focus entirely on this one man. What makes the film so fascinating and unique is the epic scale of the film as a backdrop to this character study. It could have easily fallen prey to its own scale and lost the focus on Lawrence, making the film unsatisfying. However, it doesn't and at the end of the film, you are left feeling that you personally know this man. This level of scale and personal focus is something that is rarely accomplished in film, and is one of the reasons why Lawrence of Arabia, is still such a special experience.
It would be unjust to discuss this film without mentioning the utterly astounding cinematography. Shot in 65mm by Freddie Young, it has a look that cannot be compared to almost any other film. I viewed a restored 70mm print and viewed any other way the film would not have the same impact.
It is a frustrating situation as it is hard to recommend film fans to view Lawrence of Arabia if not on a 70mm print. Normally this wouldn't be an issue, but as the quality of the film had such an impact on me, I feel that it is unjust to see the film any other way. The print had a glow to it that just cannot be seen on DVD, and as there is currently no Blu-ray release, a satisfactory alternative isn't yet available.
Sir David Lean's masterpiece Lawrence of Arabia is truly one of the great accomplishments in film history. It is a character study on such a grand scale that is elevates itself above most every other film. The experience of viewing that restored print is one I will never forget, and only strengthened my love for film. 
Every year a handful of films generate so much buzz it is nearly impossible to view them without impossibly high expectations. Ariel Schulman and Henry Joost's documentary Catfish is undeniably one of those films.
The film follows Nev Schulman as a relationship starts between him and a family he meets on Facebook. Documented by his brother Ariel and partner Henry, they capture what starts out as a potential documentary about a child prodigy that turns into a doc about an online romance and then shifts gears into something entirely different. Following its successful Sundance run, Catfish became both the most talked about film, and the film with the least information available about it. This buzz and lack of information created fantastic hype and expectations--something marketing departments can only dream of.
While the film did not disappoint it also did not exceed expectations. While it may be unfair to judge a film on its marketing, it was also difficult to not feel slightly betrayed by the misleading trailers.
Without spoiling anything, the issue of whether or not the film is fact or fiction must be addressed. Speculation has been rampant that the film was at least in part fictionalized. It is something I tried to ignore almost the entire showing. It appears that the film is not fake, or at least not entirely.
The people are real, but how much the documentary filmmakers knew beforehand of what they would find out later is still up in the air. That being said, no matter how hard a documentary tries to remain true to the facts, the simple process of editing will mean that a certain amount of subjectivity will be injected into the final product.
It is hard to know for certain whether part of Catfish is fake but for certain major aspects are real, that being the emotions. Nev is a great naive, central character, one who we can all relate with, or at least sympathize with. For that reason the film is both heartbreaking and unnerving. It makes you re-think social networking as well as the way relationships are developed online. Strangely enough, the film shares several thematic details with David Fincher's The Social Network. In some ways it is more relevant to our times than Fincher's film, as this is a truly modern story.
While the film is well shot, use of low grade digital cameras in parts can become annoying. The film is short and never dull. That being said, the film starts off briskly and has a fast pace up until the reveal, slowing the film down considerably. This is not so much a major problem, but is rather distracting.
The film needs to give much more time on the subject matter of the second half, as it is the emotional core of the film. By doing this, however, the filmmakers have two halves of a film with very different feel and pacing.
Catfish may not be a film I will want to revisit often, but it is a great experience the first time around. To me, whether or not the film is entirely factual doesn't really matter. It is still a fascinating character study.
And the only reason I would not want to see it again is the twist; so effective that it left me squirming in my seat. 
It is quite apparent why news of a remake going into production is often met with resentment from the film community. It usually means the re-imagining of a beloved property simply for profit.
A recent trend in Hollywood has been the re-making of any foreign film that is mildly successful in America. While Tomas Alfredson's Let The Right One In may not have garnered much mainstream attention, it did make quite a splash in the film community. Naturally, talk of remaking this vampire tale sprung up quickly. Like clockwork, the fans of the original threw up their arms in protest.
But if the negative reactions to the news seemed warranted at first, word that legendary horror production company Hammer was spearheading the project and news of the increasingly impressive cast and crew helped change a lot of minds.
Matt Reeves' part remake, part adaptation Let Me In is a rare remake that not only justifies its existence but also improves on the original. That being said, it also begs the question, can a remake truly be better than its original, especially one that stays so close to its predecessor.
The story, which at first glance is a vampire tale, is really about being a kid and the problems that come with it. The film focuses on Owen, played by The Road's Kody Smit-McPhee, as he deals with loneliness, bullying and an emerging prepubescent love. The scenes of bullying are some of the more shocking moments in the film, as they feel real. This is not an 80's teen comedy with the bully using his karate skills, this is what bullying is actually like, and it is hard to watch.
Rising star Chloe Moretz plays Abby, once again proving she is one of the best working child actors. Abby is a young vampire who moves into Owen's apartment building with her guardian, played by Richard Jenkins. It is the relationships between Abby and her guardian that lead to some of the most interesting, and emotionally satisfying material of the film. Jenkin's performance adds a level of sadness to the character that is not only absent in the original but makes his horrific acts, in some ways, understandable.
While separately these characters’ lives are filled with sadness and anger, when together, Abby and Owen can finally be children. It is strange to see a love story about children so young, yet it rings true, more so than most love stories in film. This can be credited to the great performances by these young actors.
Almost every choice that Reeves' made to either add to the original story or take away from it was for the better. He replaced the distracting drunk friends from the original and added a police officer, played by the great Canadian actor Elias Koteas. While he did not innovate the now famous pool sequence from the original, he did add a fantastic sequence involving the guardian in a car. It is a scene that will remain in the viewers’ mind just like the original's pool sequence did so effectively.
Reeves' ability to make such a unrealistic situation so relatable shows his ability as a filmmaker. Similar to Spike Jonze's Where the Wild Thing Are and Spielberg's E.T. this is a rare film that gets what being a kid is all about, and at times it can make this film hard to watch.
Matt Reeves' Let Me In is a hard film to judge, while it improves on the original it also, at times, feels like a shot-for-shot remake. 
Oscar’s live action shorts give us a chance to see something outside of the Hollywood system. Most of these films are made with no studio connection, many outside of the US, with only occasionally recognizable actors. Films not held by the restraints of studio marketing and stars’ contracts can often find a certain artistic freedom. This Tuesday’s screening at the Academy was a chance to see some of 2009’s best shorts from around the world. Here’s an overview of this year’s offerings.
 The DoorIn The Door, we open with a young man sneaking into what looks like an abandoned city. We soon learn that the city is one of those evacuated by the disaster at Chernobyl. The man has returned to bring back the door of his old home. The door is a piece of tradition; his father’s body was carried on it at his funeral. Now the young man brings the door home for the funeral of his daughter, lost to disease from the radiation. The film takes place in the Ukraine, but is written and directed by Irish filmmaker Juanita Wilson. She brings a very contemplative tone to the piece. Snowy landscapes, the evacuation in flashback, a somber funeral – everything gives a sense of the desolation of the family’s situation. It’s a slow, very beautiful film. However, it may suffer somewhat from the length; the pacing is consistent with the tone, but it may seem to drag for some viewers. All told it’s a very sad look at the effect the Chernobyl disaster had on individuals.
 Instead of Abracadabra Sweden’s Instead of Abracadabra (Istället för abrakadabra) is maybe the lightest film of the five, though not without its disturbing images. Main character Thomas is an unemployed aspiring magician who still lives with his parents. When a pretty young nurse moves in next door, he’s determined to impress her with his magic act at his father’s 60th birthday. The act isn’t without flaws, especially considering the style – “gothic, death, and mayhem” as he calls it. But he’s a lovable character, and we can hope the girl likes him as much as we do. This short really brings to mind the quirky indie sensibility of Wes Anderson or Napoleon Dynamite. It’s relatable, it’s awkward in a funny way; Thomas is a fun character to watch. The magic acts themselves are couched in the realism of the situation, so we don’t take them too seriously – we see the act as the folks in the room would. It’s lively and well-shot (really like the simplicity in the design of the opening titles). I’ll be excited to see more from director Patrick Eklund.
 Kavi
Kavi brings us the story of a young boy in India, who lives his whole life in bonded labor. Working with his parents in a brick-making kiln, he is a modern-day slave. He has glimpses of hope every day through local children who play cricket nearby, but his dreams of being one of them are always crushed by the cruel foreman. When a chance comes for his escape, he must decide whether to follow an uncertain dream, or stay with the only life he’s ever known. The making of Kavi is a big achievement. Written and directed by American filmmaker Gregg Helvey, it was shot in Maharashtra, India, in the local dialect. The film apparently had monumental obstacles to overcome (for more on the making of Kavi, listen to Gregg on episode 142 of Battleship Pretension), and the commitment pays off. Sagar Salunke, who plays the title character, is a fantastic find, precocious but not so self-aware. He seems much more natural than most child actors. His story may remind viewers of last year’s Best Picture winner Slumdog Millionaire. It’s a hopeful story with a message behind it. Part of the film’s goal is to raise awareness about modern-day slavery, and its prevalence in the developing world. You’ll see many people on Oscar night wearing blue lapel ribbons to raise awareness of the issue, and maybe spur a change.
 Miracle FishAnother film starring a young boy, Miracle Fish follows schoolboy Joe on his eighth birthday. He’s an unpopular kid from a lower class family. The only present from his estranged father is the titular item – a novelty paper “fortune teller.” He sneaks away from the bullies to nap in the sick bay. He awakes to find everything quiet – school has let out, or has it? It leads to a surprising resolution that I don’t want to spoil for you. If you can get ahold of this one to see how it plays out, I’d encourage it. Miracle Fish is clearly helmed by very talented filmmakers. Australian writer/director Luke Doolan knows how to craft a story, to build suspense, and to keep us engaged all the way through. The short effortlessly moves from playful to disturbing, and the ending’s payoff is fantastic. One could make the case that there isn’t a lot of forward motion in the story, and that Joe doesn’t have much of an arc. But the short is a format where filmmakers should be free to work outside of traditional screenplay/character structure, and this film is effective nonetheless. Producers, take note of a talented newcomer.
 The New TenantsIt’s hard to know how exactly to describe The New Tenants. To relate the plot makes it sound like a violent American Pie sequel, but it’s much more sophisticated than that. It involves murder, adultery, drug use, and heroin spiked cinnamon buns – all in a mere twenty minutes. Peter and Frank have recently moved into a new apartment when they find out it has a disturbing history. In the course of the film, the apartment’s dirty past unravels and drops at their feet as they sit and watch. As dark as it sounds, it’s definitely a comedy. Crisp, clever dialogue, some outrageous plot twists; it earns a lot of laughs. Some great acting here too from some of the only actors we’d recognize, specifically Vincent D’Onofrio and Kevin Corrigan. The dark nature might be off-putting to some, but it’s unquestionably entertaining. And though it isn’t doling out deep life lessons, it makes you wonder: when the whole world seems to collapse around you, what else can you do but dance?
Predictions?
There’s stiff competition this year, but I think my vote is going to have to go to Kavi. I should say that it’s not just because I was attending the screening as a guest of Gregg Helvey. Here’s why. Academy voters are usually looking for films that have a Hollywood sensibility to them. They like three-act structures, dynamic characters, and exciting settings. Kavi has all three, while many of the other films are small and less traditional. Many of the shorts feature violence or disturbing images, and Academy voters often shy away from violence (Pulp Fiction, Fargo) unless it’s in service of a noble cause (Braveheart, Gladiator). Kavi has an international appeal, shot in India in an Indian language even though it’s made by an American filmmaker. And it’s got a political message to boot; if voters have heard about Helvey’s push for modern-day slavery awareness, it could tip the scales. I think Miracle Fish is a strong contender as well, as I found it the most striking and maybe the most memorable of the films. But the scope, the story, and the themes aren’t as big as they are in Kavi.
As with any Oscar category, it’s a crap-shoot. Voters are unpredictable and anything could happen. Surprises often do. But at least now you can go to your Oscar parties slightly better informed in a category where people sometimes just predict the short with the coolest name. And if my predictions end up correct, well then I’ll feel pretty great, won’t I?
This week I had the privilege of being able to attend the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences’ screening of Oscar-nominated shorts. If you’re ever able to make it there, you should. Held at the Samuel Goldwyn Theater in Beverly Hills with a posh reception beforehand, it’s an opportunity to see some of the Oscar-nominated work that gets overlooked by the general public. These are great films, coming from all over the world, and most people don’t ever get to see them. At the AMPAS Shorts presentation, you get the chance to see each one of the animated and live action shorts, followed by a Q & A with the filmmakers. Here’s a rundown on this years animated shorts, in case you don’t get the chance to see them yourself.
 French Roast
French Roast is about a wealthy man in a Parisian café who comes to a frightening realization – he’s lost his wallet. To avoid embarrassment or trouble with the law, the man goes to extreme lengths to hide his lack of money – he stays in the café as long as possible, keeps ordering more and more cups of coffee, and even tries stealing from an old lady. An amazing lot transpires in the film’s eight minutes, ending with a financial savior in the form of an “untouchable” old tramp. The animation is CGI, as are all this year’s shorts save one. The characters are visual storybook archetypes, with extreme features making them both silly and charming. It’s also a very interesting concept for the entire short to take place in one location, and it plays out well; it never feels stagnant. It’s clever, heart-warming, and visually entertaining.
 Granny O’Grimm’s Sleeping BeautyA twist on classic fairy tales, Granny O’Grimm’s Sleeping Beauty is more about the telling of a story than the story itself. A terrified child unwillingly gets a bedtime story from the cantankerous Granny O’Grimm. But the hero in this version isn’t Sleeping Beauty or Prince Charming – it’s the mean old witch, who bears a striking similarity to Granny herself. The witch casts a deadly spell on all the beautiful people “who still have their muscle tone,” and with that, the story’s over. The grandchild is left to go to sleep far from soothed. This short gets the most laughs of the bunch. Granny’s a hilarious character, voiced by actor Kathleen O’Rourke, who also wrote the script. The contrast between Granny’s excitement over the story and her grandchild’s helpless fear allows for great humorous moments. Another interesting feature is the way the short is animated in two different styles. Granny and the child are in CGI animation, while the Granny’s story is animated in a two-dimensional, more traditional style. The film is able to seamlessly move between the two styles. Coming from Ireland, and the debut of director Nicky Phelan, this is a very funny, very enjoyable film.
 The Lady and the ReaperThe Spanish short The Lady and the Reaper (La Dama y La Muerte) follows an offbeat storyline. An elderly woman dies in the night. When Death comes to take her, she follows him gladly, looking forward to reuniting with her late husband. But she is suddenly and jarringly dragged back into life by a crusading surgeon. Death has a job to do, and comes back after her, and a raucous tug-of-war ensues as Death and the surgeon fight over the old woman. As dark as the story seems, it doesn’t take itself too seriously. The tone is extremely light, considering the reality of the subject matter. It’s hard to say whether this detracts from the film or not. It’s comedic, but the filmmaker is still making a statement about medical science “bringing people back from the dead.” If this one doesn’t make you laugh, it might make you think.
 LogoramaThis short follows a wild storyline that involves kids at a zoo, a waitress at a diner, a high-speed police chase and a devastating earthquake. But the story takes a back seat – the hook to Logorama is that everything in its world is a corporate logo. Butterflies are the MSN logo, birds are Bentley and Aston Martin logos, one restaurant is a Pizza Hut logo, the police are Michelin men, and the criminal they’re after is none other than Ronald McDonald. It’s amazing, but the filmmakers are able to make every single thing in their world out of some logo or trademark. Some might see the film as an indictment of capitalism, but the filmmakers suggest it’s more of a fascination with the way that logos inundate society, particularly American society. The story, which echoes blockbuster movie styles (action, adventure and disaster types), is a little messy, which may be forgivable since it isn’t really the point. The real question is whether or not there will be serious legal repercussions, as the film uses over 2,500 registered trademarks. It’s a notable achievement, which may shed new light on copyright battles. Listen closely to hear the voice of David Fincher as the Pringles man.
 A Matter of Loaf and DeathThe presentation at the Academy Tuesday night closed with Nick Park’s A Matter of Loaf and Death, starring the beloved Wallace and Gromit. In this installment, the duo are bakers threatened by a string of murders by a serial killer targeting – you guessed it, bakers. When Wallace meets and falls for the “Bake-O-Lite” girl, former spokeswoman for Bake-O-Lite Bread, Gromit begins to suspect that she is the serial killer. It’ll take help from her dog Fluffles to keep Wallace from becoming the next victim. This short is, good or bad, just what you’d expect from a Wallace and Gromit movie. Nick Park’s familiar claymation presents an engaging story with clever, very British dialogue. I’ve always been impressed with the way Park can construct an exciting, full story that takes place in just under half an hour. A lot happens, but it doesn’t feel rushed or hurried. The picturesque, homespun visuals are consistent with earlier Wallace and Gromit fare; it always feels cozy and inviting. These films have always been favorites with fans of stop-motion animation, and A Matter of Loaf and Death reminds us why.
Predictions?
As always, it’s tricky to predict who’s going to home with Oscar gold. Nick Park has been an Academy favorite before, winning with The Wrong Trousers, A Close Shave, and The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, but it may be just that reason that the Oscar goes to someone new this year. Logorama is fascinating, a huge undertaking, and rather bold in its execution, but it’s so offbeat that it could be off-putting to Academy members. I think I’m going to bet on Granny O’Grimm. It’s very funny, with a memorable main character, and uses its story as a way to allow two different animation styles. It’s nice, but not too nice, and it feels like a lot happens in only six minutes. I’m no expert on animation, so there may be something in the others that I’m missing, but that’s where I’m going to put my prediction.
It’s hard to catch them in theaters, but many of these films are available on Youtube or elsewhere online, and I’d highly recommend that you check them out, even if you can’t online. And we’ll all see what happens come Oscar night.
 So, I finally got around to watching Up and I liked it. It's a good movie.
But it's far from perfect, which should be fine, except that no one mentions it. I'm afraid we've all bought into our own assertion that Pixar can do no wrong to the point that we're embarrassed to admit to any flaws at all. Maybe we film nerds need to get in a circle, support group style, and take that first step together, admitting that we have a problem. Wall-E was great but, come on. Wasn't the satire a tad juvenile and on-the-nose? Ratatouille was wonderful, but really? You can manipulate a person's body by pulling on his hair? I found myself having the same problem while watching Up. Yes, this is a moving, intelligent and very mature story of a man dealing with his wife's death and the feelings that's brought up in him, not just grief but guilt and self-pity. But there are occasional flights of fancy wherein I found myself watching some movie I was not watching a few minutes before. These moments were well-executed but their somewhat jarring inclusion prevent the film from true greatness. And that's okay. Few movies are truly great. The fact that Up comes as close as it does is more than commendable. Can we please just stop pretending that every Pixar film is a masterpiece? Speaking of masterpieces, there have been, in my opinion, two of them produced by the studio: Finding Nemo and The Incredibles. Two masterpieces in the same decade is a pretty stellar track record. My advice is that we be happy for that and evaluate all future Pixar films on a case by case basis. Otherwise, when they inevitably slip up, we'll all look like Buzz Lightyear insisting, against all reason, that he can fly. 
 Maybe it's out of a sense of obligation that Nancy Meyers feels she needs to make comedies. Perhaps she thinks that it's what people expect of her and she doesn't want to disappoint them. Whatever the reason, Nancy Meyers should stop.
Because the basic concept for her new film It's Complicated is essentially very good. A middle aged divorced couple (Streep and Baldwin) unexpectedly find themselves in the throes of passion once again. This situation causes a great deal of confusion and pain for the both of them, but they're determined to discover exactly what it is in themselves that was apparently yearning for this reunion. The story has all the elements of a touching drama. Add in a cast that includes Meryl Streep, Alec Baldwin, and Steve Martin, and you've got yourself the makings of a pretty memorable little movie. Unless, as I mentioned, you feel compelled to make it a comedy. And herein lay the problem of It's Complicated. The characters in this film are required by the writer to engage in ridiculous behavior. There are the giggly scenes between Streep and her one dimensional friends, there to support or question her actions as needed. There are scenes of middle aged nudity, which is not bad in and of itself, but these very adult characters react as if they were once again six years old and human anatomy is a new and exciting discovery. And, just when you thought we filmgoers had seen enough scenes of dignified actors playing stoned, we get extended sequences in which all three of our protagonists get high at a party and spend the next ten minutes of the film laughing at nothing. We have John Krasinski of "The Office" showing up from time to time as Streep's soon-to-be son-in-law. He serves no real purpose to speak of, except for a couple cheap laughs as he attempts to distract his fiance from the dalliances of her parents. Oh, and, in one scene, he shows up wearing women's pajamas. Krasinski does what he can, but isn't given much to work with. The same can be said of our three leads, as well. Streep, in what can only be described as the "Diane Keaton" role, manages to motivate even the silliest of emotional beats. It's always a pleasure watching Meryl Streep act, but this is one of the few films where I actually felt like I was watching her work. Every moment she spends giggling like a child (and there are many) just made me cringe. Streep deserves better material than this. Steve Martin is, by all accounts, a very mature and cultured person. His over-the-top work in films like The Pink Panther are clearly what he does to pay the bills, while he puts his real effort into work like Shopgirl. The man can seem like a fountain of intelligence and wit when the project allows. In this film, he is given the fairly thankless role of "the nice guy." It is his job to smile patiently as he is emotionally jerked around. Martin's effortlessness in the role is very refreshing, but that doesn't change that the character itself is pretty one note. Now we come to Alec Baldwin, whose resurgence as a brilliant comedic actor continues unabated in this film. Much like Streep, he mines what he can from a character that spends most of his time acting totally outrageous. Baldwin takes this collection of mannerisms and inappropriate sex chatter and crafts a pretty solid character. It is to Meyer's credit that Baldwin's character is not simply the "sleazy ex-husband" type, but is allowed to be a legitimate contender for Streep's affections and Baldwin brings him to life in a way we don't expect from a bland romantic comedy. His character seems vital and real, even when he is doing completely unrealistic things. Streep and Baldwin have three children, but they are treated as largely an afterthought by the film. They keep popping up, but Meyers doesn't seem to know what to do with them. No bother, however, as she seems to be unable to write for any character that isn't middle aged and neurotic. Here, the children spend most of the film either wide eyed and wounded or sunny and smiling. We are not really shown much of who the children are as people; they mostly function as moving pieces of set decoration. The children's relationship with their parents is just one of many unexplored dramatic possibilities in this film. There is a lot of potential here to really delve into topics such as marriage, divorce, aging, and more. Much like Meyer's 2003 film Something's Gotta Give, she deals with some of these issues in a perfunctory way, but her penchant for the broadest possible comedy gets in the way. There are a few quiet moments in the film, in which the emotional center of the story is allowed time to walk around and stretch its legs. In these moments, Streep and Baldwin reflect on their marriage and life after divorce. The marriage fell apart seemingly due to Baldwin's infidelity. In one of the powerful moments of the film, Streep reveals that perhaps she was partly to blame for the marriage falling apart, but that, in Baldwin's affair, she had the perfect excuse to take no responsibility for her own actions. It's a startling revelation and denotes a maturity on the part of the writer. Moments like these, both well written and beautifully acted, only serve to make the rest of the film more frustrating. If only Meyers had followed where her characters were leading, we would have a much better, more satisfying film. One in which we are able to spend time with lived-in characters at a confusing moment in their lives, trying to figure out what the future holds. Alas, it was not to be. Nancy Meyers makes comedies, dammit, not drama! And so we are left with a film in which we get an "hilarious" scene involving Alec Baldwin's bare ass, a horrified Steve Martin, and a live webcam. Bravo, Meyers. Bravo. 
 I hate when people compare comedy to music. Comedy is terrifying and musicianship is really hard work, just to name a couple of ways in which they differ. Saying one art form is like another art form is just an easy way to sound insightful. That said, let me tell you how comedy is like music.
No one ever says, "I like music" or "I'm a fan of music." That's simply too broad. It's understood by everyone that music is broken down into genres and being a fan of one doesn't necessarily make you a fan of any other. But, then again, no one's really a fan of just one genre of music, except for some punk rockers and they're just obnoxious. Comedy is the same way. Clearly, the Marx brothers don't have a lot in common with Tim & Eric, other than that they're both funny. Plenty of Marx brothers fans would be annoyed by Tim & Eric and plenty of Tim & Eric fans would be bored with the Marx brothers. I've been thinking a lot about these distinctions this years whenever I try to decide what the funniest movie of 2009 is. The more disparate the genres, or sub-genres, of comedy, the harder they are to compare. The fact that my three favorite comedies of this year seem to take place in completely different universes makes it hard to come to a pat conclusion. The Hangover is a movie that manages to push the boundaries of taste while still being smart and inventive. In the Loop treads an intellectual line of absurdity by playing to our very real fears about our leaders and their wars. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs is pure, inspired silliness designed to make both children and stoners alike giggle uncontrollably. (If we're going by laff-o-meter alone, Cloudy is the clear winner). Last year, there was only one movie that had enough laughs and artistry, in equal measure, to be named the best comedy of the year (Role Models, of course). This year, it's a much harder decision. Which is a pretty great problem to have. 
 I remember first seeing the marketing campaign for Robert Zemeckis' A Christmas Carol and rolling my eyes. The trailers and billboards featured a mugging Jim Carrey as Ebenezer Scrooge being put through the computer generated ringer; he gets flung through the air, shrunk down to the size of a mouse, and other supposedly hilarious things. This couldn't seem less like the Charles Dickens classic; instead, it seemed like Zemeckis was taking things that we all knew about the story and was exploiting them. As such, I had no interest in seeing the film. "A Christmas Carol" has long been one of my favorite stories and I was in no mood to see it ruined by an overly-ambitious director with a limitless budget.
Due to unforeseen circumstances, I wound up seeing it and thought it was surprisingly okay. Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised, though. There is such inherent power in Dickens' story that all the special effects in Hollywood could never completely outshine it. If you're going to make a movie of "A Christmas Carol," all you have to do is remain fairly faithful to the source material and make a serviceable film and, almost by default, you've got a very watchable movie. Such is the nature with Dickens; he created such intriguing tales and characters, it's nearly impossible to totally screw them up.
As expected, the action sequences stick out like a sore thumb, as if accidentally edited in from a different- worse- film. Their inclusion smacks of pandering, as they seem to come right in the middle of extended periods of genuine emotion and reflection. It seems as if Zemeckis was afraid of losing the audience with all this British dialogue and had to do something to keep their attention. This is most problematic during Scrooge's encounter with the Ghost of Christmas Future. In what is undeniably the darkest and most foreboding section of the story- as it should be, giving Scrooge's emotional journey- our protagonist finds himself shrunk down to the size of a mouse and chased through the sewer pipes of London and comically smashed in the face by ice sickles. This makes so little sense dramatically, I wonder how a director as savvy as Robert Zemeckis was able to justify keeping it in. Perhaps he thought that some comic relief was needed. If so, it mystifies me as to why he felt the need to make the Ghost of Christmas Future so frightening in the first place. Don't get me wrong; the dread is perfectly realized, and I count it as one of the film's strength, but if the director felt the need to break the tension with some humor, perhaps he could have simply tried to make the section less frightening, rather than try to shoehorn in some broad physical comedy. As frustrating as moments like these are, there's no denying that Zemeckis is a master at utilizing cutting edge technology to create a fully realized world, as he did in Beowulf, Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, and The Polar Express. While some of the character designs are still a bit too creepy for my taste- the impish Bob Cratchit being a prime example- the slightly off-kilter landscapes and grotesquely exaggerated characters seem to fit with the tone that Dickens so often strove to create. The animation also allows Zemeckis the freedom to pursue his unique interpretation of well-known scenes. For example, as Marley's Ghost clatters out of Scrooge's house, we find him joining a veritable army of miserable ghosts haunting the streets of London, pleading for the forgiveness of the living. There are so many of these melancholy apparitions that we find ourselves coming to a harrowing conclusion: the greed and indifference of Scrooge and Marley is not an uncommon thing. Marley is merely one of the thousands- millions- of people that could have done something valuable with their money and time, but chose instead to hoard it and look down on those without it. Perhaps we know a few people like this. Perhaps we are people like this. As entertaining as Dickens is, his commitment to stimulating social and economic awareness has always fascinated me. "A Christmas Carol" is one of his more straightforward treatises on the subject of the responsibility of those that have to those that don't. It is dark and lingers on the precipice of condemnation, only to allow Scrooge- and, by extension, the audience- a chance at redemption. And, if we don't take it, God help us, everyone. As frustrating as some of Zemeckis' artistic choices may be for me, I admire him for standing by the central idea of "A Christmas Carol." He clearly understands the power and appeal of the story and, with a few notable exceptions, allows Dickens to speak for himself. And, as always, he has a lot to say. 
10. UNITED 93
9. MUNICH
8. PAN'S LABYRINTH
7. THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS
6. INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS
5. 25th HOUR
4. CITY OF GOD
3. WALL-E
2. THE LORD OF THE RINGS TRILOGY
1. THERE WILL BE BLOOD 
10. A TALKING PICTURE
9. TOUCHING THE VOID
8. GOODBYE, DRAGON INN
7. SPIRITED AWAY
6. SPRING, SUMMER, FALL, WINTER... AND SPRING
5. ONCE
4. APOCALYPTO
3. THERE WILL BE BLOOD
2. 4 MONTHS, 3 WEEKS, AND 2 DAYS
1. THIS IS ENGLAND 
 I didn't expect this to be a good film. I really didn't. My misgivings about filmmaker Michael Moore's dubious tactics aside, there's no question that the slew of straight-to-video retaliatory movies made in response are pretty bad. Often, they've been made by people that have no filmmaking experience. They are as sloppily constructed as Moore's films are technically brilliant.
For all the anti-Moore films that I had seen, I was hesitant to watch Michael Moore Hates America. With a title like that, who could ever hope for subtlety or nuance? Any director that picked that title surely must be unable to craft a watchable film, right? Turns out that my reservations about Michael Wilson's film were largely without merit. Despite the inflammatory title, this movie tries as hard as it can to be truthful, ambitious, and comprehensive. As one would expect, there are budget constraints; this is never more clear than when Wilson attempts to mirror Bowling For Columbine's animated NRA sequence with one of his own. The animation is shoddy, and it detracts slightly from the point he winds up making. What Wilson lacks in financing he makes up for in honesty. Perhaps the most powerful moment in the film is when Wilson lies to a subject about the nature of the documentary in order to get an unbiased reaction. Afterward, there is a discussion between Wilson and his producer about resorting to Moore's methods. Wilson sends a letter to the subject coming clean. The subject writes back, stating his disappointment in Wilson's deception, but allowing the footage to be used anyway. Wilson didn't have to use the footage of his producer's dissenting opinion. He didn't have to tell us about sending the subject the letter. He does anyway. Why? Perhaps because, briefly, he realized just how easy it is to tiptoe across our own moral boundaries when we believe ourselves to be on the side of right. For just a moment, Wilson saw what it was to be Michael Moore, a man whose unquestioning belief in the purity of his own motives has led him to mislead millions of filmgoers. It's the clearest example of Wilson's approach to the material. Many of the other anti-Moore films are merely reactionary. Wilson has chosen to make his frustration with Michael Moore a jumping off point; an opportunity to talk about larger things than his quibbles with one filmmaker. He also seems to see it as an excuse to show us the America that Moore so often disparages. Wilson talks to rich people, poor people, soldiers, business owners, and countless others. The portrait of America that is created is one of promise and optimism. An admission that we're certainly not where we should be, but an acknowledgment that we've come a long way in relatively little time. Interview subject Penn Jillette sums it up nicely by stating that, taking large chunks of history at a time, we'll find that there are two things that are always true: the world is always getting better and there are always people claiming that it's getting worse. Michael Moore Hates America is a surprisingly humble attempt to show the other side of the conversation. Moore has constantly stated that the majority opinion is on his side, which is why he has had so much success (a decidedly free market way of thinking, it should be noted), and so it would seem to those of us whose opinion of Moore's work is not very high. Living in Los Angeles and having previously lived in Chicago, I can attest to being in the minority when it comes to my feelings on Michael Moore. However, what Wilson shows is that there are plenty of people out there that see Moore for what he is: a shameless- yet talented- propagandist. Most notable among these people is Albert Maysles, a pioneer in the documentary field, responsible for such brilliant works as Grey Gardens, Gimme Shelter, and Salesman. Maysles' views on what makes for a documentary seems to stand in direct opposition to those of Moore. He feels that a documentarian must first find a way to love his subject (or at least attempt to understand it) before making a film about it. This love will engender a desire for honesty. Moore, he says, is motivated by a hatred for his subjects, which leads to an urgent call to do anything and everything to help others hate them, too. As documentary is arguably a search for truth, we can only conclude from Maysles' philosophies that Moore, while having considerable talent in filmmaking, leaves a lot to be desired as a journalist. I went into this film expecting to be told things that I already knew in a way that simply wasn't compelling; a meager first attempt at filmmaking by a conservative reactionary. What I got instead was a sensitive, personal film made in defense of an America that Michael Wilson truly loves and believes in. I'll be the first to say that there are a lot of things wrong with the country. In fact, a few of my opinions would probably be shared by Michael Moore. But when the film was over, I found that I felt proud of the country in which I live and optimistic about both its future and my own. As Jillette commented, given enough time, things are always going to get better, but some will only ever see it getting worse. I think that those people are necessary; we need people that are dissatisfied with how things are. But I think we also occasionally need somebody to remind us where we've been and how far we've come. That's what Michael Wilson attempts to do with Michael Moore Hates America, and the result is a film that is both uplifting and compelling. 
 As is the case with most Michael Mann films, Public Enemies is a brilliant technical achievement. From the authentic art direction to the crisp editing to the energizing digital cinematography, this film has all the technical elements required in a memorable film.
It's a shame that I didn't care about the characters at all.
Public Enemies is about John Dillinger, the legendary bank robber whose exploits made him a would-be folk hero across the country. The story of Dillinger- and the lawman that pursues him- seems like it would be great material for Michael Mann, who revolutionized modern crime movies with his exceptional Heat. Certainly a technical master, Mann has been a favorite of mine for years; not just for his directorial flourishes, but for his ability to relate interesting stories about fascinating people. Watching him delve into what made Dillinger tick could have been a deeply satisfying cinematic experience. Unfortunately, however, Mann has allowed himself to get so mired in the minute details of the period and the intricacies of the events that he forgot to make Dillinger relatable. The character certainly doesn't have to be sympathetic, nor does he need to be an open book. As a film watcher, I like having to figure some things out for myself. However, in order to do that, I need to be given some information. Just give me the slightest hint of character motivation and I'll be happy to take it from there. Such things are not to be found in Public Enemies, however, as I left the theater feeling no closer to knowing who John Dillinger was than when I entered. The same goes for Melvin Purvis, the federal agent tasked with catching Dillinger. His motivations remain as elusive as those of his quarry. We sometimes feel that Purvis is conflicted about the measures to which he must go in order to gain the upper hand, but we don't know why. Does he not have the stomach for it? Does he secretly admire Dillinger? We just don't know. The story of Dillinger and Purvis has been related before, most notably in John Milius' 1973 film Dillinger. In that version, we got a strong sense of who this man was. Played with gusto by Warren Oates, Dillinger seemed like a living, breathing person, not the shadowy legend embodied by Johnny Depp. Oates' Dillinger is not remarkably likable; he is more of a charismatic brute. But at least he has a pulse. I don't know why Mann was apparently reluctant to dig deeper into his subject. He is clearly committed to preserving the authenticity of the period and events; perhaps he felt strongly about not overly fictionalizing an already larger-than-life historical figure. Whatever his reasoning, Mann's hard work at bringing Dillinger's world to life ultimately amounts to nothing. What does it matter how amazing this created world is if we don't care about the people inhabiting it? There are a couple of characters that stand out. Marion Cotillard transcends the fairly thankless role of Billie Frechette. In films like this, there is almost always a woman whose job it is to worry about the protagonist. Here, Cotillard imbues Frechette with credible vulnerability, helping us to believe that this woman still exists when Dillinger isn't around. Billy Crudup is also memorable as J. Edgar Hoover, who capitalizes on the crime wave to snatch more power for himself. Played as an unshakable optimist, whose smile doesn't even fade when being berated by his superiors. Lastly, Stephen Graham creates a truly loathsome Baby Face Nelson. His recklessness and indifference to human life does more to define our protagonist by contrast than anything Dillinger does directly. For me, the most notable directorial choice is in regards to the violence. Michael Mann has never glorified violence. In his career, Mann has done everything he can to emphasize the fragility of the human body and the inherent brutality and heartlessness of violence. He takes no joy in depicting these scenes, and we take no joy in watching them. We cringe when innocent people are hurt, as one would expect. What's interesting is how heartbreaking it is to watch Dillinger's men go down. Dangerous though they may be, when they've been shot several times and are slowly bleeding out, their sad acceptance of their fate reminds us that these men are human beings, too. The graphic depiction of Dillinger's assassination may seem excessive to some, but I view as wholly necessary. It is unfortunate that only in death do we feel something for these characters. Perhaps if Mann had put as much humanity and care into depicting these people's lives as he did their deaths, Public Enemies could have been one of the best films of the year and a worthy addition to the gangster genre. As it is, it feels like little more than a missed opportunity. A prime example of style over substance.
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