I hate the 1980s (grew up then and hated them then, too). I hate synthpop. I hate when computers are portrayed in ridiculous ways in films. As a dude, I don't really do romance in cinema.
There are many reasons I should despise this film. It is cloyingly precious, sentimental, saccharine, and safe.
How irritating it is, then, that the only reaction I actually have to this film is warm fuzzies. I've seen it maybe a half dozen times, and will probably watch it a few more.
The many detractors of this film that I have spoken to seem incapable of the necessary accommodations one must make for this film's refusal to care about its own believability. Critics tend to fixate, instead, on supposed plot holes (this is a film about a computer that becomes self- aware when liquid is spilled into it, at which time it assumes the voice of Bud Cort, and falls in love with its owner's object of desire. Just sayin'.) and the aggressive, relentless adorableness of everything, from America's most picturesque city (San Francisco) to Edgar's cartoony "facial expressions," to Virgina Madsen, whose prettiness here is nearly coma-inducing in its dreaminess.
Critics of this film tend to hate this kind of thing, preferring instead to find themselves, at the completion of the films they say they like, naked and in a fetal position on their own bathroom floor, rocking back and forth and sobbing quietly.
Like I'm the lame-o for liking this film but they're the sophisticated, dignified ones for kneeling in the mud in a rainstorm and crying out to the God who has abandoned them, which is the sort of state one finds oneself at the end of "serious" films like Dancer in the Dark or Requiem for a Dream.
Lame-o it is. Snobs might try watching this as a postmodern commentary on the 1980s: the airy 80s-ness actually détournes itself (HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE!?), thereby being so avant-garde you can barely even stand being in a room where the film was once shown, owing to your insufficient coolness. Discuss.
Part of the thing about this film, of course, is how easy it is to develop a crush on the cello-playing, classy, girlfriendy Virginia Madsen, and as a tough wannabe manly teenager with weedy adolescent facial hair and a preference for films with machine guns and rivers of blood, going all googly over Virginia Madsen was not something high on my list to do at the time. You couldn't maintain your dignity with your friends if you said you liked this film, when they were all watching, you know, FACES OF DEATH and playing 5 Finger Filet with balisongs in the basement.
Virginia, if you're out there, I'd totally bring you hot chocolate and animal crackers on a snowy day. I am man enough to say this now.
After watching Ms. Madsen in Electric Dreams, the most intense fantasy I was capable of conjuring up was: we're sitting on the couch, Virginia and me, and we're watching Pete's Dragon, both of us in in matching cotton jammies with dinosaurs on them, and eating ice cream. At one point she turns to me and says, "Let's stay in our pajamas all day. And then I'll play the cello."
OK I tried to go for broke (I was a deeply hormonal 13 or 14 year old at the time), but that's as lusty as I could make it, no matter how hard I tried. The fantasy was no less satisfying. Something can be extrapolated from this about the film's virtues, as well.
The soundtrack, on paper, is the embodiment of purest evil for me. This is pretty much the last soundtrack I'd ever buy, had I not first heard the music in the context of the film.
If you have not heard the Phil Oakey title theme, I am warning you now: it will make you into a complete and total wuss. OK, men? Just. You know, we'll have some whiskey and go hunting and hare coursing tomorrow and belch and scratch ourselves. Tomorrow, though. Today, it's, you know. Though you're miles and miles away, I see you every day. I don't have to try. I just close my eyes.
I'd hate myself if I wasn't enjoying myself too much to care.
Other standouts are (kill me now) the Culture Club contribution, "The Dream," which accompanies a memorable animated montage, and two Jeff Lynne (ELO) songs. You won't soon forget the soundtrack, for better or worse (you will probably love it - but you will not like loving it).
All of these elements just work, even though they shouldn't, and much to my annoyance, I must grudgingly admit to this being quite possibly my favorite film from that year (much like foodies deriding middle American vices like deep-fried Oreos, and then realizing, to their dismay, that they enjoy them). Mock me if you must. If I look a bit dazed, it isn't that I am ignoring your derision, but rather it is because Pete's Dragon is over and I'm putting Harold and Maude into the VCR while Virginia sits there in her pajamas, reading an article from the New Yorker about J.D. Salinger out loud to me.
Where was I...
Oh...
I give this a 9 out of 10, because for all of the reasons I could give you why this film is a treacherous menace to all of my sensibilities and values, I just really love it.
You should watch it, if you haven't.
Quit being a sourpuss, critics. The Godard films you pretend to like are still in their plastic anyway and have a long shelf life. You've been "working up to them." You've got time to keep "working up to them."
And they won't love you like Electric Dreams will. I bet even Lemmy Caution would agree.
There are many reasons I should despise this film. It is cloyingly precious, sentimental, saccharine, and safe.
How irritating it is, then, that the only reaction I actually have to this film is warm fuzzies. I've seen it maybe a half dozen times, and will probably watch it a few more.
The many detractors of this film that I have spoken to seem incapable of the necessary accommodations one must make for this film's refusal to care about its own believability. Critics tend to fixate, instead, on supposed plot holes (this is a film about a computer that becomes self- aware when liquid is spilled into it, at which time it assumes the voice of Bud Cort, and falls in love with its owner's object of desire. Just sayin'.) and the aggressive, relentless adorableness of everything, from America's most picturesque city (San Francisco) to Edgar's cartoony "facial expressions," to Virgina Madsen, whose prettiness here is nearly coma-inducing in its dreaminess.
Critics of this film tend to hate this kind of thing, preferring instead to find themselves, at the completion of the films they say they like, naked and in a fetal position on their own bathroom floor, rocking back and forth and sobbing quietly.
Like I'm the lame-o for liking this film but they're the sophisticated, dignified ones for kneeling in the mud in a rainstorm and crying out to the God who has abandoned them, which is the sort of state one finds oneself at the end of "serious" films like Dancer in the Dark or Requiem for a Dream.
Lame-o it is. Snobs might try watching this as a postmodern commentary on the 1980s: the airy 80s-ness actually détournes itself (HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE!?), thereby being so avant-garde you can barely even stand being in a room where the film was once shown, owing to your insufficient coolness. Discuss.
Part of the thing about this film, of course, is how easy it is to develop a crush on the cello-playing, classy, girlfriendy Virginia Madsen, and as a tough wannabe manly teenager with weedy adolescent facial hair and a preference for films with machine guns and rivers of blood, going all googly over Virginia Madsen was not something high on my list to do at the time. You couldn't maintain your dignity with your friends if you said you liked this film, when they were all watching, you know, FACES OF DEATH and playing 5 Finger Filet with balisongs in the basement.
Virginia, if you're out there, I'd totally bring you hot chocolate and animal crackers on a snowy day. I am man enough to say this now.
After watching Ms. Madsen in Electric Dreams, the most intense fantasy I was capable of conjuring up was: we're sitting on the couch, Virginia and me, and we're watching Pete's Dragon, both of us in in matching cotton jammies with dinosaurs on them, and eating ice cream. At one point she turns to me and says, "Let's stay in our pajamas all day. And then I'll play the cello."
OK I tried to go for broke (I was a deeply hormonal 13 or 14 year old at the time), but that's as lusty as I could make it, no matter how hard I tried. The fantasy was no less satisfying. Something can be extrapolated from this about the film's virtues, as well.
The soundtrack, on paper, is the embodiment of purest evil for me. This is pretty much the last soundtrack I'd ever buy, had I not first heard the music in the context of the film.
If you have not heard the Phil Oakey title theme, I am warning you now: it will make you into a complete and total wuss. OK, men? Just. You know, we'll have some whiskey and go hunting and hare coursing tomorrow and belch and scratch ourselves. Tomorrow, though. Today, it's, you know. Though you're miles and miles away, I see you every day. I don't have to try. I just close my eyes.
I'd hate myself if I wasn't enjoying myself too much to care.
Other standouts are (kill me now) the Culture Club contribution, "The Dream," which accompanies a memorable animated montage, and two Jeff Lynne (ELO) songs. You won't soon forget the soundtrack, for better or worse (you will probably love it - but you will not like loving it).
All of these elements just work, even though they shouldn't, and much to my annoyance, I must grudgingly admit to this being quite possibly my favorite film from that year (much like foodies deriding middle American vices like deep-fried Oreos, and then realizing, to their dismay, that they enjoy them). Mock me if you must. If I look a bit dazed, it isn't that I am ignoring your derision, but rather it is because Pete's Dragon is over and I'm putting Harold and Maude into the VCR while Virginia sits there in her pajamas, reading an article from the New Yorker about J.D. Salinger out loud to me.
Where was I...
Oh...
I give this a 9 out of 10, because for all of the reasons I could give you why this film is a treacherous menace to all of my sensibilities and values, I just really love it.
You should watch it, if you haven't.
Quit being a sourpuss, critics. The Godard films you pretend to like are still in their plastic anyway and have a long shelf life. You've been "working up to them." You've got time to keep "working up to them."
And they won't love you like Electric Dreams will. I bet even Lemmy Caution would agree.