livewire-6 Reviews

Closer (I) (2004)

G-string quartet

[7/10 · 9 December 2004]

I'm in two minds about "Closer". Is it an accurate portrayal of modern relationships? Or is merely a brilliant conceit, a filmed play with clever dialogue that bears no resemblance to reality? Whatever the case, the message of "Closer" seems to be that truth has very little to do with relationships. Truth is something you hear only the moment your relationship is about to end, not while the two of you are together. Truth doesn't bring you closer. It only drives you apart.

There's a scene in "Closer" that involves a very racy exchange between two unlikely individuals in an Internet chat room. One of the two people chatting is merely adopting an online persona. He is not at all who or what he claims to be. The other is at least true to his nature as a sexual animal -- in his own words, a "caveman". Perhaps there is a message there too: that we are truest when we are true to ourselves.

The caveman in question is Larry, played with raw energy and passion by Clive Owens. Of the four protagonists, Larry is the most real and true. Alice (Natalie Portman) is hiding behind an assumed identity, though she is ironically a stripper who lays herself bare to strangers. Dan (Jude Law) projects an image of macho bravado, but is actually a sniveling, weepy, whiny little boy lost. As for Anna (Julia Roberts), she is an ice-cold maiden who sees genuine human emotion only as fodder for her artwork as a photographer.

All of these characters confuse wanting to be loved with wanting to be needed -- or to dominate and control. And they all confuse wanting to hear the truth with their real desire to be lulled by lies.

This film could have explored modern relationships even more deeply. There were hints of sexual tension between Dan and Larry, and between Anna and Alice. The movie would be longer, but the end result would be the same. It seems that, whether you're gay or straight, when it comes to love, nothing could be farther from the truth.

Finding Neverland (2004)

First star to the left, and straight on till boring

[8 December 2004]

I should have realized it was a bad sign "Finding Neverland" began with a red velvet curtain and a proscenium arch. Yes, I know, James Barrie was a playwright, and "Peter Pan" began as a play. But that doesn't mean that this movie should have adopted theatrical conventions. That results in a film that is, well, over-dramatic.

That's one of the problems with "Finding Neverland". It tries too obviously and too hard to tug at our heartstrings. Instead of stirring deep, true emotions in its audience, it succeeds only in engendering a cloying and mawkish sentimentality. And, worse than that, it wrings tears from even its hard-hearted villain -- the grandmother (Julie Christie) of the boys James Barrie (Johnny Depp) befriends.

Another problem is that "Finding Neverland" almost completely sidesteps a key point in any examination of James Barrie's life: the nature of his fondness for the Llewellyn-Davies boys. Barrie was rumored, though never proved, to be a pedophile. Only once in "Finding Neverland" is this issue raised. As in "Alexander", our hero's sexuality is not honestly explored. At best, this version of Barrie might be labeled an oddball or an eccentric -- a rather superficial assessment.

The point is not to pander to prurient interests, or to dismiss Barrie as some sex-crazed monster. Rather, the film could have considered how he sublimated his desire and transmuted it into art -- in much the same way as homosexual Michelangelo was able to create Adam, David, and the muscle-bound Christ of the Sistine Chapel's "Last Judgment".

To be sure, in this depiction of Barrie, there are hints of a lost childhood, of growing up too soon. And there is philosophizing about how quickly youth and time pass, till the Grim Reaper claims us all. But "Finding Neverland" fails to capitalize on an idea suggested by its final scene: that our physical selves may be mortal, but the products of our imagination can live forever.

Finally, "Finding Neverland" is simply too staid, static, and stodgy. Except for the scenes where Barrie engages in imaginative play with the Llewellyn-Davies boys, the film lacks dynamism and energy.

I was looking forward to "Finding Neverland". But I didn't think I would be finding Neverland dull. For me, this Peter didn't pan out.

Bright Young Things (2003)

Stephen should Fry for this mess

[5 December 2004]

In the guise of an American evangelist preaching against the excesses of Britain's high society, Stockard Channing delivers the line that best sums up this film: "Beautiful young people, they call you. Well, one out of three ain;'t bad."

Cynically, and quite in keeping with the tone of the film, it is left up to the audience to decide which of the three epithets appropriately applies.

In my view, we may at best describe these people as young. Beautiful they may be in face and form, but their souls are foul and besmirched by all manner of meanness and pettiness. As for whether we may call them people, they may be human, but not humane. (Indeed, one may argue that the "people" portrayed in this film have little or no depth at all -- that they are cardboard cutouts without any substance.)

"Bright Young Things" attempts to atone for being a silly little piece of fluff by tacking on a "moral" at the end. Late, far too late, in the film, we are given to understand the gravity of the situation that exists outside the boundaries of the glittery, glamorous world of British high society.

On September 1, 1939, Britain declares war on Germany, following the invasion of Poland. London is bombarded. Some of the bright young things find themselves on the battlefront.

But most of the film is devoted, not to the Blitz, but to images of beautiful young people getting blitzed. The overall impression is one of "Fool Britannia", fiddling while Rome burns.

Is there a message here for Britain in the 21st century? That may be. But Stephen Fry's adaptation of Evelyn Waugh's "Vile Bodies" delivers, not a message, but a mess. "Vile Bodies" has unfortunately resulted only in a vile film.

Alexander (2004)

Stone and Farrell, defeated by Hephaistion's thighs

[25 November 2004]

At the beginning of "Alexander", Ptolemy, Greek pharaoh of Egypt, tells us that "Alexander was never defeated, except by Hephaistion's thighs". (This line is no invention of Oliver Stone's, but a quote variously attributed to Cynic philosophers or a poet named Claudius Aelianus.)

Alas, what was true of Alexander the hero proves to be equally true of "Alexander" the film, as well as its director, Oliver Stone, and its lead actor, Colin Farrell. Sad to relate, all three fall on the same stumbling-block: their inability to deal squarely with the importance of Hephaistion in Alexander's life.

One wonders what on earth possessed Stone to tackle this project, and to cast Farrell in the title role. Never were two men more ill-suited to the task. Both are fatally hampered by their own swaggering machismo -- and the homophobia that lingers in Hollywood and America at large -- from being able to understand, appreciate and convey, with any verisimilitude, the physical passion and emotional connection that Alexander and Hephaistion must have felt.

Stone and Farrell never allow the two historic lovers to do more than give each other a bear hug or, at best, a back rub. There is no on-screen kiss, let alone any nudity or lovemaking.

In an early scene, we see Alexander and Hephaistion as 12-year-old boys, wrestling at the gymnasium, chastely clad in loincloths. This is patently inaccurate, since Greek men and boys wore nothing more than olive oil -- and perhaps a laurel wreath -- when they engaged in athletic activities, including the Olympic Games. But in America's current climate of anti-sexual hysteria, it would of course be quite impossible to show the historical reality.

This is only one of many anachronisms in the film. For instance, we are told the extent of Alexander's empire in square miles -- an English measure of area, where the Greeks might have used hectares instead. But worst of all, most intrusive and annoying, is the plethora of Irish brogues heard from the male cast, primarily Colin Farrell himself, the young actor who plays Alexander as a boy, and Val Kilmer as his father, Philip of Macedonia. I am tempted to believe that this casting was a deliberate decision, based on Farrell's inability to neutralize his own native accent.

Some scenes seemed derivative, echos of other celebrated films. At one point, we see the ground strewn with wounded men, and the camera dollies back for a wide-angle shot. I half expected to see Scarlett O'Hara in her straw bonnet and faded calico dress, and the tattered Confederate flag waving in the breeze.

The score by Vangelis also struck me as derivative. One bar in particular sounds strangely familiar -- I'm almost positive it was lifted from an opera aria.

The ancient Greeks had a saying that "an army of lovers cannot fail". Oliver Stone's "Alexander" fails for precisely that reason: it does not allow Alexander and Hephaistion to be lovers, as they undoubtedly were in life and will always remain in history.

Stage Beauty (2004)

Seventeenth-century Stanislavsky

[19 November 2004]

"All the world's a stage," wrote the Bard, "and all the men and women merely players that strut and fret their hour upon the stage."

"Stage Beauty" is set in the world of seventeenth-century Restoration theatre, but the stage serves as a microcosm for life itself, and the roles played by the actors before the public mirror the roles they play in their private lives. The question is, do they create their roles, or do their roles create them?

Ned Kynaston (Billy Crudup) is an actor who takes on women's roles, since real women are not permitted to do so. He has been thoroughly trained and schooled in the then highly stylized technique of portraying women -- to such an extent that any trace of masculinity seems to have been drummed out of him.

His dresser Maria (Clare Danes) yearns to be an actress herself, but is prevented from doing so by the narrow conventions of Puritan England -- until Charles II is restored to the throne and decrees that, henceforth, real women shall play women's roles on the stage. A whole new world opens up for Maria, but it looks like curtains for Ned.

What happens next is pure anachronism: Ned and Maria are able to rise above the limitations and constraints of their era. Not only do they transcend their gender or sex roles, but they overcome their classical training and, in effect, engage in Method acting, a technique still three hundred years away in the far-distant future. When he teaches Maria how to break the mold and play Othello's Desdemona in a whole new, natural way, Ned becomes a seventeenth-century Stanislavsky.

But, by George, it works. Their performance of the celebrated death scene from "Othello" sends shock waves through an audience accustomed to pantomime and exaggerated gestures -- and it electrifies us as well.

Not since Joseph Fiennes and Gwyneth Paltrow in "Shakespeare in Love" have an actor and actress so shimmered and shone simultaneously on stage and screen. One hopes that Billy Crudup and Clare Danes will be remembered for their luminous performances at the 2005 Academy Awards.

The Polar Express (2004)

The ghost of Christmas pasteurized

[16 November 2004]

I will no doubt be accused of being a Scrooge, but I'm afraid that, for me, "The Polar Express" was no more than a snow job. Far from arousing my Christmas spirit, the film merely reminded me how much the holiday has been over-sentimentalized and over-commercialized.

The instrumental and song score alone was enough to have me muttering "Bah, humbug!" The music was so in your face that I could almost see the orchestra, especially the string section. It was bad enough having to endure Tom Hanks as the train conductor, without having to contend with the orchestra conductor into the bargain. And then there were all those snippets of classic Christmas carols, both as snatches of the instrumental score and as voiced by Judy Garland, Bing Crosby and the Andrews sisters. They may not have been roasting on an open fire, but they were chestnuts indeed.

If I had to sum up "The Polar Express" in one word, it would be "annoying". Instead of telling a story from beginning to end, it seems to go off in all directions, or at least constantly off on a tangent. The stage business of the train ticket carried hither and thither by the winter wind seems suspiciously like an excuse for the animators to show us how very clever they are ("Look, Ma, no hands!"). I was most definitely NOT impressed by the human figures. To my eye, they looked like nothing so much as wax dummies from Madame Tussaud's, and they moved jerkily as well. I might as well as have been watching the string puppets in "Team America: World Police".

There was, to be honest, only one moment when "The Polar Express" evoked any real emotion in this reviewer's breast, and that came almost at the very end, when the train conductor punches the children's tickets with a special message for each one.

"The Polar Express" takes a host of Christmas traditions and milks them for all their worth. But -- for this critic, at least -- the end result is as flat, warmed-over, and even sour-tasting as a glass of milk left standing overnight for a Santa who never comes.

Alfie (2004)

What's it all for?

[11 November 2004]

I've never seen the original 1960s version of "Alfie", starring Michael Caine, but if it's anything like the 2004 remake with Jude Law -- thanks, but no thanks.

One problem with the 21st-century "Alfie" is that it continually takes great pains to remind us of its predecessor. For one thing, Jude Law is as close a match physically to a young Michael Caine as you could hope to find among the current crop of Hollywood actors. For another thing, the 2004 film has a soundtrack strongly reminiscent of the Sixties. And just in case we missed the fact that this is a remake, we get to hear Joss Stone warble "What's is all about, Alfie?" over the closing credits -- which, by the way, are the most original aspect of the film.

Another problem with "Alfie" (2004) is precisely its soundtrack. If I wanted non-stop, wall-to-wall music blaring in my ears, I'd get myself an iPod. What's it all about? Offhand, I'd say it was about plugging the soundtrack for two hours.

Finally, Jude Law is a great actor -- not to mention easy on the eyes and quite fetching in a towel. But his character, Alfie, is a sorry excuse for a human being and (in my opinion) a complete waste of a moviegoer's time and money. If I'm going to plunk down $10 and spend two hours of my time, give me a character who is at least likable, if not necessarily admirable. More importantly, give me a hero who learns something along the way, instead of one like Alfie, who still doesn't get it by the final reel.

Okay, I knew going in that Alfie was the kind of guy who is afraid to commit to a relationship with a woman. But shouldn't the film have given us some idea of why this is so? There are hints that Alfie has learned everything he knows about life from his father: that you should "never depend on anyone". But didn't Alfie have a mother too? What did he learn from her? The 2004 film also suggests that Alfie has a soft spot in his heart for his erstwhile single-mom girlfriend's little boy. But again, we are given no rationale. A younger version of himself, perhaps?

As the house lights went up, the question in my mind wasn't "What's it all about?" Rather, it was, "What's it all for?"

The Incredibles (2004)

Incredibly boring and not up to Parr

[9 November 2004]

What would happen if Superman hung up his cape, gave up his superpowers, and settled down with Lois Lane (or his childhood sweetheart Lana Lang) on the outskirts of Metropolis? For that matter, what kind of life would Batman and Robin have as Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson, a plain, ordinary gay couple living la vida loca in Gotham City?

That's the kind of question "The Incredibles" sets out to answer -- and fails. This animated film could have been a truly funny satire of married, monogamous (monotonous?), suburban society. Instead, it aims for the lowest common denominator and settles for being a cartoon version of your average "guy movie" -- an action-packed adventure filled with chases and things blowing up all over the place, but no real heart and precious few brains.

The only saving grace in "The Incredibles" is Holly Hunter's spirited voicing of Helen Parr (a.k.a. Elastigirl). Craig T. Nelson, as Bob Parr (alias Mr. Incredible), shows potential but is not allowed to develop it to the fullest. The super-children in this little family -- Dash, Violet and baby Jack -- simply fly under the radar. That's a real shame, because Violet starts out as a teenager faced with the universal adolescent task of fitting in and being liked, especially by a cute boy at school. But her character development is as flat and one-dimensional as a Marvel comic book.

"The Incredibles" should have burned as brightly as Krypton's twin suns. Instead, for me at least, the film simply turned out to be as deadly as a fragment of Kryptonite.

Saw (2004)

Could have been sharper

[9 November 2004]

"Saw" begins with an intriguing premise and, for most of the film, is a taut, tight, suspenseful cat-and-mouse game. The promise of the title is fulfilled -- as the old proverb says, if a gun is introduced in the first act, it should go off by the fifth act. Indeed it does, and we are not disappointed.

Where the film loses its sharpness and becomes blunted and dull, like an old rusty saw, is in the final reel. There are simply too many red herrings, undeveloped or underdeveloped characters, unlikely twists and turns, unanswered questions, and an ending that ultimately fails to satisfy.

Cary Elwes and Leigh Whannell are, by and large, excellent as the trapped surgeon and darkroom photographer. In an interesting dynamic or dialectic, Dr. Lawrence Gordon initially approaches his dilemma with cool, calm logic, only to descend into a maelstrom of madness. Adam, his fellow prisoner, starts out as impulsive and unthinking, but grows increasingly cagier and slyer. The shift in the dynamic between them genuinely proves to be a see-saw battle (pun intended).

However, "Saw" woefully wastes the thespian talents of the likes of Danny Glover. The rest of the cast embody cardboard characters and simply go through the motions.

"Saw" should have been cutting-edge cinema. In the end, however, it should perhaps have been left on the cutting-room floor.

Vera Drake (2004)

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions

[7 November 2004]

Mike Leigh's "Vera Drake" has generated a lot of Oscar buzz, and there's no denying that Imelda Staunton plays an engaging character who enlists and maintains our sympathy from beginning to end. Her Vera Drake is a brisk and energetic woman, clearly concerned about others.

However, Vera is also a tad naive, thinking that the woes and cares of the world can be cured by a kind word and a nice cup of tea. She seems woefully unaware of the potential danger of her good intentions. By her actions, she endangers, not only the physical welfare of unwed mothers, but their psychological well-being too. Vera is even more oblivious to the moral import and legal consequences of "helping girls out" when they have "got themselves in trouble". Only when faced with prison, and the shame brought upon her family, does Vera show regret or remorse.

Director Mike Leigh valiantly tries to cover all the angles in the pro-life/pro-choice debate. Leigh's juxtaposition of characters and scenes argues that a woman's "right" is predicated on her socio-economic status and ability to pay for medical services. He invokes the argument of rape as a rationale for termination of a pregnancy. He also includes a subplot suggesting that only wanted children should be born.

But "Vera Drake" is obviously skewed and slanted in favor of a woman's right to choose. Only twice in the entire picture does anyone make any reference to the existence of another life in jeopardy -- that of the child in the womb. Only once does anyone suggest that a woman "in the family way" might want to carry her child to term.

Leigh is entitled to his point of view as a filmmaker and a human being. But abortion is a complex issue, and it is perhaps incumbent upon artists and intellectuals to present a more balanced portrayal of the women, men and children involved in the debate. "Vera Drake" succeeds brilliantly as cinema, but fails dismally as polemic.

Being Julia (2004)

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

[31 October 2004]

I am not a fan of Annette Benning by any stretch of the imagination. I thought she was far too old to play the schoolgirlish ingenue in "An American President", and found her lacking in warmth and charisma as the love interest in "Open Range". I thought she was okay for what she had to do in "Dick Tracy", and honestly can't remember her performance in "American Beauty".

In "Being Julia", however, Benning's performance thoroughly does justice to her larger-than-life character. Benning plays 1930s stage actress Julia Lambert. Julia is by turns melodramatic, egocentric, overbearing and overwrought. She roars into our consciousness from her first scene to her final curtain.

Benning is surrounded by a fine cast of actors and actresses who act as perfect foils for her. Jeremy Irons, especially, is subtle and subdued as her manager husband, Michael Gosselyn. Juliet Stevenson is a sly confederate as Julia's dresser Evie. Miriam Margolyes is a hoot as theatre owner Dolly. Shaun Evans is a feast for the eyes as Tom Fennell, the young cad who breaks Julia's heart. Michael Gambon rounds out the cast as Jimmy Langton, a ghostly mentor to the very much alive and lively Julia.

Julia is not exactly what you would call an admirable human being. She is self-centered, bitchy, catty and vengeful. But, as the Italians say, "revenge is a dish best eaten cold". The film keeps us in suspense as we nervously wait for the other shoe to drop, for Julia to execute her carefully plotted revenge. When she springs her trap, we may shake our heads disapprovingly, but we cannot suppress a hearty laugh.

By its very nature, "Being Julia" is a film that will not appeal to a young demographic. You have to be a certain age to appreciate Julia's predicament of growing old and feeling that life and love have passed her by. Benning bravely allows director Istvan Szabo to film her in merciless and unforgiving closeup, to capture the lines etched in her brow, around her mouth and at her neckline. But the film leaves us with a sense of hope that, like Julia, we may all age like fine wine -- or like the beer whose creamy foam Julia relishes like her life itself: without the slightest trace of sadness or regret.

Ray (I) (2004)

The hero and the heroin

[30 October 2004]

"Ray" is being touted as one of the best films of the year and an Oscar contender in that category. I would not rate it so highly. It is certainly a competent, well-made biopic, but a fairly standard and conventional one.

The film's analysis of Ray Charles' private demons seems to boil down to this: he shot heroin into his veins to deaden the survivor guilt of his younger brother's tragic death, and slept around with women to compensate for having been wrenched away from his beloved mama. This is a little too facile and perilously close to psychobabble.

As for his genius, talent and success, one supposes (along the same lines) that his blindness enabled him to hear more finely. There is one scene in the film where seven-year-old Ray becomes aware, for the first time, of the sounds of the world around him. I can only compare this to the moment in "The Miracle Worker" where Helen Keller (Patty Duke) realizes that W-A-T-E-R spelled in her palm is the fresh cold liquid Teacher spills onto her hand from the handpump.

"Ray" certainly demonstrates the range of his musical talent and his impact on music history. We see how he combines rhythm and blues with gospel, to the consternation of some who see the blend as sacrilegious, "the devil's music". We see his music cross over into pop and even reflect classical influences, as in "Color My World". There is one piece in the film ("What'd I Say?") in which I swear I heard echoes of The Doors' "Riders on the Storm".

Jamie Foxx is phenomenal as Ray Charles, but his is the only male role of any real substance. However, four actresses turn in equally strong performances as his mother, his wife, and two of his lovers.

The business about Ray Charles' refusal to play to a segregated audience in Georgia is of historical interest, no doubt, but seems to come out of left field and does not fit very well into the rest of the narrative. It's as if the filmmakers felt the need for a hero to counterbalance the heroin.

The film is a tad long (close to three hours), and I did find myself wondering where it was going and how it was going to end. Art, unlike life, cannot be messy and disorganized; it requires shaping and a sense of ultimate purpose. "Ray" might have burned a little more brightly if it had a sharper focus.

Birth (2004)

Stillborn

[30 October 2004]

The premise of "Birth" is certainly intriguing enough: a 10-year-boy names Sean claims to be the deceased husband of a socialite, Anna, who is about to marry for the second time. (Not surprisingly, the script is partly authored by Jean-Claude Carriere, who gave us the similarly-themed -- and far superior -- "Return of Martin Guerre" in 1982.)

But "Birth" fails to deliver on its early promise, largely for two reasons. One is that the script provides a plausible alternative explanation for Sean's preternatural knowledge about Anna's dead husband. The other is that the film pulls its punches and never allows Sean to be adult enough to "be" who he claims to be. Specifically, Sean is not sufficiently sexual or sensual to entangle Anna in his web.

Nicole Kidman and Cameron Bright are mesmerizing as the woman and the boy. But Anne Heche and the legendary Lauren Bacall are quite simply wasted, and the rest of the cast weighs negligibly in the balance.

"The Sixth Sense", this isn't. But it might have been if it had involved more of our five senses -- or if it had made more sense at all.

Broadway: The Golden Age, by the Legends Who Were There (2003)

The Great White(-haired) Way

[29 October 2004]

Watching the documentary "Broadway: The Golden Age", I couldn't help thinking of Marie Dressler in the film "Dinner at Eight". She plays a faded, dowager stage actress, and young ingenues keep telling her how they saw her perform ... at their father's knees.

The actors and actresses interviewed for this documentary are all well advanced in years. Some, in fact, are no longer with us -- as a poignant retrospective reminds us in the final reel. Some, like Nanette Fabray, are marvelously well preserved. Others, alas, have fallen prey to what Shakespeare's Hamlet called "the thousand ills that flesh is heir to". We see, in old film clips and black-and-white still photos, how they looked in their glory days. The contrast, in some cases, is heartrending.

The documentary is full of nostalgic reminiscences of Broadway in the 1940s and 50s, and we are regaled with many a mirth-provoking anecdote. Gretchen Wyler, an actress I have never even heard of, had me in stitches with her All-about-Eve-style story of stepping in for an ailing leading lady -- and beating another understudy to the punch.

We are also introduced to Laurette Taylor, who apparently had a profound impact and influence on virtually all of the actors and actresses interviewed for the film. The interviewees also speak in hushed and reverent tones about the thespian skills of Kim Stanley, who burned bright and burned out too soon. And, of course, Marlon Brando was nothing less than a god.

The interviewees (and the director) mourn the passing of an era and an industry that fell victim to rising ticket prices and changing tastes. But, interestingly enough, no one suggests that perhaps live theatre was (and is) an elitist form of entertainment not available to the masses in the first place.

Anyone can go to a local cinema to see stars light up the silver screen (and later the small screen through the medium of television). Indeed, most of the interviewees are known to us through their film and TV roles. But how many mortals can afford to go to New York City, and walk the Great White Way?

A Dirty Shame (2004)

Too much nympho-mation

[24 October 2004]

In "A Dirty Shame", singer-actress Tracey Ullman plays Sylvia Stickles, a prudish, puritanical housewife cursed with an impossibly well endowed stripper daughter named Caprice (a.k.a. Ursula Udders). An accidental head injury transforms the frumpish frau into a nymphomaniac, who joins a growing community of sex fiends scheming to turn Baltimore Balt-immoral.

This initial set-up is cockamamie enough. But what follows is an endless catalogue of well known and lesser-known fetishes that ultimately wears on the viewer and becomes, quite frankly, boring. The film might have been more interesting if John Waters had kept the focus on Ullman's character, instead of turning the story into a free-for-all involving the whole neighborhood. As they say, less is more.

That said, "A Dirty Shame" has its droll moments. Tracey Ullman does an awkward, ungainly hokey-pokey in a seniors' home, with a surprising twist at the end. Johnny Knoxville exudes sensual charm as Ray Ray. He is a carnal mirror image of the squeaky-clean actor in "Win a Date with Tad Hamilton!" (Actually, they could be twin brothers.) The actress who plays Big Ethel, the caustic crusader for decency, has a gravelly, throaty, whiskey voice that's a cross between Bea Arthur and Lauren Bacall. She also has a wonderfully woebegone, put-upon facial expression.

The dirty shame is that John Waters, who showed such genius and talent in recent films such as "Pecker" and "Cecil B. Demented", has reverted to wallowing in trash and filth. His reputation, and his audience, would be far better served if he delivered more shock and less schlock, more craft than Kraft-Ebbing, more deep thought than Deep Throat. In short, Waters should blow our minds instead of our -- well, you get the idea.

Luther (2003)

Can't stop this thing we started

[24 October 2004]

The title of Bryan Adams' song "Can't Stop This Thing We Started" aptly describes this 2003 retelling of the story of Martin Luther. The film basically depicts Luther as a good Catholic, loyal to the Pope but horrified by the scandals and corruption that plagued the 16th century Church. He is even more horrified when his effort to reform the Church gets out of control, is co-opted for political purposes, and becomes a popular revolution with the attendant carnage and bloodshed. I suspect Luther has been highly romanticized here. For one thing, the film follows him from age 34 to 50, yet (as embodied by the angelically handsome Joseph Fiennes) he never ages a day. His relationship with Katharina von Bora seems astonishingly chaste -- no struggle with the lusts of the flesh for this pious monk! His demons are of a different kind. We see scenes where Luther seems plagued by demons, thrashing about in his cell, hearing unseen voices. (I know Luther was manic-depressive, but I hardly think he was a madman.) The film provides a good summary or outline of the major events of Luther's life and times: the selling of indulgences, the Ninety-Five Theses nailed to the door of Wittenberg Church, the Diet of Worms (a council presided over by Emperor Charles V), the Confession of Augsburg. The costumes accurately reflect historical reality. If I have any quarrel with the film in this regard, it is that it does not adequately mirror a key factor in the struggle between Germany and Rome: the principle of "cuius regio, eius religio". In other words, local princes and kings imposed their own religious beliefs on the peoples they governed. The cast is a constellation of stars, veritable luminaries, including Sir Peter Ustinov in one of his last roles as Frederick of Saxony. The actors are uniformly excellent in their roles, and the dialogue is well written. The photography is somewhat static, leading me to believe this film was made with television in mind -- albeit of the highbrow kind, in the Masterpiece Theatre tradition. Still, if anyone asked me if I recommended "Luther", I would reply as he did at the Diet of Worms: "Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me."

Team America: World Police (2004)

Washing our mouths out with hope

[24 October 2004]

I think Roger Ebert should close the balcony for good, or let Richard Roeper take over. Ebert gave "Team America" thumbs down, but I think his thumbs were way up someplace else.

Ebert calls "Team America" nihilistic, and says its message is that nothing (even terrorism) should be taken seriously. Roeper retorted that everything is fodder for satire, which is exactly right. To maintain that some subjects should be sacred cows is a lot of bull.

Okay, I granted you that "Team America" is rude, crude, lewd, potty-mouthed and exceedingly (excessively?) vulgar. But, hey, what did you expect from Matt Stone and Trey Parker, the makers of "South Park"?

The marionettes and sets of the film are remarkably good. You can see Parker and Stone put a lot of effort into this film. In fact, they said it was such hard work they never want to do it again. And the work looks top-notch, not shoddy at all. (This is what "Thunderbirds" should have done, aiming at the baby-boomer generation, instead of catering and pandering to a demographic that doesn't even remember the original TV show. But I digress.)

Parker and Stone mercilessly flay American geopolitics, suggesting that the U.S. government would cheerfully destroy the world's great cultural treasures in its obsessive search for weaponsamassdestruction. (Why does it always sound like one word?)

At the same time, the creators of "South Park" tear a stripe off the left-leaning Hollywood establishment that is actively campaigning against Bush's administration. You can't say that Parker and Stone aren't equal-opportunity bullshit detectors. Conservatives and liberals, hawks and doves, are all fair game.

In fact, the hero of "Team America" is an actor, Gary Johnston, whose dubious skills are called upon in the pursuit of terrorists. His boss, Spottswood, is a cross between Cary Grant and John Forsythe (the voice of Charlie in "Charlie's Angels"). Even some of Johnston's colleagues look a lot like Hollywood actors: Sara reminded me of Sandra Bullock, and Lisa made me think of Cybill Shepherd.

By all means, go see "Team America". I laughed till I cried, it was so damn funny. But be prepared for X-rated language galore. "Team America" are world police, not word police.

The Chorus (2004)

One-note performances, familiar refrain

[24 October 2004]

It seems "The Choir" (Les Choristes) is a sensation in its native France, doing big box-office as a film and selling like hotcakes as a soundtrack. One imagines that France will hasten to enter it in the race for Best Foreign Film at the Oscars this year (2004).

"The Choir" is undeniably a well-made film. But it is not a great film, nor is it even a memorable film. And it certainly doesn't deserve the golden statuette.

"The Choir" is a nice film, a wistful bit of misty-eyed, rose-colored sentimentality. But it is farm from original, creative or imaginative.

It is, instead, a rehash and a mishmash of images and ideas cribbed from other films. The conflict between a kindly new teacher and a crusty old headmaster has been done to death. There have been other, more hard-hitting films about the cruelty of life in reform schools for wayward or abandoned boys. And there have even been other films about a motley crew whipped into shape and ennobled by art, music or theater.

"The Choir" simply follows a recipe, blends all these elements, and serves up a tepid broth that is more comfort food than cuisine.

The screenplay and characterization make few demands on the cast. This is the sort of thing French actors can do in their sleep. (Perhaps they do.)

Even Jacques Perrin's character, Pierre Morhange, is a throwback to an earlier role in his career. In "Cinema Paradiso", Perrin played a middle-aged filmmaker mourning the death of a childhood mentor, and celebrating his legacy -- a collection of film clips spliced together. In "The Choir", Perrin is a middle-aged symphony conductor who learns that a father figure has passed away, leaving him a legacy of memories set down in writing.

Good grief, couldn't the producers of "The Choir" show even a little imagination, and at least cast somebody else as the elder Pierre?

Shall We Dance? (2004)

Should be called "Silly Dunce"

[19 October 2004]

In "A Gift from the Sea", Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote, "A good relationship has a pattern like a dance ... There is no place here for the possessive clutch, the clinging arm, the heavy hand; only the barest touch in passing."

If only the screenwriter of "Shall We Dance?" had heeded this sage advice! This American remake might then have maintained the grace, charm and delicacy of the Japanese original.

Alas, instead we have the "heavy hand" clobbering the audience over the head with the clumsiest lack of subtlety, the broadest stereotypes, a lackluster script and -- as a result -- a singular lack of true-to-life characters that we feel for and care about, a woeful absence of on-screen chemistry among the principals, let alone the bit players.

Stanley Tucci should sue his agent for landing him the part of Linc, the bald solicitor who expresses his "true" inner self by donning a wig worthy of Tiny Tim and gaudy satin tights like some flamboyant superhero. His desire to dance and be himself is cruelly ridiculed by co-workers imbued with American culture's narrowly defined notions of masculinity.

Bobby Cannavale should be shot for accepting a role where (yet another) character "plays it straight" until the final reel. His smouldering sensuality panders to gay male desire, yet frustrates any possibility of identification with the object of desire.

The only moment of truth, the "one true thing" in this film, is a speech by Susan Sarandon about the purpose of marriage. We all need "a witness to our lives", she says.

It's too bad that "Shall We Dance?" fails to witness the lives of gay men who are obliged to pass for straight, and straight men who are unfairly branded as gay.

This film should have been called "Silly Dunce". That title would bear witness to the witlessness of the writer who spawned this awful film.

Intimate Strangers (2004)

A case of mistaken identity crisis

[3 October 2004]

The gimmick in "Intimate Strangers" is that a young woman, Anna Delambre (Sandrine Bonnaire), mistakenly enters the office of a tax consultant, William Faber (Fabrice Luchini), instead of a psychoanalyst, and tells him her most intimate secrets. The question then arises: Did she make an honest mistake, or is the whole thing a setup? Which of the two is the doctor, and which is the patient? Is she telling the truth, or is she a pathological liar? And why does he maintain the illusion instead of calling her bluff?

"Intimate Strangers" works well as a psychological thriller, an elaborate cat-and-mouse game. But it is also a meditation on loneliness and the lengths to which we are willing to go to overcome it ... or not. In other words, do we allow ourselves to be intimate with each other, or do we remain strangers walled in our fortresses of solitude?

Fabrice Luchini's character epitomizes the latter type of person. He leads a solitary and uneventful life, is obsessive-compulsively neat (he uses shoe trees, for heaven's sake), is unable to keep his on-and-off girlfriend happy, and voyeuristically observes the quiet joys and turbulent passions of his neighbors across the way. (Shades of "Rear Window".) Other minor characters exhibit similar tics: his secretary admits to watching rubbish on television while gorging herself on potato chips, and the doorkeeper of the office building spends all her time watching an idiotic soap opera.

Sandrine Bonnaire is, as always, a lovely, delicate vision. She succeeds in conveying the mystery and intrigue of her character, and yet makes Anna wholly believable.

Unfortunately, Fabrice Luchini does not lend the same degree of realism and reality to William. He is too stereotypically anal-retentive and full of hangups, and we never see William as more than two-dimensional. He remains basically the same, unchanged, even by the closing credits. In short, we never get to know him intimately. He begins and ends the film as simply strange.

Ladder 49 (2004)

I-want-my-money-backdraft

[3 October 2004]

You know you're in trouble when you start woolgathering during a movie, and thinking about weird stuff like where does the screenwriter get the names for his characters. Take "Ladder 49", for example. I think Hollywood must be having us on. I mean, the hero of the story is a fireman named Jack Morrison. (Come on, baby, light my fire ... Get it?) And, to boot, the guy is played by Joaquin Phoenix. (The phoenix being a legendary bird that dies in flames and rises from its ashes. Too bad I can't say the same thing about this movie.)

My viewing of "Ladder 49" started off on the wrong foot to begin with. The score is all wrong and at times completely inappropriate. And, okay, so lots of the firemen are Irish Catholics. (We're talking Baltimore, Maryland, here.) But did we need all that stereotypical Celtic music that made me feel like I was watching "Titanic"?

Also, "Ladder 49" sets out to show us what heroes firemen are. (I was about to be politically correct and say "firefighters", but there were no women at the station.) But I often got the impression that firemen were, not heroes, but hosers. They are definitely Regular Guys, Good Old Boys. See them cruising chicks in the supermarket aisle. See them chug-a-lugging at the neighborhood bar. See them pulling practical jokes on the latest rookie on the force.

The structure of the film is a rehash of a standard cop-drama plot: veteran (John Travolta) trains rookie (Joaquin Phoenix). The movie also switches back and forth from the present (Jack trapped in a blaze and periodically blacking out, like the screen) and the past (a series of flashbacks recounting Jack's ten-year career). The picture ends with a montage of firefighting scenes that struck me as a collection of outtakes that the director couldn't find any other use for.

The best thing about "Ladder 49" is the relationship between Jack and his wife Linda. Without that solid core, the film would have crumbled and fallen apart like a burning building. But even their love story isn't enough for this firefighting drama to radiate much heat and warmth -- only a lot of smoke.

Depuis qu'Otar est parti... (2003)

Going (and growing) through grief

[3 October 2004]

There is a famous photograph, taken in 1852, of three grieving British queens: dowager Queen Mary, Queen Mother Elizabeth, and the not yet crowned reigning Queen Elizabeth. They are mourning the death of King George VI -- a son, a husband, a father. They are clad in black from head to toe, veils and widow's weeds. They are stony-faced in their own individual grief, yet huddled together to give each other comfort.

"Since Otar Left" is like that: a portrait of three generations of grief, and how a Georgian grandmother, mother, and daughter evolve from handling that grief in their own way, to showing concern for the sadness and loss of the other two women.

Of the three, middle-aged Marina is the most grounded in reality, no-nonsense, down to earth. She worries about the day-to-day things: how to keep body and soul together when her brother Otar dies and is no longer able to supplement the family's income. She worries about her mother's health, staying by her bedside and massaging her feet in a very physical and intimate expression of love and caring. She swallows her pride and borrows money from her erstwhile lover, an antiquities dealer, and even considers selling the leather-bound, gold-stamped volumes of French literature that are her father's legacy.

Young Ada responds differently. At first, she is affected in a practical way: mourning makes it difficult for her to concentrate at school, and the loss of income from her brother causes her to resort to petty theft. But she uses her creativity and imagination, and draws inspiration from the same French literature that Marina wants to sell. Ada reinvents her dead brother and clothes him in the brightness of Paris, City of Lights -- the city to which he emigrated and in which he tragically died.

Elderly Eka seems like a combination of the two. Like Marina, she is tough as nails. An early scene shows Eka relishing a rather large piece of cake, and bristling when Marina helps herself to a forkful. We see that, beneath her outward appearance as a kindly old lady with fine white hair, Eka can be petulant and stubborn. She has an iron will and a spine of steel. When she fails to hear from her son Otar for several months, she takes matters into her own hands and decides to go to Paris to find him. Eventually, she learns the truth that he is dead. We see her grief in her sad eyes and her suddenly tired old body. But then Eka surprises us by rising above her own bereavement and reaching out to those who remain.

"Since Otar Left" is a powerful, touching, heart-rending, yet hopeful film. Its characters transcend the realm of celluloid and screenplay, and emerge as well drawn, fully rounded human beings. In the face of death, they respond with the vitality of life. In the face of despair, they shine as beacons of hope. And in the face of loss, they learn the lesson of love.

Mean Creek (2004)

Oar rhymes with bore

[27 September 2004]

"Mean Creek" sets up an interesting dynamic between a teenage bully, his victim, and the victim's friends, who decide it's payback time. They pretend to befriend the bully and lull him into a false sense of security, so they can humiliate him and settle their score.

But, as Robert Burns wrote, the best laid schemes of men and mice go oft astray. Two things go radically wrong.

First, the bully turns out to be basically a nice guy who is desperate to ingratiate himself with his newfound "friends". This makes all of the teenagers have second thoughts about their plan -- except one.

Second, the teens engage in a game of Truth or Dare in which truths are uttered that are better left spoken. This has tragic consequences that drive the rest of the film.

"Mean Creek" had me going right up to its climax -- literally, the moment of truth. But after that, I found the movie spiralled downward into a mainstream maelstrom of recrimination, guilt, and shoddy attempts at a cover-up. How many times in movie history have we seen this scenario play itself out, with predictable results? I had hoped, and indeed expected, that "Mean Creek" would offer something new and fresh.

Instead, "Mean Creek" ends up being as stale and stagnant as water left standing too long.

Shaun of the Dead (2004)

A matter of life in death

[26 September 2004]

Slack-jawed, vacant stare, lurching, staggering gait ... I'm not talking about the zombies in "Shaun of the Dead". I'm talking about some of the people I saw after I left the theatre.

"Shaun of the Dead" is not scary. What's scary is that there are people out there, around us, among us, who live as though they were zombies. People for whom life is never anything more than working 9 to 5 in a dead-end job, then coming home to spend the evening as couch potatoes in front of the TV or video games. People with no soul or spirituality. People for whom there is no heaven or hell, no thought of survival after death. People for whom mere survival in life is about as much as they can handle.

People of whom John Cougar Mellencamp sang, "Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone."

As it turns out, the zombies in "Shaun of the Dead" are creatures of habit. They may be brain-dead, but they can perform menial, mindless, mechanical tasks -- just like any real live working-class stiff.

I was led to believe that "Shaun of the Dead" was a satire on the modern British middle class. Ghoul Britannia, so to speak. Bangers and monster mash.

But "Shaun of the Dead" is universal in its import, a comedy with a tragic message. And the message is this: The greatest thing modern man has to fear is not death. It is life in death.

The Forgotten (2004)

Invasion of the baby snatchers

[25 September 2004]

The Forgotten: Invasion of the baby snatchers

I just saw what has to be one of the dumbest, stupidest, most idiotic films of 2004. And it's all the more maddening because the initial setup was intriguing, and the cast a promising collection of A-list Hollywood actors, led by Juliana Moore. (The other big names were Gary Sinise, Alfre Woodard, and Linus Roache.)

But what started out as a psychological thriller degenerated, about halfway through the movie, into a run-of-the-mill sci-fi/conspiracy flick, with some lamentably, laughably lame special effects. I split a gut, to the probable annoyance of the rest of the matinée audience.

But, hey, if the film is a turkey, don't just sit there and say grace like it was Thanksgiving dinner. Holler "Gobble, gobble!" as loud as you can.

Maybe then Hollywood will get the message, and stop churning out clinkers that insult our intelligence.