Monday, May 30, 2011
Al Pacino as the Angel of Death
Angel of death
No doubt Barry Levinson's HBO original feature You Don't Know Jack is liable to divide audiences clearly along political and cultural lines, the very name of Jack Kevorkian did the same; so did--and still does--the issue of assisted suicide.
Too bad; whether you're pro or con on the issue, the film's an entertaining striptease that attempts to ask the question "Who is Jack Kevorkian?" The question's approached obliquely, from an angle; approached the way Kevorkian seems to approach any major decision in his life--with plenty of seemingly random shuffling and mumbling and offhand observations that he somehow pulls together in a coherent whole. Whether you're pro or con on the issue, you have to admit this is an excellent sales job on the man who in many ways incarnated that issue.
It helps that Levinson shoots matter-of-fact footage that seems to capture Kevorkian either going about the business of his own life, or helping others end theirs, then assembles that footage in a manner and rhythm that is both lively and distinct. One thinks of TV (Levinson produced the Homicide series, and directed a few episodes himself) and how fleet-footed and casual it can be (shooting for TV can take as little as a few weeks, compared to a few months for a film); one also thinks of the odd rhythms of jazz, and how the film seems to be cut to a syncopated beat (apparently Kevorkian loves not just Bach, but jazz music, and Levinson seems to be channeling that). If anything, it's a pleasure to see how much Levinson has grown since the early days when he made small character-driven pictures (Diner (1982)), to the big-budgeted, rather boring Hollywood productions (The Natural (1984), Rain Man (1988), Disclosure (1994)) to his later, leaner TV work. Wouldn't call him a distinctive stylist, but he's wonderful with actors, and he does have this recognizable street sensibility that keeps this film grounded, gritty, real.
It helps to have the cast of characters that he has--John Goodman as a steady Neal Nicol, Kevorkian's medical supply man; Brenda Vaccaro as the occasionally fiery Margo Janus, Kevorkian's sister and staunch supporter; Susan Sarandon as Janet Good, founder of the Hemlock Society (a right-to-die group), assistant, and later patient (she tells Kevorkian she has pancreatic cancer and wants to choose her moment of passing). It's a quietly talented group particularly Goodman, who deftly fills out his character with texture and detail, without calling undue attention to himself (he plays out his moments, leaves it at that).
Central to the whole project is Pacino, and while it's difficult not to see the visage of Michael Corleone grinning malevolently at us from the promotional poster (the real Kevorkian was more like a somewhat frail grandfather) on film he carries the role with casual ease--the rather distinctive accent (one thinks of the Minneapolis Midwestern lilt in the Coen Brothers' Fargo (1996)) that is heard most clearly when he's stressed; the fuddy-duddy mannerisms that charm casual observers until the man gets his ire up; the flash of steely resolve when he's backed into a corner and refuses to budge. His Kevorkian isn't monumental, career-defining acting but it's meticulous work, and it succeeds in persuading us that we're witness to a human being being carefully unveiled (hence, presumably, the title).
Levinson doesn't try to be evenhanded; you can tell from the get-go that the film is sympathetic to Kevorkian's cause. He doesn't try to whitewash Kevorkian's fall--with his matter-of-fact manner and unblinking camera lens he records Kevorkian insistence on a showdown with anti-suicide groups, forcing a showdown in court, and how the man gradually and thoroughly shoots himself in the foot while trying to defend himself. The judge looks on with painful dismay; even she has to shake her head at the enormity of Kevorkian's blunders.
As for the very issue of assisted suicide...Kevorkian in an intimate moment tells Janet of how his mother described her bone cancer: "imagine the worse toothache in the world, then imagine it coming from every bone in your body." I've had my share of bad toothaches, and I'd like to say I'm willing to stick it out in the face of news that I have bone cancer--but what I'd like to say and what I'm actually going to say when the moment comes and keeps coming for months are very possibly two different things. I'm Catholic; I believe in the sanctity of life, I believe that suicide is the one unforgivable sin--but it's one thing to declare your belief, another to back it up with actual experience; one thing to believe in a principle, another to try actually force my views on others, particularly as a law. I like to think I can answer for myself when it comes to my own demise; everyone else, I'd say that's their decision to make.
Published in Businessworld, 5.19.11
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Bromance with a British accent
The rain in Spain
Tom Hooper’s The King’s Speech is basically a fairy tale, in more ways than one.
There’s the similarities to the Pygmalion legend, and even more marked similarities to George Bernard Shaw’s play (I’ll stop short of the Lerner and Lowe musical). When you think about it, the stakes run higher in Hooper’s screenplay (which also started out as a stage play) -- Eliza Doolittle was a whole and complete (if a touch unsatisfied) woman of the lower classes whose speech fitted her social status perfectly. In the case of ‘Bertie’ (Colin Firth), as close friends and family called him, he’s in line to be king of Great Britain but his stammer stands as a huge, insurmountable obstacle on his path towards being an effective leader.
So Bertie visits a speech therapist, frustrated theater actor Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush); like Shaw’s Henry Higgins, Logue pokes, prods, and all-around provokes Bertie to blossoming into an eloquent if slightly unsteady speaker. No, we do not have a “The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain” moment -- Logue achieves small breakthroughs a number of times, usually by means of psychological trickery -- and we definitely do not have a “I could have danced all night” moment; unlike Shaw, or Lerner and Lowe, or for that matter the original myth on which Shaw based his play, Lionel and Bertie develops something more like an unspoken bromance than any conventional attraction, much less full-fledged passion (that would have been an interesting if distracting direction to go).
But there’s another sense in which this film is like a fairy tale: it fudges liberally the facts, soft-pedals the depiction of several people, and in at least one case does a 180° turn on the position of a crucial character.
Edward VIII (Guy Pearce) was more than just a divorcee-smitten king with a troubling interest in Nazism; he was an active sympathizer who spent his honeymoon in the Third Reich, was apparently willing to rule as king under Nazi rule should the Allies lose the war, and was eventually farmed out to the Bahamas because it was thought he’d do the least harm there.
Likewise, Winston Churchill (Timothy Spall, a physically odd choice for the role) did not as shown on the big screen favor Edward’s abdication but in fact resisted it, being a close friend of the man. Churchill made speeches at the House of Commons (“almost certainly heavily intoxicated,” suggests columnist Christopher Hitchens, who cites Churchill biographer William Manchester) defending Edward, at the same time jeopardizing his hard-fought political cause of warning England about the growing danger of Hitler.
Overall, the “Politics of Appeasement” pursued by Neville Chamberlain with the support of the royal family has been severely simplified, with some details omitted, possibly to retain the audiences’ sympathy towards Bertie and his immediate family (Edward comes off less well, but we are probably being asked to look at him as the prodigal son who adds color and the whiff of scandal to an apparently stolid family).
Beyond the politics it’s difficult to fault the film; what worked for Shaw and Lerner & Lowe certainly works for Tom Hooper: he focuses on the emotional core of the picture, the teacher-pupil relationship between Lionel and Bertie (with some side melodrama from the self-obsessed Duke of Windsor).
Many of the film’s scenes, and indeed much of the key dialogue take place mainly between the two men, often in Lionel’s study. Yes, this does give away the script’s theatrical roots; at the same time Hooper manages to turn the image into the film’s motif: two men in a room, a few chairs, props, and little else, working out their differences and coming to some kind of mutual understanding. Hooper works variations on this image, at one point expanding the space into the vast vaulted reaches of Westminster Abbey, one of the chairs becoming the Coronation Throne; later we have Bertie standing inside a heavily tented studio (for the acoustics, presumably), delivering the eponymous speech to a microphone. Whatever the size of the space (study, studio, Abbey), whatever the props at hand (chair, throne, microphone), the basic elements stay the same: two men in a room, attempting communication.
In John Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962), a newspaper reporter declares “when the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” Hooper does that, but it would be smart not to totally forget the facts -- a movie isn’t a history text, but could serve as inspiration for further research, maybe a sequel (King’s Speech 2: Losing Bertie's Lisp).
Maybe this picture’s success could lead to another, less simplistic one, a focus on Great Britain’s appeasement policy and why they pursued it so persistently (basically, the Britons believed that if they entered into yet another worldwide war it would be the end of their empire -- and they were right). Sure, print the legend, but try not to forget that it’s just legend, after all.
First published in Businessworld, 5.12.11
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Production art for Ang Damgo ni Eleuteria (Eleuteria's Dream), the Urian Best Picture winner
To clarify: I don't believe in awards; if it were up to me, I'd have everyone draw up a list and post those lists on a website (let a hundred flowers bloom).
But awards are a good promotional tool, and heaven knows Filipino films are underpromoted.
So, in the spirit of, I don't know, fellowship and all--
BEST PICTURE - And Damgo ni Eleuteria
BEST DIRECTOR - Remton Siega Zuasola (Ang Damgo ni Eleuteria)
BEST SCREENPLAY - Arnel Mardoquio (Sheika)
BEST ACTOR - Sid Lucero (Muli)
BEST ACTRESS - Fe GingGing Hyde (Sheika)
BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR - Joem Bascon (Noy)
BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS - Rosanna Roces (Presa)
BEST CINEMATOGRAPHY - Christian Linaban (Ang Damgo ni Eleuteria)
BEST PRODUCTION DESIGN - Rodell Cruz (Amigo)
BEST EDITING - Willie Apa, Jr. and Arthur Ian Garcia (Sheika)
BEST MUSIC - Jerrold Tarog (Ang Damgo ni Eleuteria)
BEST SOUND - Dempster Samarista (Limbunan)
BEST SHORT FILM - Wag Kang Titingin by Pam Miras
BEST DOCUMENTARY - Kano: An American and His Harem by Monster Jimenez
NATATANGING GAWAD URIAN (Lifetime Achievement Awardee) - Jose "Pete" Lacaba
GAWAD URIAN AKTOR NG DEKADA - Coco Martin
GAWAD URIAN AKTRES NG DEKADA - Gina Pareno and Cherry Pie Picache
PELIKULA NG DEKADA - Tuhog (2000), Batang Westside (2001), Babae Sa Breakwater (2003), Magnifico (2003), Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino (2004), Ang Pagdadalaga Ni Maximo Oliveros (2005), Kubrador (2006), Serbis (2008), Kinatay (2009), Lola (2009)
Pete Lacaba's award is much deserved and long overdue--but even better would be a new project for him to work on.
Many of the winners are independent digital film productions-- which I'd say goes to show that the independent film scene is the most creative and vital segment of the industry.
Thought John Sayles Amigo was an odd choice - but the film is apparently a Filipino co-production.
Wondered what happened to Mario O'Hara's Ang Paglilitis ni Andres Bonifacio, which I thought terrific, or John Torres' Ang Ninanais (Refrains Happen like Revolutions in a Song)? But I haven't seen those that were nominated either, and am hardly qualified to judge.
I have seen a good chunk of the Best of the Decade titles; where applicable, I have linked an article to the title. My own list would have looked somewhat different--but this is theirs, of course; I can't change it, only disagree, somewhat, agree for the most part.
Congratulations to the winners!
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Finally got to see Brillante Mendoza's Kinatay (The Execution of P, 2009). Apologize for the two-year delay; I can only say said delay was partly due to life getting in the way, partly due to technical difficulties...
Finally got to see the film, finally can directly respond to Roger Ebert's plaintive declaration that this is "the worst film in the history of the Cannes Film Festival" by saying: Mr. Ebert--grow up. Grow up. You're a veteran critic, you've seen stronger, stranger stuff, you can take and appreciate this like the big boy you are. In his article's comment section someone mentions Gaspar Noe's Irreversible (2002), to which Ebert promptly responds by tacking a link to his review of that movie. To which I reply: there, see? You can take that load of crap in stride, you can take Brillante's film in stride. Both feature a sexual assault and a killing, both are described in your own words as "unbearable;" what makes one deserving of three stars and another the status of "worst film in the history of the Cannes Film Festival?" Is it because Bellucci's rape occurs in the far prettier streets of Paris and not in some grimy police safehouse? Is it because Bellucci is younger, dressed and made up better? Or is it because Mendoza is guilty of seizing on an idee fixe and pursuing it come what may (a character trait that come to think of it any worthwhile artist, Gaspar Noe included, would possess in considerable amounts?)?
Is it the story structure? Does telling the story backwards makes the rape and murder acceptable in Irreversible where telling it in real time does not in Kinatay? Does he not consider Noe's structuring device a cheap gimmick (without which the picture is just another rape-and-revenge flick) while Mendoza's strategy for immersing the audience in the film's unspoken themes and sensibility somehow is?
Is it perhaps the lighting--the fact that Noe's is professionally done, with Bellucci being slowly and thoroughly sodomized a mere five or so feet from the camera for the viewer's leisurely delectation while much of Kinatay is practically in the dark, with most of what happens obscured and barely comprehensible (as it might be when seen--and this is just possibly Mendoza's point--through the protagonist's eyes)? Is it the apparent professionalism or lack thereof of the respective filmmakers that is at issue here? Is Mendoza guilty of not having raised enough money so that the terrible events in his films lack the sheen and gloss of a European art film--is that Ebert's problem?
(Might as well note here that if Mendoza doesn't seem to have the time or money to properly light his sets (and I don't believe that for a second), he does seem to have spent sufficient effort on the sound design which, I think, is brilliant--by turns subversive and subterranean and wholly unsettling, sometimes all three at once ("you can't bear to listen to it," Ebert declares, and for once I agree with him).)
I think Ebert needs to clarify his huffy indignation, and just what distinguishes Mendoza's travesty from Noe's masterpiece, other than that Mendoza and scriptwriter Armando Lao appear to have researched their subject matter and taken details from actual 'salvagings' (the Filipino word for military and police executions, taken from the quaint idea that they are 'salvaging' the wrongdoer's soul), while Noe seems to be mostly exercising his masturbatory misogynist fantasies. Is it possible that one is so successful at persuading him of the reality of its premise that he comes out not just moved and depressed but actively resentful--and he can't forgive the filmmaker for doing so? Is that it?
Moving on. The film doesn't focus on Madonna (Maria Isabel Lopez, in a harrowing performance) and her brief if intense period of suffering; it doesn't provide her strong motivation or even a clear set of circumstances (though if you listen carefully you'll suss out that she owes money to and has angered 'Kap' (a police captain, played by Julio Diaz), and that he's ordered her execution) because it isn't her story, it's Peping's (Coco Martin). That's the young police cadet who runs errands for his teachers and superiors by collecting extortion money (actually he collects from the local collector, who does the actual work), and who, again to please his teachers and superiors, agrees to earn a little extra money (two thousand pesos, or roughly a little over forty dollars) by tagging along on an unspecified assignment.
The film's emotional heart lies in the changes rung on Peping's face, from his carefree morning (he'd just married Cecille (Mercedes Cabral) in a lovely little civil ceremony) to his bored wait in the nightclub's parking lot, to his dawning realization that they're out on a snatch-n-salvage mission, where the person involved is a nightclub dancer and prostitute. It's a gradual process that mirrors within the length of the picture our own reactions--how we hear faint rumors of vigilante executions; how these stories are repeated, with more detail and perhaps a more authoritative voice; how suspicions gave way to dismayed certainty; and how, after the epiphany, comes the knottiest question of all: what are you going to do about it? Perhaps some of the tensest moments in the film involve the choices Peping has to make--should he walk away, should he try help her, should he stay for the ride? What do his decisions at these various points say about him as a human being--and us, since we are implicated by viewing the story through his eyes and ears? Even more than the possibility of the girl's survival (the film's title and details handed out by the film's canny publicity campaign (say, could all the negative reviews including Ebert's have been planted?) pretty much rule that out) we hope for some sign of resistance from Peping--an attempt to help the girl, comfort her somehow, some recognition on his part that she is a human being, a mother in fact, and that what is about to happen to her is monstrous beyond words.
Speaking of monsters--the police officers are not presented as complex characters capable of change; instead, they are presented the way they are: weary and so desensitized by this job they need to buy beer and boiled duck eggs along the way to keep themselves entertained (a horrifying detail, I thought, that sets this particular vigilante execution apart from those set in, say, Mexico). If we are to find their closest cinematic equivalent we'll find them not in the films of Fernando Meirelles but in those of Michael Mann--lonely professionals toiling away at demanding work, perhaps not as supercompetent, but certainly as burnt-out and inexpressive and tired. Mendoza may have made Peping the film's heart, but its soul definitely takes cue from the police officers, from their crude, off-the-cuff way of handling things, even emergencies.
I do have reservations: Mendoza for most of the picture does an excellent job of making us see through Peping's eyes and ears; why interrupt this tactic during the sexual assault? He could probably come up with half a dozen reasons why Peping should tag along and get a glimpse; otherwise the shots of oral rape tend to look opportunistic--exploitative, even. Earlier, Mendoza has Peping sit in the nightclub parking lot while the camera walks inside with the police officers, the better to take in the gyrating nude bodies--why show them? For entertainment value? Prurient interests?
Otherwise--one of Mendoza's best works, in my book superior to his Tirador (Slingshot, 2007) where society's underbelly is also exposed, but the real star of that show was Mendoza's collection of noir cliches: the jump cut, the shaky-cam. If I prefer his Manoro (Teacher, 2006) and Foster Child (2007) to this that's because I feel they're more expressive films, with more to say about Philippine society in general. That may be the most substantial complaint I have against Kinatay--that it's an example of a strictly limited genre (portrait of the world's sordid underbelly), but expresses the themes of that genre with unparalleled force.
(With thanks to my old friend Stanley Chua-unsu for his help and support)
Friday, May 13, 2011
A terse image from Monte Hellman's far more eloquent film
The crass and the ludicrous
Which is funny, because classic car movies aren't known for tight scripts, good characterization, or logic. Richard C. Sarafian's Vanishing Point (1971) had car delivery man Kowalski (a largely expressionless Barry Newman) driving a 1970 Dodge Challenger from Colorado to San Francisco in a little over fifteen hours. Sarafian eschewed undercranked cameras to simulate high speed; when the script called for cars rocketing down highways at ninety miles an hour, the director had them rocket down the highway at ninety miles an hour--he didn't wait thirty years for computer technology to develop far enough that he could digitally fake it.
Why does Kowalski do it? Who knows (he makes a bet he could do it, but that barely begins to explain all the bedlam that follows). The title's suggestive--perhaps Kowalski's trying to erase himself, flooring the gas pedal to try achieve escape velocity, reach some kind of transcendence. A vague ambition, using vague tactics--but then transcendence itself is a vague goal, and Vanishing Point seems somehow all the more persuasive for it.
John Hough's Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry (1974) was a little less mysterious--Larry (Peter Fonda) and his mechanic Deke (Adam Roarke) stage a supermarket heist, blackmail the store manager for $150,000, and escape on a modified Chevrolet Impala; Larry's former lover Mary (Susan George) insists on coming along for the ride (later they switch to a '69 Dodge Charger, and play chicken with a freight train). The lovers are young, attractive, funny; they seem to be having the time of their lives outsmarting dour Sheriff Franklin (Vic Morrow) till the sudden if not totally unexpected ending. The film has a more Bonnie and Clyde vibe to it, with its pair of lovers (and a mechanic) running from the law. Hough like Sarafian is also from the ninety-mile-an-hour school of stunt driving; if the speed and circumstance aren't actually dangerous, these filmmakers seem to say, then it probably won't look all that dangerous on the big screen.
But the Holy Grail of car movies, possibly the purest, most cinematic expression of this often less-than-reputable film genre, is Monte Hellman's Two-Lane Blacktop (1971) Nameless motorheads (James Taylor, Dennis Wilson, Warren Oates) ride their classic cars (a souped-up '55 Chevy, a Pontiac GTO) across the vast landscape; the drivers challenge each other to various races; a lovely free spirit (Laurie Bird) hitches rides with one or the other, but none of this really matters--what does matter is the ride, and the illusions of self they present to each other along the way.
Two-Lane Blacktop is Hellman's poem on the loneliness of wide-open spaces, where he captures exactly that kind of macho posturing and precisely this sort of existential disillusionment, posed against the never-ending milieu of '70s America. It's so real it goes beyond real, feeding us the lowdown in bleak, bulky blocks, for us to deal with if we want to or not (Warren Oates' GTO doesn't, hence his gossamer net of self-told lies, one of the most delicately and beautifully assembled defense mechanisms ever depicted, this side of La Mancha). With alienation this absolute, who cares about tight scripts, characterization, or logic? The film told truth, which is rarely if ever tight, characteristic, or logical.
That kind of reasoning probably never entered the minds of the filmmakers who made (well, not so much "made" as slammed together) Fast Five. All too easy to point out the condescending attitude towards women: if they're not shrink-wrapped in bikini bottoms they're either incompetent (Dom Toretto (Vin Diesel) manages to disarm his ostensible love interest not once but twice, after which she promptly falls in love) or, worse, inconsequential (Dom's sister is pregnant, but it's her husband Brian O'Conner (Paul Walker) whose feelings, hopes, fears are lovingly put on display). By the time two cars on cables drag the bank vault out of the bank, you can't help but notice a slovenliness to the plotting, not to mention filmmaking (that vault is so clearly digital it doesn't even begin to look threatening). It's as if they were saying: "Uh, we've run out of ideas on how to steal this drug lord's money, so we're lighting up a pipe and using the first idea that pops to our foggy heads..."
I don't know--there's something to be said about realism. In the antediluvian days of pre-digital special effects, Hough and Sarafian (and for that matter silent film comedian Buster Keaton) actually had their vehicles come at each other at high speeds, and the only equipment they used other than automobiles were stuff that made sure the actors (in Keaton's case the writer-director-star himself) didn't get killed (didn't always fully worked; Keaton at one point fractured his spinal cord).
But that isn't even my main complaint. Sure, Fast Five is entertaining enough: some hot bikinis, some fairly funny lines ("This just went from Mission Impossible to Mission In-freaking-sanity.") but what his movie really suffers from is a terminal case of self-repression. The core relationship in this picture, the emotional heart, isn't the sister or the squeeze; it's the unacknowledged love between Dom and Brian--five movies and still going strong--threatened by the new man in town. Yes, Dwayne Johnson's Sheriff Luke Hobbs has the abs to match Diesel's, pork shoulder for pork shoulder, and Dom is definitely interested. When their eyes meet the screen lights up like a distress flare; anything wearing a skirt or bikini bottom tends to fade in the background. The filmmakers can't help but notice this, so on top of all the crashing cars and roaring engines we have Luke crashing into Dom, the two roaring like a pair of Jurassic hams. Glass is shattered, sweat flung about; Dom climbs on top of Luke and swings a heavy metal spanner in a great arc at his head. Crack! "Was it good for you too?" you could almost swear you heard him say (you don't, but their eyes speak pages and pages of unwritten dialogue). All that's needed, really, is to lie back, light up a cigarette, and take a long, leisurely puff.
Logic--of storytelling, not of psychology, physics or even basic cause-and-effect--dictates that where Dom and Luke play hot and heavy with each other, Brian should turn insanely jealous, maybe pick up a heavy spanner, start swinging. This had the makings of the most intense love triangle since Spock and Dr. McCoy vied for the attentions of Captain Kirk in the Star Trek TV series, but what do we get instead? A couple of cars dragging an oversized piggy bank. You blew it, guys.
First published in Businessworld, 5.5.11
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Arthur (the original) at his bath
Shrunken, not stirred
Steve Gordon's Arthur (1981) was an unlikely triumph--a comedy about a drunken millionaire deft enough to pilfer your approval, perhaps even a little sympathy (drunks and millionaires sympathetic?). It took inspiration from P.G. Wodehouse's Wooster and Jeeves escapades, added a dollop of '30s screwball, and brought the whole unlikely concoction up-to-date with some choice profanity and '80s sensibility (New York, for one, is recognizably from the Ed Koch era).
It helps to have a scintillatingly comic cast. There's Dudley Moore as Arthur Bach, fresh off his success in Blake Edward's 10 (1979), doing the equivalent of ninety minutes of standup with deceptive ease ("Don't you wish you were me? I know I do."), the diametrical opposite of what, say, Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther movies was doing (the joke with Inspector Clouseau was that he was a perfectly serious detective that everyone found funny; the joke with Arthur was that he was a perfectly pickled comedian that no one found funny).
Moore's foil, of course, is John Gielgud's Hobson, the string to his helium balloon, the tart lemon juice to his fizzy champagne; where Arthur howled with laughter, Hobson sniffed disapproval and punctured Arthur's exuberance with an acerbic riposte, made contemporary with an obscenity or two ("Perhaps you would like me to go in there and wash your dick for you, you little shit."). Toss in a royal flush of comic performers--Liza Minnelli as Arthur's brassy New York love interest Linda Marolla; Barney Martin as Linda's unashamedly gold-digging father Ralph; Jill Eikenberry as Arthur's undesirable fiance Susan Johnson; Stephen Elliott as Susan's even less desirable father Burt; Geraldine Fitzgerald as Arthur's ferocious grandmother Martha ("We are a ruthless people--don't screw with us!")--and you have an irresistible souffle, a glittering little gem of silliness.
Come to think of it, even more charming than Gordon's fairy-tale metropolis was his vision of a New York generously populated with memorable eccentrics, where even the bittiest player had a democratic chance to shine (Lou Jacobi as an avariciously delighted flower shop owner ("You're the rich one? The one that drinks?" "Mm-mm." "How does it feel like to have all that money?" "Feels great." "What a dumb question."); Jerome Collarmore as the Johnsons' extremely frail butler ("Are you sure you want to be a nightclub comic?"); Peter Evans as the hapless Long Island patsy Preston ("Preston--would you be divine and get me a gin and tonic?" "Scotch for me, Preston." "You'll wait for me here?" "With a wildly beating heart!")).
The souffle fails to rise a second time with Jason Winer's remake. Russell Brand makes for a bizarre Arthur--instead of an overgrown child in an endless pursuit of happiness, either through the bottom of a whiskey glass or through the laughter of others, we have a rock star, an overgrown brat with huge appetites and even huger crotch bulge (the number of scenes where Brand is caught in colorful underwear displaying the sock collection he hides between his legs is annoying--you start to wonder if he's trying to tell you something). His nasal whine seems perfect for a modern celebrity portrait of androgynously decadent dissipation, but hardly what you might have had in mind for a romantic comedy.
In a bit of stunt casting Helen Mirren plays Hobson, and as great an actress as Dame Mirren is, she's wrong, wrong, wrong for the part--she plays Hobson as a long put-upon nanny who mutters her replies. Gielgud tossed darts dipped in acid; he only had to raise his eyebrow and you felt like giggling (it helped that he had more bare territory to raise that brow over; Dame Mirren is handicapped by her beautiful mane of hair). Greta Gerwig as Arthur's love interest is a total disaster--playing sweet and innocent opposite this lewd orangutang and you wonder why his hands aren't crawling all over her blouse like a pair of tarantulas. Moore was ably served by Liza Minnelli, who could more than hold her own when it came to comic delivery and improvisation ("Nice place; I love a living room you can land a plane in."); Minnelli's Linda was a New Yorker through and through, who when accused of shoplifting from Bergdorf Goodman takes out a pen and notepad and demands the store detective's name and address. Faced with police officers (she's operating a tour guide business without a license) Gerwig's Naomi doesn't even try to cope; she just turns and runs.
Director Winer, like Gordon, comes from television--why does one do so well on his transfer to the big screen and the other doesn't? There's wit to Gordon's directing that we don't see in the other; in the scene where Arthur's father sits in his office couch to deliver his ultimatum (marriage to Susan or the loss of his family fortune), Gordon has Arthur walk across the room past the old man and out the camera frame, fuming: "I'll get married when I fall in love with somebody!" "Fine," the father responds, "I respect your integrity. You just lost seven hundred and fifty million dollars."
A beat. Offscreen, a door slams shut. "Actually, Susan is a very nice girl," Arthur tells his father as he walks back into the camera frame.
Winer does the same scene almost line-by-line, only he inserts a shot of Brand facing the door, and it's a glass door, and it whispers shut. Then he turns and starts talking about Susan. No sharp staging, no surprise, and as a consequence, no sense of a visual wit at work.
The production design is perhaps more successful. Arthur's room is a sleek and gleaming wonder, with a bed floating off the floor via magnetic levitation that actually figures in the movie's slapstick. And I love his car collection, particularly the specially modified DeLorean (not a big fan of the Batmobile, though, which comes from the Schumacher and not the Burton Batman films). I wonder at a comedy, though, that relies less on line delivery and comic timing and more on gimmicky vehicles and costumes to get laughs.
Even more unlikely, Susan and her father have been thoroughly retooled, with hilarious results. Jennifer Gardner is a fiercer, more carnivorous Susan; decked out in dominatrix leather (with metal studs), she looks like she could eat Brand for lunch and have the leftovers for stir-fry dinner. Nick Nolte is a stunner--where Elliott was an unsettlingly vicious sociopath, Nolte seems considerably larger, more menacing than that, a monster even (when Arthur is careless with a nail gun, Nolte's Burt growls "it's nothing," and pulls a nail out of his arm's meaty side). This Susan is a fitting mate for Arthur--a woman who will crack her whip and keep him in line, plus a father-in-law who at the slightest excuse will pull out his intestines and use them for dental floss). I found myself thinking it's a pity--a tragedy even (skip the rest of this sentence if you plan to watch the movie, which I don't recommend)--that they don't end up together, a sentiment that is possibly the movie's finest, funniest joke. Too bad it's largely on the filmmakers.
First published in Businessworld, 4/28/11
Sunday, May 01, 2011
I liked it overall. Part 1 (The Impossible Astronaut) works better basically for the lakeside picnic scene, and the visual grandeur it lent the episode (Utah's a lovely place, wish I could visit someday). Also liked the succeeding scene at the diner, which answers two questions ("1. When you take an irreparable step just seven minutes into a season premiere, how do you carry on for the rest of the episode?" and "2. Who does the Doctor trust most of all?"), and the scene at the TARDIS immediately after ("A mysterious summons. What, and I go, just like that?"). One, two, three: Moffat introduces the theme of mortality (every memorable legend from Robin Hood to King Arthur has to have a memorable end, and I feel Moffat has just mustered the effrontery to start preparing us for the Doctor's), shows us the reaction of the Doctor's friends to this theme (introducing a gigantic twist along the way) and, on top of that, shows us the all-too-human, all-too-understandable reaction of the gigantic twist to the twist ("Why should I trust you?").
I love it that Dr. Song is offended, even angry; I love it that she seems just as offended by his choice of No. 1 Most Trusted ("This is cold; even by your standards, this is cold..."). I love it that Rory has to act as hapless go-between to the Doctor and the women, and later, as patient hand-holder to an awestruck newcomer ("It's bigger on the inside than on the outside...").
The business of the girl on the phone, the mysterious spaceman, and the even more mysterious Silence feel smaller, less urgent by comparison (though I do like Stuart Milligan's improbably likable Richard Nixon, and the latest addition to the Doctor's circle of friends, Canton Everett Delaware III (Mark Shepard)). We have heard the chimes at midnight, so on and so forth; we know time is limited (by two hundred years, true, but still...).
By Part 2 (Day of the Moon), however, the strong start seems to be falling apart. The business about Canton chasing them down; the astronaut suit; the Silence's prosthetics being a tad sillier-looking than, say the Weeping Angels' (those floppy fingers)...it's one thing after another, helter-skelter, and we end up feeling a bit confused, bewildered, even disappointed. All a bit much, I think, so we rebel by withholding our total involvement in all this.
It's not a bad episode--by any other standard than Moffat's it's excellent, with its emphasis on the wonders of the Apollo program, its sharp but sweet moment of poignancy ("there's a first for everything, right?"), and its lift-us-off-the-couch final revelation ("I'm dying. But I can fix that. It's easy, really...").
But overall, compared to, say, the fishsticks-and-custard scene in the previous season premiere (or the Doctor facing down his real opponent at the end of that episode), this feels like a more scattered--I'm tempted to say scatterbrained--effort. Compare either season's high points to Moffat's singletons (The Empty Child; The Doctor Dances; The Girl in the Fireplace; Blink)--to my mind Moffat's best work in the series to date--and in my book at least neither pass muster. There was something to the way Moffat could hook us, make us laugh, make us cry (or as close to crying as we'd care to admit), delight us with endless twists and surprises in the space of forty minutes (or an hour and a half) that was well-nigh miraculous. He came within the neighborhood of touching those previous highs with his work this past two years (The Eleventh Hour; the season finale), but has yet to exceed them (I'm actually more impressed with the episode he wrote for Sherlock, his updated take on the legendary detective).
It'll do for now, I suppose, but I'm hoping Moffat settles down and makes use of all the puzzle pieces he lays out, and that what we're seeing is mostly beginner's blues. I expect--no, hope--to eat my words, and gladly.
Heads up, Kidlat Tahimik is enjoying a career retrospective of his films at the 2011 Jeonju International Film Festival.
An excerpt from the writeup:
For the past 11 years, JIFF has gone through retrospectives of master directors such as Chantal Akerman, Hsiaohsien Hou, Glauber Rocha, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Rainer Werner Maria Fassbinder, Shinji Somai, Ritwik Ghatak, Peter Watkins, Béla Tarr, Jerzy Skolimowski, Pedro Costa, showing their works that have left important marks in the history of film. JIFF2011, in celebrating its 12th edition, has chosen Kidlat Tahimik, the godfather of Filippino independent cinema, who has continuously explored the Third World issues such as post-colonialism in a provocative and experimental manner for three decades.
I do have my own selfish reasons for promoting this: a book on Kidlat has been published in time for the retro, and features an article I wrote on the filmmaker. A brief excerpt:
Kidlat Tahimik's name in Tagalog means "Quiet Lightning"-- a paradoxical moniker which, when one looks at his films, turns out to be entirely appropriate. He's a termite craftsman tucked away in his own little corner of the world fashioning handmade films, but fashioning them his way, on his terms; he's an independent filmmaker who takes on big topics such as neocolonialism and cultural identity but without the kind of white-hot anger that, say, the late Lino Brocka (possibly the country's best-known director) wielded when dealing with the social issues of his day. He is physically small with a modest build who managed to marry a strikingly beautiful German woman; when you talk to him he has this affable modesty that gives little to no hint of the kind of confidence and drive that produces several feature films and a number of works in progress in both film and video without any studio support (but with plenty of help from friends and family).