The Ten Best Films of 2010

10. Greenberg / Exit Through the Gift Shop (tie)

From the man who nearly defined the plotless indie flick, Greenberg is a severely underappreciated classic. This might be Noah Baumbach’s most accessible movie yet, aided in part by the fact that the main character is played by Ben Stiller, in what I can surmise to be his Lost in Translation or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The latest in a continuing series of vehicles for established comic actors to transition into the world of drama, with interesting and commendable results. Now I wouldn’t necessarily put this in the same league as those films, and I don’t think it’s as good as Baumbach’s The Squid and the Whale, but it’s got one of the best scripts of the year, second only to probably The Social Network.

Exit Through the Gift Shop is another coming-to-L.A. tale, but that’s where the similarities between it and Greenberg end. Banksy’s tongue-in-cheek sense of social parody is definitely reflected in this, his directorial debut about a riotously eccentric amateur videographer who becomes an unexpected, overnight sensation, and as a sidenote explores the underground world of graffiti art. Banksy tells a clever story about what it means, and what it takes, to be an artist, commercially and critically, in today’s confused world. The film calls into question what is and isn’t art—where the line is drawn or blurred—with a wry sense of humor and an uncanny sense of realism. The fact that audiences couldn’t tell if this was an actual documentary or just Banksy having fun all the more proves his point.

9. Scott Pilgrim vs. the World

This is Pee-Wee’s Playhouse for the generation who grew up watching Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, all grown-up. There’s a sea of cherubic faces in this movie, and it was a huge flop, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying the hell out of this seamless marriage of cinema and videogames. The line between those two mediums isn’t just blurred, it’s lost completely in the ensuing chaos. I can’t imagine anyone rendering this adaptation of the comic more effectively than Edgar Wright (“Shawn of the Dead,” “Hot Fuzz”), whose MTV-style editing and pitch-perfect sense of comedic timing is quickly becoming legendary. And if you’ve seen “Spaced,” you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. Despite what seems to be the popular conception, you don’t have to be emo, scene-kid, or a hipster to fall in love with this movie, but you may have to have played a few fighting games in your day. The references to the golden age of comics and 16-bit gaming drop like coins in Sonic the Hedgehog 2. Scott Pilgrim vs. the World is a kaleidoscope of attention-deficit imagery that hits you like a sack of potatoes. You’ll be seeing stars for days. The appeal does have a limited window, but if you’ve picked up an SNES controller or dumped quarters into an arcade fighter, you’ll laugh. If you grew up reading comics in the eighties and nineties, you’ll laugh. If you’ve ever been in or around an indie-type band, you’ll think this is a riot. Between this and Kick-Ass, it was a good year to be a nerd.

8. The Ghost Writer

The Ghost Writer is a movie that recalls the best of Hitchcock, from its classically suspenseful score to its precipitous sense of pacing. Of these picks, this movie probably entertained me on the most levels simultaneously. I was intrigued by its political subtext, enchanted by its comprehensive sense of place (the North Sea island of Sylt standing in for Martha’s Vineyard because of Polanski’s inability to set foot on U.S. soil), and engaged in its “everyman unraveling a conspiracy”-type plot. Polanski could make a grapefruit mysterious if he wanted to. He could take a day care center and make it the nexus for a sinister national secret. Ewan McGregor as the average guy caught up in something over his head, is both likeable and fallible. One of my favorite scenes involves him staring himself in the mirror, poised on the brink of slipping beneath the covers with the British Prime Minister’s wife, calmly telling himself “Bad idea”—before Polanski cuts to him invariably doing just that.

7. Kick-Ass

Kick-Ass is so gleefully irreverent that Nick Cage shooting his bulletproof vest-clad daughter to expand her pain threshold, and a group of mobsters arguing over the mechanics of cooking a traitor in a giant microwave, are a couple of its milder scenes. The only thing I found more satisfying than Chloë Grace Moretz slicing and dicing baddies was reading the reviews of critics who were offended by this no-holds-barred gore fest. With a liberal dash of Tarantino, Sam Raimi and Sergio Leone, Kick-Ass is the rare movie that lives up to its title (there are few other words to describe it). Bar none, it’s the most fun I had at the movies this year. An overlong climax, and its tendency to go for shock value for shock value’s sake, are minor hiccups in a film that succeeds where the previous Mark Millar adaptation, Wanted, failed. If you like Kill Bill, Inglourious Basterds, Shawn of the Dead, and Fight Club, you’ll embrace this one with open arms. Guilty pleasure or otherwise, it’s one kick-ass time at the movies.

6. Inception

I’m very amused by Inception’s “love it/hate it” relationship with critics. My reaction was probably the mildest amongst my floored friends the first time I saw it. I’d been anticipating the movie for longer than any of them and was slightly pissed Nolan hadn’t gone a more “Terry Gilliam” route in his far-too-logical, heavily rule-based depiction of dreams; disappointed he didn’t show us more of the bizarre, surreal imagery he used to sell the movie in the trailer. I was worried I would like it even less the second time around, but to my delight, I actually appreciated it more. Sure, the movie reaches levels of convolution bordering on pure silliness (for every hard rule about how things work in these dreams, there are 20 other sub-rules to explain those, and 20 rules per each of those for an exponential mind-clusterfuck). But it works as long as you keep in mind Ellen Page’s line that it’s not about imagery, but the sense of it being indistinguishable from reality. Every creative choice Nolan makes, no matter how complicated, supports this theme. Cobb’s reality “outside of dreams” (if you believe any part of the film is “real”) is a noir-ish thriller, where he’s always on the run from corporate bounty hunters. The movie wouldn’t have worked if this was any different, if the two “realities” presented were noticeably dissimilar. Here was another big snub for Directing Oscar. Nolan is definitely the showman of the year in the same sense that James Cameron was in 2009.

5. Catfish

Catfish falls in line with what seems to be the underlying theme for docs this year, this sort of “is it real or just a hoax?” mockumentary fare (I’m Still Here, Exit Through the Gift Shop, etc). Of those films, this one captured my imagination and stuck with me the longest. For those who have inadvertently (or purposefully) skipped ahead and spoiled the ending a la Wikipedia, I can testify to the experience that you can still watch the movie and be entertained, even if you know what’s coming. Knowing what was coming down the road, as the layers of this mystery unfolded, I still appreciated how the filmmakers had crafted something both Hitchcockian and rife with social commentary. This was another movie I approached as an anti-Facebook satire of internet culture, and one that I think hits a lot harder than The Social Network. Besides the heavily-marketed suspense aspect, it’s a picture of how we live our lives, online or otherwise in this brave new world. Angela’s obvious social issues are no more a contributing factor to that eerie picture than Nev’s unflinching faith in the reality of what he is presented.

4. Black Swan

Is it highbrow art or just torture porn masquerading as such? Black Swan may be a psychological shock-fest with little plot or substance, but as a trip, this is one hell of a roller coaster ride. Natalie Portman plays Nina, a technically flawless but prude and passionless ballet dancer in a tragic tale of the self-imposed pressure of perfection. While a tensely competitive dance company is the obvious backdrop, this is a universal story that transcends profession and which I, as a writer, for example, can especially appreciate. Dark, macabre, and shot with gritty realism, Black Swan is a brilliant companion piece to Darren Aronofsky’s last intimate work, The Wrestler. The psychological horror aspect is very Lynchian, but tamer than other mindfucks exploring inner realities that have come before it, namely Lynch’s Inland Empire, to which I couldn’t help but draw certain similarities.

3. The Town

Ben Affleck’s engaging tale of Townie bank robbers trying to escape their grim purgatory took me by surprise. It’s the movie I got the most into this year, cheering both sides of the cops-and-robbers dynamic like I did in The Fugitive, on the edge of my seat the whole time. This is a movie where every moment, every plot development, is no less than exciting. The Town is many things, an exploration into the delicate, brotherly relationship between Affleck’s and Renner’s characters, a “forbidden fruit” love story, and a solid directing/acting achievement for Affleck, who can put this in his portfolio beside the equally-good Gone Baby Gone. My pick for best supporting actor this year? Jeremy Renner as the high-strung Jem Coughlin.

2. 127 Hours

For me, there was never a more gripping moviegoing experience this year than Danny Boyle’s 127 Hours, a chilling and creative adaptation of Aron Ralston’s autobiography, Between a Rock and a Hard Place. James Franco remains my personal pick for best actor of the year, turning in a soul-bearing, up-close-and-personal performance. The camera is rarely more than three inches from his face, the takes are long and uncut, and Boyle uses mostly available light. No room for slip-ups, in other words, and there aren’t any. While we’re on Oscar nominations, the biggest snub of the year has to be Boyle for director. He’s created something truly unique here, a rendering not just of the hard external reality, but also the inner psychological reality of Ralston’s situation. Like Fincher, he has managed to turn what could have been a simple autobiographical account into a universally dramatic tale, in this case one of dependence and independence. While the film’s themes can be boiled down to the simple statement: “that’s why you always leave a note,” Franco’s reflection over the pieces of his life that had led him to this point, and the grim realization of the poetic justice of the situation, are a dramatic masterstroke by Boyle.

1. The Social Network

Whether you see it as a glorification of internet entrepreneurship, or a scathing criticism of social media and its greater implications on our rapidly-changing society, you can’t deny that at its most basic level, The Social Network is a movie about connection and disconnection. Director David Fincher has once again created something that defines a generation, just as Fight Club did for the last decade. I have a feeling that he has also painted a cinematic Rorschach print: you see what you want to see in it. If you’ve been a Facebook user since the “old days,” you might feel nostalgic like I did. Most of us know now that Facebook is a circus compared to what it was, back when it was exclusive, invitation-only—that was its appeal over MySpace and the like. I’d been seriously considering deactivating my account for some time; seeing this crystallization of ideas put me over the edge. Afterwards I felt like an extra in Mark Zuckerberg’s life, just another statistic in his business venture. Whether you see him as a monster poised to take over the digital landscape or a true genius—and whether or not that has anything to do with his fictional depiction—The Social Network is that rare movie that can entertain both perspectives at once; a darkly satirical portrait of greed and disconnection.

Honorable Mention: Monsters, The Kids Are All Right, The Fighter, True Grit, Toy Story 3, The Crazies, Shutter Island, Winter’s Bone, I’m Still Here

Friday Morning Review: "The Legend of Hell House" (1973)

Starring Pamela Franklin, Roddy McDowall, Clive Revill, Gayle Hunnicutt, Roland Culver, Peter Bowles

Directed by John Hough

Written by Richard Matheson

Produced by Albert Fennell, Norman T. Herman, James H. Nicholson, Susan Hart

95 minutes

2 stars

In The Legend of Hell House, an aging millionaire contracts a team comprised of a physicist and two psychics to make an investigation into the possibility of “survival after death.” That investigation takes place in the “Mount Everest of haunted houses,” that is, the Belasco House, where the concern isn’t just the survival of ghostly personalities—but the survival of anyone who dares step inside.

My problem with the film isn’t that it has a crappy premise. My problem is that it has a decent premise that just isn’t handled well enough—wasted by a combination of missing exposition, spotty characterization, and a lack of dramatic material. I got more into the character descriptions I wrote after the fact, than I did the characters themselves while watching—proof that at the nexus of this film there is something worthwhile, just mismanaged and largely unexplored.

While the story might not be anything to write home about, the ambiance, if anything, is worth noting. It’s a creepy, atmospheric trip of a movie. Inspired cinematography and a moody, sparse soundtrack highlight the dark voyage. Outside, a surreal abyss presses upon the house from all sides, black cats creep about stone walls against foggy voids, and inside, there’s no relief from the demons that haunt every room. The creepiness is reflected in the characters, especially McDowall, whose thick glasses and out-of-touch nature add a chilling presence to the scenes he’s in. It’s scary in a way that defies the “deluge of shock and gore” formula employed by most second-rate horror flicks. That said, it’s certainly no Shining.

When the characters arrive at the Belasco House, they find the windows all bricked over, permitting no daylight. This notion sent a shiver down my spine, but unfortunately the filmmakers miss a plethora of opportunities for creating interesting lighting setups; once inside, ugly lighting serves only to reveal and emphasize the tacky sets.

The house itself is filled with perversely erotic reliefs and more than a few instances of dungeon-esque architecture. Yet there’s not enough character to set it apart from every other haunted locale we’ve seen. The cobweb-draped menagerie littered about seems to be just an arbitrary assortment of creepy-looking furniture, picture frames, candelabras, and so on that have been sitting in the prop room for the last twelve years.

Stark, doc-like titles conveying the exact date and time, each accompanied by an electronic sigh from the brooding background score, are meant to give the film a scientific feel, fall in line with the observational, procedural nature of the plot, and echo the theme of a controlled experiment—but their recurring frequency over too limited a span of time is only jarring and quickly becomes farcical.

The motley cast of characters on the team include Lionel Barrett (Clive Revill), the stalwart skeptic, Ann (Gayle Hunnicutt), his wife just along for the ride, Florence Tanner (Pamela Franklin), a young psychic who is most receptive to the presences in the house, and Ben Fischer (Roddy McDowall), an eccentric physical medium, and the only survivor of the previous investigatory attempt. None of these characters ever really won me over. Characterization is sparse, undeveloped, and mostly one-dimensional. I attribute this to the film’s apparent lack of a first act. For a screenplay adapted from a novel by the novel’s author, it’s literally devoid of exposition.

Barrett subscribes to solely empirical rationalizations for the psychic phenomena that occur in the house, while Florence, under constant assault by ghostly manifestations, ascribes the same phenomena to something spiritual. Therein lies the film’s only attempt at dramatic conflict. Throughout all of their experiences, Florence remains weirdly unperturbed; offended more by Barrett’s skeptical views than, say, an instance in which she’s raped by a ghost. It takes a dead cat in the shower to rattle her resolve.

Barrett brings the scientific method to the table, but the voice of reason comes from the slightly unhinged, not-all-there Fischer, who has chosen to shut himself off to the energies of the house. He’s mostly removed from the proceedings until Barrett and Tanner (and their competing philosophies) are removed from the picture after having been showcased at the forefront of the plot.

The one thing the characters have going for them is that they’re not idiots, and Barrett’s rant about the house as a giant battery for “mindless, directionless” electromagnetic radiation is interesting food for thought. But some of the more intriguing dramatic potential is left by the curbside.

The film’s “scares” involve the characters’ successful or unsuccessful attempts to dodge physical manifestations Final Destination-style. The suspense begins to wane once it becomes apparent that all you have to do to survive, is not stand directly under a chandelier.

Luckily, the various instances in which the otherworldly force manifests itself aren’t causes for alarm. The characters, professionals though they may be, react with casual indifference to the temper tantrums of a narcissistic ghost—about as unnerved by this noisy, occasionally violent poltergeist as they would be by a meddlesome mouse. The wife character is meant as the layman, an anchor in the supernatural proceedings, but her reaction to the house’s manifestations is sometimes just as insipid.

The exorcism of negative energy in the house by machine is an interesting plot development that comes too late. A more interesting movie would have featured this as the central plot mechanic, from the very beginning. Here it feels like an afterthought, out of place.

The plot itself is a dreadful bore. Barely anything happens, and those events that do take place aren’t causally related to each other. We never transcend the premise of: four paranormal investigators in a house reacting to loud noises and objects moving of their own accord. It’s just a shouting contest between two bickering characters amidst a canvas of scares and creepy moments.

I could see the film benefiting from an update where the house itself is more thoroughly and creatively explored, revealing the same kind of distinct personality as that of the Paper Street Soap Co. from Fight Club. An update featuring characters that are fully fleshed-out and actually likeable. Where the psychic manifestations are more subtle in nature, and thus more open to interpretation, waxing in intensity as the plot progresses (instead of being so brazenly overt from the get-go).

What this boils down to, when you look at the sum total of its parts, is just another made-for-TV movie of the week, a bad X-Files episode. Although the core idea deserves to be remade—but not by Rob Zombie, and neither Rose Red, nor Scary Movie 2, count.

Friday Morning Review: "Demolition Man" (1993)

Starring Sylvester Stallone, Wesley Snipes, Sandra Bullock, Nigel Hawthorne

Directed by Marco Brambilla

Written by Daniel Waters, Robert Reneau, Peter M. Lenkov

Produced by Joel Silver, Michael Levy, Howard Kazanjian

115 minutes

2 stars

“Only While Intoxicated.”

With Demolition Man, I felt the need to create a new umbrella category of films, and that’s the title I’m going to run with, for now.

I’m not going to delve too deep into Demolition Man. You know all about this movie already, and even if you haven’t seen it, you know exactly what it is.

I never saw it when it first came out; in fact I knew of it only by reputation—so mine is a completely unsentimental perspective. Bear in mind, this review comes not from a place of childhood nostalgia but from one of clinical objectivity.

As the film opens, the camera sweeps over a dramatic vision of L.A. circa 1996: an out-of-control city run rampant with crime. I say “dramatic” because in the foreground, the Hollywood sign is in flames.

As the opening titles play out, the movie grants us a preview into its own future: a future of unnecessary Dutch angles, overused slow-motion, and corny one-liners. John Spartan (Sly Stallone), a no-holds-barred juggernaut, combats the relentless crime waves like a caffeine-fueled teenager in a first-person shooter with infinite ammo. What kind of name is John Spartan, anyway? Jesus.

Wesley Snipes plays Simon Phoenix, another thirteen-year-old in a grown-up’s body who likes to play with fire. As Bill Cobbs points out later on, “he’s evil in a way you’ve never read about…a criminal the likes of which you’ve never seen.” Uh-huh.

In any case, these two are mortal enemies, destined to battle each other forever or something. Stallone finally apprehends Snipes, but ends up getting a bunch of hostages killed due to an oversight, so they’re both sentenced to 70 years of “sub-zero rehabilitation.” ‘Cause that’s how shit works in the future—I mean, 1996.

In the real future, 2032—we know this from the new-age, Tangerine Dream-inspired synths as Spartan wakes up from cryo-stasis—San Diego and Los Angeles have been merged into one planned city called “San Angeles,” a place that has been stripped of all human interface. Here, concepts like crime—and sarcasm—are urban legends, long-forgotten memories. “Safety Above All” is the catch phrase, as everything that is, and possibly can be bad for you, has been outlawed: cigarettes, swearing, even salt to name a few. This is blunt-force satire at its finest.

Dennis Leary, as an underground (literally) revolutionary-type character, is the only bright spot in this crisply utilitarian universe. Too bad we hardly ever see him.

In this world, the police force is completely ill-equipped to deal with, much less respond to, even minor incidents. A responding officer to the situation caused by a public miscreant references a computer-generated script dictating proper police procedure. One measly little murder—for instance when Simon Phoenix escapes cryo-stasis and kills the presiding doctor—is a matter of national security. Hence one character’s sledgehammer of a line, “We need an old-fashioned cop.” Cue the Demolition Man.

Why is John Spartan nicknamed the Demolition Man? ‘Cause he blows shit up. That’s his style.

As he proceeds to wreak havoc across the pristine city, he’s chaperoned by Lenina Huxley (three guesses to name the reference), played by Sandra Bullock, as hot and as wooden as she’s ever been. She’s mildly competent where the rest of her crew is utterly hopeless only because she’s nostalgic for an era she never knew, fascinated by the “vulgar” twentieth century.

For as mystified by the future as John Spartan is, Pheonix is a kid in a candy store, hacking public access terminals left and right with the ease of Mark Zuckerberg. Don’t worry, this is explained later on in the, uh…plot.

The “badness” of Demolition Man is obvious. I’d basically written my entire review in the first twenty minutes of the movie, to give you some context. The question is, can it be enjoyed as a total farce?

Indeed, there’s plenty of humor abound, mostly unintentional. The best parts of the movie are its glaring plot-holes, its inconsistencies, its head-scratching nonsense. Computer systems are hilariously outdated; an operating system in the police headquarters looks like something the director’s kid drew with a crayon.

The bits that actually work include John’s frustrated attempts to use the advanced technology that has replaced toilet paper, and his discovery that his specialized rehab has granted him a psychological sewing complex—since he apparently lacks sophistication.

Some of Stallone’s offbeat dialogue is priceless (“Somebody put me back in the fridge”). The “Schwarzenegger as President” prediction, coupled with Sly’s reaction to said revelation, is probably the comedic high-note of the movie.

The general appeal is watching Stallone, a “caveman”/“barbarian”/“relic of the past” (you’ll hear these labels flung around endlessly by infuriated authority figures) ruffle feathers and generate automated citations for swearing every two seconds.

Certainly the comedic value of Demolition Man, intentional or otherwise, can’t be denied. But why should audiences have to settle for tripe like this? Why can’t we have these same themes in science-fiction, and also something with substance and intelligence? It seems to me like Demolition Man is a prime example of what sci-fi was in the nineties: innately lowest-common-denominator entertainment, barring a few exceptions. It belongs in the wasteland of ruined potential.

For a film like Demolition Man to be considered acceptable by even our most relaxed viewing standards, it needs to offer something more than just a formulaic, by-the-numbers screenplay that could have been written by a ten-year-old. Honestly, by the halfway mark I was just waiting for it to be over. Bored with its flash-bang sense of pacing, its expositional beats that hit with blunt-force trauma to the back of the head. Seriously, you could walk away from this movie for twenty minutes, make a sandwich, come back, and know immediately what was going on. Even the mechanics of its action sequences are inane, fight choreography robotic at best.

Demolition Man, like the character whose namesake inspires its title, is most certainly, and thankfully, a relic of the nineties. Decent in memory, but during, it’s more like the monotonous car ride of a family vacation (“are we there yet?”).

I’ll repeat: Only while intoxicated.

And believe me, I most certainly was.

Friday Morning Review: "Hoffa" (1992)

Starring Jack Nicholson, Danny DeVito, Armand Assante, John C. Reilly

Directed by Danny DeVito

Written by David Mamet

Produced by Caldecot Chubb, Danny DeVito, Edward R. Pressman

140 minutes

3 stars

At its most basic level, a biopic, Hoffa is your typical patchwork assembly of flashbacks told over the course of forty years as the titular character, portrayed by Jack Nicholson, navigates his way from the loading docks of warehouses as an organizer for the Teamsters Local 299, to the presidency of the entire union itself. The narrative that ties the plot together takes place in the parking lot of a secluded, rural diner in 1975 where Hoffa spends the last hours of his life. This seemingly banal sequence, grounding us in the present, and presented in real-time, I found to be the most intriguing. The film purports an explanation as to the cause of his mysterious disappearance, which, if you’re familiar with the story, you know is coming at the very end.

I don’t want to give anything away, but I will say I was pleased with how that event was handled. The narrative, with the deliberate pace of a Sergio Leone western, slowly builds up an expectation over the two-hour-twenty running time, and in my case, that expectation was not only met but exceeded. While straying a bit from the history books, it’s a slick, powerful ending with shocking brevity and an emotional resonance that neatly ties up the themes of the film and recalls the best of Coppola.

Hoffa is less the story of a man, and more the story of an entire American working class that became swept up in his influence, enchanted by his power. That group is personified in Danny DeVito’s character, Bobby Ciaro, a common trucker who becomes Hoffa’s personal aide and closest friend through the years.

As Hoffa waits in a hot car in the parking lot, and Ciaro makes some calls inside the diner, we jump around through time, skipping through the chapters of Hoffa’s life not with dainty steps but with giant leaps, omitting decades at a time. The transitions between scenes are sometimes jarring, sometimes seamless, but always creative. The film seems to take a page or two from Citizen Kane in its presentation. Uninitiated viewers will struggle to keep up, but the history is less important than the raw impression you draw of the man, colored by Ciaro’s memories. Viewers who know one or two things about the mythology surrounding Hoffa’s disappearance are invited to look for clues in these flashbacks, and meanwhile, in the present, we advance unerringly toward his pre-supposed fate.

Nicholson turns in a captivating performance, in part aided by an Oscar-nominated makeup job and a superb script by dialogue wizard David Mamet, capturing Hoffa’s raw charisma.

The film moves right along, not stopping for stragglers. Mamet’s script skips a lot of exposition, and assumes you know quite a bit already about the history surrounding the man. If you don’t, a quick Wikipedia run will be enough, although the film has less emphasis on the history lesson aspect and focuses more on the universal story to be told, which I found to be an interesting study of charisma, influence, and the power to affect millions. Say what you will about Jimmy Hoffa, but that power can’t be denied.

As Ciaro, DeVito is as serious as he’s ever been, showing a side of himself we’ve rarely seen. We see him relegated to the role of lackey, and in most cases, bodyguard. From an early point in the film in which he accosts Hoffa with a knife, right up to the very end, he’s associated with weapons. The message is obvious: he will defend Hoffa to his last dying breath. That is the extent of his reverence for the man: unconditional. A recurring story that he tells about how he joined up with the Teamsters slowly warps over time, picking up a certain dramatic punch through the years like a rolling stone gathering moss. This story serves as a sort of metaphor for the romanticism surrounding Jimmy Hoffa, a testament to the man’s charisma rubbing off on Ciaro, and a reminder to us of how Ciaro colors his memories.

In constructing the scenes, Mamet and DeVito do a commendable job of glorifying Hoffa’s rise through the eyes of his followers, capturing the energy of being caught up in something larger than oneself. I found myself quite swept up with the story, this rousing ballad of the working man. That story wisely focuses less on the man himself, and more on Ciaro’s perceptions of the man throughout history. We’re never offered more than a fleeting glimpse of Hoffa’s personal life, and for good reason.

We experience Hoffa mostly by his sheer presence amongst the people close to him, and to those who regard him as an icon. His influence, the way he affects the atmosphere of a room, what happens when his name is dropped—these are the aspects the story explores. This is the lens through which DeVito chooses to show us Hoffa. It’s not a biographical resume of important exploits or turning points in the man’s career, it’s a reflection of the response he garners from the people around him—an effect which is only enhanced by the passage of time, as his name carries more and more weight.

Aside from a few technical faux pas, DeVito shows remarkable maturity and competence as a director—although we know his career since is marked by such debacles as Death to Smoochy and Duplex. All the same, I quickly found myself judging this film by the same standard I would expect from a Scorsese picture. It certainly has the same feel. The only quality it lacks, in this regard, is that darkly satirical spin, that biting sense of humor Scorsese has. Hoffa is certainly an intriguing, compelling character study, but it’s not a “fun” movie. I can’t imagine it has much replay value. But it is definitely worth checking out.

Friday Morning Review: "Broadcast News" (1987)

Starring William Hurt, Albert Brooks, Holly Hunter, Robert Prosky, Lois Chiles, Joan Cusack, Jack Nicholson

Directed by James L. Brooks

Written by James L. Brooks

Produced by James L. Brooks

133 minutes

4.5 stars

I didn’t expect much going in from Broadcast News, and I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps its place in the canon of film was eclipsed, at least in my limited memory, by 1976’s much-lauded Network. After having those expectations thoroughly annihilated, I can safely say that Broadcast News is the best movie I’ve had the pleasure of reviewing.

At its most basic level, it’s an in-depth exploration into how a fast-paced network newsroom operates. Writer, director, and producer James Brooks perfectly captures the rush of developing and delivering a great news story.

But it’s clearly so much more. As the poster tagline suggests, “It’s the story of their lives.” Indeed, this is the story we’re not supposed to see, the humanity behind the curtain. William Hurt, Holly Hunter, and Albert Brooks are a joy to watch as the players in a quirky love triangle—sometimes rectangle—that takes center stage in this frenetic environment.

Tom (Hurt) is the “face” of the news team (I can’t emphasize that enough)—the talking head, the personality. He’s all about appearance, which is just about his only asset (the only things in his desk are a hairbrush and two freshly-laundered shirts)—but he’s not vain; he’s too dumb to be egotistical. It’s perhaps his well-meaning doltishness, or his self-consciousness around smart people, that makes him endearing. He represents the “New Age” kind of reporting, putting a human face on the story. He’s someone the viewers can trust and bond with. But his news isn’t reality, it’s a fabrication. He’s a performer, and he’s sensational.

Jane is the producer, immediately likeable and brilliantly acted by Holly Hunter. She thinks and moves the fastest—but she’s dreadfully boring. Unfortunately, she’s a control freak, and Tom’s brand of news—showcasing the drama going on behind the curtain, the empathy of the news team—goes against everything she’s about. You’d think: okay, they’re foils, can’t stand each other, until the sparks fly and they inevitably drift into a romance (this is, after all, billed as a rom-com, but there’s some powerful drama to be sure). Of course it’s not that simple. Their relationship is symbiotic, and in that way much more real and believable, while transcending reason. This is a movie where characters fall in love with each other not for arbitrary, plot-serving purposes (“I think you’re attractive, let’s start a romance”), but because it’s true to life.

Aaron (a hilarious Albert Brooks) is the third wheel in the blossoming office relationship, and the function he fulfills in the office machine is similarly ambiguous, more of a cog than an integral component. While he is clearly the smartest, he has no “spice” factor, and fails to stand out to the execs. He’s the unrecognized mule for a “network that tested his face with focus groups.” With regards to Jane, he’s old hat. Brooks brings an undeniable comedic punch to the role, employing the brand of bitter, self-deprecating wit he’s now well-known for.

These three characters form a sort of holy trinity, their roles serving each other. And they’re quite locked-in to these roles, as Aaron unfortunately finds out. Tom is the “face” for a reason—there’s a delicate science to his appearance that comes natural only to him. The film’s most engaging scene involves Aaron, watching the broadcast at home, feeding raw insight to Jane over the phone, in turn dictating talking points to Tom via earpiece, who only vaguely understands the news but is made to look like a razor-sharp expert. “I say it here, it comes out there,” Aaron mumbles as he looks on in horror.

In Broadcast News, James Brooks creates a place where you’d really want to work, and that brings me to the fourth character, which is the newsroom itself. Busy and chaotic, nobody here is good at separating their work from their personal life. There’s an undeniable sense of camaraderie, of community. These people are a family. You feel like an intern, a fly on the wall watching the players interact.

Brooks does a great job of creating the sensations of tension and payoff that are part of daily life in the newsroom. You really feel on the edge of your seat as Tom delivers his first news piece, guided by Jane, in turn referencing Aaron’s thoughts—and an overwhelming urge to participate in the jubilations as the team wraps up.

The halfway point of the film introduces a new layer of competition to the dynamic, as the network experiences massive cutbacks and layoffs. The mechanics of the workplace are so thoroughly constructed by this point that it’s especially heartbreaking to see the news team begin to dissolve; impossible to imagine these characters anywhere else, in any other context. Of course this economic subplot, responsible for ushering in the film’s climax, is especially relevant today.

I found the film to bear an even greater relevance for modern, attention-deficit generations, for our “more is more” world where media capitalizes on every little workable morsel, where media loves scandal, and is very partisan, news teams and anchors either red or blue. Where it’s less important what the news is, than who’s telling it.

But like some of the best films that deal in heavy subject matter, it’s not political, it’s not dense, it’s not preachy or informative. Like the tagline states, it’s just a human story. A smart romantic comedy about smart people navigating romances. Where things aren’t so black and white. Aaron’s not exactly the perfect guy and Tom’s not the devil, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Each line is just dripping with subtext in a script that’s as full of laughs as it is intelligence. And while some of the dialogue can be a little heavy-handed, and on-the-nose at times (especially for a movie about ethical journalism and truth in broadcasting), that’s a miniscule gripe in the scope of the entire picture, which is altogether a colossal achievement.

Friday Morning Review: "Teachers" (1984)

Starring Nick Nolte, JoBeth Williams, Ralph Macchio, Judd Hirsch, Richard Mulligan, Morgan Freeman, Laura Dern, Crispin Glover

Directed by Arthur Hiller

Written by W. R. McKinney

Produced by Aaron Russo

106 minutes

3.5 stars

There are plenty of reasons to watch Teachers, the least of which include: Morgan Freeman sporting a wicked Einstein-esque fro, Ralph Macchio in his first role after The Karate Kid as a cheeky rebel without a cause, Nick Nolte at the top of his form, and an instance in which a subpoena is served to him in probably the most hilarious way possible.

It may be marketed as a comedy, but there’s also a lot of truth here. It’s not a “sensitive but noble teacher has to shape up an unruly but talented class” movie (although that stock character is featured, with a twist)—it’s more political commentary. It’s not even really about any one teacher, it’s about the system.

The plot stems from a lawsuit wielded at JFK High School by the parents of a student who was awarded a diploma yet cannot read or write. Throughout the film, we explore all sides of this issue. From the teachers’ point of view, we see the students as savage animals; the camera turned back around, those same teachers are depicted as old, ineffectual, and lazy.

The opening scenes reveal JFK to be nothing short of a madhouse. Herds of students rampage against the school entrances, entrances blocked by padlocked fences and patrolled by armed guards. Defenseless teachers are pushed up against the wall by the senseless stampede. Among the faculty, but not present, is Alex Jurel, social studies teacher, sleeping in late following a casual Sunday night hookup. Gruffly portrayed by Nolte, Jurel is the sole voice of reason in this institution that has clearly gone to hell. Representing the plaintiff of the lawsuit in question is Lisa Hammond (JoBeth Williams), who—surprise—is a former graduate of JFK and may yet harbor a crush for her old social studies teacher. Rounding out the ensemble cast are Judd Hirsch, the knowing but powerless principal, and Ralph Macchio, an illiterate bad seed who finds a mentor in Jurel when it seems he, too, is on the verge of slipping through the cracks.

Battered and disheveled, coming apart at the seams, Jurel shows a flagrant disregard for rules and authority, and the passive wisdom of a warrior monk. He’s the “cool” teacher, popular amongst the students but not amongst the school board, who begin to fear him as a liability to their case. He has no sly agenda. He never tries to be these kids’ “friend,” maneuver his way past their defenses, or “come down to their level.” He simply treats them like adults. He knows education is not about wrestling control, and his laidback approach is shown to be the most effective. Brilliantly portrayed by Nolte, we see him really struggle with these issues.

We get the sense Jurel and Hirsch’s character go way back, but their 60’s political activism days are over, and all that fire has long since been extinguished by bureaucracy and the changing of the times. Their camaraderie is a compelling addition to the mix, and I would have liked to see Hirsch a lot more, or at least witness an arc in his character. Unfortunately by the second half he’s relegated to one of the villain roles amongst the school board and there he remains, stuck in stone. His “needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one” refrain had me nostalgic for Star Trek III: The Wrath of Khan.

As the litigator in charge of taking depositions from the teachers, Lisa is both an antagonistic force and a love interest for Jerel. Their intentions are the same—they both want to shake up the system—only Lisa’s method will do more harm to the situation than good and Jerel is too beaten down and demoralized at this point to try anything at all. Her investigation into the incompetence of the school has become a witch-hunt, a blame game, whereas Jerel is more interested in the truth.

Teachers will give you plenty to think about as you’re watching; further reflection will reveal that it can all be collected under a fairly straightforward umbrella statement: the ineffectiveness of the education system stems from the idea that, due to the overwhelming bureaucracy and policy forced upon the teachers, students aren’t shown respect and ultimately devolve into unreachable hooligans.

There are some very deliberate creative choices at work to support the notion that this is no longer a school, it’s a warzone—the guards and fences are there to keep the students out. In perhaps the most glaring example, an exhaustive locker search and a “security measures” montage, set to “In the Jungle,” culminates in the gunning down of one student by the police.

Right on cue with the idea that “policy” is the agent of corruption, the tourist masquerading as a substitute proves to be a better teacher than the actual teachers. There are some interesting things to be said in this movie, they’re just delivered with the subtlety of a machine gun.

What I like about Teachers is that it shows the lawsuit from all angles: defense, plaintiff, and student body. Its investigation into the incompetence of the school system is nonjudgmental and thorough, recalling doc-like objectivity at times. In one of the more obvious scenes, Jurel poses the dilemma to his class; the solution director Arthur Hiller chooses to show us involves Ralph Macchio shooting a candid, photographic exposé. In other scenes, we follow the characters on the “system” side of the dispute. There are good teachers at JFK, but we can see where they have fallen astray: bogged down by the senseless bureaucracy that vilifies and demonizes the student body, by even, perhaps, the parents’ apathetic, “pass the buck” mentality in the upbringing of their own children. The teachers naturally fight to keep their jobs, blinded to the real truth of what’s at stake—only Jurel, the unwelcome prophet, can see the forest for the trees. He understands that this is bigger than their jobs, it’s not about “the teachers vs. the students,” “us vs. them”—it’s about setting principles of education.

In reflecting on these themes, a few lines of dialogue spring immediately to mind, proof of how precise and contrived the script can be: after being peppered in his deposition, one of the teachers breaks down with his explanation for why this kid was awarded a passing grade as “Because it’s policy!” Later, following a fisticuffs between Jerel and Ralph Macchio’s parents over the responsibility of his social development, the mom retorts “That’s your job.”

Unfortunately for all of his well-intentioned commentary, Hiller makes some peculiar narrative choices about how he lays out the climax, and the last ten minutes devolve into a confusing mess of plot strings coming together all at once. The curiously-placed nude scene at the very end is jarring to say the least. I understand what Hiller was trying to do, but the effect is more titillating than it is a political statement, especially given the as-of-yet unrelieved sexual tension between Williams’ and Nolte’s characters. Adding insult to injury, the film ends with a cut to a deliberate, in-your-face marketing attempt of the soundtrack album before the credits.

Even despite this clusterfuck of an ending, Teachers managed to entertain me throughout on multiple levels. There were times where I felt especially pandered to, but mostly I found it to be a decent exploration into the flaws of the American public education system. Check this out, then go and rent Waiting for Superman for a debatably more comprehensive look.