The Fengshui Cat

Friday Morning Review: "High Plains Drifter" (1973)

2011-02-25T08:27:00.000-08:00

Starring Clint Eastwood, Verna Bloom, Marianna Hill, Billy Curtis

Directed by Clint Eastwood

Written by Ernest Tidyman, Dean Riesner

Produced by Robert Daley

105 minutes

3.5 stars

As someone who watches quite a bit of westerns, and even studied the genre to a degree in college, High Plains Drifter is one of my personal favorites, an easy classic, and certainly a landmark directorial attempt for Clint Eastwood. While not the high water mark for the revisionist genre that Unforgiven was, and not as technically brilliant as Pale Rider, High Plains Drifter begins Eastwood’s bending of expected western archetypes as continued in those films.

This is an early example of the “Weird West” subgenre, a fusing of the Western with, in this case, the occult or supernatural. Eastwood plays the Stranger, a rugged gunfighter appearing out of the haze of the desert and stumbling into the town of Lago, where he may or may not have unfinished business—left over from another lifetime. If that premise doesn’t do it for you, I don’t know what will.

High Plains Drifter was filmed along the shores of Mono Lake in California, whose exposed alkaline sands and craggy limestone rock formations are decidedly alien. The result is a production that is dreamy and surreal, aided by a ghostly synthesized score that sounds like wind moaning though a cave. The town of Lago reads like some final waystation for the damned, perched on the brink of a purgatorial void. For the grand majority of the film’s proceedings, we are limited to this place, only occasionally offered glimpses outward, through gaps between wooden buildings to the bleached white horizon of the desert beyond, or the unnatural blue abyss of the lake. The stark sense of place owes much to Eastwood’s unique selection of shots and vantage points, revealing just enough of the town to give us a sense of familiarity, but not enough to make us feel like we’ve overstayed our welcome. By keeping the action (for the most part) contained entirely within the town and its limited outskirts, Eastwood makes Lago seem like the last human settlement in existence, a rustic oasis in the middle of a bare, apocalyptic wasteland.

I like to think of this film as sort of an update on High Noon, or rather a “part two,” continuing its allegory of a community that remained silent while its members were blacklisted, with a more explicit, almost tongue-in-cheek approach. Both films feature a sheriff character betrayed and deserted by cowardly townsfolk who refuse to stand up to evil; this one assumes Will Kane died and came back as a vengeful ghost. Also, the townspeople don’t just vanish from the streets, taking refuge behind locked doors as in High Noon—they watch tepidly from the sidelines without raising a finger, occupying a very deliberate presence in the man’s death. I’m not surprised John Wayne turned down a role in this film, after his active participation in the blacklisting of High Noon screenwriter Carl Foreman. High Noon came out directly in the midst of McCarthyism; John Wayne and Howard Hawkes made Rio Bravo as a response, and I like to think of High Plains Drifter as Clint Eastwood’s answer to both of them.

Eastwood’s “Stranger” is less the duty-bound, courageous Will Kane, and more the grim “Man With No Name” a la Fistful of Dollars. It’s Eastwood at his most badass, a notion that was never far from my mind as I watched the familiar antihero character put three holes in three heads from a barber’s chair, slickly escape a hotel assassination attempt with a “dynamite” ace up his sleeve, and lasso a guy screaming into the night by his neck. As close as it is thematically to High Noon, this is a much darker story, about a Will Kane who went through the depths of hell and came out the other side changed. This one takes advantage of women, exploits the townspeople’s need for security and dependence on someone to do the job for them, and indulges in the town’s material offerings, all with a dark sense of humor. Although it’s left mostly ambiguous, there’s always a sense that his motivations are more sinister in nature.

Of course, a film as ambitious and experimental as High Plains Drifter is not without its flaws, and this is the kind of movie that’s better in retrospect than while you’re actually watching it. The mostly straightforward plot is marred by a few unwieldy scenes that raise the wrong questions—a casual rape committed by the protagonist, his continued objectification of the women in the town—as well as a few detriments to the minimalism aspect, such as a couple different shootouts that occur outside of town. The blood is also laughably fake, but I’ll let that one slide since this was probably one of the earlier instances of actual gore in a western in the first place.

Those problem scenes, however, will tend to be forgotten when reflecting back on the film as a whole—which I have to say, is just fucking cool. Other scenes, (the town “literally” painted red, “Hell” on the town sign, etc) will always override them in your mind’s eye.

Boasting some pretty iconic imagery, even as a derivative, revisionist film, High Plains Drifter is a unique western ghost story. You really can’t argue with its cultural significance (it was featured viewing on the syllabus for my Western class in college), or its sheer badass factor. If you haven’t seen it and you’re a fan of Eastwood’s “Man With No Name” from Sergio Leone’s Dollars trilogy, you owe it to yourself to check it out.

Friday Morning Review: "Freaked" (1993)

2011-02-25T08:26:00.000-08:00

Starring Alex Winter, Michael Stoyanov, William Sadler, Megan Ward, Mr. T, Brooke Shields, Randy Quaid, Alex Zuckerman

Directed by Alex Winter, Tom Stern

Written by Tim Burns, Tom Stern, Alex Winter

Produced by Stephen Chiodo, Harry J. Ufland, Mary Jane Ufland

80 minutes

2.5 stars

Freaked is the brainchild of Alex Winter, that guy from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure and one of the vampires from Lost Boys. As such, it’s kind of a spiritual sequel to The Idiot Box, Winter’s sketch comedy/variety show which ran on MTV from 1990-1991. After producing only six episodes, Winter and pals signed a movie deal with 20^th Century Fox, and Freaked, like a six-armed mutant risen out of a chemical sludge, was born.

Right from the very beginning, the animated opening title sequence brings back a flood of 90’s MTV-programming nostalgia. It’s no secret that MTV’s stamp is all over this movie, from its “sensory overload” aesthetic of excessive dutch angles, zoom-ins, and oversaturated prime colors, to its crude and gross mix of camp, social satire, and pop culture references. It’s what would happen if MTV took a 90’s-era Nickelodeon cartoon and made a live-action film adaptation. Furthermore, to say this is a “black comedy” is like calling Rocko’s Modern Life a “critique on corporate culture.” It works, but it’s not your first instinct.

Winter plays former child star Ricky Coogin, who relates the events of the film in an interview session with a Ricki Lake-type daytime talkshow host played by Brooke Shields. Relating his account of how he came to be hideously disfigured, Ricky’s tale begins when he signs a deal with EES (the “Everything Except Shoes” Corporation) to promote their controversial fertilizer product Zygrot-24, rumored to be extremely toxic. Accompanied by his perverted but loyal friend Ernie (Michael Stoyanov), and hounded by his relentless number-one fan Stuey (Alex Zuckerman), Ricky travels to South America to act as the spokesperson for EES and quiet the environmentalist concerns. When he gets there, however, he’s quickly smitten with Julie (Megan Ward), the organizer of the protesters, and the gang invariably wind up on an adventure together that has nothing to do with the corporate gig. The next thing we know, they decide to check out Randy Quaid’s roadside freak show, but end up becoming his captives in his latest “mad scientist” venture, assisted of course, by none other than Zygrot-24. What follows, amidst ham-fisted dialogue and greatly-exaggerated acting, is a sometimes disturbing, sometimes unwatchable, always ridiculous experience.

Freaked has the makings of a cheapened Terry Gilliam film, the body horror of David Cronenberg (in particular, the dream-like weirdness of Naked Lunch), and the tongue-in-cheek, over-the-top violence of Sam Raimi (think Evil Dead II or Army of Darkness). I want to say it has the mise-en-scene of Tim Burton, but really only the “afterlife waiting area” scene of Beetlejuice comes to mind; its zany collection of mutated and mutilated characters would be right at home in this film. Freaked has the non-sequitur comedic style of a Monty Python episode or a Mel Brooks movie, and the same kind of shenanigans you’d expect to find in Police Academy or Naked Gun. At one point, Stuey gets sucked out of an airplane, followed by an old man in a wheelchair, before a stewardess plainly walks up and closes the aircraft hatch. (The kid eventually lands on the ground below, gets up, says, “Hey, I’m okay!” before some debris falls on his head.)

The reality depicted in Freaked is squished and distorted, viewed as if through a kaleidoscope. It’s a wacky, frightening blend of twisted surrealism and jacked-up psychedelia, coming together to create a constant wonky, off-kilter feel. The result is like a bad acid trip. When you reflect back on what you’ve seen, it’s like stringing together the random, bizarre segments of a half-remembered dream from the night before. Nothing makes sense; what seemed to work in dreamland is now utterly absurd in hindsight.

As entertainment, Freaked skates a fine line between the inspiringly bizarre and the just flat-out stupid. Only someone with very immature sensibilities and the attention span of a second-grader will truly appreciate the monster that Alex Winter and his buddies have created. His raunchy brand of humor seems mostly directed at ten-year-olds, but sometimes will veer into R-rated territory. If you have the patience for, and can stomach the film’s unique brand of harebrained lunacy and occasional idiocy, there may be something worthwhile for you here. Otherwise, I suggest you pass on this like you would a high school cafeteria’s mystery quiche.

Friday Morning Review: "Navy SEALS" (1990)

2011-02-18T08:19:00.000-08:00

Starring Charlie Sheen, Michael Biehn, Joanne Whalley-Kilmer, Dennis Haysbert, Rick Rossovich, Cyril O’Reilly, Bill Paxton

Directed by Lewis Teague

Written by Chuck Pfarrer, Gary Goldman

Produced by Brenda Feigen, Bernie Williams

113 minutes

2.5 stars

I would have liked this movie fifteen years ago, back when I was going through my pre-adolescent military phase, and a bunch of guys blowing up some other guys with (then) state-of-the-art weaponry was all I needed. Navy SEALS isn’t a straight-to-DVD, patriotic glorification of advanced warfare, heavily endorsed by the US Navy—but it’s damn close. If it isn’t the kind of movie that was made to get a surge of young guys to sign up with their local recruiter, I don’t know what is.

The film boasts such star power as Charlie Sheen and Michael Beihn in a Tom Clancy-type plot, but one which is more in line with the Clancy-label videogame franchise than any of his novels. The tone is decidedly more Top Gun than—well, really anything else. You won’t appreciate this film if you’re expecting any sort of commentary.

The premise is simple. We see both “sides” of the lives of the men on a rough-and-tumble Navy SEALs team: one side when they’re on mission, the other when they’re off, with a few highlighted dramatic subplots interspersed between. The various attempts at endearing us to the characters are painfully obvious, first-date awkward. It’s basically Top Gun all over again, without the planes, and with Charlie Sheen standing in for Tom Cruise.

As hard as these guys work, they play even harder. We’re meant to assume that the experience of bullets flying past your head on a regular basis is automatically coupled with the mentality of being a larger-than-life, gung-ho risk-taker—the kind of action junkie whose night of shots isn’t complete until the bar is actually on fire, and for whom the instance of a towed car inspires hairbrained stunts of legend, involving a bicycle chase down the freeway, a Fast and the Furious-style hijacking while in-transit, and Jason Statham-brand maneuvers to escape oncoming traffic while driving in reverse. Yes, we understand that they’re supposed to fit the “badass tactical unit on-the-clock/rowdy-but-loveable gang of guys off-the-clock” stereotype, but a scene in which they tear up a golf course, consequence-free, starts to border on the absurd.

In the foreground of this merry band of hotshot supermen, are Hawkins (Sheen), Curran (Beihn), and Graham (Dennis Haysbert). As an added bonus, Bill Paxton plays a sniper they all lovingly refer to, while on mission, as “God.”

Hawkins is the wild, untamed one, with a simple need: a need for speed. Duh. He’s politically incorrect, he improvises, flies by the seat of his pants; a showy, hot-headed maverick. To help further illustrate this, he drives a red convertible. His “dramatic arc” is foreshadowed early on as a sort of need to seek a balance to his action high, to learn how to disconnect from his adrenaline rushes.

Curran is the leader, and thus the careful, rigorous strategist of the team, always the professional. He’s all about functionality and protocol; his mind never far from the job. To help you better understand his character, he drives a black, all-purpose Jeep. His dramatic arc is sort of a “struggle with the burden of command” type of thing.

Graham, at the beginning of the film, is about to get married. Unfortunately, just before the ceremony commences, everybody’s pager on the groom’s side starts to go off. This signals a drop-everything-at-a-moment’s-notice, priority-one mission call, and the bride is left hanging. Graham is skirting two worlds, that of the job, and that of the responsibility that comes with being a married man. He will have to choose one or the other—where to place his commitment—before the end of the movie, or before he dies, whichever comes first. Naturally, he’s more conservative and mature than the others.

While on the opening mission, which is supposed to be an open-and-close extraction of a captured American aircrew, Hawkins and Graham stumble upon a cache of Stinger missiles which could prove disastrous if allowed to remain in the possession of the terrorists. Unfortunately, Hawkins fails in his initial attempt to destroy the missiles, and Curran orders the entire team out before he can get another chance. This lapse in judgment precipitates the rest of the plot, as now the SEALs have to track down the missiles across the globe.

Very early on, the film sets up the rule that Intel is key—the team’s general badassery in the field is totally reliant upon good Intel, and rendered utterly useless without it. To this end, the team develops an information-based relationship with a Lebanese journalist played by Joanne Whalley-Kilmer, who drives a wedge between Curran and Hawkins when the two develop a mutual attraction to her.

What starts out as a brotherly, competitive relationship between the two naturally turns into a bitter resentment, further compounded by Hawkins’ sheer idiocy at certain points. Unfortunately what might have made for an interesting dramatic rivalry, never goes to the depths I wanted it to, the tension not thick enough; the conflict not deep enough to warrant more than a passing reflection. Unwilling or unable to push the drama further, and the script to new levels by exploring unfamiliar territory, the writers, Chuck Pfarrer (himself a retired SEAL commander) and Gary Goldman too often elect to “play it safe.” By this I mean they’re too afraid to make any lasting ruptures to the framework they’ve established in the opening acts, and tend to get out of a scene before the conflict threatens to go anywhere interesting. The action while on missions is highlighted; the team’s “time off” serves only as filler—it should be the other way around. Each time I thought a scene was going to cover new ground, the characters were plunged into another mission that put development on hold, and made it seem like everything was fine again between them, all rifts magically repaired. It’s almost as if all the “mission” scenes were written in order, by a giddy 12-year-old, and then all the “off-mission” scenes were written, by the same kid, now grown-up. The first collection is just a series of action scenes, by someone who thinks what they’ve created is a story, and the second collection of scenes is a story, but one that yet lacks maturity and experience.

And so, what you have in Navy SEALS is the start of an inquiry into the fragility of a friendship that is never really resolved. In a more interesting movie, we might have seen Curran pass his sights over Hawkins, and linger over him, the distinction between him and the enemy blurred for a delicate moment. Graham’s wife might have actually threatened to walk out on him if he didn’t make a choice one way or the other—the scenes between them, as they currently stand, are conflict-less, and essentially pointless.

While there are some memorable scenes, Navy SEALS is ultimately a hunk of clay that could have been a nice vase but which somebody decided to just make into a kitschy paperweight.

Friday Morning Review: "The Woman In Red" (1984)

2011-02-18T08:18:00.000-08:00

Starring Gene Wilder, Kelly LeBrock, Gilda Radner

Directed by Gene Wilder

Written by Yves Robert, Jean-Loup Dabadie, Gene Wilder

Produced by Victor Drai

87 minutes

1.5 stars

Further proof that Gene Wilder is not a director, The Woman In Red is one of those movies that should probably just be swept back under the rug of the eighties, and quietly forgotten as you back slowly away.

As a comedy, it’s a scattershot barrage of hit-or-miss gags. Mostly miss. Wilder is too busy trying to force cartoonish antics out of mind-numbing, lifeless situations that he forgets to make an entertaining movie. It’s certainly not his finest hour, but that goes without saying.

Essentially a movie about an affair that never takes place, The Woman In Red is based on a French film, Un éléphant ça trompe énormément, translated into English as An Elephant Can Be Extremely Deceptive. As an American remake, it feels dumbed-down and uninspired. Wilder fails to make the most of his scenes, and manages their transition to the screen poorly. I get the impression he had his hands full with both directing and acting duties. The result is a juggling act of disproportionate, eclectic odds and ends, all threatening to clatter to the floor at any moment.

Wilder plays Teddy Pierce, a low-risk, low-reward kind of guy with an average job, an average group of friends, and an average wife. Bored with this average set of circumstances but basically content, Teddy one day spies a woman in red (a slightly embarrassed Kelly LeBrock, who knows she’s only in this to look good) walk over a grate in a parking garage as a gust of wind causes her dress to fly up. Needless to say, he gets quite a show. At that point everything changes, and Teddy becomes obsessed with tracking her down. The woman, Charlotte, a successful model with her face plastered on every billboard in San Francisco, is involved in a campaign with Teddy’s ad agency, but in their chance encounters, barely acknowledges his existence. He tries unsuccessfully to capture her attention, initiating a series of gags including mistakenly setting up a date with a repulsive co-worker (Gilda Radner, who, it might be worth noting, Wilder married shortly after the film’s production), clumsily passing himself off as an experienced horseback rider, and getting an extreme makeover, all while convincing his doting wife Didi (Judith Ivey) that an affair is the last thing on his mind. By accident, he eventually does win the affection of Charlotte, and spends the second half of the movie trying to get into bed with her, while keeping up the charade with his wife.

I would say it runs out of steam at that point—but for a movie to run out of steam, it has to at least have some in the first place. The way the narrative is set up only distanced me from the comedy. Characters are hard to read and events that are critical to the central plotline are sometimes totally ambiguous. The relationship between Teddy and Charlotte doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense, and when they finally do start actually interacting it happens between the scenes, revealed to us in narration!

There is just too much unresolved weirdness; tangents are introduced that go nowhere and have no significance. At one point, we have a random, uncalled-for subplot about one of Teddy’s friends who turns out to be gay. The outing is made over lunch, and the character in question just kind of smiles while his friends look around awkwardly; the subject is never addressed between them for the rest of the movie, and the dynamic of the group never changes.

In the first act, we’re shown a glimpse into the fractured relationship between one of Teddy’s friends, a real scumbag (Joseph Bologna) and his wife, who leaves him once she finds out about his flagrant adultery. In a subsequent scene, Didi innocently reveals that she owns a gun, repeatedly and inadvertently resting the barrel right in Teddy’s lap while he’s in the middle of a fake phone conversation to lay out the façade of being “called into work on a Wednesday night.” In these scenes, Wilder sets up a simple expectation of the consequences of his character’s intended actions—but by the end, it’s unclear what sort of message, if any, he’s trying to leave us with, when the sleazy, cheating friend’s marriage falls right back into place, and a revelation of Teddy’s duplicity never occurs.

By the end I finally figured out that The Woman In Red wasn’t one movie, it was two. The first, from the beginning to roughly the forty-minute marker (halfway into the already scant running time), is the story of a man vying for the attention of a hard-to-get woman. Once she finally notices him, the second movie begins, in which a man tries and fails miserably at the task of having an affair, barely making it to the bedroom.

I might have been willing to forgive some of the meandering, mismanaged narrative if we had a decent protagonist to serve as an anchor—but Teddy is too much of an oafish loser to be endearing and runs dangerously low on redeeming qualities; incidents of karmic injustice and his resultant bumbling slapstick are largely wasted. Wilder, starting to show his age, plays Teddy with a meek concupiscence, but in scenes where he throws himself onto the hood of Charlotte’s car in the rain, and watches her undress, he comes off as more of a creepy lech. At least the way in which he handles his secret fantasy in front of his wife is halfway intelligent, but the reverse psychology tactics don’t exactly match the doddering simplicity of his character.

While Kelly LeBrock is quite possibly the most sensual creature on the planet, Wilder doesn’t bother to instill her with any personable nuances or characteristics that pique our interest beyond the visual level. There was never a moment where I was ever firmly aware of who she was; in fact until the end, due to her relative absence from the actual proceedings, I was convinced she was some ethereal, abstract idealization of a woman invented by Teddy’s fleeting subconscious—a delusional fantasy just barely derived, surface details only. Unfortunately the film is not that deep, so to speak.

Friday Morning Review: "Less Than Zero" (1987)

2011-02-11T08:56:00.000-08:00

Starring Andrew McCarthy, Jami Gertz, Robert Downey Jr., James Spader

Directed by Marek Kanievska

Written by Harley Peyton (based on the book by Bret Easton Ellis)

Produced by Jon Avnet, Jordan Kerner, Marvin Worth

98 minutes

3.5 stars

In a low-level film production class in my third year of college, our instructor, Jack if I recall, told us the two things to never include in our short scripts. We were about to enter into pre-production on our five-minute, 16mm films to be shot on the much-loved, spring-wound Bolex camera, and Jack was trying to jar us out of the hackneyed mentality that had befallen many a student filmmaker to come before us. Those two things, were of course, drugs and scenes shot in cemeteries. Perhaps more amusing than his facetious aside was the collective groan that followed. He went on to say that in the history of cinema, there were only two good movies ever made about drugs—and those movies were Requiem for a Dream and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

While his lofty expectations for what constituted a good drug flick got the pot stirring for the rest of that class period, and wasted more time than it should have, I found myself thinking back to that “lesson of the day” as I wondered where to begin with Less Than Zero. The fact that it has a strong anti-drug message can’t be understated. Where it differs from the source material (Bret Easton Ellis’s book of the same name) is that it seems to go for the low-hanging fruit, and does so pretty conspicuously. The question is, does it deserve to be considered a good film in spite of, or because of that fact?

I won’t lie, Less Than Zero has some sort of irresistible appeal for me. It’s definitely not to everyone’s taste, but remains one of my personal favorites from the eighties, a hugely underrated film that I think has more to say than just, “say no to drugs.” I forced myself not to bring any pre-conceived feelings to this review, though I suspect it’s a less-than-objective one.

The story involves three high school friends, from the day they graduate to Christmas six months later. In that time, they have all but drifted apart, emotionally as well as geographically—with straight-edge, college-bound Clay on the east coast and former girlfriend Blair and best friend Julian rapidly sinking into an abyss of drugs on the west. When Clay returns home to sunny L.A. to attempt to salvage his relationship with Blair, he finds Julian in need of some serious help and has to dig him out of an early grave.

Director Marek Kanievska seems to take the scared-straight approach, and of course a lot of that has to do with the studio’s efforts to clean up a lot of the X-rated, meandering existentialism of Ellis’s novel, in an attempt to put together a marketable package with three-act structure, an identifiable protagonist and a clear moral doggie bag to leave the theater with. The movie takes great liberties with the novel from what I understand, and I have a pretty good idea of what that means after having experienced both the cinematic and literary versions of American Psycho. Less Than Zero doesn’t have the cartoonish, satiric spin Ellis’s other adaptation does, and is instead a story told with gritty portent. Having not read the source material in this instance, I could only approach the movie as the landmark acting achievement in Robert Downey Jr.’s career that it surely is, and as a product of the eighties and all that that implies. Of course it’s possibly too dark and serious to be called an “eighties classic,” for fear of being lumped in with most of the movies you’d find in that category.

I’ll admit, it’s hard to feel passionate about these rich Beverly Hills kids stuck in the past and burning out. But their circumstances are thus to more effectively communicate the theme of reconciling old memories with the harsh reality of the present.

The film’s main point of contention, I feel, is whether or not Clay (a distant Andrew McCarthy) is a likeable protagonist. He’s the “responsible one” in the trio, yet is continually more interested in rekindling his high school romance than rushing to the aid of his best friend. Unfortunately, neither the character, nor McCarthy’s performance, can carry the movie. Were he more of a down-on-his-luck loser, someone who was no stranger to failure and whose experience of trying to make it meant he had to actually work for a living, he might bring something more meaningful to Julian’s complete downward spiral of self-destruction. Instead, I get the impression that at any moment, Clay could become the same person Julian is. What makes him so different?

And so, instead of a dramatic story of reconnection, we have a study of a human train wreck, brought to us by the phenomenal Robert Downey. As Julian drifts further and further away into oblivion, and Clay’s role remains passive, we watch the tragedy unfold. Exploring the elements of Julian’s life that have brought him to this point is like playing hopskotch over a trail of broken glass. Caught in the middle between the dark (Julian) and the light (Clay) is Blair (the lovely Jami Gertz), who is nearly a stone’s throw away from being dragged down into Julian’s world herself.

Julian is a terrifying picture of failure, or rather someone very much unable to deal with or process that concept. When we meet him, he’s on the verge of whoring himself out to pay back debts owed to the drug dealer (James Spader) who essentially owns him. He’s a complete mess: sweaty, hair matted, eyes bloodshot, dried vomit at the corners of his mouth. Desperately clinging to the notion that at any moment, everything is going to fall into place. If you’re familiar with Robert Downey Jr.’s history surrounding the film you know the story doesn’t end after the credits roll; the line between his on-screen character, and the reality of his situation behind-the-scenes, was largely blurred. Whether he brought a little something extra to the role, or the role rubbed off on him, I’m not sure. Knowing a few people like Julian, whose total refusal to accept rock bottom and be reasoned with only precipitate more severe consequences later down the pipe, I found his portrayal to be scarily spot-on.

As a film about or dealing with the consequences of hard drug use, Less Than Zero instills this lingering sense of unease that I think is quite unique. Julian is always on the verge of a breakthrough, but closer to a relapse. You know this is never going to end well. Thomas Newman’s powerful, haunting score evokes the nostalgia of childhood and happier days, yet each swell, when it hits, is deadly serious. And the bleak conclusion gives me a chill every time.

Drugs and scenes shot in cemeteries: Less Than Zero has both. Jack, this one’s for you.

Friday Morning Review: "The Chase" (1994)

2011-02-11T08:54:00.000-08:00

Starring Charlie Sheen, Kristy Swanson, Rocky Carroll, Henry Rollins, Josh Mostel, Ray Wise

Directed by Adam Rifkin

Written by Adam Rifkin

Produced by Cassian Elwes, Brad Wyman

89 minutes

3 stars

Once in a while a movie comes along that offers absolutely nothing substantial, and has barely any impact on you whatsoever, yet you can’t help but enjoy. The Chase is that kind of guilty pleasure.

I didn’t come away any different from the experience, and the second the credits appeared I immediately went on to other things, but I’ll give it three stars for keeping me thoroughly entertained and even making me laugh out loud a few times. And yes, the humor is mostly lowest-common denominator, whippy and zany, with a sprinkling of heavy-handed social satire thrown in for good measure. May not be to everyone’s taste, but I found it hilarious.

It’s “light-bulb” entertainment, flies buzzing around one, that is—the kind of movie that comes on as you’re flipping channels and you can’t help but watch, until it cuts to commercial and you move on to something else. The kind of movie that holds your attention only while it’s right in front of you. It’s not something I can really go into any sort of depth about, but I’ll try.

In the very definition of a cold open, The Chase begins with Jackson “Jack” Davis Hammond (Charlie Sheen) taking a sexy blonde stranger hostage in the middle of a gas station convenience mart when two cops become tipped off to his suspicious behavior. We don’t know what he did, but he’s already on the run even before the movie began. Clumsily disarming the cops, and hijacking Natalie Voss’s (Kristie Swanson) BMW while she’s still under the assumption his own gun isn’t really just a candy bar, Jack tries to skip town but within minutes, almost every TV channel news team in the San Diego area has seized upon the story and begins broadcasting the ensuing police chase live.

From here on out, the movie is basically one long action sequence, shot mostly in real-time, that never lets up (except for one miraculous sex scene that is probably infamous in some circles). We gradually find out the exposition from news broadcasts, snippets from a police report, and as Jack relates it to Natalie when they have some down time. It’s a unique approach that might be strenuous for some. Jack and Natalie stuck in a car together as the cops bear down on them is the kind of scenario that would have lent itself perfectly to some Tarantino-esque dialogue, but that would have been a totally different movie.

Director Adam Rifkin’s movie is cheap and fast, a deliberate product of a culture raised on MTV, and surely that of an adrenaline-boosted, cocaine-induced film crew. Jerky, zoomed-in handheld shots predating The Bourne Supremacy, and snappy, MTV-inspired editing, come together to form something so magical, that you can literally come in at any point, and know everything that is going on in less than a minute. All to a token 90’s metal soundtrack delightfully composed by Richard Gibbs of Battlestar Galactica fame.

Jack is one guy who just can’t catch a break, and when it rains, it pours. While all the action takes place along a single highway, Rifkin continually raises the stakes with cartoonish embellishment.

A vast number of off-kilter, flamboyant performances to the point of caricature collide in the pot, each threatening to steal the show, but none of them coming out on top.

I feel weird saying it, but Jack’s casual offhandedness (“No offense, but what a dickhead”) and downtrodden “fuck the system” attitude couldn’t have been played by anyone other than Charlie Sheen.

In a squad car hot in pursuit, Henry Rollins and Josh Mostel play beat officers being taped from the back seat a la “Cops.” Rollins’ steely-eyed officer Dobbs is less a cop and more of a performer at heart playing to the camera, empowered by the sense of “fear and respect” his title holds, and relishing questions about whether or not he’s ever had to kill anyone in the line of duty.

From the Channel 8 Skycopter, a garish, seizing-upon-every-development-with-extreme-theatrics traffic reporter (Rocky Carroll) relates all the action with epic commentary. I would imagine every single one of his lines of dialogue was written with an exclamation mark (“That medical school truck is spilling cadavers all along the freeway!”).

Ray Wise rounds out the cast as Natalie’s multi-millionaire dad, looking like he just stepped in from a wormhole to Twin Peaks.

At its highest level, The Chase is a satire of nightly news programs playing to attention-deficit audiences, the kind of dramatization prevalent in reality shows, documentaries hungry for sensationalism, and the media in general, seizing on a story and devouring it like piranhas.

There’s not much more to it, but that’s kind of the beauty.

Friday Morning Review: Mobsters (1991)

2011-02-04T16:28:00.000-08:00

Starring Christian Slater, Patrick Dempsey, Richard Grieco, Costas Mandylor, Michael Gambon, Anthony Quinn, F. Murray Abraham, Chris Penn, Lara Flynn Boyle

Directed by Michael Karbelnikoff

Written by Michael Mahern, Nicholas Kazan

Produced by Jim Ballantine, Carolyn Bates

104 minutes

2 stars

Mobsters is many things: a story of four gangsters who grow up together on the streets of New York, a beginner’s primer to the world of organized crime, a highly dramatized history lesson about the formation of the Commission. It’s also many different movies, rolled into one. A collage of mob clichés, as if the filmmakers slid a tray down a cafeteria lunch line and picked scenes out, a la carte, from other films.

This film opens on the mean streets of Brooklyn, 1917. Charlie “Lucky” Luciano (Christian Slater)—though he has yet to grow into that nickname—is an angsty, frustrated youth whose father is terrorized by mob boss Don Faranzano. A friend of his is later killed in the street by a rival boss, Joe Masseria, while the masses look on as if from the stands. Lucky quickly learns to despise that kind of power, and lays awake at night dreaming of the day when he will have his turn.

The story of four gangsters who grow up together on the streets of New York takes place in the span of a single cut. We flash ahead fourteen years to Lucky’s half-Italian, half-Jewish crew, all grown up, strolling down the same streets in the height of fashion. We get the impression they’re kind-of-sort-of a big deal—but not big enough, as Meyer (Patrick Dempsey) elucidates with an analogy derived from a half-full glass of whiskey. Bootlegging is the name of the game, but aside from a flashy, cutaway montage of them standing side-by-side, firing their Tommy guns in unison at the camera, we never find out exactly what that entails; what goes on behind-the-scenes. Their dabblings in general mobster mayhem and looking good in suits plays out against the backdrop of a coming war between two big mob families—yes, that’s right, the equally vile Faranzano and Masseria clans.

By smooth-talking and building up a reputation, Lucky is able to negotiate his gang into a unique partnership with either of these two crime lords of the old guard. From this point on, the story plays out like Yojimbo or Fistful of Dollars, with Lucky’s outfit pitting both factions against each other—but Mobsters is less thrilling, and less intelligent than either of those films. Lucky will fall into bed with Masseria, whose monicker “fat pig” is well-deserved (and contributes to the film’s best—and possibly only original scene), only to sell him out to Faranzano, before double-crossing Faranzano. In the end, it’s nothing more than a giant “who’s gonna whack who” clusterfuck. For a subplot, Lucky enters into a “friends with benefits” relationship with sultry Mara Motes (Lara Flynn Boyle), that never really goes anywhere significant.

The script is at times painfully simple and at others far too ambiguous. The sparse exposition in the first act misses out on opportunities to endear us to this band of brothers—and those few, deliberate attempts that do crop up hit just a trifle too hard. I could always tell whenever I was meant to feel a certain way; the film’s “charm” was lost on me. I never participated on an emotional level, never bought into the reality. I was always aware I was watching a movie. In the second half, there’s some interesting dramatic tension between Slater and Dempsey, but their characters’ relationships aren’t developed nearly enough in the first act to reel you in.

Mobsters is derivative of a lot of things, but handles none of them well. It tries hard to be The Untouchables, but doesn’t feature a single compelling character, much less performance, to serve as an anchor. It tries to capture, but ultimately lacks the dark wit and slick pacing of a Scorcese film. It’s a lot like Once Upon A Time In America but without the passage of time or deep thematic reservoir; itself lighter, choppier, and streamlined. Sometimes I felt like I was watching a highly-condensed version of Boardwalk Empire in this regard. The production is lavish, but pales in comparison to Dick Tracy. Lush set pieces are wasted on the trite and formulaic story.

If any of the films I’ve listed here are name-brand items, this is the generic label. We’re talking “Irish Treasures” or “Choco Spheres” on a shelf next to “Lucky Charms” or “Cocoa Puffs.” Strictly speaking, it’s a poor man’s Coppola.

If you can suspend these criticisms, the film itself is an enjoyable ride, just one you’ve probably taken before. There are some amusing bits, such as the wild card contract killer “Mad Dog” Coll—but when the filmmakers aren’t recreating scenes from other movies, it’s clear they’re drawing their inspiration from the pages of an encyclopedia.

The Ten Best Films of 2010

2011-01-27T22:22:00.000-08:00

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)

2011-01-27T22:21:00.001-08:00

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)

2011-01-21T07:22:00.000-08:00

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)

2011-01-21T07:21:00.000-08:00

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)

2011-01-13T22:25:00.001-08:00

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)

2011-01-13T22:21:00.001-08:00

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.

Friday Morning Review: "Black Christmas" (2006)

2010-12-23T23:01:00.000-08:00

Starring Katie Cassidy, Michelle Trachtenberg, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Oliver Hudson, Lacey Chabert, Kristen Cloke, Andrea Martin, Crystal Lowe

Directed by Glen Morgan

Written by Glen Morgan

Produced by James Wong, Odgen Gavanski, Bob Clark, Mark Cuban, Glen Morgan, Todd Wagner

84 minutes

2 stars

In Black Christmas, dim-witted victims impale themselves on sharpened candy canes, ornaments, and icicles, thankfully purging themselves from the human gene pool, all to a traditional holiday playlist. I have a sneaking suspicion that the movie was designed with the idea that its viewers would take bets on which characters bit it, and in which order. Architects Glen Morgan and James Wong, the dream team behind the Final Destination franchise, knew exactly what they were doing. They knew it was bad, and they did it anyway. There is no protagonist in Black Christmas, only a psycho killer and a ditzy assortment of sorority girls. Let the festivities begin.

What I love about Black Christmas is that it makes no fanciful claim to be anything other than a gimmicky horror movie. You’re either naughty, or you’re nice—and if you’re naughty, you probably went to go see it when it opened Christmas Day. At its best, it’s an irreverent mix of unapologetic gore and tongue-in-cheek humor that actually doesn’t plod through every slasher cliché in the book. Some of the characters, while failing to recognize an ice scraper, do appear to be informed by the tactics of Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees.

Once you stop regarding the movie as pure irony—and yes, it does run out of steam eventually—that’s where you run into trouble. This is a black comedy, intentional or not, and will only entertain on that level alone. The yuletide bloodletting of characters who deserve to die for making the most unforgiveable errors remains its core plot mechanic. It’s one Darwin award after another for 90 minutes. Get comfortable.

The story isn’t really that important, and echoes the trend of recent horror movies in which the killer’s troubled childhood had something to do with sadistic parenting. By the same logic, Harry Potter should be a butcher-knife wielding psychopath.

Billy, the escaped mental patient of the week, scurries about the house’s woodwork like a mouse, sometimes peering through little holes in the walls to spy on the occasional Sorority girl in the shower. From time to time he pops out to pull bags over his victims’ heads, and then stab them viciously in the face. With each murder, the collective IQ of the human race goes up a percentile. Billy recalls Sin City’s Roark Junior (“that yellow bastard”), but the result is more comedic than anything. Watching him creep around the shadows is like picking out a yellow golf ball on the fairway.

More than once my frustration with the characters’ stupidity boiled over. By this day in age, shouldn’t security guards, like customer service agents at callcenters, have some sort of, I don’t know, script to follow upon investigating any suspiciously empty prison cell? You know, one that would force them to, maybe, check under the bed first?

I have a feeling I stopped becoming invested in the plot right about the time Mary Elizabeth Winstead bit it, not because her character was anything special, but merely because there was suddenly that big a chunk of eye candy gone. By the anticlimactic third act, I’d completely lost interest.

Black Christmas is a glass of eggnog that somebody spiked with metal shavings: it doesn’t exactly go down as smooth as it should. It’s devious, mindless fun to be sure, but overstays even its meager hour-thirty running time and left me with a bad taste in my mouth.

Friday Morning Review: "Surviving Christmas" (2004)

2010-12-23T23:00:00.000-08:00

Starring Ben Affleck, James Gandolfini, Christina Applegate, Catherine O’Hara, Josh Zuckerman, Bill Macy, Jennifer Morrison

Directed by Mike Mitchell

Written by Deborah Kaplan, Harry Elfont, Jeffrey Ventimilia, Joshua Sternin

Produced by Betty Thomas

91 minutes

1 Star

If you can survive “Surviving Christmas,” you either have an unhealthy infatuation with Ben Affleck or the patience of Job. Since there aren’t terribly many of either out there, my best of luck to you if you find yourself tuning in to this, quite possibly the dumbest excuse for a Christmas movie I’ve ever seen.

“Surviving Christmas” belongs in the same category of yuletide traditions as standing in line with screaming kids to see Santa, cooking for three dozen people, donning an ugly sweater, and pretending to laugh at your lousy relatives’ same puns over and over again. It’s a truly headache-inducing experience that does a thorough job of sucking the Christmas spirit right out of you.

I would rather work retail on Christmas Eve than sit through this tripe for an hour and a half. If I had to pick between watching this movie again, and standing in line at the DMV for the duration of its running time, there would be a coin flip in my future.

It’s one of those movies that is magically bad. So bad, in fact, that it transcends even the notion of being a spectacle of itself and goes straight to being the elephant in the room. The kind of manufactured idiocy you can only roll your eyes at for so long until it hurts.

“Surviving Christmas” opens with a montage to—of course—Andy Williams’ “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” during which we see shots of people struggling with the commercialization of the holiday. A guy chucks his wedding ring into the salvation army plate, an old woman draws frowns on all her gingerbread cookies, then sticks her head in the oven. It’s almost enough to set up the expectation of a black comedy—but the rest of what follows is neither subtle nor funny.

Ben Affleck plays Drew Latham, an obnoxious ad exec who has a black hole in the family department, a fact we learn when his fiancé Missy shoots down his proposition to fly to Fiji for the holidays and none of his “friends” or colleagues want him clinging around. He feels doomed to spend Christmas alone in his gigantic apartment, until he gets an idea from a therapist to write down and burn any grievances he has been harboring since his childhood. This takes him to his childhood home in the suburbs, which is now occupied by the Valco family, headed by James Gandolfini. Before he’s forcefully ejected from the premises, Affleck offers to buy the family for the holidays, for $250,000. At this point he turns into a bossy five-year old and takes Gandolfini, wife Catherine O’Hara, and son Josh Zuckerman prisoner, forcing them through his childishly maniacal obstacle course.

Affleck’s performance is that of a completely, unsympathetically crazy person. An emotionally bankrupt human being. He’s the guy at work who seems like he could be cool from a distance, but then you learn the hard way not to get stuck in the breakroom with him because he talks and talks and talks about the dumbest shit and your only viable response is to just creep back out one step at a time as he continues to talk at you.

It’s never explained how a guy with zero family, no startup capital, and the mentality of a five-year-old is able to pay his way through college and apparently become a thirty-something millionaire who must wipe his ass every morning with $100 bills.

There is no character here. It’s just Ben Affleck being an idiot for about 90 minutes.

By the time Christina Applegate is introduced to the mix as the contrived love interest, my affinity for his character was at such an all-time low, that I was opposed to any prospect of him in a relationship with another human being. Despite the relentless bludgeoning of the plot, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be cheering for him to seduce Applegate’s character, or for Applegate to finally free herself from the clutches of his. I just felt uncomfortable about the pairing entirely.

For a movie about a manufactured Christmas, it’s like watching a scripted reality game show that’s been viciously exorcised of any and all semblances of humor that might have cropped up, even accidentally. We’re as disenfranchised with the idea as the actors are, whose expressions of bewilderment and vexation at Affleck’s tiresome childlike antics I can only surmise to be completely genuine. The atmosphere on set must have been agonizing.

You’re never sure which side you’re supposed to root for; Ben Affleck certainly isn’t a stable protagonist and only Christina Applegate, seen sparingly, anchors the nonsense. The Valcos are possibly the most boring family ever, so utterly devoid of life, so inorganic, that I felt no greater attachment to their fates than I do watching the contestants on the Price Is Right. James Gandolfini sports the same exasperated, demoralized expression on his face the entire movie, a look that says, “Why am I here?”

The painfully sentimental soundtrack only adds insult to injury. Every ironically-placed Christmas song is like another dash of salt in an open wound.

The script is devoid of logic, frequently raising the wrong questions. Each plot point is a sledgehammer to the back of the head. And yet none is offered as to why the Valco family needs the money other than the fact that it’s a lot of money. For $250,000, no punishment we see Affleck dish out should come close to shaking Gandolfini’s resolve, and yet he predictably reaches calculated levels of exasperation. How could he not sit there grinning like an idiot, laughing all the way to the bank?

I can’t recall ever being so dispassionate about a film’s plot. Each ham-fisted pass at comedy is so painfully obvious, so insulting to the intelligence of the audience, that it’s the equivalent of dropping a boom mic into the shot. I was so in awe at its ugly, whopping mess of a production that I couldn’t stay engaged for more than thirty seconds at a time. It’s like seeing a costumed character mascot from Chuck E Cheese out of context, in harsh daylight—every zipper, seam, and sweat or spilled pop stain glaringly palpable.

“Surviving Christmas” is a lot of things, but unfortunately not one of them is a watchable movie. This could be administered as psychological torture to unruly inmates, or perhaps more fitting for its title, as a training exercise in psychological endurance to—no, I wouldn’t wish this on anybody.

Friday Morning Review: "Nothing Like the Holidays" (2008)

2010-12-17T08:21:00.000-08:00

Starring Luis Guzman, John Leguizamo, Debra Messing, Alfred Molina, Freddy Rodriguez, Melonie Diaz, Vanessa Ferlito, Jay Hernandez, Elizabeth Pena

Directed by Alfredo De Villa

Written by Rick Najera, Ted Perkins, Alison Swan

Produced by Reid Brody, Thomas J. Busch, Paul Kim, Rene M. Rigal, Freddy Rodriguez, Robert Teitel, George Tillman Jr.

98 minutes

3 stars

Right off the bat, Nothing Like the Holidays makes the egregious mistake of floating trussed-up, distracting titles across the opening montage. I have no idea what happened in those first five minutes because I was too busy paying attention to the snowflake animation each cast credit dissolved into.

As for the rest of the movie, there’s not too much to complain about. I just felt I had to get that off my chest.

This ensemble family drama explores a slice of Puerto Rican culture in Humboldt Park, Chicago, as Christmas looms around the corner. The concept is a Puerto Rican, anti-Royal Tenenbaums. Alfred Molina takes over for Gene Hackman as the estranged father figure, whose cancer diagnosis remains his privileged secret. John Leguizamo, Freddy Rodriguez, and Vanessa Ferlito round out the cast as his grown children leading independent lives.

Taken at face value, it’s a gripping, voyeuristic portrait of a dysfunctional American family during what may be their last Christmas together under one roof. At that, it’s a near-perfect success for director Alfredo De Villa, who has rendered some of the most realistic sibling rivalry since Richard Kelly’s Donnie Darko.

You don’t have to be Puerto Rican to enjoy this film, but it helps. I came to this movie with little to identify with, and was reminded of a similarly alienating “meet the family” situation where all I could do was smile, nod, and be courteous in an environment that was by one stroke hostile and intimate. De Villa’s characters are brutally honest with each other, sometimes brazenly mean, but at their deepest level is unconditional love. At the outset, I felt like an unwelcome intruder, a stranger to the culture. But the more time I spent with this family, the more I felt like a part of it.

The best part about the film is the intimacy of its close-knit cast. The acting is superb all around. A lot of the writing is fresh, and I suspect much of that is boosted by segments lending themselves to pure improvisation. I believed every member of this family, every minute of snarky interaction. Few films can boast as convincing a family as the one on display in Nothing Like the Holidays.

The real shame of the film is that its truly excellent players, capable of some inspired ad-libbing, have to slog through a traditional, sentimental story that at times boasts a promise of edge but never ventures outside the buoys. As I felt drawn in by the characters’ relationships with each other, compelled even, their situations began to seem all too familiar. Few surprises lay in wait on the path to their eventual coming together. Dialogue, characterized by snide banter in the first act, only felt more scripted as the film went along.

The drama is forced, deliberately high-strung, with barely any permanent consequences. We hit the dramatic beats with calculated predictability, and at the end of the day these brothers and sisters still pal around in their underwear exchanging stories about the couch where they lost their virginity, or knock back shots together at the local bar.

The first twenty-five minutes had me expecting a fresh Christmas story with some balls, and it may indeed have some gritty illusions, but Nothing Like the Holidays never aspires to be anything other than a dressed-up Hallmark card.

As a sidenote, I also really expected more out of Paul Oakenfold’s soundtrack; I didn’t recognize his flourish at all. Maybe I’m being too harsh by I felt like there were times where the music actually held the film back.

And yet…Nothing Like the Holidays is indeed a Christmas movie, and Christmas movies are supposed to be sentimental, right? I hate to dwell too long on a moot point, and I’m trying not to end on a somber note here. When you start to tally up the film as the sum of its parts, it does more things right than it does wrong.

Despite an easily forgettable title, and a familiar story with few surprises, Nothing Like the Holidays is an edgier Christmas movie with a beating heart; full of life and culture.

Friday Morning Review: "Christmas in Connecticut" (1945)

2010-12-17T08:09:00.000-08:00

Starring Barbara Stanwyck, Dennis Morgan, Sydney Greenstreet

Directed by Peter Godfrey

Written by Lionel Houser, Adele Comandini, Aileen Hamilton

Produced by William Jacobs

102 minutes

3.5 stars

I’m not going to pussyfoot around it for the sake of being politically-correct; this is a Christmas movie, not a holiday movie, and those that take offense at that idea can suck it.

Christmas in Connecticut, starring the lovely Barbara Stanwyck, is a charming, enjoyable little comedy that’s not quite Frank Capra and not quite Billy Wilder, but ventures into either territory on more than one occasion and is welcomed with open arms.

The question is, does this film deserve to be ranked amongst the more widely-recognized cable-slot icons of the season such as A Wonderful Life, A Christmas Carol, A Miracle on 34^th Street, and White Christmas? Should it be considered mandatory yuletide viewing?

Indeed, after walking away from Christmas in Connecticut you’ll be ready to celebrate the season even if your reality is a post-Black Friday retail hell. You might even find yourself looking forward to whichever D-Day gathering of friends and family you’re counting down to this year.

While it has a limited window of watch-ability that declines exponentially after the 25^th of December, I found more of its elements in common with Some Like It Hot than I did A Wonderful Life. You’ll be surprised how many of the jokes still work, and work well. It’s your classic “how long will the charade last” setup, adding unstable elements to the volatile mix in layers of progressive difficulty for Stanwyck’s character.

The premise is simple enough, but the exposition moves fast and frequently switches narrative mechanisms on you. We meet Dennis Morgan’s character first and stay with him just long enough so that the transition into Barbara Stanwyck’s world is a jarring one.

There’s a lot to keep in mind that the first twenty minutes throws at you: nurse Mary Lee (Joyce Compton) wants Jefferson Jones (Morgan), a debilitated war hero, to experience a good home-cooked Christmas dinner so that he will appreciate the values of a domestic life and thus consider marrying her. She sees a column penned by Elizabeth Lane (Stanwyck), the model American housewife, who would be perfect for the task and contacts magazine publisher Alexander Yardley (Sydney Greenstreet) to set the plan in motion; Yardley owes her a favor after she nursed his granddaughter through the measles. Since Yardley’s own Christmas plans fell through, he decides to have Lane entertain Jones and himself at her quaint farmstead in Connecticut. Yardley is a stern and impersonal man who only asks two things of his editors—“print the truth and obey my orders.” Elizabeth Lane, as she appears in her column, is actually a fictional character and the real Elizabeth shares almost none of her traits: she’s single, can’t cook, and lives in a New York high-rise apartment. Lane’s inspiration for the column comes from two real-life sources: the five-star cuisine of her friend Felix (S.Z. Sakall), who owns a Manhattan bistro, and an actual cabin in Connecticut owned by John Sloan (Reginald Gardiner), a haughty architect who continually solicits her with bland marriage proposals.

Predictably, these elements come together at the end of the first act to complete the formula for Lane’s ruse: cooking, farm in Connecticut, husband, baby. Check, check, check, and…well, check. The hoax is not that elaborate. Antics ensue, under one roof in the middle of the wintry countryside. Lane’s motivation initially is the prospect of keeping her job, and later the inevitable romance of Jefferson Jones.

Right off the bat it’s clear this is a movie about food. In a sea-starved hallucination, Jones lays out the courses of a savory French banquet with the attention to detail of Patrick Bateman. Throughout similar monologues to follow, I felt like a food critic being welcomed into an upscale restaurant, found myself reaching for phantom wine glasses. A word of advice: don’t watch this one on an empty stomach.

For a sailor, Jones is refined and cultured. He has a sophisticated palate, the domestic know-how of Martha Stewart, and a taste for the finer things in life. He plays piano, he sings “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” he’s the perfect gentleman. With each plot development, we’re offered a glimpse into how a Jones-Lane marriage will work: he’s doing all the cooking, cleaning, and child-care, she’s bringing the bread to the table.

Their one common thread is their resilience to the idea of marriage itself. Lane expends much of her energies dodging Sloan’s wedding plans and Jones has no particular desire to settle down with Mary Lee, who only won him over because he does a lot of thinking with his stomach.

Most of the humor comes from Stanwyck’s clever improvisation as she struggles to keep her cool, dropping the ball many times, and so obviously that the characters she’s trying to hoodwink must be wearing blinders. Her and Reginald Gardiner spend much of the time scurrying around behind the guests’ backs in unfulfilled efforts to make their sham of a marriage legit.

Felix is the comedy’s comedic relief, an oafish, endearing “uncle”-type character, with high standards for both his own cooking and for his “niece” Elizabeth. He waddles around, a nasally, thick-accented Hungarian, sweating bullets to keep up the charade, giving her helpful shoves in the right direction every now and then.

Overall, it’s hard to dislike Christmas in Connecticut. My only problem is that the climax is too easy. It just fizzles out, like air out of a balloon. I won’t spoil how the secret is finally let out of the bag, but the actual event leaves much to be desired, considering the energy of the first two acts.

Friday Morning Review: "The Manhattan Project" (1986)

2010-12-10T10:55:00.001-08:00

Starring John Lithgow, Christopher Collet, Cynthia Nixon

Directed by Marshall Brickman

Written by Thomas Baum, Marshall Brickman

Produced by Marshall Brickman, Jennifer Ogden

117 minutes

4 stars

When you think of the Manhattan Project, probably one of two things springs immediately to mind: the 1942-46 US research project which led to the origin of the atomic bomb, or that breezy 80’s movie about the kid whose science fair project is one. If you’re the latter, congratulations. You’ve already discovered the charm of this heartwarming cult classic and need read no further.

The key ingredient for a film to be considered “cult,” in my humble opinion, is soul. And The Manhattan Project has it in droves. It starts off innocently enough, with some cheesy one-liners, painfully awkward expositional beats, and noticeable 80’s stamps, before rapidly evolving into something much more significant.

Paul (Christopher Collet) is your typical slacker genius, with a bit of a bad streak. One day, he crosses paths with John Lithgow, a nuclear physicist who arrives in his peaceful suburban hometown to set up a plutonium refinery hidden behind the less threatening façade of Medatomics, a company specializing in nuclear medicine. Sure enough, Lithgow starts to get soft on Paul’s mom, so he invites Paul out to the lab to check out the cool lasers and get some bonding time in. What Lithgow fails to realize is that Paul doesn’t just have his head in the big books, he’s a borderline criminal mastermind with a flair for the dramatic. And little does Paul know, the plutonium he’s about to hijack is 99.997% pure. This mutual misunderstanding forms the basis behind the rest of the plot to follow.

Aided by a teenaged Cynthia Nixon of “Sex and the City” fame, Paul builds from scratch his own private nuclear bomb, perhaps for the political activism aspect, but most likely for the challenge.

He’s the unassuming punk of the science fair, a sarcastic, easygoing prankster surrounded by quirky science nerds who won’t get laid until they’re 37. This isn’t his scene, and he’s not here to compete with these kids. His aspirations are grander. At which point, Lithgow makes the connection his plutonium is missing. And that’s when this innocent scholarly pursuit goes horribly, horribly wrong.

Let’s just say Paul’s brand of political activism is performance art. And the name of his piece is “mutually assured destruction.”

The Manhattan Project has more soul than most 80’s “science whiz” movies in its class. A lively, charming bomb construction montage, and the product placement of Duracell on the bomb itself, have “classic” written all over them. Snappy, wisecracking dialogue decorates the script. “Jenny…I never thought I’d say this to anybody, but…I gotta go get the atomic bomb out of the car.”

Most of the time, it’s a lighthearted, idealistic retelling of the Radioactive Boy Scout—less a cautionary tale and more of a “kids verses the adults” caper. Scenes of Paul implementing devious chemistry, pranking the class know-it-all with home-brewed explosives, and outwitting security guards, government personnel, and the military puts this movie in the same league as Wargames.

Half the fun is watching how easily Paul manipulates his environment, firing up computer consoles in a government lab like he’s going for the high score at Pac-Man. He makes operating a robotic arm look as easy as riding a bike. Maneuvers an RC car with the deftness of Jason Statham in Transporter 3. I laughed particularly at the simplicity with which he acquired C-4; the nonchalance with which he handled weapons-grade plutonium. Unbelievable? Of course. But it’s a hella good time.

What makes it work is Lithgow’s character: he’s far from the preachy buffoon of an authority figure typically relegated to this kind of role. We don’t even have any conflict arising from him stepping into the shoes of Paul’s absent father. Instead of piling on reasons for him and Paul to be at odds with each other, the writers have crafted a more interesting, respectful relationship. You’re endeared to both of them simultaneously, and only want for them to form their inevitable alliance, which is continuously prevented by circumstance.

There’s no pointed commentary here. It’s anti-nuclear proliferation to be sure, but that’s about where the political sophistication ends. There is no villain in a black hat…that is, until we reach the end of the second act, where The Manhattan Project suddenly turns into my second-favorite scientists-vs.-military movie behind The Abyss.

Lithgow is a competent, morally-sound realist surrounded by half-cocked gorillas. It’s his character whose dramatic arc we’re witnessing. He admires Paul for his resourcefulness but doesn’t understand his motivations. By the end of the film, he’s squaring off with the military himself.

At one point near the film’s frantic climax, he turns aside, hundred-yard-stare, a sheen of sweat on his brow, and you feel his guilt about the power his lab-coated ilk have willfully turned over to the men with big guns and little brains—an exchange that has been going on, in this field of science, since the titular event of 1942.

Oddly enough, the last ten minutes pack the most comedic punch. Or maybe that’s just my devious sense of humor.

Overall, The Manhattan Project is great fun. An unpretentious script, memorable scenes, and Lithgow’s best role to date (if I may be so bold) make this an undeniable cult classic. If you haven’t seen it yet, it’s the perfect fix to your 80’s nostalgia habit.

Review: "The House On Carroll Street" (1988)

2010-12-10T10:53:00.000-08:00

Starring Kelly McGillis, Jeff Daniels, Mandy Patinkin

Directed by Peter Yates

Written by Walter Bernstein

Produced by Peter Yates, Robert F. Colesberry

101 minutes

2 stars

If the Hitchcock thriller is the golden child of the family, this movie is the attention-starved, amateur younger brother trying to follow in its footsteps, but who just hasn’t yet discovered his true calling in life.

The House on Carroll Street is a gigantic yawn of a movie, a ho-hum political thriller by Peter Yates about a mystery involving smuggled Nazi scientists that never fully held my attention. Perhaps the more enticing mystery is how Yates, responsible for films of such rousing personality as Bullitt, The Hot Rock, and Breaking Away, could have managed to put together something so dreadfully lackluster here.

The story opens in a 1951 House Un-American Activities Committee hearing, where we’re introduced to Emily Crane (Kelly McGillis), the unflinching photography editor for Life Magazine. After refusing the demands of McCarthy witchhunter Ray Salwen (Mandy Patinkin) to name names on her staff, she’s subsequently fired from her job and hounded by a pair of FBI agents. She rebounds fast, and takes a new job as a little old lady’s caretaker. One day, while stepping out back for a smoke, she can’t help but notice a heated argument from an open window across the way, between an angry German and Salwen himself. With little else to go on, she shoves herself into the heart of a conspiracy reaching up to the federal level.

I’m a big fan of the “curiosity killed the cat” narrative mechanism, and there were a few times where I felt like I was at the cusp of something interesting, but Kelly McGillis’ discoveries never failed to underwhelm. Even the most giddy conspiracy theorist would have a hard time getting into this car and taking it around the block.

The Nazi Paperclip scientist plot is intriguing but dangles too little to be of any real interest. Modern, “X-Files”-raised audiences will be bored to tears.

I wanted to enjoy it as a Hitchcock tribute, at the very least, but even a Hitchcock movie (or should I say especially a Hitchcock movie) has punch. This one has slipped through the cracks, and I’m content with leaving it there.

I kept fantasizing about what this movie would look like today, if some politically-charged director came along and gave it the old Hollywood overhaul: would it have a more satiable hook, per chance? A quickened, seizure-inducing Bourne Supremacy pace? I wish I can say it was because I was inspired by the story’s relevance; but the truth is, these occasional delusions of grandeur were the only lifelines saving me from utter boredom; I clung to them for survival.

Emily Crane, despite a great performance by McGillis, just isn’t that compelling a protagonist once you get past her unshakeable, two-dimensional grit and her Nancy Drew nosiness. I wanted to see some quirks, or some insight into her past, to really round out her character. And maybe someone will challenge me on this one, citing the film’s peculiar nude scene as proof of her complexity. But I doubt even this would inspire much discussion.

I do admire, after some reflection, the fact that Emily consistently and doggedly drives the entire plot, instead of haplessly falling into one situation after another. That aspect of the narrative deserves some recognition but the fact remains that there are just too few rewards at the end of the rainbow.

For the film’s sub-plot, McGillis and Jeff Daniels, one of the FBI agents, go through the familiar motions of a romance. There’s no reason for them to fall in love other than at one point, Peter Yates glanced down at his watch and said, “Well, it’s about that time for the female lead to sleep with somebody…hmmm, who’s it gonna be…?”

Daniels’ character is more intriguing, but never won me over. He’s kind of a teddy bear who’s either got a lot to learn, or has already been broken by the drudgery of his job, bogged down by the routine. His heart’s in the right place but his competence is lacking. I got the impression he was the guy at the FBI Academy all the other guys left alone, or made fun of. He’s the agent who gets stuck with all the shit jobs, casing a place and the like. In a sense he reminded me of Fox Mulder—that is, a much less endearing version completely drained of all signs of life.

More than once I felt like I was watching a live-action adaptation of a Scooby Doo episode; McGillis and Daniels never quite transcend the function of “those meddlesome kids.”

The movie’s only real pleasant surprise comes in the casting of Mandy Patinkin—you may remember him from The Princess Bride. A worthy antagonist, Patinkin nearly makes the film worth it. In the first scene, he’s grinding into McGillis with the indifferent callousness of a child pulling wings off a fly; the smack of a gavel later and he’s the ever-charming socialite amongst dignitaries. You really hate him. He delivers his lines with a business-like curtness, a nod and a smile every now and then as if to say he knows he’s holding all the cards. The scenes between him and McGillis are easily the best.

There were a few scenes that were hard sells on me, notably one where Patinkin’s character dumps an entire bottle of ketchup onto the tablecloth at a nice restaurant to elucidate some abstract point; another the scene immediately afterward, where he wires her apartment to blow up—since, of course, it’s natural to want to kill her for being the first Nancy Drew to arrive at some vague hypothesis, without proof, which may or may not implicate him. Other scenes are just plain silly: a chase in the middle of a stuffy used bookstore where flimsy bookshelves can continuously thwart pursuers, yet barely raise a commotion when they topple over.

I found the mechanics of the climax equal parts baffling and hilarious. I do have to give Yates props for putting together what has to be one of the most scrumptiously awkward death scenes in the history of cinema. It’s something I’m sure is on Youtube somewhere and exists as go-to entertainment for some group of bored college kids.

The House on Carroll Street most likely raised some interesting points on the interpretations of patriotism, but by the time the credits rolled around I was still too distracted by the ridiculousness of that death scene to care about any thematic resolution.

Friday Morning Review: "Into the Night" (1985)

2010-12-03T15:20:00.000-08:00

Starring Jeff Goldblum, Michelle Pfeiffer

Directed by John Landis

Written by Ron Koslow

Produced by George Folsey Jr., Ron Koslow

115 minutes

2.5 stars

Fairly often while watching a movie, I’m wanting it to be something I just know it’s going to end up falling short of. This one was no exception. Like most 80’s ‘everyman thrust into cloak-and-dagger plot’-type movies, John Landis’ Into the Night starts out strong, but never rises out of mediocrity.

I’m a sucker for the following things: 80’s flicks, cloak-and-dagger plots, and Jeff Goldblum. I feel like you almost have to be, of all three, to appreciate this film. Well, there’s Michelle Pfeiffer, who’s not too bad on the eyes herself. But even so, I just couldn’t bring myself to give Into the Night 3 stars instead of just 2 and a half.

The premise is simple. Goldblum is a desperately bored, insomniac office drone who fails at communicating with his wife, and arrives home early one day to find her in bed with somebody else. Instead of an ugly confrontation scene, he takes to driving the lonely LA highways at night to B.B. King-influenced, but by now generic-sounding 80’s synth rock. It’s a right place at the wrong time situation that moves the story from Goldblum’s dull, boring life to the slightly less dull second act.

From here on out, he’s your classic Joe Blow who finds himself caught up in the middle of something way over his head alongside a beautiful and mysterious vixen, played by Michelle Pfeiffer. We don’t know what that ‘something’ is until much later, but for awhile we’re content with whatever our imagination can conjure. By the way, try not to imagine too much.

The first half of the movie plays almost like High Noon, as Pfeiffer shops around her socialite network for help, only to find that the reservoir has run dry. Goldblum chauffeurs the unappreciative Pfeiffer around Hollywood in a series of interesting cars, from a beat-up Chevy Nova to a ’59 Elvis-themed Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz, and everything in between. If you raised an eyebrow at ‘Elvis-themed,’ I’ll just say this: it’s got some flair that makes the “Pussy Wagon” in Kill Bill look like a Happy Meal toy.

My love for Michelle Pfeiffer’s character could be represented in a line graph and it would look something like a jagged downward trend: I generally liked her less and less as the film went on, but there were occasional scenes where she would gain back points for either being sexy or simply showing a little emotion now and then. In any case, I can’t think of a single other movie where she walks around completely stark naked in the background. (That happens closer to the beginning, by the way.)

Goldblum is a passive observer, only occasionally stepping out of his comfort zone to improvise where a situation calls for it, otherwise bemused by the rituals of this otherworldy realm he’s stumbled into. He drifts through the movie like someone who desperately needs a Red Bull.

To contrast the drab Jeff Goldblum in a melancholy tweed blazer, Into the Night has more than a few characters that’ll make your head spin, among them an Elvis impersonator whose infatuation with the King is more than an understatement, it’s a defining character attribute at the core of his personality. Oh, and right about the time I was wondering if there was going to be some kind of hook to elevate the film above its generic, run-of-the-mill plot, in popped David Bowie. Unfortunately, he understays his welcome.

Into the Night meanders through its plot developments and exposition in a way that’s almost true to the pace of real life but not so great for film. I kept thinking of Frantic for some reason, maybe because of the real-time intrigue-style plot similarities. Certainly not for the tone. If anything, it’s a lighter, cheaper Frantic, or Frantic with a mild sense of humor and without the mysterious European allure.

Like an old house with a manic, easily-influenced decorator/renovator, it’s never sure what it is. Gritty, realistic thriller one minute, 80’s B-movie of the week the next, with some slapstick thrown in for good measure. A goon squad of villains chasing Pfeiffer and Goldblum throughout much of the movie, one of them played by Landis himself, can shove their knives into a guy and let him bleed out onto the floor of a parking garage, ruthlessly drown a half-naked woman in the dawn surf, and needlessly open fire on an old man’s dog, and someone’s parrots, and yet at any given moment dissolve into the antics of a Three Stooges routine. Twice these henchmen barbarously ransack some rich asshole’s place while a half-naked, voluptuous mistress stands by. In each instance, I was never quite sure if what was about to go down was some kind of rape scene, graphic or otherwise. When they first appear you’re thinking: political thriller. Then, halfway through, they’re suddenly relegated to the comic relief station formerly occupied by such bumbling henchmen as Team Rocket and those hyenas from Lion King, before meeting their collective demise in a gritty scene reminiscent of a Sam Peckinpah shootout.

As the film builds to its climax, these tactics are an exercise in holding your slipping attention. For some, it will be a losing battle.

Again going for realism, it’s split up into two nights instead of just one, even though the brief gap of daylight in-between is superfluous and unnecessary—since, in order to move the action back into the night, Landis has Pfeifer and Goldblum sleep nine hours in a secret passage outside an estate’s grounds so they can wait for the maintenance staff to leave.

As a screenwriter I usually find my commentary to be more story-weighted by default. Here there’s not much else to comment on. Bland cinematography, drab lighting, a few focus issues here and there. From a technical perspective, it’s amateur hour. But you already know that; that isn’t why you’re here. You’re here for the cheap 80’s nostalgia, which I won’t deny exists. The funny thing is, Jeff Goldblum’s outfit already looks too outdated for this movie. Renowned blues guitarist B.B. King wrote two songs for the film, and I’m told contributed his musicianship to much of the score, which to me sounded like a generic library stock soundtrack, but they made a big deal about it in the special features of the DVD I watched. In any case, it’s pure 80’s.

The movie offers no sub-plot other than Jeff Goldblum is an insomniac and is bored with his life. My interpretation is that the entire film after he nods off at his desk is a prolonged dream sequence, a deluded fantasy cooked up by his bored subconscious. If you look at it through this prism it becomes much more interesting.

Friday Morning Review: "Nothing to Lose" (1997)

2010-12-03T14:49:00.000-08:00

I am officially a staff writer for The Parallax Review, a plot development which became realized today when two of my reviews went up on the site. I've decided to post them here on the blog as well in raw, unedited form.
From here on out, my new reviews will get posted on the site every Friday at midnight.

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Starring Martin Lawrence, Tim Robbins, John C. McGinley, Giancarlo Esposito, Kelly Preston, Michael McKean, Rebecca Gayheart

Directed by Steve Oedekerk

Written by Steve Oedekerk

Produced by Martin Bregman, Michael Bregman, Dan Jinks

Rated R

98 minutes

3.5 stars

I’ve never asked myself, ‘what if Tim Robbins and Martin Lawrence got together to do a buddy comedy?’ After seeing Nothing To Lose, I won’t ever have to.

Steve Oedekerk’s 1997 follow-up to Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls could be your guilty pleasure brew-and-view, or toke-and-view depending on your pleasure. It could probably be your go-to Martin Lawrence fix, after you get tired of watching Blue Streak and Bad Boys II over and over again. It’s a weird little movie because I can’t honestly picture myself sitting around watching it with friends. Not enough of the humor is accidental to warrant that kind of viewing, I suppose.

But it is funny.

The story revolves around Tim Robbins’ character, a slick ad-man who’s too lighthearted to drift into Don Draper territory. He separates work and home life, he’s got a wry sense of humor, he’s a charmer. In fact he doesn’t do anything wrong, so the scene where he walks in on his wife and his boss in bed together is just that much more of a slap in the face.

This provokes a curiously subdued emotional breakdown in which he gets into his 1996 GMC Yukon and just drives clear across town, running red lights and putting along at 15 on the expressway. Soon enough he comes to the bad side of LA and is promptly held up at gunpoint by Martin Lawrence. Only Lawrence is a novice carjacker and Robbins, as the film’s title suggests, is the wrong white guy to mess with.

Once the action moves to the Arizona desert, the film really picks up. Robbins and Lawrence are pursued by hick law enforcement, cross paths with another black-white buddy ensemble from a darker parallel universe (maybe a Coen Brothers movie), and take turns knocking off backroads convenience stores. Eventually we learn that Robbins’ boss, Michael McKean, is hoarding a small fortune in his office guarded only by a well-endowed fertility god statue, and Nothing To Lose turns into a heist movie.

There’s nothing particularly surprising about the movie itself, but the plot throws just enough surprises at you to keep you invested throughout, even after it loses steam late in the second act. It goes down some unexpected avenues, some random, some a little awkward. Other than that, it’s perfectly formulaic, down to the minute. Which isn’t necessarily bad. In fact, I found most of this unlikely pair’s antics riotously funny.

My only complaint with Nothing To Lose is that it doesn’t touch upon anything significant enough to prevent it from fading into obscurity instead of securing a niche as a cult classic. I don’t have a problem with formula, but there has to be something going on between the lines. You know, like how Trading Places says something about greed or the mobility of one’s station in life. I predict that in a few short weeks I will have completely forgotten I even watched this movie, or that Tim Robbins and Martin Lawrence were ever in the same room. Which is a shame, because they make a great duo.

But there’s nothing especially meaty I can grab onto here, and digest after it’s over. At first I had the impression I was watching something truly original, but afterwards, I realized it was just another Martin Lawrence vehicle. And in that regard, Steve Oedekerk is a consummate magician. Unfortunately, I won’t be trolling eBay for a $5 used copy to add to my dvd collection.

Maybe it’s just not dark enough for my questionable tastes. The Coen Brothers, to throw that example out there again, could have turned this same premise into something truly memorable. Either Robbins or Lawrence might have abruptly died halfway through, and Oedekerk’s bizarre cameo would have hit the editing room floor so fast it would make Sonic the Hedgehog blush, but you’d probably have something you could at least watch again, and discuss in a film class.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to say that’s what the film should have been. As black-white rich-poor Trading Places-type buddy movies go, it’s definitely ahead of the curve; I just can’t recommend it to friends as a film that brings a crucial piece of the pie to the canon of cinema.

That said, I pretty much loved every minute of it.

I never had any burning desire to see a collaboration between Robbins and Lawrence, but honestly, the two are great together. Lawrence is a little more reserved than usual, and Robbins is a little less.

Surprisingly enough, the humor is not driven by Robbins’ character’s ignorance of black culture. In fact, racial jokes are largely absent, which is refreshing. Instead the comedy comes from the situations, which range from the aimlessly bizarre to the utterly ridiculous. In the middle of a robbery, the characters get into a debate (with the bewildered shopkeeper) over which is the less contrived approach.

They’re foils of style: Lawrence is a hot-headed, half-cocked amateur and Robbins is an unstable but mostly straight-faced articulate exec who’s aware he’s having an emotional crisis and is more amused by it than anything. In an early scene when they still practically hate each other’s guts, Robbins calls Lawrence “beetle-headed,” then has to explain that it’s a synonym for “stupid.” “Well here’s a synonym for procreation,” Lawrence retorts. “Fuck you!” Once they get their more obvious differences aside, there isn’t that much of a communication barrier. Here’s a black-white buddy movie that doesn’t waste precious running time on a prolonged ebonics lesson. As such, the plot is fueled less by their racial and economic differences and more by their similarities. These two guys understand each other, and draw strength from each other.

If you’re a Martin Lawrence fan and you haven’t seen this movie, shame on you. This is Lawrence at his more inspired, even if he does seem to be holding back. Tim Robbins’ nice guy-come unhinged left me a little nostalgic for Michael Douglas’ pencil pusher gone truly postal in Falling Down, but it’s hardly a fault.

John C. McGinley (Scrubs, Platoon) and Giancarlo Esposito round out the cast as a couple of fugitives who get mistaken for our heroes. I found myself trying to decide which pairing was more hilarious, Lawrence’s amateur carjacker with Robbins’ doddering highbrow, or John C. McGinley’s sensitive bully alongside Giancarlo Esposito’s deranged Mad Hatter-type with a classically-trained ear and a Baron Samedi cackle.

Anyway, pretentiousness aside, I can’t really say anything bad about Nothing To Lose. The movie entertained the hell out of me. And you know what? It’s a great time.

You’ve simply got nothing to gain by watching it.

Pulp #8

2010-11-29T02:36:00.001-08:00

"Angel Heart" Review

2010-11-28T14:00:00.000-08:00

My first piece for "The Parallax Review," a site that reviews mostly slipped-through-the-cracks cable fare. As a test of my writing ability, they asked me to pick out any movie that was playing on cable that week and write up an 800 word review. So, by dumb luck, I randomly chose a film that one of their reviewers had already been assigned. Long story short, it wasn't published on the site but you should be able to see new reviews of mine appear there starting this Friday (12/3).

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Angel Heart (1987)

Starring Mickey Rourke, Robert Dinero, Lisa Bonet

Directed by Alan Parker

Written by Alan Parker

Produced by Alan Marshall, Elliot Kastner

Rated R

113 minutes

4 stars

It’s 1955 and we’re in seedy, rainy downtown New York.

Angel Heart is neo-noir with a supernatural twist, starring Mickey Rourke as your classic, sleazy gumshoe with a Brooklyn accent. He spends most of the film in a rumpled suit and a pair of Wayfarer Clubmasters, exuding pure nostalgia wherever he goes. If you’re a fan, you’re in for a treat. This is vintage Rourke.

Here he plays Harry Angel, a private eye hired by Robert Dinero to look for somebody named Johnny Favorite. He’s wisecracking but subdued, a little frayed around the edges, with a certain boyish charm. He’s no stranger to death, pausing at a crime scene only to light a match off a corpse’s shoe, but more than once fights to ensure his survival with great fanfare. Alan Parker speckles him with just enough quirks to keep him interesting, while offering few solid clues about his character. Those he does provide are dropped with the subtlety of a hammer. He plunks keys on an old piano, keeps flashing back to a 1943 New Years’ party, and politely refuses eggs (he has a “thing about chickens”).

His stake in the film’s plot of voodoo and ritualistic murders is at first purely financial; he goes where the biggest wallet is. Throughout the first 25 minutes, I found myself wondering how Parker was going to uproot his easy existence in New York and move the action to New Orleans; I was a little disappointed that all it took was a paycheck with a magic number.

Rourke’s performance is bolstered by that of Cosby Show alum Lisa Bonet, playing a role that was sure to turn a few heads back in 1987. Bonet is sexy and mysterious, a modern femme fatale in the Big Easy. Only Dinero is flat. Cryptic, Mephistophelian, and slightly bizarre, he delivers his lines with a knowing smile. Whenever you see him, you’re trying to figure him out, but his interests remain purposefully vague.

The film boasts a bewildering, Big Sleep-type noir plot, and, like The Big Sleep, it throws a lot of disembodied names in your face the first 25 minutes. The script is peppered with just enough red herrings to not completely overwhelm. At one point we come across a bizarrely narcissistic Harlem pastor whose congregation carries him through the streets on a gold throne in what I initially guessed was a full-swing New Orleans funeral procession. Aside from that and the occasional voodoo-shrine-in-a-closet-gag, you’re not given too many indications where the film is going to lead.

Throughout the second act Rourke spends most of his time asking around about Johnny Favorite, and counting the stiffs piling up in his wake. The pacing might be slow for some. The film moves laboriously right up to the twist ending in the final five minutes, which, if you’ve been paying attention to the supernatural subtext, should be no harder to guess than that of The Sixth Sense. Fortunately, it’s much more satisfying, aided in part by the sheer creepiness factor of it. I’ll just say this: demonic children with glowing yellow eyes, used sparingly, can unsettle the shit out of you.

The film owes much of its moodiness to the synthesized, sometimes jazz-complemented soundtrack by Trevor Jones. Rourke creeps around shadowy, rain-soaked locales to Tangerine Dream-inspired ambience cues. If you’re creeped out by black magic, blood rituals and, well, blood-drenched sex scenes, stay away unless you’re masochistic. Everywhere Rourke goes, people keep turning up dead, and the murders are brutal to say the least. Michael Seresin’s cinematography, dark and possibly ahead of its time, offers little to the imagination.

The verdict? It’s Chinatown meets Live and Let Die. Gloomy, largely atmospheric, sometimes psychological, and a few times downright unsettling. If you’re an 80’s Rourke fan, a noir buff, or just anyone who’s into two hours of occult bloodletting with a twist that would make M. Night Shyamalan piss his pants, Angel Heart might just be the movie you’ve been waiting for.

Pulp #7

2010-11-28T13:59:00.001-08:00

Pulp #6

2010-11-27T10:57:00.001-08:00

Pulp #5

2010-11-20T09:25:00.000-08:00

Pulp #4

2010-11-16T18:49:00.000-08:00

Pulp #3

2010-11-11T14:17:00.000-08:00

Pulp #2

2010-08-31T09:15:00.001-07:00

Pulp #1

2010-08-30T19:49:00.001-07:00

Previews

2010-02-21T08:28:00.001-08:00

It's Been Awhile

2010-01-07T17:21:00.000-08:00

But don't mistake my radio silence for lack of activity.

Here's a preview of the cover art for the first issue of the graphic novel project I'm working on. It's all charcoal:

The project is called "Who Saw The Deep" and it's a noir cyberpunk. I've written five issues so far, am in the middle of the sixth, and plan for it to be a 15-20 issue series.

Now that I'm starting to ease my focus more toward the art, expect to see more of this materialize soon.

Progress Update: "Who Saw The Deep"

2009-11-06T20:29:00.000-08:00

With one issue fully scripted and a second on the verge of being completed, and new concept art rolling in, I thought I might as well take the time to update you on my latest project. It's called "Who Saw The Deep" and it's a 13-issue graphic novel. Think a modern-day city, perhaps only a few years in the future. A cleaned-up corporate sheen everywhere you look. For anyone who's interested in cyberpunk, this is where it begins. We're setting the stage here and now. At the threshold of the world's very first megacorporations.

Okay, so it's not exactly the most relevant topic in light of today's increased government intervention. Or maybe it is. Indulge me. Picture a laissez-faire America run out of control, if you can.

The idea for the story is mostly derived from the one I ran with for Business of Screenwriting. We had to pitch an existing script idea over the course of the semester, so I quickly threw together a very early, rough version of "Who Saw The Deep," which in and of itself was heavily derived from that "Fiends of Nashville" comic Josh and I were developing at the time. Basically, I just felt like doing a film noir ("Fiends" was a western). Mostly for practice. I was using the same character, the same premise, just putting it in a noir context. (I didn't really have any long-term plans for it.)

Well, after Business of Screenwriting was over, I just shelved what was "Who Saw The Deep," with tentative plans to revisit the material sometime in the distant future, perhaps as a novel. Once summer started, I began working on "Fiends" in earnest. Which has currently been put on hold.

Pretty much for the last year and a half, Jake Hollander, this guy I sat next to in my first animation class, had been bugging me to collaborate on a comic. We did a couple of brainstorming sessions here and there, but nothing really stuck. Then, when Josh told me he couldn't make a solid commitment to "Fiends," I turned around and started talking to Jake again. I remember paging through that old "Who Saw The Deep" .pdf while on aim, and I was like, hey, I have about 70 pgs of workable dialogue here that could serve as a foundation for a noir/cyberpunk comic (we're both really into that blend). I was about halfway through writing "Land of Confusion" at the time. He got really excited about the prospect, so I said, let me finish this vampire thing and I'll start revisiting "Who Saw The Deep."

Overcome by a fit of laziness, I felt tempted to basically re-use the "Who Saw The Deep" script for the comic, word-for-word, breaking it into issues where appropriate. Then I started realizing how similar the material was to "Fiends." I mean pretty much same protagonist, exact same relationships explored. And I realized I didn't want to do that all over again. Also it wouldn't be fair to both Josh and I in the event that we would one day get back to work on "Fiends." So I went and overhauled the characters and story completely.

What emerged was the outline for a 13-issue story arc about robot consciousnesses, supercomputers, memory-altering drugs, a conspiracy, the mob, and a nostalgic hard-boiled detective. Basically an attempt to break free of the "Fiends" mold while remaining as close as possible to the original "Who Saw The Deep." Also, bringing in a lot more ideas that Jake and I had been throwing around. And ideas that had been broached in my Business of Screenwriting class, responding to the original idea.

I have to say, I think it's pretty good. And if you know me, you know that's saying something.

Anyway. The first issue is completely scripted, like I said, broken down into a page-by-page, panel-by-panel layout. All that remains is the art. The second issue is also nearly complete. I'm very pleased with how it's turning out so far, and perhaps a little surprised by the relative ease at which it's coming along.

Below is some original concept art by Jake. The first is a drawing of a female character who was cut early on, and exemplifies the Sin City-esque style Jake and I were thinking of running with originally. The next four are all images of our protagonist, Gene Foster, from his earliest to most recent incarnation. (The third one, with the squinty eyes, is actually mine. Jake and I both decided he looked too mean. More like a pissed-off Asian with a Bruce Campbell chin. I decided to throw it up here just for kicks.)

Not sure when you're going to see a finished product. All I can say is, with the winter break right around the corner, Jake and I will have plenty of time to get cracking on the art.

The Voids

2009-10-29T08:20:00.000-07:00

All of our actions, the cause and effect of our daily lives, can be traced to loss. An endless series of voids that we attempt to fill in vain--because nothing, that we cling to in this reality, is permanent. Nothing is absolute. We react to the inevitable loss of these impermanent attachments by seeking others to fill the voids left in their wake. The voids can be filled only temporarily, before we experience loss yet again and must seek out new attachments to take their place. Everything that we cling to as human beings--material objects, places, people, ideas--are placeholders. For those of the past and those yet to come. The pursuit of these placeholders is what defines us. Our actions, our choices.

No one of us dwells for too long in the voids, because there is where we find the death of ourselves.

Land of Confusion update

2009-10-13T07:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it's finished. Draft 1, that is. And what a draft indeed, at a whopping 173 pages. Nearly a 3-hour movie. Whoops. Which means in order to prepare it for the Written Image contest at the end of this year (which I plan on entering), I have to trim 43 pages. [Insert expletive here]! Not sure how that's gonna happen, but at the moment I don't really give a hoot. The .pdf is saved, tucked away in a safe folder for anybody out of their right mind who wants to take a look, but I'm just going to leave it there, in a digital drawer, for the next month or so while I get to work on my next project.

Which brings me to my next order of business. I'm about to start work on a comic/graphic novel with a friend of mine from the Animation world, Jake Hollander. The idea is something I've been flirting with off-and-on for the last couple years or so, so let's hope I can bring it down off the pedestal like the jar of cookies that it is, cause I'm hungry. Long story short, it's kind of a neo-noir, a dash of cyberpunk to taste, about a detective investigating his own murder. That's about all I care to get into right now, but give me a few days and I'll start to expand on that as I develop the general storyline and the script for the first issue.

Here goes nothing...

"Experience," Part 2

2009-10-09T08:50:00.001-07:00

It's been awhile, hasn't it? I've been busy with that "Land of Confusion" script, the first draft of which should be complete any day now. This charcoal portrait's been staring at me from a dejected corner of my room the entire time, and it was only until a couple days ago that I gave in and decided to bust some more of it out. The eyes were really bothering me, as you can see. Fixed them, and started adding white charcoal. I was getting frustrated at first because I haven't worked with it in forever, but then out of nowhere I had a breakthrough and it really started coming together. I'm really pleased with this one, which is definitely saying something for me. Hopefully I'll be posting the finished product soon.

Land Of Confusion...

2009-08-25T21:55:00.000-07:00

...is not just a phenomenal Genesis song. It's also the working title of my new script, about--you guessed it, vampires. Here's the first scene, just a little sampler to...sink your teeth into.

Land Of Confusion.pdf

Forgive my egregious pun, by the way. I'm a real sucker for them.

There is nothing in this world...

2009-08-24T09:20:00.000-07:00

...more intimidating to me than a blank page.

New Project

2009-08-23T12:05:00.000-07:00

With three issues of "Fiends of Nashville" in the can, and Josh doing some catching up on the art end, I decided to put that project on hiatus temporarily in order to pursue something of my own, with total creative control and independence. Long story short, I was getting a little disenfranchised with the prospect of writing something that was essentially going nowhere, at least fast. This summer was supposed to be my opportunity to produce like mad, and I haven't exactly fulfilled those (as usual) lofty expectations for myself. Josh is currently unable to commit all the way to holding up the art end of this comic thing, and who can blame him? But it was getting harder and harder for me to get attached to something that was looking less and less like it would ever see the light of day. I was writing scripts for a concept to which I did not hold the copyright. It was Josh's original idea, so I couldn't really do anything with these scripts I'd written. Couldn't really take them anywhere, like Dark Horse, for example. Unfortunately that's the problem with collaborating on a project; often it's a different priority for each party involved. Especially at our level, working our asses off trying to break into a creative industry somehow, just clinging to economic survival. "Fiends of Nashville," by necessity, became a job, a chore, and not the fun little diversion we'd set out to entertain ourselves with. I have a feeling it's something that will have to wait until both of us have a foot in the door apiece, something to distract us from the tediousness of our lives once we actually have jobs.

Anyway, I came across the movie "The Lost Boys" at a discount DVD store last night and, overcome with a sense of childhood nostalgia, the memory of cowering under the blankets at a sleepover when I was seven or eight, I gleefully forked over the $5.99. To give you some perspective provided you know me, I was more excited to get home and pop this in than I was to see District 9 last week. I hadn't seen this since I was a kid and I'm always a sucker for an eighties soundtrack, especially one with "Cry Little Sister" by Gerard McMann (I'm listening to Tears for Fears right now as I write this).

No, it wasn't as cool and frightening as I remembered it. No, I didn't cringe when Michael was eating the maggots. No, I wasn't freaked out by Keifer Sutherland's facial transformations, nor was I gripping my seat when the kids were poking around the old hotel and they saw the vampires hanging like bats. Yes, Jami Gertz was a lot sexier than I remember when I was seven years old. Oh, and what the hell was Cory Feldman doing with his voice, trying to sound all badass or something?

No, it wasn't exactly the eighties vampire movie that I wanted it to be, but it definitely deserves its cult classic status. And man, those Ray Ban Clubmasters that Michael is wearing are fucking cool. I think I'll grab a pair to ride ahead of the trend, as a little "fuck you" to all you punks who copied my Wayfarers (just kidding, Josh). As I watched the movie, and my few expectations slowly fell the less Joel Schumacher decided to earnestly delve into a thorough examination of the life of a vampire a la "Let the Right One In," I experienced a strong desire to fill in the blanks where the movie fell short, to provide a more intelligent and un-Hollywood rendition of a story that had potential but never went anywhere interesting. "The Lost Boys" was nothing to hold a torch to, to be sure, but it inspired me nonetheless...

To write a vampire script.
(Good joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains.)

But seriously. Why not put my own spin on something that's been done countless times before and just have fun with it? So that's what I'm going to do. No, it's not going to be "Twilight." So fuck you. Last night after watching the movie I immediately sat down and wrote out everything I liked about it and everything it was missing that I'd wanted in it. I realized that before it was produced and marketed as a cheap-thrills teen horror movie, it might actually have been trying to say something worthwhile, using the concept of a "vampire" as a kind of metaphor for misguided youth embracing the raging, subconscious homicidal killers inside them, their middle finger to society, maturity, and the responsibility to give back to the greater world. Surprise! Everything I've ever tried to write about. No, I'm not going to set out to do anything pretentious, I just kind of want to truthfully examine what it would actually be like to become a vampire, creature of the night, call it what you will. I have a feeling I'm going to consolidate this project with the one I put on the backburner a while ago about the room with uncanny temporal properties. In other words, the protagonist is pretty much based on me and all the shit I've been tossing around in my head recently, coping with changing philosophies and new life situations. In between lives, so to speak. I think the running title I'm going to use is "Tiding Over."

I have a strong desire to get started on this one right away. Maybe tonight. I'll let you know how it goes.

New Portrait, Part 1

2009-08-11T20:44:00.000-07:00

Today I got bored so I decided to commit to charcoal a photograph I took last June of a homeless man on the street (figured I'd buy something with the dollar I was giving him). Anyhow, I'm pretty happy with the way this is turning out. Took me about an hour to get this far. Maybe I'll come back and finish it tomorrow.

Issue #3...

2009-08-11T11:02:00.000-07:00

...Is complete. The script, that is. I'm starting to loosen up now. Becoming more comfortable with the process of sitting down for 4-5 hours at a time and entering the world of my characters. So far this is my favorite script yet, and I can only imagine the writing continuing to improve as I go along.

I'm starting to remember how fun this was.

Fiends of Nashville Page One

2009-08-09T18:29:00.001-07:00

Here it is, the very first page of "Fiends of Nashville," Issue #1 for your viewing pleasure. Josh Richter is the talented artist, and I couldn't be more pleased with how it's starting to turn out. Seeing my words finally visualized in art was a very exciting experience.

You should note that this is still a rough sample and will only improve before the issue is actually finished.

With any luck, expect to see a completed Issue #1 by the end of this month.

Random Joshua Danton Character Sketches

2009-08-06T13:32:00.000-07:00

Apocalypse Series Update

2009-08-02T21:27:00.000-07:00

After an incredibly productive guerrilla shoot this weekend, here are a couple new additions to my ever-expanding "Apocalypse" series. I'm starting to feel re-inspired by some prospective locations, so expect to see more up soon.

Fiends of Nashville Progress

2009-08-02T18:01:00.000-07:00

Josh Richter and I had our first production meeting of sorts this weekend to discuss the first two issues, which are nearing a final draft state, as well as our ideas about the layout for the artwork. Josh will be designing all of the art, sending me about a rough page or two per day for review. Expect some page samples to appear here sporadically, as well as concept drawings as we begin to put this thing together. A cohesive picture is beginning to emerge out of the purgatorial void. I'm pretty excited.

Assuming our production schedule is realistic, we should have a .pdf, if not printed, version of Issue #1 in our hands by the end of August. The plan is to submit it to Dark Horse, and, failing that, get it on the shelves of Graham Crackers independently.

Tomorrow, I'm going to hit the word processor again after a week break to start writing Issue #3. (*cracks knuckles*)

Pxldust Contest Results Are In...

2009-08-02T17:27:00.000-07:00

...And I have to say I did pretty well, so thanks to everybody who voted. Here are the details:

My charcoal drawing, "Filters," placed fifth overall out of 1,055 entries, after 180 days of voting. Two of my other illustrations, "Marilyn" and "Filters 2" also placed in the top 25. Both "Filters" and "Marilyn" have been printed on Pxldust magazine's inaugural competition poster. Check it out at:

http://pxldust.com/posters.asp

You can view the first issue of the online magazine, featuring all of the published winners, at:

http://www.pxldust-mag.com

Apparently Matt Ansoorian, the creator of Pxldust, is going to be publishing a hard-bound printed book featuring all of the winners' artwork. Not exactly sure if that's still in the works or not but I'll post the details here as soon as I know.

Website Progress

2009-07-28T22:09:00.000-07:00

Spent pretty much the entire day working on my new website. It's really starting to come together. I've posted a couple teaser screenshots of what it's looking like. But yeah, expect to see it up and running by the end of the week, assuming we don't run into any more issues (I'm looking at you, Internet Explorer...)

New Day's Dawn

2009-07-23T10:23:00.000-07:00

Woke up at 7:00 this morning to find my backyard draped in a ghostly fog worthy of some shots.

The Beard Project

2009-07-21T18:24:00.001-07:00

Sketches of what Joshua's beard activity might look like after a few weeks of walking around purgatory without a proper razor.

The undeniable feeling

2009-07-14T18:31:00.001-07:00

that all of this has happened before, and not just once but countless times, over and over again, a closed loop, and you are merely retracing steps you've already marked for eternity. You are living a memory, a memory that will never end.

In a sense this is already true: this moment, everything you are sensing now, is merely a memory your future self is accessing, somewhere further up ahead. Pre-determined. Nothing you do now in the "present" has any spontaneity; your future self is merely recounting it.

Remember

2009-07-14T18:18:00.000-07:00

You've had a breakdown. You might have known it was coming, and

here it is.

It's become an image. It's become your tool for grabbing "success."
You've become so caught up with comparing yourself to your peers, judging your "worth" as far as society is concerned, you've lost sight of what it was originally for.

It was never for anyone else but you. You were never supposed to play to an audience, shock people into new modes of awareness.

You were a kid with an imagination, telling yourself stories.

All that shit you thought you wanted, were brainwashed into thinking you wanted, that's not for you.

You didn't care about any of that shit.
You were above it.

Remember when it was something you did to entertain yourself? To imagine new realities because your current one sucked?

You've been out of touch with reality for years now. Your reality has been a lie, an illusion crafted by you, a joke. It was never meant for you.

Remember when you didn't have the internet? Remember when you didn't have a portable, easy-access means of comparing yourself with your peers? Remember when you weren't plugged into an electronic social network? Remember when you didn't have all these various online portals you used to validate your worth as a human being?

Remember when you weren't pressured into achieving certain rewards by a certain age?

Remember when you were self-motivated?

Remember when you didn't have to worry about putting up a facade?

Remember when you had all the time in the world?

Remember when writing wasn't easy,
(it's never been easy)
but you braved the obstacles anyway to write something nobody but you was ever going to see?

Remember the enjoyment of it? Remember when it wasn't your job?

Why do you keep trying to fool yourself? You've never felt like an adult in your entire life, and you never will.

Issue #1...

2009-07-12T16:04:00.000-07:00

Is finished!

Well, part 1 anyway. Of the first issue of the first part of the sprawling epic otherwise known as "Fiends of Nashville." The very first issue, when completed, will be about 40-48 pages long, a two-parter of which the first part is now complete. A couple weeks ago I was sitting around trying to figure out how to tell a chronological story that takes place in the afterlife, a place where time is eternal, there is no passage of time. I finally figured out the answer, and it's so good it scares me.

Anyway, part one starts off with a single title card: 1989. Then, we're introduced to Joshua Danton as he's walking into a Louisiana bayou roadhouse. Very choppy storytelling here, we're flashing brief, small details as Joshua is hit with a flood of sensation. This is the last moment of his life, and it's going to be preserved in his memory for the rest of eternity. Before he dies, we're cutting ahead to things he hasn't even seen yet. Before his eyes the bar starts to take on western properties, foreshadowing where he's going. We start to make the transition to the afterlife even before he's "killed" so it seems that much more seamless.

On page 19, Joshua dies, and by the end of this first part he arrives in Purgatory. We don't know a whole lot about how he got here, except in the literal sense. We know he was looking for his wife, who he thought was taken prisoner by these guys with guns, but it might be that she simply walked out on him.

In the next part, Joshua begins to explore his new bleak, bare world, and in doing so, builds it from the ground up. Technically at this point he's just a disembodied mind floating in a stream of electronic data. His reality is undefined, so he has to construct his own from essentially nothing. The reality he's going to construct for himself is a western, straight out of a John Ford movie. But in the beginning, there is only chaos. So the second part of this "pilot," so to speak, is told mostly through flashes of random-but-not-so-random imagery, memories of where he's been, scraps of dialogue that he took with him to his grave.

Anyway, just thought I'd share my progress. I'm pretty excited to get back to work and see how this thing starts to come together, because right now it could be anybody's guess.

Purgatory

2009-07-06T10:05:00.000-07:00

Like being in a fishbowl. That's what purgatory must be like. Swimming circles in a fishbowl, without any concept of time or space. Awareness only of the present moment, mind numbed. Perhaps a vague hint of either past or future, the blurred shapes beyond the glass membrane of your reality non-discernible.

Project Update: Fiends of Nashville

2009-07-05T19:49:00.001-07:00

So I hope to post periodic updates on the statuses of all my current projects here, and the one that's starting to emerge as the most realized and tangible at this point is a little comic my friend Josh Richter and I are putting together called "Fiends of Nashville." Alternatively you'll be able to view progress on "Fiends" on a separate blog Josh made a while back dedicated entirely to the comic. That blog can be accessed in my list of links to the right. There's not much there right now but a badass logo and a bunch of preliminary templates that Josh made. The concept has taken a near 180-degree turn since then, so I'll try to fill you in on the basics of what Josh and I have been cooking up recently.

So. Where the hell to begin?

"Fiends of Nashville" is the story of Joshua Danton, and I suppose there's no better way to introduce the comic than to begin with him. Joshua is a pretty interesting guy. For starters, he's a little rough around the edges. He's got a complicated, mostly estranged relationship with both his brother and father, who are each living exemplary pictures of the classic American hero. They worked hard and earned their stations in life; Joshua is a taker. He split home at a young age and carved out his own life first as a biker, then as a gangster. In the eighties he took a wife, settled down, had a kid. Lived the American dream.

In 1989 he died.

That's where "Fiends of Nashville" gets a little complicated. Because that's where it starts.

Not in 1989, in the shallow bayou out back behind a Louisiana motorcycle bar where he was beaten to death by the Cowboy Boot Man. Not even in 2009 when a fully-conscious Joshua Danton "wakes up" in a hospital bed in a young man's body.

And I guess it doesn't really begin in purgatory, either, where Joshua Danton spends an entire eternity, since the concept of "eternity" implies a place without time, implies a scenario where stories cannot take place in a chronological fashion. No, the story of "Fiends of Nashville" doesn't properly begin anywhere, but it takes place largely in the life beyond this one, theoretically anyway.

By now you're utterly confused. Don't worry about it.

"Fiends" is basically about consciousness. Well, it's about a lot of things right now, a clusterfuck of ideas and themes inspired by a semester of western film studies, long late-night talks about heaven, hell, and Dante's Inferno, shared accounts of broken relationships, the eighties, and George Carlin. Did I say it was about consciousness? I guess I was referring to the fact that it's about what life after death would be like. Not just shooting-the-shit philosophically, but scientifically. What if your consciousness could be "saved" after your physical body dies? What if it could be encoded digitally? Stored as 0's and 1's on some huge server? Could that data still be considered a person? What if that data was moved into the dormant body of a new individual? A vegetative coma patient, say? Well, that's essentially the question "Fiends" examines, but it goes deeper than that. What does your consciousness experience in the state between bodies? What kind of dreams take place in this electronic purgatory, so to speak?

That's where the western element comes in. "Fiends" is also about the American frontier. What is it? Has it vanished? And where has it gone?

At the heart of Joshua's character, he is simply a man without fear. He has no fear because in his mind is the frontier of the old American west. He goes where he likes, he does what he wants, and the only one who can stop him is the man who's a faster draw. He chooses not to acknowledge the boundaries and restrictions that would threaten to hinder him from living his life the way he decides. The western frontier doesn't just exist in his head and in his dreams; he acknowledges it all around him. And if some pissant little guy with a uniform and a superiority complex tries to get in his way, Joshua tells him plainly to fuck off.

So "Fiends of Nashville" is a western. It's about what would happen if a kick-ass-the-old-fashioned-way American hero with a bad attitude and a bad mouth were to be plucked out of the west and dropped into bleeding-heart-liberal, politically-correct, paranoid 2009. It's about the clash of two different Americas, the old and the new. The reality and the myth. It's about fear. A man with none surrounded by a society with too much. The conflict between a man who lives life the way he wants to, and those for whom life isn't real, for whom life takes place only on the other side of a television or computer screen, the consequences of which are dealt to imaginary characters or digital avatars. It's about a lot of the problems I struggle with as an individual and it's about everything I think is fucked up about my generation and this great society we live in.

I realize I've been talking a lot and painting only a broad picture of this comic. Probably because my mind has been caged without a proper outlet for way too long now, cause if you know me in person you know I don't talk a lot. The only time I rant is when I write. And I'm finally coming back to writing after too long an absence.

Bear with me.

So what kind of fears does a man without fear have? Joshua may be unhindered, unchecked, and unfazed by the systems that keep us locked down in a state of fear on a day-to-day basis, but underneath all that ruggedness lurks more than a fair share of demons. Joshua takes what he wants, when he wants, how he wants. But why?

He's afraid of death. He's afraid of age, and he's afraid of time. He's afraid of working hard to attain so little. He's afraid of being a slave. (This thought process, and a lot of this idea in general, was born two summers ago when I was working ten-hour days under the hot sun, pitching tents for a rental company called Grand Rental Station. Long days of pure physical labor afforded me plenty of time to think about cool story ideas. I remember heaving huge iron stakes out of the hard ground with a sledgehammer, literally drenched with sweat, and seeing a vision of a character trapped in hell, doing the same thing, taking a brief repose to wipe the sweat out of his eyes and look up to regard the thousands of stakes sticking up at odd angles for miles of desert scrubland all around, then returning back to work, robbed of the mental faculty that might have allowed him to reason with this reality, conscious only of his own heat exhaustion.)

But these fears only explain the kind of person Joshua is before he "dies"--depending on what your perception of consciousness, or a soul, is. What happens when this person goes through purgatory--eternity--itself? What happens when this person is suddenly confronted with a world of people who take no responsibility for their actions, who think they're entitled to cheap and easy rewards, to money without honest work? With an society that believes every child is a winner? With an America that is swift to medicate its problems instead of dealing with them head-on?

Joshua is a crusader against BULLSHIT.

Against pretentiousness, cockiness, hipness to the mainstream. Against bureacracy, false idols, and the illusion of safety.

Oh yeah, and did I mention he listens to Genesis? Don't complain if he switches the radio to eighties pop, or he'll crack you in the face.

There's a lot of other cool stuff at work in "Fiends of Nashville," and I haven't even managed to get around to the plot yet, but I'm running out of steam. Consider this a teaser, with a promise of more once I've shocked myself into a new mode of awareness. I'm getting tired, so I'll sign off here, but I'll be back. Tomorrow I'm going to write up Issue #1. Or is it Issue #0 in the comics business? I don't know.

Peace out.

Apocalypse

2009-07-02T19:05:00.000-07:00

This is a series I'm working on now. I got the idea driving around the main drag of my town, and noticing all the places I used to eat/shop at, etc. that have closed their doors in the wake of the recession. I thought, what a feeling of pure desolation these places give me, and then I thought, why not do a photo series on them and call it "Apocalypse"? So here's the first few to trickle in:

"The Flat"

2009-07-02T17:40:00.000-07:00

Right, I know the title sucks, but it's a working one. Anyway, I got this idea for a feature script around last October I believe, in fact I can pinpoint the exact night: Halloween, and I was walking back to the Buckingham along Wabash barefoot, well in socks anyway, clad in a Batman, form-of: Adam West costume. It was that night that propelled me onto the train of thought that would become this script idea, because somebody at Zac's party mentioned something about how they never had any time to get anything done anymore, time seemed to be flying by so fast now, and something about that really clicked with me. Reason being that I felt exactly the same way; I was a 22-year old graduating college student who couldn't--still can't--manage time and could only watch helplessly as it slipped fleetingly through my fingers as if it were something tangible like sand. The days and nights were blending together and it was becoming much more difficult to square away even a couple of hours to write. I realized I was subconsciously re-evaluating my values in life and spending time in new, ultimately fruitless ways. The "time" wasn't going anywhere but out of my own scope of awareness. I was just wasting it, plain and simple. Willingly. I realized that my perception of time was constantly changing as I grew older. Each unit of time that I lived became a smaller percentage of the grand total, out of all the units I had spent and was spending on this earth.

So naturally, I decided to channel this thought process into something useful, my next creative endeavor.

That was 8 months ago. Jesus. Anyway, 8 months, one birthday, one semester, several failed writing projects, and a whole shitload of needless drama later, here I am. I still have the idea.

And part of the reason I'm excited to get to work on it now is because of a flurry of inspiration that came last night when I blinked back at the following facebook status:

"(Name) rushes toward the center of time, where the moment is frozen forever."

Apparently it's from "Einstein's Dreams," where the following quotes exist:

"At the place where time stands still, one sees lovers kissing in the shadows of buildings, in a frozen embrace that will never let go."

"Some say it is best not to go near the center of time. Life is a vessel of sadness, but it is noble to live life, and without time, there is no life."

"Others disagree. They would rather have an eternity of contentment, even if that eternity were fixed and frozen, like a butterfly mounted in a case."

Needless to say, I really dug this stuff. It got me thinking again, about my idea and what I could do with it. It's about our perception of time, how we perceive that invisible force that pushes us along, changes us, erodes us, kills us. What is time, anyway? Does time exist? If there is no passage of time, can sensation, and consciousness, even occur?

What if you found a room where if you entered it, time froze on the outside? Your physical body would not age and only your consciousness could perceive the passage of time? You could theoretically remain in this room for days, years, lifetimes, and complete entire bodies of work, while your consciousness aged but everything else froze still. What if your consciousness could age independently of your external reality?

This setup, while simple, brought up a bunch of other inquiries. Story possibilities. What, then, if your consciousness started losing its ability to detect the passage of time while within the room? you would be unable to determine for how long you stayed inside. A day could be a hundred years could be one second, and you wouldn't know the difference. Could you even leave the room? Would you be trapped forever in eternity? In one frozen moment forever? Does the inside of the room even exist in space?

I realize I am implying the existence of a soul. If your body does not age inside the room, and your consciousness is merely electrical signals and chemical processes in your brain, then how else could consciousness even be possible?

If no time passes inside the room except for your consciousness, how is physical work/the creation of art/etc possible? To do anything physical, to make any imprint on reality, requires the passage of time. If time does not exist, then nothing outside your consciousness can happen. Your physical body cannot move, because doing so, moving from point A to point B in three-dimensional space, requires the passage of time, the fourth dimension. Your consciousness, in this scenario, would be trapped inside the room forever.

Obviously more deliberation on this is necessary. In any case, the concept of a room with special temporal properties is still one that interests me. And maybe the title "Flat," as it refers to a scenario in which the fourth dimension, time, is removed, causing physical reality to be frozen, applies after all.

2009-07-02T17:34:00.000-07:00

So here goes.
I kind of intend this to be a place for me to post news in the world of Josh Medcalf, upcoming projects, that kind of thing. Though I wouldn't be opposed to seasoning that coverage with a candid thought or window into my mind every now and then.