TITLE: Review: Sicko (2007) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 11:26:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: Michael Moore

Perhaps it sounds condescending, especially when speaking about a director who received an Oscar for one film and set the documentary box office record for another, but Michael Moore has grown up... a little. Moore is a personality - never shy about using the documentary format for propaganda purposes. But Sicko introduces a new version of the progressivist filmmaker. Rather than being a blatant illustrated pamphlet for - or against - a social evil, Sicko embodies a slightly different voice. Those who think a documentary should be the equivalent of journalism may not recognize this change. Michael Moore is no reporter. But rather than being an editorial cartoonist, he's evolved into something like a columnist: no different then a George Will, Cal Thomas or Fareed Zakaria.

Well, maybe a little different.

Michael Moore has moved from the Oliphant cartoons of Bowling for Columbine and The Big One, to a delicious blend of Andy Rooney, Dave Berry and Noam Chomsky. Sicko is a funny, intelligent, satirical and poignant film about the problems in the American health care system. And there are problems.

Moore has a gift for being both charming and disarming. He manages to find priceless footage that reveals the extreme problems, whether it is Phil Knight's acceptance of underage workers or President Bush's deer-in-a-headlight response to the September 11th attacks. The footage in Sicko contains a few of those moments, but most of them come from innocent responses to, seemingly, innocent questions.

Sicko is a carefully constructed, well-paced and tempered series of questions; many of them seem more legitimate and open than in previous Moore films. In a twist, he removes himself from the story as much as he can. It's about common people in common situations. Although the terrible, faceless corporations are indicted, this is more of an exploration of the way people cope with sickness in the United States and abroad. And therein is the film's genius.

By removing all but his voice and his filmmaking for a large portion of the movie, Moore allows something that is lacking in most of his prior works - the subjects have their own voice. For some reason, Moore moves away from the usual demonization of individual companies toward the thing he generally argues for in society: populism. Although he assembles and crafts the overall text, the quotations and references are distinct voices.

This becomes most striking in Moore's trip to Europe. Rather than being overtly sarcastic, he merely asks simple, plausible questions from an unknowing American. There's a subtle innocence to his interviews. The outrage and perplexity comes with the responses of truly innocent participants of the socialized health care programs in England and France. Without saying anything overtly critical, they betray a sense of wonder and confusion at the American system. Some doctors politely, and provocatively, question the ethics of a healthcare system that's priority is anything other than the well being of the patient.

Sicko's freshness is almost entirely from content and editorial decisions. The technical aspects and grammar haven't changed from earlier works, and could even be viewed as a step back from the iconic imagery of Fahrenheit 9/11. But Sicko may be the first Michael Moore film since Roger & Me to be truly provocative for its substance and the quality of the question being explored. Whatever a viewer may feel toward Moore, there's something more wrong, more complex and unsettling in his subject. And as viewers leave this film they will be talking more about the content than the character on the posters.
**** of *****

Labels: ,

-------- TITLE: Review: Winter Light (1962) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 8:54:00 PM ----- BODY:
Dir: Ingmar Bergman

In a Kids in the Hall skit, the comedy troupe creates a faux Italian film, a Fellini-esque exaggeration that rips on American films: "Always with the happy ending." The rise of the indie film, and the success of the R rating have both muted this caricature. But it is true, American films are predominantly comedies - at least in the technical sense of the word – “always with the happy ending.”

If this stereotype has any truth then the inverse, the idea that foreign films are all tragedies, may also have some basis in fact. Ingmar Bergman has done little to tear down the impression of artsy, melancholic films about the harshness and isolation of life. Winter Light appears to be an archetype of such a perspective. Yet, appearances, like the pristine Swedish winter, can be deceiving.

Winter Light tells the tale of a pastor and his remarkably small group of parishioners. Pastor Ericsson (Gunnar Björnstrand) presides over the conclusion of a church service, and then retires to his study where he engages his agnostic mistress Märta (Ingrid Thulin), the hopeful hunchback Algot (Allan Edwall) and the suicidal fisherman, Jonas (Max von Sydow). The small cast is matched with a small story. This is simply a three hour Sunday afternoon between services. However, in that time, the pastor loses faith, a man loses his life, a woman is widowed, another woman is harshly scorned and a simple man gives a beautiful reflection on the Passion.

In a counseling session between Pastor Ericsson and Jonas, we learn that Jonas is there only for a shred of hope, a reason not to kill himself. This plea exposes Ericsson's own emptiness. He has nothing to offer except his own questions of whether life is worth living. The meeting concludes with Jonas quietly leaving the room and the pastor quoting Jesus on the cross: "God. Why has thou forsaken me?"

This scene - joined with the subtlest and most precise piece of camera work since Citizen Kane - is both painful and poetic. The pastor is left with a sense of temporary peace, as if finally freed from the requirement to believe. He is free to say and do anything he wishes, no longer bound by either his fantasy of God's goodness or his puzzlement over God's mystery. The world simply is what it is, without mystery or purpose, without judgment or objective.

Though seen as a lesser, rougher work by cinematographer Sven Nykvist, the photography creates another character. The English title Winter Light (as opposed to the literal Swedish title - Naatvardsgasterna - "the communicants") speaks of the way that such coldness and brilliance cooperate. There is almost a paradox to the idea: the deadness of winter against the clarity of light. Nykvist, Bergman and Björnstrand keep this tension throughout the film, never tempted to place faith and nihilism against one another. Instead, they must exist. In the cruel, harsh world it is easy to see only the winter. In the church it is easy to see only the woodwork, the images and tales of a loving and benevolent God. In this work, as in much of Bergman's corpus, faith is not clean.

Ericsson's loss of faith, as a duty to his profession and his parents, is said to have paralleled Bergman's own realization that his childhood faith was abandoned. Yet, perhaps this too is overly simple. Bergman, like the pastor, does not leave religion so easily, for with him and his characters, God is a constant presence, even in his absence. It is this loss of faith from another period of life - whether in childhood or the assumed religion of culture - that one is finally freed to believe. Winter Light, despite its tragic plot, is a testament to finding belief in a new way, through a simple reminder of the stories that still hold true and the God that is hidden in the cold and the light.

****1/2 of *****

Labels: ,

-------- TITLE: Review: Ordet (1955) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 11:18:00 AM ----- BODY:
Arts and Faith ranks Ordet (The Word), Carl Dreyer's penultimate work, as its premiere selection on its list of spiritually significant films. There's something provocative about that ranking, like it must be the one film that every spiritually curious film watcher must see. Considering that Dreyer is also responsible for The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928), it's hard to imagine him producing a more significant, more spiritual film. I'm not sure that Ordet towers over Joan, but it is different, vital and well worth watching.

The story centers on two Danish families in the 1920s, both with differing concepts of faith. This distinction isn't anything as obvious as Catholic - Protestant. Presumably it's Reformed and Free Church, which is probably enough diversity for its time. Much like the better Woody Allen films, several subplots converge into an overall theme: the question of faith, in a generic Protestant Christian sense. It isn't about any particular doctrines other than a refutation of God's absence and the possibility of miracles.

The subplots are where the drama distinguishes itself. The governing character, Morten Borgen, patriarch of the Borgen family and lord of Borgen farm, is a man of particular devotion. He is conflicted in his purity of faith, desiring to keep a firmness but always undermined by his affection for his children. Morten sits in conflict with Peter Petersen, the leader of a small band of religious experientialists. Petersen is convinced of the exclusive orthodoxy of his religion, telling Borgen that he is hell-bound and needs to join and convert. Like "Romeo and Juliet", the families' divisions are emphasized by a romance between Anders Borgen and Anne Petersen.

The other two brothers of the Borgen family accentuate the religious obsession. Mikkal is an agnostic, patient with his father's faith but unimpressed. He is a good man and seems the most steady of the cast, apart from his devout wife Inger. Mikkal's brother Johannes is a theology student who over immersed in Kierkegaard. His spiritual quest consumed him until he lapsed into a mental state with a serious identity problem: Johannes is convinced he is the second coming of Jesus. He mopes around the house, quoting scripture.

The plot comes into focus through a conflict between Morten and Peter over the forbidden romance. Inger, who is about to deliver Mikkal’s first son, interrupts the bitter exchange. Her pregnancy becomes complicated and questions about the survival of the baby and Inger dominate the remaining half of the film. It is in the wake of such turmoil that the faith and agnosticism of the characters become tested. They must all face what they know to be true, all with Johannes becoming more mystical and challenging the quality of the Borgens's belief.

Other than having religious themes, Ordet has very little in common with Dreyer's Joan. That earlier film was abstract and frenetic. It was full of drama and venom, expressionist in concept and design. Ordet is methodical and plain, taken from a stage play by Kaj Munck. It suffers from the source material as a film, staged and shot with long uninterrupted shots. It has more in common with Hitchcock's Under Capricorn than Dreyer's silent work. But that change in style and pacing serves the film. Around the hour mark, the background development begins to elevate the story. The pacing and conflict increase and moments of music and silence play against one another.

While the first half of the film is deliberate and thoughtful, it is with the second half that those investments become valuable. Will Johannes regain his sanity? Will Ann and Anders be allowed to marry; will Peter and Morten settle their feud? Will Inger, Mikkal and the baby survive?

The test of a great film is not only in the questions it is willing to ask, but how it ultimately confronts those questions. Ordet isn't content to simply inquire, but has the courage to confront questions. That isn't to say that it provides simple or satisfying answers, but the film concludes with conviction and decisiveness. Dreyer's Ordet is a truly compelling and rewarding film, as full of pathos and angst as anything Bergman produced, but saturated in the warmth and possibility that made another Danish film, Babette's Feast, such an endearing work.

****1/2 of *****

Notes:
1. Birgitte Federspiel (Inger), also plays one of the elderly sisters in Babette's Feast.
2. This is a difficult film to find. For some reason neither Netflix nor Blockbuster stock it. It is, however, available for purchase at reasonable prices from Criterion.

Labels: ,

-------- TITLE: Review: The Virgin Spring (1960) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 6:31:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: Ingmar Bergman

An old Depeche Mode song questions the goodness of God in the realities of life. It imagines the death of a young girl, among other tragedies. Eventually, the song can only draw the conclusion that God is somehow sadistic: "I don't want to start any blasphemous rumours, but I think that God's got a sick sense of humour, and when I die, I expect to find him laughing." The British pop band may have seen The Virgin Spring, a movie intent to display the same dilemna of the brutality of an everyday existence and the apparent absence of God from His own creation. But if it drew only the conclusion that God was enjoying the evils of life, those artists missed the fullness of another artist's - namely Ingmar Bergman's - more devotional and faith-filled question.

Max Van Sydow rejoins Bergman as, Töre, the knight-father in this retelling of a thirteenth-century ballad. Töre's daughter is on a traditional pilgrimage to light candles at a distant church. Along the way, her innocence and optimism are betrayed. She is raped (in a surprisingly graphic presentation) and killed. Her body is left in the woods, robbed of all wealth and decency. Her violators leave the woods, unwittingly arriving at her family home for shelter.

There is a degree of dramatic tension from the moment the small band of murdering brothers arrives at the home. The story is still loose and in the formulation of plot, there's always the possibility that the brothers are found out and The Virgin Spring becomes a tale of vengeance. Then again, perhaps the brothers escape, only to be discovered later, long after they are free from the roof and reach of the bereaved father.

But either line would stunt what is actually a more ambitious, and more personal film. Bergman isn't telling this story to create a balance of justice in the universe, to answer some question about the innocent and the guilty. He means to ask a question that plagued him throughout his filmography: "Where is God?"

This is the question that the mother must ask, the question that Töre must face, especially in light of all that such violence and arbitrary loss must cost. If one can't trust their innocent daughter to be protected by God on a pilgrimage of faith, can one trust God for anything?

Perhaps the most notable aspect of the film is its tone. It is the very mark of quietness, yet remains a savagely violent film. Somehow, with Bergman, these two tracks are not contradictory. The still, religious life at the end of winter gives the film an air of peace and contemplation. But the events within this world are so aggressive, impassioned and harmful, that the stillness almost seems to be a divine facade, a distracting and disarming attempt by the Creator to mask the brutality of His creation.

The Virgin Spring is the epitome of the depressing foreign film, but it - like the very atmosphere of stillness and violence - is held in deep tension with an underlying devotion and goodness. It contains a hint of optimism and redemption, though only after the height of disappointment and sin. It is, at once, sin and forgiveness, freely engaged with the most persistent questions of religious thought. The Virgin Spring is a tale of contemplation and devotion, utterly fearless in it's humble attempts to ask God where He is in the world He created.

****1/2 of *****

Labels: , ,

-------- TITLE: Review: Zodiac (2007) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 8:30:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: David Fincher

In the late 1960's and early 70's a string of murders gripped much of the Bay area. The crimes were apparently random, violent and played out publicly through print and television news. The unknown force behind the crimes, who called himself the "Zodiac," inspired copycat savagery while ultimately remaining uncaptured. Later, a San Francisco Chronicle cartoonist - named Robert Graysmith - wrote a book about the events of that time. These are the facts that David Fincher works with, and Zodiac is a film that intends to be as precise in following those facts as it is in producing a cinematic experience.

By following this structure Fincher operates with a handicap. He can't end the film with the capture of the criminal. He can't show the successful resolution of a long, terrifying period in Californian history. Zodiac is a film that is constantly trying to find its center, trying to figure out a story that can have an ending. When is it time to roll credits? Unfortunately, the center doesn't truly emerge until deep into the movie.

Instead of a sequence that was cut for time, we see only a piece of text: "Four years later." Here, in 1977, Gyllenhaal's Zodiac-obsessed Robert Graysmith gives the film grounding. Long after the public has moved on, after the reporters and detectives have been reassigned to other cases, Graysmith is stuck with an obsession to continue the case. He becomes a collateral victim of the Zodiac, unable to focus on a normal life. And he ignites the hopes and perspectives of several involved in the original investigations.

Fincher remains a masterful director. With Zodiac, he creates one of the most complete technical films since Casino. Donavon's "Hurdy Gurdy Man" rings through with all the style and atmosphere of The Rolling Stone's "Gimme Shelter". The soundtrack generates a bed of ambience, creating mood without obviousness. Each song is chosen with the rhythm and perfection of a Scorsese soundtrack: an endless cycle of songs that compliment the story without ever taking it over.

Even deeper, the use of light and framing are genius - unpretentious but exciting and compelling. Every sound effect rings through with great placement and precision. Quirks and visual details make each frame substantial. The dialogue is fluid, literate and sometimes humorous. Zodiac is a film with unsurpassed texture and craftsmanship. (The shot of the Golden Gate bridge buried in fog - the image used for the poster - is iconic and stunning.)

Surprisingly, Fincher forgoes the technical wizardry of his earlier opening credits. It's almost as if he's forcing himself to create an accessible film. Rather than Fight Club's travel through the brain, he uses a standard combination of imagery, music and overlaid text. But if you watch, you can see that the first ten minutes of the film introduces the vocabulary of Zodiac. It will be both human and terrifying, linear and straightforward. Both explicitly and suggestively violent. It will consist of perfect pans of the camera, tobacco coloring with surprising amounts of light. It will create momentum through the introduction of new characters, the atmosphere of music and sound, the overlaying of audio and text. In short, those first minutes serve as a primer - a code key - to everything that follows. It is also a clinic to every aspiring filmmaker - and perhaps a reminder to current directors about what can be done in a movie.

But Zodiac is 158 minutes long and needs more than a great beginning or even a provocative middle.

It sets up like a combination of Se7en, Quiz Show and All the Presidents Men - a promising parentage. But those are three distinct movies; their greatness comes in precision: knowing exactly what they want to do and how to get there. Woodward and Bernstein make cameos through Gyllenhaal and Downey, but they don't stay. If there's something that doesn't quite develop - at least until much farther into the movie - it's a center. Zodiac is a film of texture, not topography.

It is the most eloquent dramatized re-enactment we've ever seen, eventually, giving way to another film. That second story - about obsession and the personal impact of a public crime - was the right one to chase. It should have been pursued much earlier, even though it would probably have meant dropping a half-hour from the best crafted parts of the movie. Unfortunately, Gyllenhaal's Graysmith is less compelling than the characters that become peripheral: Mark Ruffalo's Inspector Toschi and Robert Downey's Paul Avery.

Chloe Sevigny, who plays Graysmith's wife Melanie, is basically a literary device.
She lacks depth and emotion - a placeholder that rarely changes expression and seems unthinking, perhaps stylistically ornamental. It's almost as if Fincher needs to use the pre-1977 story to create the momentum for the final section. Gyllenhaal's descent is solid, but it lacks the depth of Brad Pitt's in Se7en, or even Michael Douglas's in The Game. But Gyllenhaal experiences moments of deep horror and enthusiasm, eventually redeeming Fincher's choice. He also gives us one of the most atmospherically and psychologically terrifying sequences since Silence of the Lambs.

Fincher's failures would qualify as the successes of lesser directors. Though a bit bloated and unfocused, Zodiac is an impressive marathon of generally great performances and compelling atmospheres. Fans of Fincher will be treated to another satisfying - though somewhat inconcise - reminder that he is a new master. The average moviegoer will be treated to a somewhat long, but captivating expose of the power of cinema. But there are at least two or three scenes in his movies that no other director could create. Like all Fincher films, even if the sum of its parts don't add up to a masterpiece, Zodiac's parts are honed and crafted with greatness you can't find in many other places.

**** of *****

Labels: ,

-------- TITLE: Archive Review: Episode III (2005) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 9:16:00 AM ----- BODY:
The following post is from an old blog I used to maintain. It was written after my initial theatrical viewing of Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith.

Dir: George Lucas

I am from that generation which had its first meaningful literacy test when those cyan-tinted Franklin Gothic letters splashed across the screen: “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away....” That opening drum cadence of Alfred Newman’s Twentieth-Century Fox theme was like a Pavlovian gut-reaction. Any Fox movie I watched from that point on always made be believe, if only for a moment, that I was entering a new world.

Episode III, then, is a bittersweet closure on childhood as pivotal as having children of my own. It marks the end of a fantastic hope: that I would see Darth Vader before his mask or Obi-Wan with swagger. Those hopes are reality now, and George Lucas has the impossible task of trying to put skin onto a dream. Of course he can’t do that. No one can.

I re-watched Episodes I & II before seeing Sith – noting that Phantom Menace wasn’t as bad as I remembered, nor Clones as good. As for Episode III, the real test is whether I watch it in five years and still feel that same anticipation and magic when the shimmering Lucasfilm logo appears on some twenty-five inch television.

The magic was there on the screen in Yakima. It was there at the beginning with the scrolling text. It was there at the end when I saw Tatooine – that bridge to my childhood, the desert with multiple suns, home of an “Old Ben Kenobi” and a Californian Skywalker. The question is what happened in-between as Anakin, the unmasked post-pubescent hero, becomes Hitler. Would it break my heart or did I care more about a character putting on a mask than a man losing his soul?

There’s the dilemma of George Lucas. Anakin has to put on that plastic and metal. His humanity has to be devoured and I’m supposed to like it. It’s predestined and there’s nothing I can do about it except hope that Jar-Jar gets killed in the process.

The movie is Lucas’s attempt to slow the process and make it more meaningful. He has to explain why that cute little philanthropist of Episode I becomes the lifeless machine of Episode IV. He set himself up for failure and can’t quite convince me that “Ani” becomes capable of killing "younglings." Metachlorians aside, the transformation lacks the dreadful manipulation of great Greek tragedy or Shakespeare. Padmé isn’t Desdemona and Anakin isn’t Othello.

There are a number of problems with the film, almost all of them going back to Lucas’s loss of understanding character. He hires the right people; he dresses them in the right costumes, but can’t make them breath. It’s like Richard Nixon on “Laugh-In.” It’s uncomfortable and anachronistic. It’s Lucas’s great weakness and the larger the stage, the more obvious it becomes.

The greatest example of this failure occurs with the suiting of Vader: that moment we all hoped for, even us Christians who talk about salvation (perhaps because we know Episode VI redeems). Instead of drawing on the tragedy of a lost soul and a lost life, Lucas makes homage to the Frankenstein movies. And the audience has to supply the anguish for Anakin since Lucas can’t draw it out himself. We have to pretend that he really is dying inside because he betrayed his friends and killed his wife. We have to pretend that he didn’t just arch his back, clinch his fists and shout out “Noooooooooo.”

But does the movie succeed? Is it part of the cannon? Yes. It succeeds because Lucas does what no one else can do. His trick is this: we argue that he fails because he doesn’t meet our expectations. In other words, Lucas made us dream dreams. We get mad because he gave us the dreams and can’t possibly fulfill them. He made us believe stuff that no one else could. Now, in our Dockers and Nirvana-drenched-pessimism, we have to try and believe. After twenty-eight years, I am responsible for helping Lucas. It’s my job to let him give me new dreams – not hold him responsible because the six-year old version of me believed easier “long ago.”

I still believe that Ben and Anakin and Luke and Leia exist. That’s what Lucas does and that’s why Episode III is Star Wars. I watched Yoda destroy the Senate with the Emperor. I saw lightsabers fly like fireworks. I heard those ships rumble through space and got the sunset on Tatooine. That’s more than anyone else has ever given me in a film. And so, I guess I can let Jar-Jar live.

**** of *****

Labels: , ,

-------- TITLE: Archive Review: Aguirre: The Wrath of God (1973) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 9:51:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: Werner Herzog

Anachronism has killed many films that desire to be historically thoughtful. In Werner Herzog’s epic Aguirre anachronism transforms into timelessness. The tale of a sixteenth-century Spanish expedition searching for the mythical city of El Dorado is a taunt and voyeuristic parable for the consumed ego. Lope de Aguirre (Klaus Kinski) leads a mutinous group of soldiers, dragging them into a military conquest for fame and glory. But Herzog’s storytelling contrasts their desires with a continual foiling of Aguirre’s power-lust.

Despite the profound presence of Kinski's portrayal, Aguirre never feels larger than the environment. In one scene, Aguirre's appointed new emperor of El Dorado proudly proclaims that his territory is now six times larger than Spain. His hubris is quickly lampooned. The absurdity of any man, or small army, looking from a small raft into the vast and dense jungle is nearly comical. The land is not the Spaniard’s domain. The Spaniards are its food. They are trapped like a fly in a spider’s net, paralyzed - waiting to be transformed from delusional captives into prey.

One element of anachronism that propels the film is the strange spectacle of Germans playing the Spanish conquerers. Somehow this film would be less intense, less believable if the Spaniards actually spoke Spanish. Kinski and the parallels between twentieth-century German history unite into an overwhelming sense of aggression and emotionless violence. The film isn’t a commentary on the Spanish, but on that insistent human proclivity toward conquest and racism.

Aguirre succeeds because of the film’s proportions. From the opening scene of over 500 men descending a nearly vertical peak, to the bleak circling shots of rafts floating through the jungle, the humans are always set against an insurmountable kingdom. They are insignificant - almost unnoticeable - flecks on the terrain. To dream of a golden city, to hold to European notions of nobility, class and religion, seems utterly absurd against such a world. The viewer is always aware of the size and hopelessness. But we are trapped by Aguirre’s determination and pride. There are moments when it looks as if he will conquer. But in the end, even the vibrant presence of this madman is eclipsed by the unaffected and unending expanse of the Amazon.

**** of *****

Labels: , ,

-------- TITLE: Review: The Last Samurai (2004) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 5:46:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: Edward Zwick

Some stories are so compelling that if any competency is used in telling them, there is the potential for a fantastically penetrating film. Rocky was not original in its plot. It was mainly well told and well cast. The Last Samurai relies on some of the most basic plot devices, but with enough competency and intrigues as to remind us of why certain themes are timeless.

In a sense, Samurai is a re-capturing of Dances With Wolves. The arrogant military man is thrown into a culture clash with “the savages.” From their simplicity and tradition, the hero is offered a chance at redemption and rebirth. But even with such potentially powerful themes, a film is not destined to work. It still requires a story, sympathetic and rounded characters, and a sense of structure. The Last Samurai works because it succeeds on all fronts.

Captain Algren (Tom Cruise) is a nihilistic U.S. Civil War hero recruited by the Japanese to help westernize the country. He is to help the young emperor and his advisors make the Asian island seem more like England than the orient, to the extent of destroying the traditional warriors, the samurai. Algren immediately recognizes that same hubris which glamorizes war and assumes any primitive enemy will simply fall down. Despite his best advice, the Japanese rush into combat with the intensely devoted and disciplined samurai. Algren’s army is destroyed and he is captured.

From this setting, he is forced to live among “the savages.” It is, of course, a time of realization and re-awakening. He must confront the plague of nightmares he accrued from destroying Indian villages. He must face his own arrogance and alcoholism and consider leaving a detached warrior’s life in favor of family. These story lines are so common that it is easy to forget that there is still power when they are told well. Herein is the significance of The Last Samurai: a well-constructed assembling of classic themes told with heart and precise acting.

Ken Watanabee, the senior Samurai who is both statesman and warrior, tempers Cruise’s vulgarity. Although Watanabee was rightfully recognized for his role, Cruise continues to demonstrate his legitimacy as one of the finer actors of recent generations. He is as essential to Watanabee’s success as he was to Dustin Hoffman’s Raymond (Rain Man). It is impossible to not notice Cruise, but not only for his sheer physical presence. He is perfect: boisterous when necessary, subtle when needed. Perhaps his acting is disregarded because of his impossibly large natural charisma. However, Cruise allows other actors to lead and steal scenes. That one can watch The Last Samurai or Rain Man and talk about the work of another actor is a testament to Cruise’s willingness to be secondary.

It is nearly impossible to overstate the construction of Zwick’s direction. The Last Samurai succeeds in nearly every attempt it makes. Perhaps the most shining example of its success is that it provokes questions without demanding answers. Although one is inevitably asked to confront the issue of modernization at the expense of tradition and family, nothing in this film feels like propaganda or polemics. The Last Samurai doesn’t explore any terrain that hasn’t been seen, but where it goes, it does so with a genuine affection and ability that makes every meaning seem fresh.

**** of *****

Labels: ,

-------- TITLE: Casino Royale (2006) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 7:28:00 PM ----- BODY:
Dir: Martin Campbell

"Ever" is a tricky word, but one we love to toss around. With the advent of the grittier, blonder Bond, every commentator feels compelled to answer the questions: "Is Daniel Craig the best Bond ever?” "Is Casino Royale the best Bond film ever?" The answers are "No" and "Not exactly."

As for the first matter, it's probably better to say not yet, though Craig has clearly passed George Lazenby, Timothy Dalton and, probably, Pierce Brosnan. One thing is certain; Craig is the best actor to play Bond. Neither Connery nor Moore had the range. But Craig still hasn't shown us the suave strength of Brosnan, the charm of Connery or the humor of Moore. Of course, that's part of the fun of the Bond franchise - watching the role find new energy in the actors portraying the super agent.


The tougher question comes with the best Bond film ever. Casino Royale, despite a few dramatic slowdowns, may be the best film that is also a Bond film. It is sophisticated, superbly acted, wise and appropriate to the current era. But it isn't exactly a Bond film.

Moonraker, A View To A Kill, even the apocryphal Never Say Never Again - these are absurd, poorly scripted, half-hearted movies. But they are Bond movies. There's the familiar arrogant charm, womanizing, cool toys, speed and extravagant super criminals. No self-respecting movie critic would toss compliments about these movies (or 80% of the other movies) that have flown out regarding Casino Royale. That's because most critics aren't 14 year-old boys.

The "reboot" of the franchise is a redressing of the very essence of all that we've come to expect. Through the years, James Bond has ceased to be a literary character; he's a comic book. Casino Royale is an attempt to remind the viewer that Ian Fleming was a writer – a novelist - and that James Bond is a "blunt instrument" in those novels. In this refashioning, Casino Royale has more in common with its source material and Jason Bourne than any previous Bond movie.

Who deserves credit/blame for this change? It's probably the stream of comic films that have attempted to be completely serious, grounded in a gravity and pathos utterly distinct from the comic universe of the pre-1980's. It began and culminated in Batman, from "The Dark Knight" era of Tim Burton to Christopher Nolan's utterly serious origin story. Of course, Bryan Singer's psychological portraits of Superman and the X-Men made it impossible for Bond to be 2-dimensional any longer.

What remains is the promise of greater sophistication, deeper, more intense plot lines and new standards in acting. What gets lost is the one bastion for adolescence in action. Daniel Craig may be the best actor, Casino Royale the best film - but Connery and Goldfinger, they may be the best Bond duo... ever.

**** of *****

Labels: , ,

-------- TITLE: Archive Review: Psycho (1960) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 9:52:00 PM ----- BODY:
Dir: Alfred Hitchcock

(SPOILERS) It’s hard to imagine a film so nearly encapsulating a whole genre, but Psycho is just a few feet of film away from being the perfect thriller. Contemporary movies with twists and surprises are somehow unsatisfying compared to the depth of trickery in this film. Unfortunately, it is now impossible to watch the movie with the naiveté of its first viewers. Can one imagine not knowing that the “psycho” of the title is actually this affable and timid Norman Bates? Is there any one who doesn’t think of the “Shower Sequence” when they hear the name of this movie? With the possible exception of Jaws is there a more familiar snippet of music than Bernard Herrmann’s shrieking strings?

Even knowing these things—the shock of the main star’s murder a third into the picture—there are still surprises, both in the story and the powerfully crafted film itself. Unless one it totally spoiled, there is still the mystery of finding out more of Norman’s mother. What is it that gives her this brash strength and homicidal thirst? Why can’t Norman leave her? How does he know to dump a car in the bog?

But say this is the fiftieth time one has viewed the film. There is the faultless acting, cinematography and scoring of this movie. Marion Crane (Janet Leigh) is vulnerable as we are introduced to her in her white bra. But as she becomes a thief—something that appears wholly uncharacteristic and unplanned for her—we find her paranoid and cunning in black undergarments. She is now craftier, but retains discomfort, fear and a bit off our sympathy. Hitchcock immediately drags us into a sub-story of her paranoia as a Highway patrolman (Mort Mills) follows and talks with her. We are afraid because she is afraid. We are nervous because she is nervous.

Believing that Janet Leigh’s acting is the unsurpassable height of the film, we are quickly disarmed with Anthony Perkins’s Norman Bates. He is a sleek and polite boy-man. He flirts with Marion, but in the way a schoolboy flirts with a college girl. She is out of his league, but he persists. It isn't aggressive; it's even a bit sweet. And then we get a glimpse of something adult when Marion suggests he put his mother in a home. He takes the form of a watchdog, with the perfect balance of force and subtlety. Marion knows not to follow this line of questioning, but she is not entirely put off by him. He could easily redeem himself to her affections.

It's impossible to talk about this movie without mentioning the "Shower Sequence." It may be enough to say that it is, to this day, one of the most suggestive and violent sequences ever put onto film. It is brief and frantic, told by images, sound and music in a way that could never be conveyed in words or the documentary reality preferred in so many lesser films. It is the essence of a horror film and has never been duplicated.

The brilliance of Hitchcock is that even though he casts such an unforgettable and stark scene early in the film, we are still compelled to continue watching. Perhaps this is because of the unfolding plot. Very likely, it is the strangeness of Perkins’s character. If we offered our sympathies to Marion, the amateur thief, we are compelled to sympathize with Norman, the amateur accomplise to murder.

Hitchcock, like all artists, is always learning, always experimenting, and always drawing from his past experiences. In Psycho he may draw too heavily on the psychological exposition of his 1945 film Spellbound. As the movie draws to conclusion, Hitchcock inserts an unnecessary and distracting explanation. (Perhaps he learned from Psycho that it is not necessary to explain all things, as ambiguity is essential to 1963’s The Birds. )

Through a psychiatrist, everything about Norman is explained and somehow everything is less terrifying. If only—dare I say—he would have cut this scene from the movie, choosing to instead move from the apprehension of “Norman’s mother” to the police officers delivering a blanket to Norman. We understand what we need to understand without being patronized by a character who was never part of the story. But Hitchcock still gives us that last perfect scene, as Norman sits in the blanket and grants clemency to a fly. If only Hitchcock would not have granted clemency to the psychiatrist, Psycho would have been perfect.

****1/2 of *****

Labels: , ,

-------- TITLE: Archive Review: Ghostbusters (1984) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 8:34:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: Ivan Reitman

Other than The Blues Brothers and Stuart Saves His Family, the forays into films for Saturday Night Live characters has been rather disappointing. But that is not to say those alumni of America’s most famous sketch comedy are not without abilities. Ghostbusters is evidence that comedy guru Lorne Michaels could unearth deeply penetrating comedians: two of SNL’s premier veterans, Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd. (John Belushi was originally picked to play Murray’s role).

Both Murray and Aykroyd shine. Murray perfects his arrogant bravado and Aykroyd shows his uneasy, geeky tenderness that - when joined to dramatic roles in Driving Ms. Daisy or the black comedy of Grosse Point Blank - shows an underrated actor. Harold Ramis is the Mike White of his time: a significant writer and character actor that makes the rest of the cast shine. (Notably, one of Ramis’s most recent character roles was in Mike White’s Orange County).

Reitman proved himself to be a greedy director, unsatisfied with the central trio, he surrounds and supports them with some of the finest character actors possible. Ernie Hudson - in a part that was originally intended for another SNL alum, Eddie Murphy - doesn’t quite ever seem like a full-blown ghostbuster, but he is believable given the story line and his outsider status. Sigourney Weaver is a subtle “straight man” against Murray’s over-the-top Dr. Venkman. But the perfection in casting Weaver is shown in an unforgettable kiss and embrace with Rick Moranis, whom Weaver towers over. Moranis is brilliant. He is the most memorable apartment dweller since Mickey Rooney’s Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

The story isn’t bad either. This film could have easily flopped. It’s not that there haven’t been dozens of ghost-chaser comedy vehicles in the past. But none approached the genre with such a determination to rely on intelligence and subtlety rather than slapstick falls and exaggerated looks of horror. Ghostbusters takes all that Abbott and Costello, or Bing and Hope, pioneered and feeds it through the fertile mind of Aykroyd, Ramis and Moranis. The result is a film that is to metaphysics what The Blues Brothers was to music.

Perhaps the film succeeds because it knows when to be original and when to look towards what works. Although the movie always has its own voice and style, it keeps relationships and roles simple. In a sense, Ghostbusters is part Scooby Doo (television) and part Seven Samurai. Aykroyd takes his science seriously and this gives a weight to the film that lazier writers would have neglected. There is a reality to the situation that allows the farce to be entertaining without being meaningless. It’s not great satire nor is atmospheric horror, but it doesn’t really intend to be. Ghostbusters is an enjoyable comedy with a sense of gravity; a clever tale with a - (forgive the pun) - good spirit.

****1/2 of *****

Labels: , ,

--------