TITLE: One Crazy Summer (1986) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 10:38:00 PM ----- BODY:
Our recent episode on John Hughes made me think back to another director known (a little) for his 1980's teen comedies.

Dir: "Savage" Steve Holland

It’s easy to remember the 1980’s teen comedy as a franchise owned by John Hughes. The once prominent director codified the teen experience in Sixteen Candles and the Breakfast Club with such style and authenticity that little thought is given to his doppelgänger, "Savage" Steve Holland. To begin with, Holland built his best stories around a young John Cusack: that penetrating combination of charm, hipness, and accessibility introduced in Rob Reiner's The Sure Thing. Despite the glory of the Hughes films, they lacked the one thing that Holland had: the teen leading man, Jimmy Stewart in a veneer of cult band t-shirts.

Holland's two most successful films, Better Off Dead and One Crazy Summer, took the teen comedy places few went. He strove for comedy of the absurd: a vital blend of exaggeration, darkness, and subtlety. One Crazy Summer begins in this slightly bent universe with the high school graduation of Generic, New York. We are quickly introduced to the small band of characters. At the center is "Hoops" (Cusack), the unusually normal cartoonist chronicling a quest for love.

Given the opportunity to seek a small adventure, he departs with his best friend (Joel Murray) – who brings his elementary age sister – picking up a troubled bar singer called Cassandra (Demi Moore). They run off to Nantucket where people are every bit as unusual as they were on the mainland. They join up with the Stork twins ( Tom Villard and "Bobcat" Goldthwait) and a pacifist Marine (Curtis Armstrong) and begin a mission to save a house from an evil businessman (Animal House's villain Neidermeyer).

Hoops’ quest for love is ongoing, and his experience earning the affection of Cassandra is well intentioned, though ultimately lacking any tangible chemistry. The plot may not be overwhelmingly interesting, but Holland’s direction and love of the absurd makes the journey unforgettable. In the course of 90 minutes the viewer witnesses a rabid mechanical dolphin, two cases of grand theft auto, an underwater lobster attack, escape from a motorcycle gang, a yacht race, the destruction of a radio station by bazooka, and Godzilla’s rampage of a housing development.

This is hardly the usual teen film. But somehow Holland captures something quite essential to the teen experience. Cusack embodies average-nice-guy with such consistency, he could be placed in the Smithsonian as an example of the 1980’s adolescent. In this world of surrealism and unpredictability, he is normal and a mirror on that awkward transition from the stability of teen life to adulthood. The real world is not normal.

When the movies are reviewed, John Hughes' films will probably remain the official documents of teen life in that otherwise forgettable decade. He succeeded by imitating some form of an ideal life. But Holland’s interpretation is painted in Charles Addams strokes, preferring to disclose authenticity through contrast and exaggeration. It doesn’t make One Crazy Summer more accurate than Sixteen Candles. But it does make it a lot more difficult to outgrow.

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

Labels: , ,

-------- TITLE: Archive Review: Matrix Revolutions (2003) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 8:50:00 AM ----- BODY:
Since I've done nothing other than cover deep foreign movies, I thought – in an act of mercy – I'd throw in this review from a slightly more popular movie. This was written after seeing the film in the theater for the first time.

Dir: Andy Wachowski/Larry Wachowski

It is wholly unfair to gauge either of The Matrix sequels against their 1999 predecessor. Somewhere, back before “bullet-time,” we had not imagined the hybrid of techno-club culture and hong-Kong wire effects. But now this is all familiar territory and the remaining question is whether the peculiar parallel world created by the brothers Wachowski will be nearly as interesting as it seemed a few years ago.

The leather trilogy began with an homage to Alice in Wonderland but ends here with a highly-stylized abstraction of a video game. Visually, the Metropolis landscapes are riveting. Still, they feel like backdrops — even matte paintings — suggesting great imagination, but wholly inorganic. Of course, given the plot lines and history of the world, this may be intentional. But every hero story, especially those that are supposed to be about great acts of salvation, must make us care for both hero and victim. Instead, Revolutions is relentless posturing and exaggeration. There are no people in this movie. Zion, the refuge of true humanity, is somehow less warm than the digital cities. Its demolition seems no more tragic than the closing of a Starbucks.

Few movies are so successfully and unapologetically about style. Then again, few have the capability to rely on pure atmosphere. The Wachowskis' landscape remains unequaled. The action sequences continue to be astounding. But with all the hype, with all the quasi-philosophy introduced in the first two installments, something is altogether hollow. Perhaps the tagline—"Everything that has a beginning has an end"—sums up the film. It sounds profound but is sheer redundancy. This is a movie about indulgent pretension, acting like a clever group of undergraduates volleying meaning-of-life questions while playing Halo.

Revolutions, if it is has a point, is about conclusion. It is all about arriving at some finality. However, all sense of urgency and momentum is derived from the previous two installments. Anyone who enjoyed those films will be required to watch the third. Maybe true satisfaction comes from the utter shallowness of the chapter. There isn’t a need for another movie. Whatever happens to humanity and the machine world is really irrelevant because by the time Neo has fought his climactic battle nothing is really worth saving. The mystery of The Matrix was how it convinced us that there was reality to its universe in the first place.

*** of *****

Labels: , ,

-------- TITLE: Archive Review: Spiderman 2 (2004) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 6:54:00 PM ----- BODY:
Note: Seeing as Spiderman 3 has opened this weekend, it seemed like a good time to dig back into the archives for this review of Spiderman 2, from a few summers ago.

Dir: Sam Raimi

It seems that Spiderman 2 was already classified as one of the premier films of summer 2004 long before any eye saw a frame. It had to be, for the very same reason as the original Spiderman. The forerunner was touted as an exceptional work of psychological brilliance based on one of the most universally beloved heroes of the comic universe. That story was about maturation and character development. It was about the person inside the suit, and was able to treat the young viewer and his or her chaperone.

So far the Spiderman franchise has been content to revisit the themes of superhero films established most firmly with the Christopher Reeves-era Superman, though with an added level of depth and competence. Still, perhaps the most surprising aspect of the whole sequel is that no lawyer associated with the Superman films sued for intellectual plagiarism.

Spiderman 2, like Superman 2, is the story of the reluctant hero - the struggle between the costume and the normal life. Peter Parker (Toby McGuire) is torn between his guilt-based sense of responsibility – the deep conviction that Spiderman is the protector of the innocent – and a personal desire to pursue life with a girl (Mary Jane, played by Kirsten Dunst). It is, with no real sense of irony, that the endangered girl ultimately draws Peter back to the costume.

In an age of absentee masculinity and indifferent anti-heroes, this self-sacrificial story seems both healthy and needed. Perhaps it is. But at the end of the day, there is nothing particularly surprising - nothing really risked in the sacrifice. Like most concepts of screen heroes, no act of benevolence goes unpaid. Is Peter Parker really required to give up Mary Jane? Does he forever have to forsake any life outside of duty? No. He must simply learn to be a better time manager and get others to cooperate.

Spiderman 2 offers unusually good acting, a reliable story-line, and an embellished special effects budget. This is the hope of every parent who’s adolescent boy is looking for a franchise. Spiderman is significantly more wholesome than Neo (Matrix) or James Bond. But there is only so much self-suffering that one should have to witness unless watching a Swedish film. The circumstances of existential doubt and debate get overly heavy. It’s difficult to remember if McGuire ever has a joy-filled smile in the whole film. If the hero doesn’t have any fun, why should the viewer?

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

Labels: , ,

-------- TITLE: Review: 300 (2007) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 8:21:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: Zack Snyder

Schools have spent much of the last fifteen years changing mascots. The Orangemen have become, simply, the Orange. My old community college moved from Indians to the Yaks (true). After watching 300, I would be among the first to suggest my old high school consider dropping "Spartans".

300 is a stylized splatterfest, an adaptation of a Frank Miller graphic novel that aims to bring his vision of ancient history from the page to the screen. It does this. Unlike so many adaptations, the problem isn't only the translation, but also the source material. Miller's story is a glimpse at the Sparta civilization and its attempt to withstand subjugation by the Persian empire. It concentrates on a small band of soldiers who join King Leonidas, like the Scots standing with William Wallace for the cause of freedom.

300 is no Braveheart. It may not even be a Sin City, another Miller adaptation. For one thing, Sin City had both characters and plot. Other than the above summation, there is no plot. And the development of character, with the possible exception of Queen Gorgo, isn't as deep as the black ink on a Miller page.

When audiences see Leni Reifenstahl's Triumph of the Will, her propaganda documentary on the Nazis, they watch with fascination. It's a chance to see the most famous villains of the twentieth century on film. But it also has a tendency to develop some sense of understanding. For a moment, every non-German stops asking, "How could those dumb people ever follow this guy?" Reifenstahl succeeds at turning Hitler into a hero, a fulfillment of some deep Teutonic dream.

The Spartans are no less noble and no less nationalistic than the Nazis, but director Zack Snyder is no Reifenstahl. The prologue vividly displays the indoctrination of Spartan youth. They are inspected at birth for perfection. When they fail, the babies are cast upon a giant trash heap of discarded carcasses. Following a perversion of Plato's Republic, young boys are taken from their mothers to be trained, brutally, to be heartless and committed warriors. They suffer abuse at the hands of other boys, men and the entire civilization. The survival of the entire nation depends on continual chain of systematized eugenics, abuse and military assimilation.

No one in Sparta is weak. Every man, other than the duplicitous philosopher-politicians, is blazing in idealized masculinity. The women are perfect matches. It is the society of design and misogyny. It exists only through the uncompromising enforcement of an ethnic and philosophical ideal that would have made the Führer wince.

And these are our heroes.

After the establishment of lore and culture, the remainder of the film is dedicated to achieving the perfect battle scene. Wave after wave of Persians fall to the strategies and homo-erotic sculptures of the Spartans. Xerxes, an eight-foot demigod king, offers peace through submission - and a display of fetish jewelry that belongs in Hellraiser. Sparta has sacrificed all of its imperfection for their ideals. They will not even hear the most compassionate offer of treaty. They know only the way of the sword and brutality, though, for them, it is the way of liberty.

The first battle is successful. It draws on depicting strategy and highlighting the stylistic vocabulary of the film. But each subsequent sequence is simply a modified version. It becomes obvious that the style and grandeur of 300 is limited to a small palette. It is built on blacks and reds, sword splatter, chiseled physiques and a pacing that slows to accentuate every thrust of the spear. If the film ran at a constant real-time speed, it may have lasted only thirty minutes.

And that would have been more than enough.

* of *****

Labels: ,

-------- TITLE: Archive Review: Casablanca (1942) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 6:45:00 AM ----- BODY:
After reviewing Bogart and Bacall on our Howard Hawks WTD episode, I thought it would be worthwhile to look at another Bogart pairing from a few years earlier.

Dir: Michael Curtiz

Surely there are over-rated classics: movies that are listed as important but seem dated by contemporary standards. Casablanca is not one of those. It continues to stand as a fascinating piece of filmmaking that is safely positioned to endure long after most films of the twentieth-century drift into nostalgia and neglect.

At the beginning, there is little sign of the promise this movie holds. There are moments of cinemagraphic greatness, but nothing so stark and visual as Citizen Kane or a David Lean film. The opening titles and expositional voice over seem in keeping with small budget war pictures that were being pumped out of the studios during that time. But ultimately, this film is not about a beginning. It is about the ending.

The whole story primarily takes place at “Rick’s Cafe Americain” - the restaurant/club owned by Humphrey Bogart’s Rick Blaine. For drama, rather than draw in the establishing allure of the location, Curtiz relies on the sheer presence of Bogart and Bergman, and a beautifully composed supporting cast that includes Peter Lorre, Sydney Greenstreet and Claude Rains. Bogart is making his breakout in this role. He finds himself as the center of the entire story, being forced to confront a buried past and choose a side - not only politically, but morally. In the 100 minutes of screen time, we watch a man define himself.

Bogart is most convincing when he’s strong. The scenes in which he buries his head, apparently weeping, seem somehow overacted. But there is always a sense of power and weakness in Bogart. He is strong because he is unpredictable and angular though not physically overwhelming. There is also a desperation in his manners and stature. He could easily drift into being a pathetic man suffering from a mid-life crisis. Perhaps this makes his tenderness towards Ilsa some of the most dangerous work Bogart took on as an actor. It was a hint of what was to come much later in his career with his brilliant performance in The Caine Mutiny.

When first introduced to Rick there is a sense of new charisma and possibility entering the film, something Curtiz emphasizes by his gradual rising pan, tracing Bogart’s hands and moving toward his face. However, the real magic of the movie is Ingrid Bergman cast against him. She glows with a transcendent depth that makes the Moroccan context seem tame. In flashback scenes, she has a youthful luster that is almost a last chance to see her as girlish - something which will soon disappear in the darker roles that mark her later career. Bogart attempts to be carefree and passionate, but it isn’t always convincing. Bergman, however, appears to be in a very different place when we view her in the Paris flashbacks and the conflicted world of Casablanca.

The film grows in intensity, building to the famous ending that could have very well gone another way. But one almost has a palpable sense of danger as the Germans become more territorial and Rick realizes that there no one can save Ilsa and Lazlo but him. Rick is a man with a past and a story, apparently as a mercenary and warrior. But weapons have little place in this warfare, and it is only through diplomacy, deceit and desire that he can choose: to save a good man and lose Ilsa, or allow him to be arrested by the Germans and regain the happiness he knew in Paris.

Casablanca is nearly a perfect film. It is modest but satisfying in length. The characters are unforgettable and endearing without being typical or overly safe. Dialogue is simultaneously natural and poetic, and the story is as timeless as any told by Shakespeare. There is something about this film that could never have been predicted, and could never be duplicated. Casablanca is the convergence of story and talent, heart and ambiguity that forms a greatness far above all but a few films.

***** of *****

Labels: , ,

-------- TITLE: Archive Review: Time Changer (2002) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 10:59:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: Rich Christiano

Christian filmmaking is generally akin to war propaganda and after-school specials. It requires the adjective “Christian” because these filmmakers cater to an audience that is forgiving, exploiting a sense of party loyalty and cultural guilt. It is very difficulty to tell a story well, whether in film or print. Somewhere, there must be an overriding theme; the story must be about something. At the same time, for the story to have any depth, the characters cannot become inferior to the theme. In action films it is customary to use “types”—disposable and predictable villains, fair maidens, and brawny vigilantes. But in dramas, character is essential.

Time Changer is tightly focused on its thematic question: “Can morality and the authority of Jesus Christ be separated?” Of course, we cannot imagine the flimmaker answering in the negative. We are being taught something, a way to think properly. If we are to listen to the film and enjoy it, we must think like it does. We must agree with what it teaches.

Propaganda films are usually very boring or unbearably heavy-handed. Even the better ones, such as The Day the Earth Stood Still or Intolerance, are difficult to forgive. We know we are being manipulated and though we may even agree with the film, there is always a level of resentment against being told to see with one perspective.

There is one avenue for propaganda films that can work more smoothly, namely, the satire. Black comedy and exaggerated stories make disagreement seem ludicrous. But satire is more manipulative than the blatant propaganda film. Time Changer is not truly satire. But neither, despite its premise, is it really about manipulation. Yes, it manipulates, but that does not appear to be its function. Rich Christiano seems intent on exploring the foundational question, building a case study or illustration. (The movie is both his hypothesis and his evidence, and to critique the film negatively one must find a hole in his argument.)

Time Changer is a rather credible piece of entertainment, mixing H.G. Wells fantasy with fish-out-of-water comedy. Yet, despite this quickly identifiable parentage, Christiano manages to avoid several of the clichés present in both genres. The time machine device completely stays away from any “changing the future” idea. It also dedicates little time to comedic misunderstandings. As Russell Carlisle (D. David Morin) comes to the present, he really adjusts as quickly as possible to modern contrivances. He gets the gist of the future and attempts to make his stay invisible.

Despite the fantastic plot device of utilizing time travel to witness the results of Carlisle’s theories, there is gravity and evident contrast between past and present. This gravity comes from what is arguably the greatest strength, or greatest weakness, of the movie: D. David Morin’s performance. He seems stilted and speaks awkwardly. The dialogue is intentionally contrasted from modern vernacular. Carlisle talks in complete sentences without contractions ("will not" not "won't" - "can not" not "can't"). But reading nineteenth-century scholarly writings, perhaps Morin’s performance is better than it seems. The only doubt about this is watching Carlisle in contrast with the fluid mannerisms of his contemporaries Norris Anderson and The Dean, played by more prominent actors Gavin MacLeod and Hal Linden, respectively.

Time Changer succeeds in two significant areas: the characters are interesting and, largely, original — and there is enough intrigue to keep viewers to the end. It could easily use another re-write and an outside, critical eye to advance the movie to another level. Knowing that the primary audience is fundamental Christians — and that the movie was executively produced by Paul Crouch, founder and president of the banal Trinity Broadcasting Network — Christiano takes some significant risks. Although he doesn’t exactly bite the hand that feeds, he subtly makes a few pokes at the modern church. It isn’t enough, but it is accurate.

The entire movie is as much a critique of liberal Christianity as it is propaganda for fundamental Christianity. While it reinforces evangelical zeal for “End Times” theology and proactive evangelism, it also questions the results of agnostic philanthropy and – very subtly – religious right demands for the legislation of moral behavior.

Rich Christiano’s effort is generally solid. It might even be good filmmaking, though, at its heart, it is intensely about an agenda. There’s nothing wrong with the agenda and it is uncommon enough to propel the film. Time Changer puts forth hope that Protestant Christianity may one day re-engage with culture, depending on good storytelling, compelling characters, skillful directing and proficient acting more than a sympathetic audience. Considering the progress made by LDS filmmaker Richard Dutcher, Christiano still has some work to do, but he may have a great film in him somewhere.

*** 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: Star Wars (1977) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 5:13:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: George Lucas

It was easy as a boy to wonder how Star Wars was neglected for 1977’s Best Picture Oscar; how Annie Hall could have any legitimate claim in the face of this landmark epic. Of course, I realized later that great films—or at least Best Pictures—are not usually those which appeal most to six-year-old boys.

As I revisit this very familiar territory after a five year lapse, I am slightly more savvy. I can spot quality filmmaking much better than in younger years. I am no longer blown away, or even very interested, by grand spectacles like Men In Black or The Matrix sequels.

Perhaps to my surprise, Star Wars is truly a stunning movie. George Lucas, who has become more a video game visualizer than a movie director, actually seemed to have notable visual instincts and even an ear for dialogue. Lucas admits to drawing from Kurosawa, and that is part of his wisdom. That hint of eastern influence draws this very western story into a realm of metaphysics and ancient folklore. All other science fiction is about the future. Star Wars is about the past—like Greece, like Rome, like Noah or the Garden of Eden.

Lucas’ directorial style is invigorating. He uses appropriate establishing shots of fantastic space-scapes, but spends much of his time with characters in close shots. In this immediacey, there is something like Carl Dreyer’s Passion of Joan of Arc. The characters are shot to be more important to story and action than the visuals. Something that Lucas and many of his imitators seem to have forgotten.

The casting is fitting and exciting. Mark Hamill is the perfect embodiment of a restless farm boy, complete with a free California look with a subtle combination of aspiration and arrogance. Alec Guiness legitimizes the entire production, providing the gravity and age that lets us believe this is truly an ancient story. Harrison Ford has the charisma of Indiana Jones, with enough youth to cocnceivably be a rogue (and hide some flat dialogue delivery). Princess Leia is presented as the innocent, virginal princess, though Carrie Fisher gives her color with an appropriately biting wit.

The supporting ensemble needs little description, for they are now icons: R2-D2, C3PO, Chewbacca, Darth Vader, and even the enigmatic stormtroopers. Perhaps just as important, is the inclusion of the most memorable musical score in recent time. Or maybe it is the inimitable sound effects which color every scene.

It is, quite simply, impossible to see the summer movie season without being reminded of Star Wars’s influence. It is a cultural icon that permeates entertainment and marketing. Yet, behind all of the business and commercialism is a really good movie. George Lucas, to his credit as director and producer, created a brilliant and original masterpiece of modern cinema. So maybe I can still ask that question: “What was the Academy thinking anyway?”

***** 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: 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: , ,

--------