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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- TITLE: Review: 2001-A Space Odyssey (1968) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 9:37:00 PM ----- BODY:
Dir: Stanley Kubrick

Any movie that goes twenty-five minutes without dialogue or waits an hour to get to the central characters, seems like a formula for failure. A movie with angry evolutionary links jumping around with bones in their hands, looks like a failure. A space movie with lasers and battle, must be a failure. So why is Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey so successful?

I heard about this movie growing up and how my parents walked out of the theatre. And so when I finally got around to watching it, I wanted to finish - to prove that I was an intellectual, a conoseiur of films and could take whatever abstraction was being thrown at me. Having watched this a few times over the last decade, I'm continually surprised by how original, how unique this film remains. It makes me wonder what kind of person gave Kubrick permission to do this, because on paper it must have seemed like a complete mess. And that reminds me of another movie and how a studio risked everything based on the talent and reputation of a director: RKO and Citizen Kane.

This movie belongs in that conversation, on the same list with Citizen Kane, Casablanca, The Passion of Joan of Arc. And if you're trying to figure out why it works, stop. It's impossible. This film violates every rule but comes together with such precision and beauty that any attempt to emulate the structure is absolutely futile. It's like trying to remember why the Mona Lisa remains such a captivating portrait.

The story is confusing and abstract - something about a monolith that ushers humanity into evolutionary stages. And perhaps that isn't important, though there's an angle to the story that makes it feel as grand as the book of Genesis.

The central and most famous section of the film takes place aboard a space ship on a mission to Jupiter. It tells of the perfect HAL 9000 computer that starts to lose it's perfection. It develops a self-awareness that transforms into self-preservation, leading the irrational act of murder. It ultimately leads to the "death" of HAL. Not just the termination of a machine, but the death of an emerging consciousness. This section is so compelling. It's placed between the bookends of obscurity and silence at just the right time, cleansing the pallette for another exploration - this time for a special effects driven journey of discovery.

Like the rest of the movie, this third section shouldn't work, but it does. Perfectly. There are a few striking things about this movie aside from the atmosphere, pacing and vision.

The first is that the special effects have more accuracy and substance to them than nearly everything that has emerged from the cgi revolution. It reminded me of why it was possible to believe the original Star Wars trilogy occured in a real place. The new trilogy felt like light and pixels. The second is that, with the possible exception of Star Wars or Solaris, no one has improved upon this story or the sci-fi epic. Granted, the HAL storyline is ultimately a re-imagining of the Frankenstein legend, but very little of what Kubrick achieved forty years ago has been exceeded.

In an evolutionary model, Stealth, Electric Dreams, Terminator and perhaps even the Matrix trilogy, should have come earlier, leading to 2001 as the ultimate word on humanity verses machine, of mankind atoning for its own attempts to replace a creator god.

But this film, like Citizen Kane, was years ahead of the evolutionary curve - almost like an act of divine intervention.

***** of *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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.

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- TITLE: Review: Rocky Balboa (2006) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 5:21:00 PM ----- BODY:
Dir: Sylvester Stallone

In literature, the thing that survives is character: Captain Ahab, Scout, Huck Finn, Odysseus, etc. Television has its correlations – the pivotal character that becomes more important than plot. Consider the likes of Barney Fife, Archie Bunker, and Mr. Spock. Rocky is that sort of iconic character that merges popularity and literary depth – something of a cross between Cheers’s Sam Malone and Beowulf.

The power of this unlikely character remains embedded in his simplicity – Rocky is a likeable, unpretentious man who feels more than he says, who fights with a champion’s heart and a hero’s integrity. His simplicity is often confused with slowness, but that would be a mistake – nearly as large a mistake as assuming that Stallone’s embodiment of the character is anything less significant than the Bard’s projection of Prince Hamlet.


The opening of Rocky Balboa is all character - the story of living nostalgia. Rocky is neither forgotten nor disregarded, just resigned to that place of affection or trivia. Had this film not been preceded by the five earlier films, critics might be talking of the understated, perfectly spirited portrait of an aging man settling his past and accepting his future – moving from glory to contentment. They might also acknowledge that Stallone’s acting is as natural, precise and appropriate as any we’ve seen in some time. The Rocky of pop culture has been imitated for thirty years. But Stallone’s Rocky is living, subtle and fresh.

Unfortunately, Stallone’s direction is not nearly as honed. Rocky Balboa moves from a great film to a good film in the course of one montage. Then, in an exhibition fight, it moves from good film to an inspirational, seasonal movie (not that there’s anything wrong with that). The larger the plot grows, the greater the movie shrinks. Perhaps, it’s because once a decision is made to train for a climactic fight, the rest of the movie is automatically written. That part – the test of Rocky’s determination in a boxing ring – has already been done. Unfortunately, we don’t get to see the real story continue – Rocky’s determination toward a new era in life.

The match undoes much of what is successful throughout the rest of the film. First, it forces Stallone to make artistic decisions that counteract the warmth of the previous story. He combines HBO television graphics, Raging Bull-esque black and white shots, flashbacks and Gatorade/Pleasantville techniques. Most importantly, it becomes another movie. All through that match we lose the real battles: will Rocky move on in his life, past Adrian and mid-life? What conflict will arise between his real son and his surrogate son? Can he grow into a civic and community leader confronting the demise of “South Philly”? Are we all defined by our youth or are we able to find new definitions – to redirect our character and ethic from one field into another?

But despite that disappointing third act, Rocky Balboa remains uniquely able to excite an audience. Anyone who doesn’t cheer for him, who doesn’t want to call him “champ,” doesn’t have a heart. And until the boxing match is set, Stallone -the actor - gives one of the finer performances of his career. Stallone - the director - offers a film that is almost serious about dealing with the aging of the Baby Boomers. Although it’s tempting to think about what could have been, the Rocky Balboa that we get is still a strong, entertaining and inspiring movie.

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

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- 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 *****

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-------- TITLE: Review: Days of Thunder (1990) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 7:56:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: Tony Scott

I never saw Snakes On A Plane. The nearer it came to release, the more mindful it seemed of crafting "cult" status. There is a vital difference between SoaP and those films that actually reach so-bad-they're-good level (i.e. Plan 9, Beastmaster, They Live): sincerity.

In reviewing the films of Tony Scott, I confronted one of the most sincere films in recent memory. Days of Thunder (DoT) was so straight-faced and serious that it made Schindler's List look like Duck Soup. Sincerity may be one of the hardest tricks in composing and directing a film. If an audience doesn't buy it, you risk the possibility of undermining every other element of the film. Which is probably why so few contemporary "action" films even attempt it.

The safe route is injecting a little (or large) dose of irony. Consider how many films use a "cool" character - someone who probably watches David Letterman, who smirks more than smiles, who makes "air quotes". There has to be someone in the movie that permits the audience to disbelieve the film world - at least in the potentially absurd scenes. In DoT, Scott could have used a worldly-wise ironic character to smirk when Cruise enters the film riding down the race track on the blackest, baddest motorcycle he could find (a motorcycle that has no other function in the film). This guy - let's call him "Owen" or "Bond, James Bond" - provides a safety valve for an audience who isn't quite sure they're ready to take the situation serious.

Watching a film A.S. (After The Simpsons) is particularly hard, because we're used to finding idiocy in people who take themselves too seriously. There's one quick way around this: use actors that are already cool (i.e. Samuel L. Jackson, Bruce Willis). DoT almost did this - at the time. Who was cooler than "Maverick"? Tom Cruise used to be so cool; pretty - but definitely cool. A little of that mystique has worn off. Granted, there's no way Scott could have known that at the time, nor could he have anticipated that throwing in Nicole Kidman as the love interest would create a whole other subtext.

Another warning sign is having a British director (except John Boorman) attempt to capture southern U.S. "folk culture". When depicting southerners and topics like driving fast cars in a circle, there are so many stereotypes and (perhaps) unfair jokes that it's hard for many people to not make fun. It's not fair, but it's a fact. And adding the California car driver and the Australian doctor only makes it worse.

The concept behind DoT is fine. It is essentially Top Gun on wheels, so it should work... but it doesn't. Top Gun had some gravity because it followed guys in military uniforms flying jets saving the world from communism. Top Gun also had chemistry. DoT is guys wearing Mello Yello jumpsuits bumping into each other's fender then freaking out when there's an accident. And where's Val Kilmer, the ultimate cool guy - Doc Holliday, Elvis, "Iceman"?

Ultimately, DoT's sincerity backfires. It happens too soon, too forcibly without ever questioning the absurdity of the racing life. Like Road House, it doesn't seem to realize that if an audience doesn't care about the culture, it might have a problem identifying with the characters. And - like Road House - all the sincerity, bravado and intensity that seemed masculine and cool at the time, now seems a bit absurd (and not in a good way). Rather than being a film that pulls you in, DoT is impossible to watch without a group. It's impossible to watch without a smirk. And for a film that is completely straight, that's not a compliment.

** of *****

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-------- 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 *****

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