SHORT REVIEWS OF NEW
RELEASES SEEN, AUGUST 2003
All films from U.S.A. unless
otherwise specified.
(- seen on video; [v] video
piece; [s] short, under 30 minutes; [m] medium length, 30-69 min; * grade
changed upon repeat viewing)
[8]*
The
Secret Lives of Dentists (Alan Rudolph)
This
is an impressive, literate film, and it remains so when it doesn’t
overreach. Campbell Scott and Hope
Davis are both excellent as Dave and Dana, delivering performances which
register the full weight of the volumes left unsaid. At first, I was a bit perturbed that the film aligned itself so
absolutely with Scott’s character and his mental anguish. But (as Jen pointed out to me), it would
have been rather dishonest to do anything else, and upon reflection I realized
just how absolutely this film refused to vilify Dana. (Earlier I’d watched Unfaithful, which throws Dentists’
even-handedness into hard relief.) The
attention to the minutia of the daily grind of family life is astonishingly
spot-on. Even though Jen and I have only
cats for children, we frequently nudged each other in amused, reluctant
recognition. Most films would deal with
“family gets the flu” in a one-minute montage, thereby eliding the most salient
aspect of the experience – the distended, bizarre temporality of illness. After a while, though, Rudolph’s less
successful choices become harder to ignore.
The soundtrack is overbearing, some of the fantasy inserts are sloppy
and undercut the sophistication (especially the “Fever” sequence, seemingly
there just to give Robin Tunney a big scene), and while I was not as bothered
by Denis Leary’s performance as others have been, his continual sneering
presence eventually blunts its own impact.
These elements – which must work for some viewers – felt like
concessions to a hypothetical Someone who needs things spelled out for
them. It’s also worth noting that the
kids are all wonderfully naturalistic, no preening cuteness anywhere in
sight. Since they too have to perform
adult-like roles in Dave’s unconscious, lesser actors could have derailed the
film. All in all, a very good film with
moments of greatness. [Second viewing: The Leary and Tunney portions of the
film are indeed blunt and intrusive, bringing too much subtext front and
center. But, for what may be purely
personal reasons, all the subtleties, all the failures to connect, all the ways
Dave shuts down, all the simple management of daily life, far outweighed the
demerits. I even liked the soundtrack a
little better; the Cat Power and Craig Wedren in particular were not, strictly
speaking, necessary, but greatly enjoyed.]
[6]
American
Wedding (Jesse Dylan)
More
a film of set-pieces than of narrative continuity, American Wedding is
frequently incompetent by any reasonable standard of commercial filmmaking. (What’s with those weird high-angle shots of
Biggs, How High Guy?) But unlike AP2, Wedding manages to
strike a good balance between genuine warmth and body-function humor. Eugene Levy is a rock, as usual, but the
real surprise here is Seann William Scott.
Stifler is a force of nature in this film, and while he sometimes
overreaches, by and large this is one of the best comic performances I’ve seen
all year. (The gay nightclub sequence,
which could have been mean-spirited gay-baiting, gives Stifler enough rope to
hang his diva ass. But Scott is at his
best when toggling between Good and Evil Stifler from second to second.) Happily, the blandest actors from 1 and 2
are missing, and there is an anarchic, slipshod, balls-out quality which at
times resembles John Waters more than Late Capitalist Industrial Teen
Comedy. One major complaint: why’s it
such a boys’ club? The hilarious
opening scene demonstrates that Alyson Hannigan is a comic dynamo when you give
her something to do.
[5]
Dirty
Pretty Things (Stephen Frears, U.K.)
My
friend Domietta warned me that this movie is “a fable,” and I shouldn’t judge
it too harshly for its broad characterizations or failure to conform to
narrative plausibility. Fair enough,
but why then are some characters, such as Okwe (the excellent Chiwetel Ejiofor)
and Guo-yi (Benedict Wong), relatively well-rounded and complex? This problem underscores the thorough
unevenness of this project, from its glamorizing cinematography to its wild
veering between dark humor and maudlin emotion. The film behaves like a thriller but talks like a political
tract, and the strange thing is, sometimes this really works. (The line about being “the people you never
see” was actually affecting, because as performed, it successfully conveyed the
film’s strident ambivalence.) Mostly,
this film frustrates because it announces itself as so much more than it really
is. Oh, and Audrey Tautou sounds like
Natasha from the old “Bullwinkle” show.
(“Today I bit, Moose and Squirrel. I bit.”)
[4]
-Old
School (Todd Phillips)
Theo
Panayides already articulated many of my objections to this one, proving once
again that Theo is much more of a trooper than I am. Actually I'm a bit too depressed at having actually watched
it to write a genuine review.
(Theo the Cypriot has had more time to adjust to the dearth of viewing
options that leads to watching this type of thing.) Nevertheless, it’s also
worth noting that no movie should aspire to rip off both Rushmore and Animal
House because those two worldviews are incompatible, as well they should
be. (See, the trouble is, the men are
in grown-up situations which they are not yet emotionally mature enough to
handle. But going back to school shows
them what’s important. It’s like
they have to go to school to learn to be old. Jesus H.)
Swimming
Pool (François Ozon, France / U.K.)
I
recently saw Sitcom on TV, and having seen the “mature” Ozon of Under
the Sand and even 8 Women, I had forgotten how besotted Ozon could be with his own bizarre,
half-formed ideas. Sitcom ultimately felt oppressive and smug, but at least in some discomfiting
way it was alive. Swimming Pool is the mark of a maverick artist trying to go straight, and that
seldom works out for anyone. (Cf. The
Sweet Hereafter, Young Soul Rebels, Liz Phair.)
Essentially a one-note culture-clash joke (tight-assed Brits vs.
Frenchies who let it all hang out), this film nevertheless takes itself very
seriously. Charlotte Rampling is wasted
as a priggish cultural stereotype, and I wonder if she somehow understood her
own performance to be a kind of mannered enterprise designed to elicit audience
distaste. Ludivine Sagnier does not
conduct herself very convincingly in English, but then she too is more of a pawn
than a fully-formed character. (Nice tits, though.) After the thirty-fifth rigid composition or slow zoom-in, I
checked out on this, and I’m not convinced anyone who made this Arthouse
Respectability Machine cared about it much more than I did.
-Selections
from “Underground Zero”
Ordinarily
I allot short films and videos full-length reviews, on the premise that when
made well, they are every bit as complex and formally rich as full-length
features. A short film simply operates
within a different set of formal parameters, and its relative brevity or
density should be analyzed with at least as much care as one would afford to a
more expansive work. A few factors have
prompted me to adopt a different tack here.
On the one hand, these shorts were packaged together, and so it’s kind
of reasonable to treat them as one unified text. On the other hand, I watched the films on DVD, and more than half
of the selected program was so irritating or pat or twee or slapdash or
repugnant or boring that I could not refrain from flipping the chapters ahead. So I can’t really grade or review
“Underground Zero” as a whole, or go into too much depth with the parts I
watched. And this may have something to
do with the subject matter itself. What
can really be said about 9/11 in the short form? I have not yet seen the 11’09”01 omnibus, which at least
has formal continuity, whatever its inevitable pitfalls, to recommend it. Most
of the entries here (linked, I might add, with the ill-advised tolling of
funereal bells) demonstrate, above all, that 9/11 brings out bland, pious
images from the cultural imaginary, such as Jay Rosenblatt’s Prayer [3/10],
an obvious, signature-style piece from a talented artist who needs to find a
new set of tools. Or, we discover what
we probably already knew, which is that 9/11 renders virtually any metaphor
smug and irrelevant. This is absolutely
the case with Caveh Zahedi’s The World is a Classroom [4/10], in which
Zahedi’s lazy, “unconventional” teaching antics – which speak mostly to his
inability to take responsibility for his academic authority until it can be put
to self-serving use – are supposed to resonate with the gulf in understanding
between the U.S. and the Arab world. We
also learn that it is all too easy to wag fingers and play Monday-morning
quarterback, as in Robert Edwards’ dreadful The Voice of the Prophet
[2/10]. An interview with a WTC
security expert Rick Rescorla filmed after the first terrorist bombing in 1998,
the film turns his criticisms of U.S. foreign policy into hacked-up soundbites
and staccato ejaculations. Are these
ideas cogent, much less prophetic? Hard
to say, since the film reduces them to a three minute commercial. That Rescorla died in the WTC in 9/11
(Edwards’ text at the end tells us, but we pretty much already know) makes it
all the more infuriating that this badly bungled agitprop film will serve as
his last testament. In Laura Plotkin’s 21
[5/10], we see that there are numerous stories to be told about those
persecuted in the aftermath of 9/11.
While Plotkin’s film basically lets one woman’s testimony speak for
itself, it also exhibits a limited aesthetic modesty, chiming in with ominous
music while adopting the transparent visual style of political reportage. The result is muddled. This is also the case in Cathy Lee Crane and
Sarah Lewison’s Meal [5/10], a short video piece which did not make the
main package. Combining lively talk
radio with penetrating minimalist video, it begins with acuity and wit, but
sadly cops out, concluding as a one-liner.
Finally, we come to Ira Sachs’ untitled [7/10], which consists
solely of silent, two-second close-ups of images of the dead, taken from the
“missing” flyers produced by their loved ones.
The subtle differences in the images, how the wedding photos or group
shots or casual holiday snapshots become forever transformed, are heartrending,
and they truly speak for themselves.
Like Ken Jacobs’ documentary Circling Zero, Sachs provides the
most potent, disturbing, but truthful assessment of how to make sense of
9/11. It’s important that we shut up
and listen to those who have been most directly affected. Most of us have nothing of value to say on
the matter, and we cannot simply submit to the nervous urge to fill the
silence.