SHORT REVIEWS OF NEW
RELEASES SEEN, JUNE 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]
Blue
Gate Crossing (Yee Chin-yen, Taiwan)
Stylistically,
the very definition of subtle, a film which at first seems technically shoddy
(“Was this shot out of focus?”), then just negligibly “realistic,” with no
discernible style at all. But soon, you
realize exactly how much control and expression Yee is bringing to bear, with
shallow focus lending most everything in the frame an internalized glow, as if
conjured from a warm memory. Yee also
undercuts the surface realism with masterful staging of actions which mutate
unexpectedly into something else (e.g., Kerou and Shihao scraping the pilfered
mash note off the playground floor with their feet, a gesture which becomes an
awkward, vaguely chicken-like pas de deux). It recalls the unobtrusive formalism of early Edward Yang; tonally,
it’s the kind of film that Lukas Moodysson’s fans claim he makes, but to my
mind really doesn’t – open-hearted, tender, and generous with every last
character. At times, it even exhibits
shades of Hal Hartley, with its deliberate blockings and repeated, circular
dialogue. All the performances are
distinct and exacting, especially the two leads. Kerou (Guey Lun-mei), like Hartley’s male heroes, is driven yet
impassive, nearly blank. This deadpan
strategy plays perfectly against Chen Bo-lin’s Shihao, the affable
cool-guy-bad-boy whose reserves of feeling and compassion seem to surprise even
himself. Not perfect (a major plot
development was so unexpectedly elliptical as to make me wonder if a reel was
missing; I’m still on the fence about the tinkly piano score), but a wonderful
surprise.
[7]
Capturing
the Friedmans (Andrew Jarecki)
Jarecki
stumbled upon such an amazing, terrifying, convoluted story, about a tortured,
pitiable man and the destruction he accidentally unlooses on himself and his
loved ones. But because the tragic
grandeur is contained in the material itself, Jarecki only sabotages it when he
tries to make it into art. Mournful
music and slo-mo shots of the commuter trains really only get in the way, and
show how much this story, these individuals, require directorial humility, not
bungled Errol Morris stylings. As
Charles Francois has said, the greatness of Friedmans is the way it
plays out like a real-life version of an Atom Egoyan film, with the
participants mediating their disintegration through recording technology. Yet oddly, Jarecki doesn’t ever interrogate
this aspect of the story, and how this fascination with images might relate
back to the case. Also, withholding the
gayness of Arnold’s brother was a serious misstep. All in all, an absolutely stunning tale unearthed by a filmmaker
mostly, but not completely, up to the task of conveying it.
[6]
Manito
(Eric Eason)
The
film and its titular character sort of end up following the same path. So gripping and so incisively observed for
nearly its whole running time, how can Manito manage to fuck it up in a
mere 75 minutes? Much like Loach’s Sweet
Sixteen, the answer comes in the form of a narrative plotted so
deterministically as to beggar belief.
And, like the Loach, this is all the more frustrating because of the
unforced naturalness, the exacting faux-verite, of so many moments. (The graduation party is a highlight,
especially the heart-wrenching montage of toasts. Anyone who comes from a milieu in which “college” is an almost
magical ticket out will understand immediately.) Had it not turned into a kind of miserablist telenovela, I
might have managed to let its first-film rookie errors slide. (Why the canted angles? Why no feel for the
properties of DV?) Basically this will
be the best thing on TV whenever it premieres on Sundance Channel, and I can’t
not recommend it. But still, sort of
like Manny himself, it ends up hanging there, an emblem of unfulfilled promise.
Marooned
in Iraq (Bahman Ghobadi, Iran [Kurdistan])
Weird
film. All middle, with a beginning so
slapdash and elliptical as to challenge comprehension (especially the second
reel or so, where the three principals seem to get arrested, or robbed, or
something) and an ending so abrupt as to split into three separate threads and
leave two of them dangling. The music’s
cool, and there are occasional dollops of humor, coming from the sheer
absurdity of conducting everyday life in a dilapidated war zone. But the overall feeling was poignancy,
resulting from finding things other than what you set out to look for. (Sorry to be vague, but it’s fading from
memory fast, despite its obvious strengths.)
Nowhere
in Africa (Caroline Link, Germany)
One
of several films I’ve seen this month which contains quite a lot of excellent stuff,
but is partially torpedoed by some really dumb artistic choices. I was surprised by just how gripping this
film is. Excessive voiceover narration
is a pet peeve of mine, but Nowhere’s incorporation of Regina’s
novelistic observations added a resonant layer of retrospection to what
we were witnessing. Still, the film
fails on some basic levels. It is as
though Link has decided that she must make An Epic Motion Picture, even though
her material would best be served by an unobtrusive realism. She can’t seem to resist unnecessary crane
shots, pulling away from the isolated bungalow and giving us Figures in the
Vast Landscape of History. Nor can she
seem to stop making the music swell. In
fact, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a film so dependent on its
score to smooth out every edit and transition.
The principal actors are all quite good, even inflecting Link’s
sometimes schematic script with significant depth of character. Juliane Köhler and Sidede Onyulo are
particularly excellent. But as
entertaining and moving as the story and performances may be, Link’s direction
frequently leaves all concerned stranded in the middle of nowhere.
Respiro
(Emanuele Crialese, Italy)
For
its pleasurable first half, Respiro was sort of an Italian
neo-neo-realist Woman Under the Influence, with Grazia’s unusual,
patriarchy-resistant behavior serving as the lightly bobbing anchor of a
poetic, observational film, in no hurry to hit predetermined plot points. But, like Grazia’s family, Respiro
clamps down. But instead of introducing
narrative economy or character-motivated outcomes, the film seems to take
forever to do its thing, and it becomes increasingly far-fetched and mechanical
as it plods on. (Good: the interludes
with little Filippo scolding his sister and aunts, showing the pervasive reach
of male arrogance. Bad: the men on
rooftops, materializing out of nowhere, guns already cocked. Suddenly, it’s the Borg of machismo, and
downright silly.) Step-printing, slow
motion, and “quiet storm” jazz are all ill-advised. Golino delivers an impressive performance, exuding both
self-confidence and a general befuddlement at the out-of-proportion response of
those around her.
[5]
Dracula:
Pages From a Virgin’s Diary (Guy Maddin, Canada)
My
first exposure to Maddin’s work was Careful, several years ago, and it
was a truly rare experience. I went
from being so deeply irritated with the film that I wanted to walk out, to
deciding at about the midway point that it was one of the most amazing, sui
generis things I’d ever seen. While
I haven’t liked all the Maddin I’ve seen (Gimli Hospital left me cold),
I consider myself a partisan. So I was
pretty disappointed when Dracula initially struck me as twee and
half-baked, and kept proving me right until the end. The main problems are formal.
On paper, wedding ballet to silent cinema is a stroke of genius, but Dracula
has mediocre ballet at its center, and surrounds it with numerous visual
effects which felt as if they were deployed by some kind of randomizing
computer program. Irises, three-stage
zooms, and grainy close-ups merely clutter the work. Considering how masterfully Maddin composes such elements in his
best work, the overall flatness of Dracula just doesn’t make sense. It has a few high points – the flashback
recounted by Jonathan, which recaps Nosferatu almost in its entirety, is
particularly strong. And Zhang
Wei-Qiang is simply riveting to watch as the count “from the East.” But sadly, for the most part the obvious
joke truly applies. Insert it at will.
Hulk
(Ang Lee)
Going
into this one, I had read several negative reviews (Mike D’Angelo, Lisa
Schwarzbaum, A. O. Scott), most of which contained some variant on “this movie
takes itself too seriously and is not pure unadulterated comic book fun in our
opinion.” Now, I don’t read comics, and if I did they wouldn’t be superhero
comics. So I don’t give a fuck about the source material or the film’s fidelity
thereto. (I sort of enjoyed the TV show in the 80s, however.) No, the main
problem with Angst Lee’s Hulk is that it’s a movie divided against
itself. (This could lead some wrongheaded soul to provide a compelling
interpretation about how the film’s form mirrors the tormented schizophrenia of
Bruce Banner / Hulk him/it/themselves. No.) The first 30 to 45 minutes, I was
just grooving on the pure formal trickery of Lee’s transitions, graphic
matches, focus pulls, and gee-wizardry, neatly moving us from scene to scene,
sometimes shot to shot. The slowness others are complaining about does not in
and of itself conflict with the story’s very rudimentary emotional spectrum,
and the visual play of the transitions manages to leaven things. But the film introduces wildly
inappropriate, outsized villains, who don’t torpedo the seriousness so much as
pre-emptively mock it, so the audience doesn’t have to. Nick Nolte is the main culprit. His performance as David Banner recalls Dafoe’s
turn in Spider-Man, which would be great, were Hulk committed to
being that sort of movie. Sam Elliott’s tin soldier and (worst of all) Josh
Lucas as a rival scientist, behave like they’re in a cartoon. The whole thing ends up so incoherent, you’d
be forgiven for thinking it lost something in translation from the original Mandarin. As for the CGI Hulk himself? I liked how he
bounced like a Superball from mesa to mesa, stopping every now and again to
offer tortured, soulful looks. Ooh.
Poor misunderstood Hulk. Please
cut back to another Connolly close-up. Thanks.
Suddenly
(Tan de repente) (Diego Lerman, Argentina)
This
was one of those rare instances in which my estimation of the film fluctuated
with virtually every new scene. (6! 3!
I am going to walk out! Wait...a 7....no! 2! etc.) So in the end, I come down right in the middle. Despite the promulgation by highbrow
festivals and critics, I haven’t been really impressed with recent Argentine
cinema. (Note: I still haven’t seen Trapero’s films.) Suddenly is no
exception, really. It exhibits
self-congratulatory cuteness one minute, becomes a low-rent lesbian Jarmusch
picture the next minute, and then will haul off and plunge into sexual
predation, daring us to keep watching as a host of unappealing characters
behave like rude, horny teenagers. Of
course, it all comes back to a sort of “look at our unconventional family of
outcasts” conclusion, as so many Gay and Lesbian Festival films do. But all the nastiness and mugging and stolid
non-communication that came before it just makes its faux-ingratiating terminus
seem like just another irritating point on the journey. Thing is, while actually viewing this film,
I was mostly confused about how to feel about it. But now, it’s all rather
clear, and a 5 seems rather generous.
[4]
Spellbound
(Jeffrey Blitz)
Okay,
this was made for cable TV. But did its
structure have to seem so schematic? (I
could not help mentally inserting commercial breaks.) I guess I may as well note that I was on the defensive with this
film, given that my first attempt at viewing it was thwarted by smug Berkeley
liberals, laughing derisively at the dumb Texas rednecks and their political
incorrectness. The film itself sets
this up to an extent (e.g., the cheap shots of misspelled marquees). But more than this, Blitz seems to
constantly imply some kind of social or political meaning, in order to lend his
fluffy doc some gravity. Yet he refuses
to follow through. In retrospect, it’s
clear that the film came into shape following the win of a particular subject,
who the film then surrounds by his / her opposite numbers, to show (I guess)
that working class kids don’t really have a prayer, but (relax) rich kids can’t
exactly buy the bee outright. Hooray
for the immigrant middle class. Look at
the weird white kid from Jersey. In
America, if you work hard you can accomplish (almost) anything. Cut to big American flag in the lobby. No child left behind. Four more years.
[3]
Charlie’s
Angels: Full Throttle (McG)
The
effects were dumb, the jokes weren’t funny, and when a certain key cast member
from the last film showed up, and things started to look really promising, he’s
quickly dispensed with. Musical cues
follow the logic of late-night talk show bands (surfing scene? “Mizerlou”!,
etc.), and where the first time it felt like Drew’s wacky mix tape, this time
it was strictly by committee. What can
you say about a film which uses a Rage Against the Machine song to accompany
the annihilation of scads of Mongolian heathens? Or that shows the villain
getting a bit Sapphic just before she’s slain?
A pretty neo-con idea of frivolous fun.
Wrong
Turn (Rob Schmidt)
The
worst of both worlds, really. Too
corporatized to exhibit the subversive elements that make B-grade horror worth
checking out, and too low-budget to have, you know, real actors, or a DP who
can shoot a dark forest without turning it into a unwatchable gray mess. Also, the potentials of the inbred hillbilly
trope are left sorely unexplored. Why
not have these guys do some really disturbing shit? I mean jesus Rob, we’ve seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The
Hills Have Eyes. (Have you?)