Reviews written by registered user
|34 reviews in total|
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
No Country for Old Men is a faithful adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's
novel. It was impossible to foresee such a remarkable fusion of genius
between the Coen's and McCarthy. Both harness a proud idiomatic style,
but down to the weird rhythms and pregnant pauses the two form one of
the great literary/cinematic matches in recent memory. Perhaps
long-term memory. The Coen's precise ambiguities blend perfectly with
McCarthy's ability to fill one conversation between two strangers with
the wisdom of the world. Especially in Tommy Lee Jones's monologues, we
hear a type of earnest realism somehow simultaneously so contrived
and so faithful to our imaginations.
The denizens of No Country are not interested in us. They don't want to be our friends. Anton Chigurh is at once an animal and a god. He is on a mission seemingly more powerful than even he. And the mission is a spiritual one. There is a scene inside of a gas station that, not unexpectedly, pits old against young. The elderly clerk cannot come close to understanding Chigurh's deranged existentialism. Like many of the other scenes in the film, this one seems to hold the mysteries of the film presenting an incomprehensible and unstoppable force with simultaneous belief and disbelief in mysticism. "It will become just another coin which it is."
We are trapped into accepting Llewelyn Moss as our hero. We meet him looking through his own scope and endure a regular cycle of point-of-view shots until his death. Indeed, this is what makes his death so unbelievable. So frustrating, even. Some have complained about the offscreen death of our hero but we are never meant to see him die. We are led through a gripping, near-silent chase for 60 minutes always aware of the sheriff lagging behind. Just as he is allowed to engage in the chase, we assume his point of view. One step behind the rest. Like the sheriff, Llewelyn is a man who understands the operations and mysteries of the land but cannot comprehend the ghosts. This is what makes them old.
One character calls it "The Dismal Tide" of youth coming in. We are meant to think of Chigurh and his final scene. He is a ghost, capable of enduring all. However, it is right to call it a "Tide." For the tides come in and go out regardless of our small plans. Youth force out the old regardless of theirs. But it isn't even that simple. Not only can the old not comprehend the young they were once the young themselves.
The Coen's have presented a complicated perspective on their interpretation of the film's style. Thus, a flurry of nonsense has been written about No Country. However, it is impossible to deny the influences of silent Westerns, Sam Peckinpah, and Hitch. Hitch would have been proud of the Coen's and their astonishing mastery of editing to serve suspense. There are long chase sequences. Twenty to thirty minutes of minimal dialogue. But you never look away. The cuts are so specific. They are more than motivated. They're somehow essential. The impressive thing here is not the silence, it's the fact that you'll never notice if you're not listening. When characters do talk, their dialogue seems to drop away just when we least expect and least desire but always at the perfect time. Visually, it is impossible to deny Peckinpah's eye on the West. Horizon's are mostly in the middle of the frame, unlike Ford and Mann. Things are arid and empty. No Country harnesses the old idea of the West that has been lost on my generation the existence of a place populated by another side of the human spirit; castaways, ghosts, gods, and prostitutes. The landscape isn't one that crushes or waits. It's merely the place where the coin is flipped and fate is decided.
What ultimately lends No Country with enduring greatness is its overarching simplicity. The Coen's are always looking back and revisiting formal structures. Consider how the plot breaks down Good Guy finds Money. Bad Guy hunts Good Guy. The states are clear and so are the roles. These characters might be archetypes, but they inhabit a separate realm. Only something so simple can harvest the contradictions of humanity. Only in creating these timeless, ghostly creatures can we see so deep into ourselves. The film is a triumph of the highest order.
In a year of trilingual Basterds and three-dimensional Avatars, it's
easy to miss The Informant! The film stars a bloated Matt Damon,
portraying a the real-life price fixing scandal within ADM, a business
that manages the sale and distribution of corn product. The subject is
nothing short of vital. This type of business dealing has put a dent in
our culture over the last decade. Instead of serving up an earnest dish
of ironic criticism, Soderbergh throws a pie in our face. He reveals
the best comedy of 2009.
Soderbergh reminds me of King Vidor in more ways than one. His visual style isn't intrusive, but there is a steady tendency toward the unexpected in the editing room. He relishes in the most misshapen moments, even if they blow by. Most importantly, Soderbergh seems to engage in the same "one for me, one for them," philosophy that governed Vidor's production schedule. Of course, in these days it's much easier to badger folks for money, but Soderbergh does have a tight list of trusting supporters that aren't likely to keep the pen in their pocket. His visual style bends toward popularity at the same time as being distinctive. His edits have a unique rhythm offbeat but comprising some sort of pattern that deserves surrender. People aren't slaves inside of their environments, but they are less knowing than we are. Soderbergh loves that type of man the one that seems in control when they rarely are.
Damon plays Whitacre with dizzy aptitude. We are only exposed to his process one layer at a time. Indeed, The Informant! is a film that deserves multiple viewings if I've ever seen one. Damon is convincing and oblivious at the same time. His capability for perpetual lying is made shameful but not without some understanding. From the beginning of the film, the audience is allowed inside of his head. We hear his streaming ribbon of thought as some kind of bored voice-over. Whitacre continues to interject throughout the film, often distracting us from critical business moments that we're not supposed to catch. It's outrageous and absolutely hilarious in each manifestation. The entire layout of this character banks on amusement and gravity. This doesn't even consider the awake, opportunist score from EGOT recipient Marvin Hamlisch. Soderbergh commits, even when he is uneasy or staggered, to a nuanced approach. Especially here, where he could have accepted any number of straight-faced interpretations of a contemporary tragic hero, the audience is given an amusing sequence of events that, in the end, forces us to reflect on corporate business with more concern and immediacy than any dramatic production. The Informant! passes along a rare type of comedic narration that, in small bites, has worked like a charm for any nominal summer blockbuster. However, when a film carries that naiveté through to the end, everyone becomes frightened and critical.
This film deserved far more praise than it ever received. On subsequent viewings, it holds up as the most original and vital comedy of 2009.
The Ides of March assumes, like the numerous films that form its
ancestry, the plausibility of a naive Democrat who will never play
dirty. That is something to which many can relate. I remember someone
older telling me, as a fifth grader with grand social ambitions pushing
for a Gore presidency, that "everyone is a Democrat until they get
their first paycheck." Of course, I didn't know what that meant at the
time, but there might be some truth to it. This film imagines that same
claim. Ryan Gosling portrays a baby Dem with pure wishes who "needs to
believe in a cause" in order to make a move. It's a tale of the Incest
of the Left. Everyone floats somewhere between idealistic and cynical,
usually representing both. Like Primary Colors and The American
President did before, The Ides of March tells us little we didn't
already know. Instead, it elects to dish out Clooney's political wet
dream a president who mandates two years of military service, has no
religious conviction (but he respects yours!!!), and never plays dirty
unless he knocks somebody up.
Directed by and co-starring Clooney, it is his predictable political antidote for the American Red/Right Infection from the very beginning. The first words of the film are "I am not a Christian. I am not an atheist." As a whole, the film shares the same non-committal. Every character but Gosling's is little more than a stepping stone. Visually, The Ides of March misses the methodical neatness of Good Night and Good Luck. Clooney's directing and writing styles are capable and wide. He is clearly interested in wordy pictures that search for meaning inside, not on the surface. Luckily for him, he found a balanced talent in Ryan Gosling, who also had a promising year with Drive and this picture. His masculine sensitivity and smoothness recalls the old masters, harnessing the cool charm of Cary or Gary. His quiet charisma also recalls Clint. The sum Dashing-ness of Clooney and Gosling is rich. You'll only need a couple bites of their cake, but it's good.
Unfortunately, Ides does little to advance a committed ideology. The stakes are low and cool jazz is playing in the background while these characters talk. I'm unsure whether Clooney was seeking to make a good movie or a political statement. Either way, it only swallowed half of the glass. Whether it's half full or half empty is your call.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
The Descendants was written and directed by Alexander Payne (Sideways,
About Schmidt) with Clooney in his most masterful performance,
deserving to defeat Dujardin's silent romp. The story is smooth but not
necessarily polite, detailing the wavy family dynamics of a grieving
Though the two daughters are excellently played by a pair of talented young actresses, the real leading woman is Hawaii. While dealing with his comatose wife, Matt (Clooney) is also deciding whether or not to sell a large piece of inherited island property, enduring pressure from his cousins who are seeking to cash in. The Descendants uses the paradise for contrast. Matt even says in voice-over at the very beginning, "paradise can go f**k itself." Indeed it does! The film walks the common contemporary line between tragedy and comedy, often seeking progress in visual contradiction and dramatic irony. Inside of these universes, everything does seem to be lined up for one character or family. In a way, they are becoming more Movie by trying to become less Movie, if you catch my drift.
But Descendants tries to understand more than that. We are allowed to inherit Matt's difficulties and indecisions. No character gets a free pass. Even Sid, the bum tagalong, and Elizabeth's father, the closest thing to total opposition, are given moments of earnest explanation. The people who populate this island habitat are imbued with the completion that other movies aren't able to find. It doesn't stop at the notion that the human experience is both comedy and tragedy, it actually builds that duality into each character, no matter how marginal. When everyone says "Elizabeth is a fighter. She'll make it." we are allowed to see their error and their effort. The film doesn't only let us in on the joke.
Some of the best scenes are ones that sit in the gulf between our public selves and our private selves. The two big revelations about Elizabeth's affair (one involving Alex and the other Mr. Speer) have so much energy and construct an exciting amount of audience instability. The scene at the Speer house is a twisty counterpoint involving the characters x 2 the public self and the private self. It rolls to a gentle but uncomfortable climax and stands up to most any great scene in recent memory.
Clooney's crinkled brow is just tired enough to never let us doubt his ability to pull through everything. In living through him, we are allowed to flirt with those moments of feeling that the movies can sometimes concoct. The Descendants is populated by complex, thoughtful characters and situations that feel so close and familiar even in these extraordinary circumstances.
It is impossible to see Napoleon without recalling several scenes from
the film repertory. An unenlightened know-it-all might rave about the
Odessa Steps and the innovative camera techniques in Barry Lyndon. The
truth of the matter is that, "Abel did it first" might as well become a
mantra in Film 101. Without ever achieving a level of even modest
storytelling success, Napoleon manages to remain legendary on the
strength of its imagery alone. In this way, the comparison of Gance to
Eisenstein and Kubrick isn't far-fetched at all.
Now, I must concede that some of the mystique of the film is lost on me since I have never seen it in a theater and was re-watching the film from a Laserdisc on a 27″ TV. Thus, the famous triptych at the end was about the size of my foot and the "overwhelming power" of the piece, as one critic puts it, becomes harder to receive. Nevertheless, that fact doesn't stop me from wanting to advocate (as loud as possible) for the release of this film. I'm about to be unenthusiastic about it, but it doesn't change the fact that it really is a chunk of boss filmmaking that crosses the road long before many others would.
While the final triptych is certainly the most cited excerpt from the film, its best moments are undoubtedly on the other end. Napoleon begins with a short (meaning about 35 minutes in this context) series of scenes from Buonaparte's childhood. In depicting a large, organized snowball fight, we don't only learn of Buonaparte's precocity as a strategist, we get to play along. This segment, along with the following interpretation of Le Marseillais' proud beginnings, is the most organized and taut in the entire film. Slicing between moments of genuine chaos and big shots of Napoleon's face, the audience can do nothing but hold on for Dear Life. After the first 50 minutes of the film, I was thinking that if the pace held up, it would outrun virtually every multi-million dollar action movie ever produced. It didn't, but that doesn't overshadow the fact that there are portions of filmmaking bolder than your deepest imagination even today. Segments remain modern and will for time to come. The breadth of setting and stylization is difficult to anticipate. The coordination alone is admirable.
Gance tries to tell this story in a number of ways. Indeed, it is one almost told in faces. Close- up's litter the bulk of the film, populating the most placid and erratic moments. Even without genuine character motion and acting, Napoleon is still a testament to how much bare expression lives on the surface of the human face. Andy Warhol and a few others have learned to trust the face, but more filmmakers need to take this page from Gance's book and paste the shaky camera pages back in. Another mildly shocking element is the degree to which Gance decided to tint and expose the film. At times, the contrast and color is so intense that it is very literally difficult to understand the images. It's not subtle and it's not tasteful, but who said it had to be?
The thing that knocks Napoleon down from A- to B is the substance the meat. This argument has been made before and has been over-emphasized too much in criticism of the film. In fact, I wouldn't be nearly as upset about the storytelling if I didn't know that Gance was more than capable of sustaining a better narrative. As the opening of the second half proves, when he puts down his bag of tricks, the picture assumes a level of experience that is comparable to Intolerance and Birth of a Nation you have to start working at it. Gance tells you that he's got the stuff. The scene where Napoleon sees Josephine's face in the globe and begins kissing it. When he begins to see the ghosts of the Reign of Terror. These are two brief moments of mature storytelling. But it's also TWO brief moments of mature storytelling out of about 2,000 possible. Unless I'm missing something (very possible), the general level of visual narrative is not high enough to sustain a 240+ minute film. Gance relies too heavily on flowery, descriptive intertitles and not enough on solid visual representation. If I'm willing to sit still for 5 hours, I want to travel. Not just drop my jaw. Of course, the counterargument would be that the dropping of the jaw must be the point and Gance probably didn't expect to get all 5 hours in the final cut. Great. I'm perfectly okay with getting WOW'ed for about 90-110 minutes. Longer does not mean better in Napoleon's universe. Which is why I find it legitimately surprising that so many cinephiles devote large segments of their lives to stretching out the picture. I know I'm being that guy. But the film mainly functions as an episodic treasure box. And treasure's they are! But, as a good friend says, "there's not enough there there."
But no criticism can push away Napoleon's deserving status as a must-see piece of art. The first 50 minutes will match the excitement level of any action sequence you'll ever see and there are some passages that will make you want to leap out of your chair and holler. The triptych is orgiastic French grandeur of the highest order. Moments of the film are on par with The Big Parade in measure of pure cinematic and patriotic ecstasy that surely would have been overwhelming to see in a theater 90 years ago. It should be required viewing in Film 101 and "Abel did it first" should begin to enter the rotation.
Burn After Reading is funny. After a brooding bout with some dense
material in No Country for Old Men, the Coen's choose to engage in some
rambunctious mimicry of the political spy thriller. Featuring a
blessing of a cast, Burn After Reading tells the story of an idiotic
ensemble, too lost in themselves to find anything worthwhile. The
scariest part is -- the story is about us. And it's convincing.
Word has it that Joel and Ethan were particularly inspired by Advise and Consent and Seven Days in May. (The poster design is clearly modeled after the Saul Bass work on The Man With the Golden Arm. The same man did the title design for Advise and Consent.) The brothers' rich history of deft genre study is not absent here. In deconstructing the political thriller, we are shown a universe not far from our own -- one where everyone is too involved with their own desires to be bothered by anything happening around them. The score is full of dramatic percussion. Indeed, the story beats a hollow body. There's nothing to respond to these characters. Burn After Reading has the intelligence to exclude Washington bureaucracy out of this debate. The government employees are the most intelligent and reliable populace in the film. Still, they are clueless about the incomprehensible ambitions of their constituency. Burn After Reading manages to elaborate on a valuable insight regarding human folly without becoming bogged down by didactic crap.
In addition to the peripheral characters whom the Coen's occasionally allow to steal a scene, Burn is populated by a cast that is marvelous in name and in performance. It's full of exciting discoveries. Pitt, Malkovich, Swinton, and Jenkins deliver sensational work. The tradition of strategic director/actor pairing is as old as our technology. Burn is a testament to the virtues of adventurous casting. Pitt's stupidity isn't unlike his Tyler Durden, but it is more honest and, frankly, more revealing. Malkovich's vulgarity takes full advantage of his terrifying snarl. McDormand and Clooney are equally energizing and give their finest work with the brothers. McDormand's hesitancy and self-consciousness are a maturation of her sticky grin in Fargo. Clooney plays a character not far from Everett, but does so with more paranoia and swagger. A- list casts are cause for suspicion these days, but this is a marvelous example of how good an audacious Hollywood can be.
The Coen brothers have always relied heavily on quirky resonance to their detriment. Their comedy is strongest when played with extended takes and mannered photography. We see much of that in Burn After Reading. They allow us to witness a more natural interaction with some marvelous actors and their expressive faces. However, these filmmakers seem to lean on wide shots as a punctuation, not a narrative fact. Their compositions have such a rich sense of space, but the shots stay in the can. It's a shame, really. The humor is built on interaction and interplay, not crafty visual manipulation. I only pick nits, though. They can stack up as many close-ups as they want as long as they retain the appreciation for long takes. It's a lost art in dire need of preservation. Drama is born of the long take.
The brothers function on the assumption that Comedy + Tragedy = Reinvention. It's a hopeless aspiration, but is it possible that they do it better than anyone else? Their best work does float in the land between straight-faced seriousness and banana-peel slapstick. This seems to be a corollary of insistent genre study. In an effort to subvert and deconstruct classic models, the Coen's manage to create scenarios with a greater complexity and density than is present in most popular contemporary filmmaking. Burn After Reading doesn't even seem like a spy film. It has such a deep respect for the dignity of classic convention that the subversion reads like an entirely new creation. Perhaps the slight lack of center in the film is a result of their appreciation for these conventions. Regardless, the Coen brothers are one of the most respectable filmmaking parties at work for precisely this reason.
Burn After Reading functions on steadfast but unforgiving fatalism. This is a common trope in Coen films, but only here is it made entirely explicit. To these filmmakers, human choice is independent of a crushing omnipotence. A CIA agent remarks, "Well, we don't really know what anyone is after" when presented with a summary of the film's puzzling event sequence. If there is a thesis to Burn After Reading, it's that we're all helpless creatures, floundering and philandering, smothered by our own desire. Like most of the Coen ouevre, the film ultimately becomes a thick tragedy. These characters, idiotic as they may seem, stand in for all of us.
Set against the backdrop of shrugging U.S. bureaucracy, we are all deemed incapable of governing ourselves.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
To begin a not-so-warm evaluation of our American interpretation of The
Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, it is important to congratulate Rooney
Mara, Christopher Plummer, Stellan Skarsgârd, and Daniel Craig on fine
work. Mara is imagining a character that is ripe for praise and
potentially less difficult to portray than immediately evident but she
does so with precocious poise.
Elements of Fincher's visual style are commendable. His sense of space and focus lend a volatile but complex depth to every scene. Indeed, certain moments can only remind us of Nick Ray's unequaled perception of bodies and their relationship to the frame. Only Ray didn't blur out his backgrounds with such energetic whimsy. Nonetheless, Fincher frequently locates the viewer, both spatially and temporally, by giving an unusually profound gravity to properties and objects. Anything from a set of keys to a lipstick stain can be imbued with moral and informational subtext. There is a scene where a villain (unbeknownst to the audience at that point) pours out a bottle of wine. It's so mild, but it's a genius hint. Watch the scene. It's a marvelous addition. These images are fleeting though, and this director has yet to reach the point where visual keystones are given sustained energy. Fincher's relationship with technology is ripe with opportunity for a more nuanced interaction -- we can only hope that he grows into that connection. Moviegoers will be familiar with the color palette in Dragon Tattoo. Digital color grading has made for a host of gray-blue films. Here, shades of gray have become the status quo. The film does take place in the winter and in Sweden, but the absence of color becomes tiresome by the end of the first act. Fincher's team of editors and designers do give two scenarios vibrant yellows -- flashbacks and Lisbeth's ultimate swindle. While the shift in color does serve to locate the viewer like the objects do, it doesn't compensate for the general lack of energy within the frame. The yellows seem to pull from Harriet's hair and Lisbeth's wig, making a dubious evaluation of fantasy and history.
The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo qualifies as a thriller/mystery, replicating the events of a wildly popular Swedish novel by Steig Larsson. It involves a middle aged journalist who is hired to solve a private murder case. He enlists the help of a troubled but gifted young woman. They develop a certain type of relationship. The location of the film within Sweden inspires a shrug. Why not move it to America and change the names? This would be much preferable to the strange international accents that populate the film. Does British English substitute for all European nationalities now? I love the Swedish language. It's haunting and broad. But the interjections of signs and specific words during Dragon Tattoo are nothing short of alarming.
The film lacks a healthy center of gravity. The dual protagonists deprive it of urgency, as there is no pivot for 80 minutes, a long time. Novels can accomplish this narrative with diligence and patience, but there isn't enough time for that here. The material is simply too ambitious for a film -- Swedish or American filmmakers. Something has been lost in literary adaptations of the post-studio blockbuster era. Filmmakers seem determined to include as much of the full scope of detail as possible. Literary adaptations were more thorough many decades ago. And this was done by being more concise -- having someone around who doesn't know anything about literature to say "Cut it." While the characterization is quick and successful, the mystery falls apart because of this lack of gravity. In Plummer's first appearance, he dictates the terms of the plot in precise detail. Fincher's talent is beyond spoonfeeding. It's no longer necessary. The frenetic energy of the book is lost in the forceful explanation of the material.
Dragon Tattoo also lacks the energetic montage sequences that highlight Fincher's best work (Se7en, The Social Network). His education in the distracted tempi of the music video applies itself only when the imagery is a careful collage, of which he is very capable. Dragon Tattoo plays more like a fractured series, functioning at breakneck speed. Indeed, some transitions of scene and critical information sets are lost in this unnecessary visual haste. Even in the credit sequence, we are greeted with rhythmic editing to an interpretation of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song," as arranged by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. The song is a fine choice, working in textual and textural contexts. This team of composers have certainly established themselves as bold and stylish inventors. By now, it has come to seem like their hard, information-aesthetic is married to Fincher's deep grays. But their gnawing pulse could be precisely what a filmmaker like David Lynch or Paul Thomas Anderson could blossom into a revolutionary context.
It seems imprudent to comment on the thematic content of the film, as that would be better suited for literary review. But in a story with so much potential for speaking critically and deeply about the nature of sexual abuse, it is sickening to see triumph created out of a genuine rape, no matter how disturbing or deserving the victim may be. I'm speaking, of course, about the encounter between Lisbeth and her guardian where she get's more than the upper hand. It speaks volumes about our relationship with film when savage revenge inspires an enthusiastic response from an audience. In fact, Dragon Tattoo seems to miss a bold opportunity to comment on film and voyeurism in the numerous instances of photographed or recorded violence. Were the filmmakers more intentional about this, the project could have revealed much about the very real and very scary human fascination and preoccupation with observing sex and violence. In our lives, there's no mystery to that story. It's a fact. And we all pay money to see it every day -- on our TV's, computers, and at the movie theater.
It should have been apparent when "Written by Aaron Sorkin" appeared on
the screen, but government is only a tool in this film. Sorkin uses it
with his usual degree of shrewdness, but political concerns are nothing
more than an impetus - a joke. THE American PRESIDENT focuses on the
most powerful man on the planet. To what is his power relegated? Jokes.
Examining the film reveals that most references to political topics are
implemented as gags. Shepherd's position of power is a running line,
joined by federal disasters, Tel Aviv hostility, assassination,
corruption, and dead Japanese leaders, only to name a few. These
references are often planted into the script as irony, encouraging the
audience to feel that the President deals with Middle Eastern militants
like we do the dishes.
The larger point of this is also tied to the remarkable success of the film. Sorkin knows every trick in the book and he is shamelessly employing them. Reiners directing is completely unremarkable, but it would be impossible to fail with this script. Why do the conservatives look bad? Because they care about family values. THE American PRESIDENT is the pinnacle of Hollywood Liberalism, or "safe" liberalism. Shepherd is: the same as most people and entirely different from most people. The jokes and the sweetness all bank on Shepherd appearing as one of us. But he's not. The worst things people can do in this film are prioritize something that conflicts with a man who seems not to conflict with anything.
THE American PRESIDENT, while being a terribly successful Rom-Com, teaches us something interesting about how Hollywood operates. This movie could hardly anger anyone. And that is precisely because of the script's perpetuation of contradiction and fantasy. The less political, the better.
Michael Douglas and Martin Sheen both deliver knockout performances that manage to become something more than Sorkin's mouth.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
Often marked as "one of Renoir's greatest films," LE CRIME DE MONSIEUR
LANGE is a platform for us to witness how a director can convert
propaganda into memorable art. The script is full of wit but Renoir is
the hero, here. He allows for multiple perspectives and concise
characterization to produce a quick, jaunty, and bright film.
LANGE is dense with insightful staging. Renoir had learned by 1936 that everything serves character. In some ways, he recalls the swift attitude in Hawks's comedies. The camera work is clearly more radical, but they both succeed with abundant charm and aim every device at the service of character. Visually, some usual complexities are reserved for the end where the street allows for at least two excellent tracking shots. LANGE presents some of the most precise and concise characterizations in the Renoir repertoire. Batala is given superior attention. If we compare him to the capitalist villain in something like STRIKE, we find that Renoir believes in the complexity of thought even when working with a simple and economic script. In his frequent manipulation of women, Renoir illuminates the tight bond between money, power, and sex. His metamorphosis into a priest is loaded with dubious criticism, but is still the source of comedy.
The best component of LANGE might be the frequent allusions to Americana and westerns. It asserts that the American frontier was imbued with absolute freedom and the characters use it to focus their socialist fantasies. This parallel between socialist idealism and dreams of the West play incredibly well as an object of cinema. LANGE even gets its own joke -- "It's only a movie." The film is dense with the inimitable charm of Renoir, consistently exquisite photography, and forceful characterization. The comedy is presented with ease and subtlety. It is only unfortunate that so much of the commentary is excessively heavy. Capitalism comes back from the dead only to be defeated by Socialism. Socialism gets away with murder and walk happily out into infinity.
PLAY TIME is a film of astonishing complexity. Tati's performance of
this mammoth piece succeeds as both a satire on the absurdity of modern
tourism and an unthinkable demonstration of fulfilled imagination. It
is famously unwatchable in one sitting. That's not true, but it does
yield magnificent insights for those who brave this new Paris.
Tati constructs PLAY TIME in unflinching diagonals. Like Hitchcock's NORTH BY NORTHWEST, from which it clearly takes influence, the film revels in the construction of right angles but is always photographed from a diagonal. This is the source of subtle visual tension which Tati is able to sustain throughout the entire process. It is a touch that renders PLAY TIME with that elusive coherence and consistency usually absent in the presence of absurdity. Another component to the consistency is character. Barbara and Hulot share our curiosity and confusion. We are grounded in their solid construction like we would be in any more conventional narrative. Hulot is the perfect character to take us through this labyrinth. Tati, acting as Hulot, plays both our emotional (Hulot -- curiosity, confusion, exploration) and physical (director -- mise en scene) tour guide. Ultimately, the style is arresting. Angular tension binds with bold consistency to create an entirely watchable film.
In addition, Tati out-Altman's Altman years before M*A*S*H made him popular. The sound is layered and marvelous, not unlike the visuals, and just as dense with gags. Primary focal points are invariably covered up. English speaking audiences will be rewarded by numerous auditory jokes in both foreground and buried deep into the background. The visual gags are numerous and often simultaneous. Scenes involve incredibly dense, complex, precise comic choreography. Not unlike Keaton, Tati possesses unshakable artistic control and a belief in the subtle comedy of location.
PLAY TIME is an astonishing ballet of cinematic possibilities. One only has to think of someone like Malick to realize that Tati imbues every frame with electricity and spirit while making it look effortless. Is it a perfect film? If not, the accomplishment is nothing short of being, quite literally, an absurd miracle. PLAY TIME is a grand fugue of the cinema with lighthearted subject and angular answer. It is capable of anything -- arresting crescendi, subtle sequencing, revealing comedy, and simple beauty. How Tati managed to fulfill this dream will forever remain an object of fascination and a testament to the potential of genius.
98.8 (The highest rating I have yet assigned)
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