Reviews written by registered user
|1184 reviews in total|
What makes Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer so harrowing, so numbing,
is the absence of any judgment of the characters. The film was shot on
16mm film in one month's time for $110,000 in 1985. It did not premiere
until 1990, and became one of a handful of international independent
films to instigate the NC-17 rating. It does not contain buckets of
blood, nor is it particularly explicit sexually. It is, from any and
every angle, an omniscient portrait. Two naked women are shown dead,
having already been brutally murdered, one in a field and the other in
a bedroom, while a troubled man named Henry drives around Chicago. We
hear their screams. All we see are their mangled bodies. That is all we
need. And it is stomach-churning.
Itinerant Henry and his prison buddy Otis are cold-blooded and chillingly casual murderers. Played by gravelly character actor Michael Rooker, Henry never appears or behaves like anyone out of the ordinary. We get the sense that he hardly ever thinks about murder, except for when he does it. As for Otis, played by the imposing Tom Towles, think of when you smoke a pack of cigarettes a day, versus one after your morning coffee and one after dinner. Think of the discipline and organization inherent in the latter. That's Otis's problem kind of, only he's not just the one pack a day, he's about five and the tobacco is laced with children's tears. That's why he truly brings out the things about individuals we never see. He does many unforgivably monstrous things here, but he still manages to go about his business without remorse or fear of getting caught, so we presume he's just a good ol' boy with a short fuse. And he is; he just goes a few steps further than most.
Portrait is not about the thin line between good and evil. Portrait sees no line. There are innumerable films about serial killers. It is a permanent fixture in the Middle American zeitgeist. We fear them, so we turn them into our own bloodthirsty entertainment. They have become mythology for us to use in order to take our morbid curiosities and sadistic fantasies out for a safe spin. Even after this definitive film on the subject, it is not often that a movie dares to portray the real ones, unmitigated by thriller tropes.
John McNaughton and his late collaborator Richard Fire do not feel the need to pigeonhole or explain them, not just as movie characters but as people. Without a frame of compromise, McNaughton defies the hankering to pump up the volume, to frame Henry in chiaroscuro or Otis with Dutch angles. When most human beings see the things that Henry and Otis actually go through with---feeling no other rationale, it would seem, than that it's simply something for them to do---our immediate reaction is to ask how someone could do such things, and why. As Nick Nolte says as a homicide detective in Ole Bornedal's 1997 thriller, "Even when we catch the killer, they wanna know the how and why."
That character would agree with McNaughton and Fire that people like Henry and Otis, are well beyond the need to justify what they do. What explanation could there be for slaughtering an entire random family, while recording the whole incident on a camcorder to then watch it later with the blank beer-chugging catatonia of watching an inning of baseball? Horror films, though designed to scare us, are also designed to make us feel safe. The killer was humiliated by his quarries in high school, or has split personality disorder. This film is not a horror film. Explanations are just a fiction to make us feel safe. This film does not have explanations. It has events, key moments in the lives of guys who like to drink beer, smoke weed, hang out with Otis' sister and kill random strangers.
I am always more compelled when a story unfolds in an implicit fashion,
as when John McNaughton's first feature film since 2001, The Harvest,
opens on an incident that is not fully elucidated until several
subsequent scenes contrast it with their own stakes and dimensions. We
are kept in an ongoing state of anticipation by a patiently, implicitly
unfolding story. Most movies feel more of a need to hit an overt,
straightforward formula of beats, but what seasoned, patient filmmakers
like John McNaughton are willing to hold out for is a contained,
clear-cut storytelling style that slow-burns through on the way to pure
and constant surprises.
Certain aspects of McNaughton's technique deliberately old-fashioned, and however that befits your tastes, it is that unhurried confidence that allows acutely poignant relationships to pop. There is something refreshingly and uncomfortably profound about the way the fearfully unpredictable Samantha Morton, as the mother of wheelchair-bound Andy, undermines his father, played with tangible vulnerability by gifted Steppenwolf alum Michael Shannon, her fears pushing her to antagonize those nearest and dearest, lashing out with keen cruelty to deflect her vulnerability, and tragically poisoning the already precarious atmosphere around her.
The Harvest, it should be made abundantly clear, is an acutely Midwestern film. You can feel it in its sentiment, in its traditional form, and in its piercing portrayal of awkward lulls and that apple pie sense of manners and politeness. Its center aim is on families and upbringing, and more specifically on the crippling feeling of being sheltered and living in a bubble. And as it unfolds into more psychotic territory, the more adult terror of being alone rears its ugly, ruining head.
Every viewer who grew up in Middle America had friends whose parents they despised. And we all remember the seemingly mortal fear of getting in trouble. The discomfort and suffering in this movie are palpable, owing to the powerfully subtle performances, the delicate direction and the knowing script, but also owing to its powerful sense of place. And when things take a harrowing turn, we're so engrossed that the tension never stops. And even at its most "sensational," it always keeps its feet on the ground dramatically.
I sat down on a day off to browse the streaming content on Netflix. The
Passion of the Christ appeared. I hadn't seen it since 2004, and I was
compelled to revisit it by my acknowledgment of the fact that times
have changed so much that such an inflammatory movie event is now
something you can watch on your laptop while sitting on the toilet.
When I first saw it, I was 16, a casual viewer with ADHD and a gore
hound. I went to an arts school full of liberal hipsters. My interest
was piqued by the notorious level of ultra-violence in the film, and
rented it from Blockbuster despite the equally notorious allegations of
anti-Semitism attached to the film.
Eleven years later, as a 26-year-old atheist and movie buff with staunch liberal views, I still don't see a referendum on Jews. I still don't see a guilt trip about what Jesus did for me. But I also don't merely see an exploitative gore fest. I see a portrait of mob mentality at its most primal. Neither the Jews nor the Romans are portrayed as monoliths; several centurions are outraged by the unabashed sadism of their colleagues, and while it can be argued that the Jews when portrayed as a group are viciously vindictive, the individual Jewish characters range from prototypical Old Testament zealots to compassionate but helpless characters who suffer along with the eponymous victim.
I am aware that the proof is in the pudding in regards to Mel's view of the Jewish people, not to mention multiple other long-established prejudices of his. Still, I never did, and still do not, see this film as anti-Semitic, but in fact quite the standard depiction of Christ's execution according to the Christian faith. This is the story we were all taught in church, whether you honestly believe he rose from the dead or not. If you are like me, you will see it for the mythology that it is, a legendary fable of a great ancient leader's martyrdom, much like another great cinematic epic by Gibson, Braveheart, which similarly shows a well-intentioned man in one of human history's most brutal eras summoning his people to take on the fascistic compulsions of their cruel overseers, and nobly accepting an awfully unenviable price for it.
I doubt it's the intention of a die-hard Christian like Gibson, or the remotest interpretation of many of the ideological folks for whom the film's release meant so much, to emphasize the universally relevant bandwagon effect of the masses that played a seminal role in the savage butchery of Jesus, but I suspect many atheist and agnostic viewers are moved by that theme. After all, it's the religious intolerance of the Jerusalem establishment that led to the breakthrough discipline of his teachings, and thus his indictment. It was the authoritarian influence of the Roman Empire that enforced that zealotry and allowed such sadism to strengthen the loyalty of brutal henchmen.
There are many people I respect who dislike this movie because they feel that the explicit particulars of Jesus' torture make it too unpleasant to bear and eclipse any message it's attempting to send. I don't understand that viewpoint. The message is the torture. Passion involves hardship and torment. Christian theology, upon which it's no mystery that the movie is based, extended the word to have to do with Christ's love for humanity, which compelled him to agonize and die for humanity. You watch The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, guess what you're going to see?
The Middle East in biblical times was a Jewish community overrun by the Roman Empire, and Jesus' message was equally alarming to both, one because he was a revolutionary, and the other because he preached a new covenant and endangered the status quo. His passion came about because of the same conformity and fear of change from which society has learned nothing, like today's Catholic bishops who are reluctant to denounce abusive priests or acknowledge the trend, evangelicals who muddle religion with politics or Muslim clergy who are silent on terrorism, all of whom have a stake in their status and power. You can see it in police forces who protect officers who shoot unarmed black men, news networks that omit reports that compromise the reputations of their shareholders. The passion of Christ is the passion of every historic reformist who took one for the team.
Boss starts off with more promise than the similarly themed House of
Cards in many respects. First of all, unlike the popular Netflix show,
it's not about Democrats, nor is it about how slick and likable these
manipulative people are. It's about a city government, to begin with,
which is a better microcosm to work from, and it's a Conservative one
(they want to privatize and outsource education jobs, we see hopeless
shortages in subsidized medicine, etc.), which is much more in tune
with the zeitgeist of the country right now. There is no fanfare or
bravado to the slickness of Mayor and Mrs. Kane's double-dealing, nor
anyone else's. We see clearly what is lost and gained in an uninflected
way, while their personal demons subconsciously steer them into further
jadedness or desperation, how the vaguest feeling of power or wealth
slipping away will light a fire under them to redouble their efforts.
On the other hand, it is a Starz show, which means characters have to all be sleeping with somebody and having marathon sex extensively during episodes. The show admirably shoots for an HBO-grade Wire-esque credibility and realism, but it can also feel like a vexation to watch when extensive sex scenes between the same characters is constant and many other scenes also constantly fall into sexual impulse. This is erotic, yes, but once we've established two characters' desire for one another, let's wait till their relationship changes before showing them in the sack again. Otherwise, it's the exact same sex scene. It doesn't develop the story and it has increasingly less value as exposition.
Grammar is a reliably powerful actor. He plays a character that is readymade to be enthralling. Above all, he is a King Lear, a Charles Foster Kane, a giant force to be reckoned with. But particularly, and vitally, characters who have to live with a deep secret are a cake walk with a bow on it for actors. It's subtext that writes and performs itself. We, and he, learn this dismal, distressing news in the first scene, the first shot, the first long, unbroken, ever-tightening shot on his commanding face, effectively setting the show off with a bang.
Though it was the brainchild of Iranian writer-producer Farhad Safinia, Gus Van Sant's direction sets the tone for the show with his gentle touch, which deftly balances naturalism with the deep subjectivity of extreme slow-motion and macro close-ups, effectively holding the mundane up to a microscope while the hard-boiled chatter of real life marches on. So, even at its worst, Boss beams with brains and nerve, and a cynical comprehension of politics as a mere waiting room for plutocratic privatization by way of disenfrachising the people and using the language of favors to sweet democracy up in a tornado of money.
Zack Snyder's charmless reboot drudges along without its having an
elite cast making a spot of difference. To begin with, as Snyder
should've, why does David S. Goyer cloud, convolute and dampen up an
origins story that has held up for 75 years, and why would Christopher
Nolan be so enamored of doing so that he would spearhead a whole new
franchise? Muddled, uncoordinated flashbacks lead a displaced Jor-El to
Metropolis in time for General Zod's arrival on earth to destroy it
secretly hoarded genetic codes? No trademark costume change, no
dumbfounding earthlings with his superpowers and no rapport with Jimmy
or Lois Lane. Here, the Daily Planet is as gloomy and underwritten as
The last hour is a thoroughly exhausting, wearyingly preposterous binge of super-colossal devastation that makes you want to escape the movie, for it to just be over so you can leave and go home and watch the original films, a range of equal portions humor, sentimentality and spectacle deftly measured through and contrasted by the grandeur of Krypton and its ultimate destruction, Clark Kent's Spielbergian growing pains and finally his saving of the world from one of its own. Superman is so winning and indelible because despite being invincible, he's trusting, awkward and virginal. And that crucial element makes even those movies' cheesiest moments credible.
Crucial to this re-imagining being the antithesis of those classics is Batman apostle Nolan. Whether he's to blame for the movie's overwhelming vainglory and conceit is hard to know but easy to assume. It's so somber, the humor can only ever be from our ironic detachment. One thing is for sure. It's no fun, whether Superman mopes and ponders or he's constantly finding himself in proximity to an unusual amount of disasters. Not only is it perpetually frowny-faced, it's monotonous, unthinking, smothering and so endlessly brimming with explosions that one can't help but flip the bird at the screen on cue.
As the obvious, laden and trite dialogue suffers under Snyder's pedestrian helming of quieter moments, the director---with the subtlety of a baboon---ignores pace and running time almost as much as he ignores character and audience appeal as the uncontrolled "climax" elongates into oblivion, literally, leaving Metropolis an irreparable pile of debris. It needs to be said that the visual effects are as authentic as anything you'll see at the current multiplex. But under Snyder's watch, it's like being constantly clubbed with a Mona Lisa.
Above all and more than anything, I so badly wish the movie would have suspended the inundating cavalcade and carved out more than a little wit.
House of Cards is ultra-modern, visually exquisite, full of subtly
effective performances and juicily surprising character arcs. I made it
across the season 2 threshold and was rewarded with genuine surprise. I
enjoy the Shakespearian ambition, the brilliant simplicity of its
smaller, more human scenes and the revelation of new pages in the
careers of its players, young and old, particularly under the helming
of its brass of A-list directors. But I think I've run my course with
If you're going to set your sights on subject matter as obvious as, "Look at how corrupt Washington is," don't pull punches. Even the critical consensus has largely stopped taking the show seriously, even while the show continues taking itself seriously. The partisan divide is simplified to such a noticeably absent extent in order to clear the playground for all the scenery-chewing battles of wit the cast and its writers can stomach, but even if accepted on that safe-zone melodramatic level, only so many scenes of double-crossing, stage-managing and railroading can play out without the tables truly, not bluffingly, being turned.
The state of affairs is nowhere near as functional as it's made to look here. I wish Democrats WERE the sharks they're depicted to be on this show. The real-life Democrats desperately need Frank Underwood on their side, because in real life, it's not the back-stabbing and manipulation that causes Washington to be dysfunctional any more than it ever has. That is an automatic, superficial reduction of the nature of the beast. For anyone with a desire to tell the story of modern political affairs by cutting to the dark core of the situation, what must be depicted i's total, unabashed gridlock by corporate lobby-controlled politicians who continually get elected because of mass-produced shareholder-owned propaganda.
That story is nowhere to be found here. We get cursory subplots and ancillary characters involved in muckraking reportage, lobbying for natural gas, and there is of course the thrilling episode where Frank bobs and weaves past every hurtle to thwart Tea Party obstruction of his long-anticipated education bill. But it's almost as though Demoracts and Republicans rarely have to deal with each other, and that when they do, all Democrats need be is formidably smart in order to make advances. In a situation where the sky is the limit for corporate investment in campaigns and legislations, where ethics-free journalism is the precedent for a media culture in which news is just another part of the free market system, this depiction is woefully naïve and, frankly, wasteful when such stellar talent has the capability to tell that story.
For those of you countering me in your heads with points to the effect that it has to be reductive and idealized in order to tell an accessible and entertaining story, then let me ask how The Wire was able to encapsulate not one but all major aspects of our socioeconomic reality with not only utter precision and brutal pragmatism (things ironically touted so often by the characters on House of Cards), but also be one of the most direly engrossing series of all time? If Baltimore police journalists can do it, then veteran artists of cinema can do it.
When Tim Burton makes a movie about Ed Wood, one assumes it would be
some sort of an ostentatious lampoon, as in Mars Attacks for instance.
Wrong. Ed Wood is either a stroke of luck for Tim Burton in regards to
acquiring great material it's kismet for him to helm, or what I truly
suspect, which is that it's a deeply personal and knowing labor of
true, joyous passionate love and mature, careful craftsmanship.
Whether or not the movie is totally accurate as a biopic doesn't matter. It's about more than just an account of Ed Wood's life. It's about a passionate young storyteller breaks down doors, bares his soul, deals with merciless criticism, estranges relationships and fights the system only to prove himself an infamous hack and laughing stock. He was eccentric, relentless, even a little delusional maybe, but he could've been anyone.
This is the film I would argue proved Johnny Depp as an established, certified great actor. He captures all the can-do optimism that kept Ed Wood surviving, owing to a hilarious capacity for seeing the silver lining in the blackest cloud. The script imagines him as a model American dreamer, an idealistic underdog with little to be so hopeful about, since he was also a model American failure.
Something people forget is that Sarah Jessica Parker is a good actress. Something people take for granted, though, after the millennial works of Wes Anderson, Sofia Coppola and Jim Jarmusch, is this early example of colorful departure casting by Bill Murray. But the stand-out is the landslide hallmark of Martin Landau's long career, totally disappearing into a darkly hilarious rendition of Bela Lugosi.
It's not just Landau's amazing performance that makes him stand out though. Really, at the core of the movie is Wood's friendship with Lugosi, who he genuinely loves, and who comes to depend on him. We see Lugosi alone and withdrawn in a tacky little house, settled in the hollow melancholy of his faded glory and addiction. His first scene is an exquisitely crafted gag showing him trying on a coffin for size. And Wood is able to relieve the despair, if just fleetingly, in a last-minute streak of roles which gave him amplified renown, as the star of some of the most legendary and respected horror classics ever made, and then of some of the most infamous and derided.
Francis Ford Coppola's madly elaborate Dracula rendition is set between
London at the advent of a modern-ish age and Transylvania according to
an explosion at the Batman: The Animated Series factory. We meet a
young attorney named Jonathan Harker who is supposed to venture to
Dracula's castle to arrange some kind of real estate whatever stuff.
The last guy who went there ran into some snags. No big deal, though.
He goes, and there begins a series of deafening and flagrant omens,
none of which seem to deter or even catch the attention of young Harker
It seems as though every stop is being pulled out on Jonathan Harker's journey to let him know that danger is near. Many find the casting of Keanu Reeves in the role laughably wrong-headed, but if you think about it, he's the only one with a blank and vapid enough stare to be believable as someone who manages to miss the most aggressively blatant signs of suspicion.
Meanwhile, Sir Anthony Hopkins plays Professor Van Helsing as a guy who may not be able to save victims of wolf rape, but sure can explain the hell out of it. Now, there is a lot that transpires between the voyage to Salvador Dali's Looney Tunes night terror and the werewolf violation, but Coppola and his creative team show every brazen sign of being far more interested in parades of extravagance and ceremonious tableau than with narrative power. The movie is extraordinarily theatrical in how it favors intensification over flow.
The lavish use of expressionism reaches to such heights that it ends up eliciting unwanted laughter. Every set, every backdrop, every detail, foreshadowing, subtext, atmospheric flourish and mere shadow on the wall is screamed at us. It makes Tim Burton look like a Scandinavian minimalist. But all the same, it can be fun letting yourself get swept up in the energy and exhilaration of the whole go-for-broke enterprise.
It does, after all, salvage the title character from the creative flatness of most of his other movie interpretations, and then some. I'd argue that Werner Herzog's Nosferatu takes the cake as the more deeply affecting choice, but I mean, it didn't have wolf rape or baby-eating nymphomaniacs or Tom Waits as an insane guy. Or wolf rape. And Gary Oldman is here. And Sir Anthony Hopkins. They've never detracted from the quality of any movies either have been in as far as I can tell. But more to the point, as the movie sees it, there is a reason why the three Oscars it happened to win were for makeup, costume design and sound editing. It was also nominated for one more, and that was art direction. By now, you surely see the common thread: As a sensory experience, it's a gasser.
The opening scene of Irving Rosenfeld, arguably Christian Bale's
furthest left-field role so far, refining his comb-over and crowning it
with a spray of aerosol heralds the start of something great. Alas, it
was all drivel thereafter.
David O. Russell's raid on grifters and graft in the late 1970s is full of smug put-ons. Though he has selected a cast entirely comprised of hype-magnet zeitgeist stars to draw the crowds, it only exacerbates the self-seriousness of the script, which is pandemic with high camp and laughable pageantry. These people talk way too much. About nothing. Just for Russell's pride in his own riffing.
Beginning with the title card, "Some of this actually happened," the film unceasingly reminds us---often through various characters in carelessly derivative voice-over---that life is a con game, and we all lie. We lie to others, we lie to ourselves. And that it's the American way. And American Hustle isn't clever about making this point. It makes it, makes it again, and in case you didn't get it the first few times, a character says it out loud. Then another one does. And before you know it, you find that it's the self-congratulatory Russell and his overrated cast, not to mention the hordes of critics raving about it, that are conning themselves.
Like Russell's other films, there is quite a bit of humor, but in this case, not all of it is intended. One scene has Jennifer Lawrence going on and on about her nail polish over an important dinner with Irving and Jeremy Renner playing an Italian-American mayor. What initially is marginally charming descends rapidly into a maddening sequence, much too long and breathtakingly vain. And symbolic of the movie in its entirety.
The dialogue is so labored, so artificial and pretentious that everyone involved must've felt too highly of themselves to probe as deeply or use thinking as critical as they all have in past work. Certain scenes seem either pedantically constrained, just have no purpose, or both. Take for instance a particularly eyeroll-inducing ladies room showdown between Adams and Lawrence, while numerous lines are groaners. "After Vietnam and Watergate, we're just starting to trust politicians again." Seriously? "I just want to be loved!!!" What is this, Clifford Odets? "My dream was to be anyone but myself." Thanks for telling me, you self-mythologizing drama queen.
Meanwhile, when you didn't think the GoodFellas and Casino procurements were transparent enough, there's De Niro in a fleeting cameo as a vicious mobster which has no more effect than that of a gimmick of a declining legend riffing on his career staple.
Even the essentially perfect casting of comic genius Louis C.K., in just the kind of bit role I could really get used to seeing him play, can't relieve the film of its hollow ego trip. Once you've unraveled the movie's trendy gloss-over, you've got an overblown wannabe of an undertaking, stuffed with nothing more than the bluster of hand-me-down inspiration, gaudy artifice and lugubrious schtick.
Very likely being an avid follower of Martin Scorsese's works and even
more likely to be particularly fanatical about his most accessible and
recent films, you were right in expecting a total reflection of the
GoodFellas/Casino formula and style---machine gun cutting, swooping
camera, characters bursting through the fourth wall like wrecking
balls, monster production scope and a soundtrack like a jukebox on
speed, all to get us high on our complicity in the excessive debauchery
of the characters and their fast-paced lifestyle---and it is indeed
awesome. But it is also amazingly effective as a slapstick comedy,
loaded with outrageous and absurd laugh-out-loud set pieces.
I say amazing because Scorsese has never done scenes like that and DiCaprio has never even done a comedy before. Scorsese has, but the hilarity here is not in the same vein as The King of Comedy. Or After Hours. It's much broader, goofier and unexpected, as demonstrated in several epic comic tours de force throughout. And it's that very sense of absurdity that makes its commentary on American capitalistic gluttony whole. You know exactly what movie you'll be seeing, but you'll be cheating yourself out of one hell of a ride if you don't see it. It clocks in at three hours but you still won't really want it to end. The movie is as outsized, excessive and compulsive as its title character is.
Money here is not just the root of all evil. It's the total disintegration of any and all traces of decency, at the throbbing heart of which is DiCaprio's character, Jordan Belfort, a real-life stock trader so outrageously shameless and blind to his routine corruption that he virtually appears to be sympathetic, even chivalrous. Belfort couldn't care less whether his clients made money, so long as his share was complete. And like the oligarchs running the country now, his forte was defrauding the the struggling working man who he jockeyed into investing in third-rate penny stocks. Even his sweet first wife is feeling enough to wonder why he marks people who can't afford to be conned. Her civility gets in his way and she's promptly usurped by a blonde lingerie model.
Scorsese's always able to take hard-to-like characters and look at them without judgment, then somehow never have a single dull moment no matter how long he has us watch them. In this case, unabashed farce is the key to it working as a commentary on the absurd overload of greed in this country and how disconnected the super-rich are from their actions and how they affect other people. It also has the most enjoyable and random cast I've seen in a long time, and almost certainly Jonah Hill's finest hour (or three).
Sure, Jordan Belfort begins as a mild-mannered kid with a dream, refusing lunchtime martinis and all, but most of us start out with a soul and a sense of self-control, until we reach a level so rarefied and powerful that you never see any consequences or hardships, and you're cushioned and gratified so completely in a world of leisure and lavishness that whether or not you put the country in debt or screw a few working-class people doesn't really feel like it makes much difference.
As long as the class divides are that wide, that will always be the case. We are constantly baffled by the total lack of conscience in the actions of the 1% and the politicians they puppeteer, but at the same time they honestly must feel that underprivileged people are that way because they choose to be, or simply aren't as smart as them. It's a catch-22 and the only thing we can do, Scorsese says, is laugh at it.
|Page 1 of 119:||          |