JMann Reviews

Walk the Talk (2000)

More Aussie finger-pointing

[16 July 2001]

It's the same sort of unbearable, wretched character treatment as Muriel's Wedding and The Castle, although its principal character never achieves the same balance of being despicable and pathetic. Instead, it's difficult to decide which he should be. That is a predicament that doesn't get any help from the narrative structure of the film, which is overly long, staid, and conspicuously circular at times. The ending is somewhat flat, although it does suggest an inflection of romantic sadness that the misguided Joey seemed chronically unable to fathom throughout the rest of the film.

However, the film makes master use of the seemingly typical Australian film talent of finding the hypocrisies and shortcomings that make everyone human (as opposed to those that make people bad) and skewering them without any mercy. It exploits its flawed characters and is always laughing at them, no matter how seriously they're supposed to be taken. I usually find something of remarkable quality in most of the Australian cinema I see, although it inevitably causes me to groan and frown in a sense of uncomfortable embarrassment for the tragically bumbling characters and how the film's mean-spirited omniscience is roasting them alive.

The Canterbury Tales (1972)

dull decadence

[26 April 2001]

As far as where this one sits on the film map, it's somewhere between Belle de Jour and Tinto Brass's Caligula.

The most important credit Pasolini's setting of the Canterbury Tales deserves is for its dismissal of the usual on-screen morality. Such candor seems essential to the nature of such a narrative (being much more appreciated than the stifled decadence of Keir Dullea's Marquis de Sade or the early Warhol/Morrissey efforts). This is most effective because the film also depicts the baseness and depravity of the late Middle Ages. Everyone's fornicating or trying to fornicate everyone else, with lots of potty humor thrown in just to make sure that it wouldn't be taken too seriously as a foray into art-house pretensions.

On all other counts, it's overblown and a bit sluggish, with an especially disappointing outcome au montage son. And non-professional actors are much less effective in adding a dimension of realism than they are in inducing a sense of self-mockery. The imagery is shamelessly ribald although not extreme, and the storyline is far from seamless. Far from Pasolini's best, although perhaps a good preparation for the far more intense Salo.

The Blair Witch Project (1999)

hype never had it so good

[30 July 2000]

The effect was weak, at best. I saw it while the hype was still a buzz, during its first week of release at the arthouses and well before it shot into Multiplex City.

It's been compared to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, which, in spite of the schlocky production, is genuinely a much scarier and more disturbing film. Where we had an overweight man wearing a grotesquely hewn leather mask, placing screaming girls on meathooks and sawing through brush after his last survivor, Horror Redefined now has us shaking in our boots from bundles of sticks and circles of stones. I suppose that means that in the new world of what is scary, a circle of visciously screaming bumpkins trying to force the corpse of their dead patriarch to drop a hammer on a bound and defenseless girl's head is no match for casual-drug teens spewing language that would make Lenny Bruce blush.

Unfortunately, the 'innovation' of horror and fright coming from the unseen had been developed long since-- and, as in Maupassant's stories of anguish (1887-90), expressed more eloquently.

The cinematography gives rise to either motion sickness or boredom, and the production is so vapid as to be beyond belief. It is certainly a promising student film effort, but hardly one that deserved such attention.

In sum, the most frightening thing about The Blair Witch Project is that a considerable portion of the film cognoscenti seemed utterly convinced that it was a groundbreaking cinematic achievement.

Flesh (1968)

the passive object of desire

[25 June 2000]

Flesh is the first film of a trilogy by Paul Morrissey and Andy Warhol, and is perhaps the first attempt to create an icon of desire out of a male leading role. Although the film is focused on an uncomplicated character development of Joe (Joe Dallesandro), a gentle and subtly unhappy hustler, it depicts him as a passive and ambivalent object, who, in spite of a semi-evident sense of self-control, is possessed, shaped, and evaluated entirely by others. Joe is a young and somewhat naive Adonis who exudes comfort and beauty in his independence, but he works the streets to support his lesbian wife and her girlfriend. He is restlessly bored by an artist/customer's speeches on Greek athletic sculpture and 'body worship', but he sells his nudity anyway. He regards the increasing advances of his homosexual friend with ambivalence, but lets them happen nonetheless. This passivity dominates the film and succeeds in creating a visceral element to Dallesandro's appeal: not only is he desired, he is had.

Perhaps the film's most interesting element is the balance of its obviously experimental nature with its palpable directness. The snappy editing and fragmented dialogue make it fresh and 'real', yet it manages not to rely on the clichéd abstractness of art-films. It is rough, and indeed a weaker effort than Trash or Heat, but nonetheless presents a collection of perfectly plausible characters in a light of almost absolute neutrality.

Cemetery Man (1994)

pretentious is in the eye of the analyst

[5/10 · 14 May 2000]

I am concerned about the (already sufficiently expressed) idea that Dellamorte Dellamore suffers from the excess and pretensions of 'European Art Films' and how it is a film best appreciated by those who delight in such pretensions. I for one *love* pretensions, occasionally wallowing in my own crapulent ruminations on art and life long enough to come to terms with 'the postmodern condition'. But I found nothing so haughty in this swill other than a vehicle for two hours of term-paper procrastination that was more entertaining than anything else on cable television (thank you, Bravo). I even realized that I was a bit hot in my black turtleneck while drinking my bica.

No, there's nothing more to this than a heavy-handed command of camp, the sort of philosophy that one hears in velvet-walled, candle-lit dance clubs, a series of breathy, jittery girls sweating their way through put-on lusty fear, and the lovely Rupert Everett standing around, open-mouthed and pouty, looking blankly yet intently past anything and everything. It's arguably worth it for him alone, but the film as a whole is mostly laughable and remarkably passive, almost to the point of being self-deprecating. The concept of combining horror and philosophy-- suggesting a desire to reflect profoundly on such things as the normalcy of death and the depravity and fleetingness of life while satisfying visceral, perverse urges-- is fascinating, but it doesn't happen here. The film was schlock, pure and simple, and I think anything 'pretentious' would have come from forcing an analysis of it. Perhaps I'm losing my touch: admittedly, it *has* been a while since my last discussion of Genet at the Deux Magots.

A Whole Night (1982)

An assembly of passionate moments as passing fancies

[7/10 · 21 April 2000]

Akerman's Toute une nuit is a collection of vignettes depicting the fancies and dramatic moments of a number of people throughout one summer night. The film has little dialogue and relies on a remarkable series of contrasts for effect: a sultry night of deep, often painful depictions of passion visualized in a stark and grainy manner against the backdrop of a spiritless, bland Brussels.

Perhaps the film's greatest strength is the irony of richness in its seemingly static depiction. Each of the pictures is beautifully ephemeral, usually lasting no more than one action, movement, or event. They allow no real presentation of characters, but nonetheless show each 'character' in a special and unique way. At the end, it is possible to define each of these individuals distinctly from the careful balance of motions, occasional dialogue, and atmosphere in which they were presented.

For those dependent on (or at least accustomed to) an integrated style of narrative giving greater importance to dialogue, this can be a difficult film to watch. And for what one would expect for it to compensate in subtlety, it is often dry. It is well orchestrated nonetheless, a satisfying arc of characters and their interactions for a careful viewer.

Koyaanisqatsi (1982)

fascinating and brilliant visual statement

[10/10 · 7 November 1999]

Due to the absence of a conventional plot, the story and message of this film are depicted through imagery, and it is perhaps the most visually engaging film I have ever seen. Reggio presents a thematic triptych of pure nature, 'evolution' and the rise and progress of modern man, and 'de-evolution' and the consequential ironic anti-progress. And he does so through an amazing work of visual poetry and a relentless and hypnotic (yet powerful) score by Philip Glass. There are no transitions or introductions, and the montage of images and music creates a consuming atmosphere through which a poignant concern for the modern world is expressed.

My only regret for 'Koyaanisqatsi' is its virtual extinction in the film canon. It is rarely seen in cinemas and difficult to find. Although this makes each opportunity to behold it unique and special, its scarcity is too bad; it is a fantastic work that accomplishes a powerful statement through visual means and relies on the imagination and the senses to fully appreciate the realm that it evokes.

Diva (1981)

style beyond the skin-deep

[7/10 · 7 November 1999]

What impressed me most about 'Diva' was the fact that it defined the style of French cinema of the 1980s but appeared very early in the decade. It has a complex plot that is followed and achieved by quirky, sometimes inexplicable characters, but most importantly, it has 'the look'. Because of this, it is difficult to see this film as what it is today: a dated, once-shiny, now-worn toy that provided memorable hours of challenge and amusement many years ago. The visual aesthetic of 'Diva' is flawlessly crafted and smooth, yet perfectly self-conscious. And it provides a curiously interesting background for a slightly bizarre plot that maintains its strange allure on subsequent viewings. The film that is composed of these elements, then, is one that is well-remembered, and for good reasons. There are few films that I have seen that have such a sleek appearance yet manage to interest beyond the superficial, and even fewer that manage to maintain this interest.

Run Lola Run (1998)

Sleek technique, negligible message

[7/10 · 21 October 1999]

Outside the cinema where I saw this film, a promotional poster for it used, among others, the adjective 'post-human' to describe it. And of course I raised a skeptical brow at such daring, laughing a little at the prospect of 'post-humanity' and wondering if it would be nearly as impalpable as postmodernity. It was a bit of a bias, I suppose, and set expectations for what the film would offer: a character study beyond characters? A complication neither created nor solved by human nature?

As it were, the adjective proved insufficient. While I thought of a handful of issues, the foremost regarding the 'humanity' of destiny and how consideration of different possible fates is at the same time innately human and entirely impracticable, I found that the film was much more 'consumable' when seen as an advanced display of technical facility and not licence for the cineaste to synthesise cheap philosophy. Thus, the introductory monologue, which stuck with me for, at most, two minutes into the film, seemed a bit misguided and possibly optional. Once could choose to remember it if one wished (I did not), because the basic idea of the film was made clear enough when its story began.

What followed, apart from a silver-shirt-clad, dyed-hair, slick storyline that had outgrown its days at the mall and moved on to Doc Martens and headshops, was surprisingly effective cinematography, sound, and montage. Lola is faced with a not-impossible situation, and the camera never lets the viewer forget its urgency. It did lapse into triteness at times, such as shifting of time-flow (namely into slow motion) in dramatic moments, but for the most part the camera followed a jarring and uneven course of action that, ironically, made the heroine's mission plausible. And while the music was what one would expect-- up to the second, icy, almost anti-emotional synth-drone, it is really the only thing that would work so dramatically: it understates the overload of emotion in the characters but simultaneously adds to the atmosphere of frustration. The desired effect of constant, relentless motion was easily achieved through masterful guidance of these elements, and where the mind was diverted (through montage, in the bizarre and often grotesque parallels) from the intensity of focus that the storyline demanded, it rarely had time to register any impact before it was forced back to its higher priority.

As far as other criticism is concerned, due to its juxtaposition of three parallel stories, many have awarded it the 'Pulp Fiction Label of Bland Unoriginality.' This was one, though, that actually seemed to draw greater comparisons to Kieslowski's 'Blind Chance,' in that it showed remarkable consequences and intricate complexity stemming from simple actions. It also compared in presenting the idea that we don't necessarily have control over what we do, and that the notion of parallelism is a system whose workings and consequences aren't affected by us as people but rather as 'instigators.'

Perhaps that is 'post-human' after all.

Fargo (1996)

a great example of realism

[10/10 · 2 September 1999]

I first saw Fargo in a grand, opulent, and beatifully restored 1920s movie theatre, now used for "special screening" films and the more accessible arthouse flicks. Seeing Fargo was my first time in this theatre, and I return on a semi-regular basis. I am glad to have had such a wonderful introduction, both to the theatre and to the film. In both respects, Fargo is classic cinema: worthy of being seen in the palatial grandeur of the best movie houses, and the kind of movie that is well-remembered when discovering such wonderful old places. Like the best output of the Coen Brothers, this is a remarkable character study relying on dark humor and cold realism (no pun intended) in creating a complicated and troubled scene of human emotions, troubles, and motives. Its greatest success is in attributing each of its characters with a complexity of characteristics: each one can be liked in his or her own way, and each is presented with such realistic vision that the viewer is suspended in his predicaments. The ability to capture the viewer is one attribute of a film that makes it great, and Fargo brilliantly displays that ability in the most subtle and quietly profound ways.

Beauty and the Beast (1946)

Cinematic splendor

[9/10 · 31 August 1999]

Cocteau's La Belle et la Bete is a rare breed of film nowadays: it draws its beauty and splendor from the imagination of the artist and not solely from the artifice of illusion made possible by cinema. This is a wonderful film, rich with visual enchantment and fantastic creativity. Cocteau's use of light adds a remarkable warmth to the cinematography and often achieves the effect of a moving painting. The film's artistic direction displays a serene and magical world of fantasy within the realistic limitation of film. This is truly a cinematic masterpiece, possibly one of the most beautiful films ever made.

Three Colors: White (1994)

What makes irony so compelling?

[8/10 · 23 August 1999]

The first viewing of this film prompted me to reflect on a question: what makes irony so compelling? While it lacks the brooding and shattering moody substance of Blue, White is rich with irony, employing it in the most subtle and delicate ways to achieve a magnificently dry humor and brilliant contradiction. Again, Kieslowski has made a sensuous and complex film replete with symbolic imagery and multiple shades of meaning. Also again, he has demonstrated his genius in the art of conclusion; the ending of this film is surpassed in brilliance and emotional power only by that of its subsequent partner in the Three Colors trilogy, Red.

My Own Private Idaho (1991)

Poignant indeterminacy

[7/10 · 23 August 1999]

This film, which along with Drugstore Cowboy has distinguished Van Sant as a remarkable director and perhaps even forgiven in advance the many foibles created with Psycho, is wonderful in its ability to strongly express uncertainty. It presents very powerful concepts, such as the alarming humanity of the homeless young and the transcendence of love and admiration, but it does not draw them into a powerful and definite conclusion. Instead, it leaves the viewer license to imagine and ponder, evoking the special thoughts that only art can. It is not without determinate moments, though (Van Sant's surrealism notwithstanding): the funeral of Bob Pigeon, the sex scenes, the clients. The mysterious allure of this film is that it blends such stark visual imagery with vagueness, presenting, not coincidentally, vague recollections of a happy childhood, and concluding irresolutely, instilling the forlorn sense of motion and questioning that the movie's story carries with it.

Little Voice (1998)

easily emotional, but surprisingly timeless

[8/10 · 3 April 1999]

It would be a shame if Little Voice were to be dismissed in criticism as the latest "Northern" film out of Britain to gain a following in the US, one inevitably evoking sympathy for hard times and admirable perseverance. It would be a shame because this film offers so much more to the emotions and, surprisingly, to the character. It is a unique work, combining introspect and exuberant expression, delivered through innovative displays of seemingly timeless ideals. It tells us, perhaps, that while beauty and wonder can be found in nostalgia, there might be more to be found in expressing oneself through it. It also tells us that, while grim hardship and sparse opportunities may be at hand, there are many wonderful moments to be found. Certainly these are not new ideas, but they are delivered in such a sensitive and delightful way that the is possible for the viewer to feel freshly inspired by them. Jane Horrocks has been deservedly lauded for her performance (not to mention her impeccable replicas of some of the century's best-known voices), but the rest of the cast, especially a marvelous Brenda Blethyn, are instrumental in conveying the film's bright messages. "Little Voice" is also thoroughly respectable in less conceptual terms. The "performance scene" featuring Horrocks in all her impersonating glory is nothing short of exceptional: it is easy to see why she was one of the biggest things to happen to London theatre in years. I regret not having the opportunity to see this film until 1999, because it may have been my favorite of 1998. I was not entirely satisfied with the way in which the film ended, but I cannot imagine any better way to bring this film's brilliance to an adequate close. Nevertheless, it is still an inspiring and rich film; one of the best I have seen in the last two years.