lwalsh Reviews

Eragon (2006)

What Eragon reveals about fantasy that works

[6/10 · 3 January 2007]

Eragon is formulaic but fun, a sort of 'Lord of the Rings meets Star Wars'-- yet it could have been a great deal better, and its comparative lack of success is actually more revealing about what makes good films work than many far better films.

Any film, regardless of its genre, is trying to get the audience to see things on its (the film's) own terms. The best films succeed in doing this, getting us to believe, or at least accept, things which may, taken objectively, be quite nonsensical: consider, for example, Casablanca, with its bogus letters of transit which cannot be canceled, or Gone With the Wind, with its ludicrous portrayal of the antebellum South. Fantasy films need to work doubly hard in this regard, as few in their audience are likely to believe in dragons or magic.

So how is this conviction achieved? In large part, it is reached because everybody involved in the film takes it seriously. They may not believe the goings-on, but they act, whether on or off screen, as if they do. Assuming a certain level of technical competence in the production, the film becomes believable because we never catch anybody out of character (and sometimes even technical flaws can't sink a really good performer; think of Bela Lugosi's ability to rise above his often wretched material on the strength of utterly committed performances). This doesn't mean that a film which everyone takes seriously is flawless, but rather that we accept the flaws and dismiss them, or make allowances, because the surrounding material is so well presented.

Now turn to Eragon. Technically the film is superb; the dragon is consistently believable, and the sets and costumes have a gritty air which makes them quite plausible. But after that the film suddenly becomes very uneven, and not for budgetary reasons. A central problem is that the performances are all over the map. Jeremy Irons is understated but solid, because his quietness reflects his character's past, whereas Edward Speleers, the putative hero, never overcomes his own understatedness to really convince us he's a great hero (he's a bit like Mark Hamill in Star Wars in this regard). Robert Carlyle, as Durza the main villain, almost steals the show, especially since John Malkovich, the ostensible center of power, might as well have been sleeping as he read his lines. Rachel Weisz, the voice of the dragon, is excellent; Sienna Guillory, as the Princess Leia figure, is adequate. In other words, there appears to have been no attempt on the part of director Stefen Fangmeier to create a consistent level of performance or interaction, thus allowing it to appear that each member of the cast was largely on their own.

This problem is exacerbated by the screenplay, which seems rather a series of linked episodes than a coherent whole. It may be argued that this is because Peter Buchman chose to take the novel seriously-- but this means that he did not take the film itself seriously as a film; a film is not, and cannot be, a novel, and simply trying to cram in as many plot details from the book as possible will never do justice either to the book or to the possibilities of cinema. It is also quite derivative-- but since very few stories are truly original, this need not have been the problem it becomes.

But the worst problem is purely the director's fault. Much of Eragon looks like material drawn directly from previous fantasy films, and after a while we begin to get the feeling that this is simply an exercise in cadging a few dollars from an audience taken for granted. Nowhere is this more evident than in the end; after a considerable amount of time during which Peter Doyle's score (itself already rather derivative) has been doing its best to evoke a sense of magic and mystery and power we reach the credits, ready for a lengthy symphonic summation of what we've seen and heard. But no-- what we get instead is an utterly trivial pop tune, of no significance, no resonance, and no value. It's as if the director simply stopped caring after the last day of shooting, and it erases most of what little otherworldliness the film had managed to create.

Imagine Eragon, even with the script exactly as it is, with performances as consistent, and as good, as those in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Would it have been as good as the latter? No-- but it would have been much better than it is. Imagine Eragon with a score as consistent, and as consistently used, as John Williams's for Star Wars. Would it have been as good as the latter? No-- but it would have been better than it is. Imagine Eragon with the courage to take the extra half hour or 45 minutes to develop its characters in the manner of Lord of the Rings. Would it have been as good as the latter? No-- but it would have been much better than it is. Now imagine Eragon with all of these consistent improvements.

In short, Eragon had the potential, only slightly beyond its own boundaries, to be a vastly better film. That it was not is disappointing, but it's also very informative to those who care about what actually makes a film good, or even great, instead of formulaic but fun.

Sweet Land (2005)

A lovely film which deserves to be widely seen

[9/10 · 23 December 2006]

'Sweet Land' manages a difficult feat: it is a historical film with a clear message for the present, yet it avoids becoming either nostalgically cloying or preachily shrill. "Banking and farming don't mix" is not merely a phrase heard several times; it is the key to the confrontation of two utterly different, and utterly irreconcilable, attitudes toward land and life. Ned Beatty, as the chief banker, embodies the one, driven by money and power, harshly and repellently (it's a superb performance), but he and his few allies, and what they stand for, cannot completely overwhelm what most of the other characters, major and minor, believe in and represent: the importance of human connections, with each other and with the jobs they must carry out.

There is scarcely a false step in this film. Elizabeth Reaser brings Inge to life completely believably and very poignantly. We truly care about this woman, a fact made all the more astonishing when we realize that for a sizable part of the film she speaks in languages most of the American audience will not understand. It's one of the best performances I've seen in a long time. Similarly convincing is Tim Guinee as Olaf, her perplexed husband-to-be. His struggles to overcome prejudice (his own and that of his neighbors) are played with a delightful mix of humor, pathos, and inner strength which mirror the complex set of forces with which he must deal. Much the same could be said, albeit on a smaller scale, of the lesser parts; these performers inhabit these roles as if they had already lived them for real. Watch the interactions between Alan Cumming and Alex Kingston, for example; these are two people who are deeply and genuinely in love, but who recognize and accept the flaws of the other. There is no conventional 'happy marriage' insipidity here-- with the result that their marriage comes across as truly happy in a far more profound manner than so many others on screen.

Visually the film is often lovely. It is not as lusciously filmed as Terrence Malick's 'Days of Heaven', with which it shares an underlying approach, but it also avoids the occasional glossiness which undercut the down-to-earth elements of the earlier film's plot. Here the images rarely feel forced, and never overwhelm the intense sense of physical presence so vital to both plot and message. Also powerful is the use of two framing stories, linked to but not dependent upon the central plot. Indeed, the emotional climax of the film actually resides in the contemporary story, something we will not realize until almost the very end of the film. What seems a mere narrative trick suddenly resonates with tremendous power, and brings home the film's central theme beautifully yet without undue emphasis.

The flaws are few. The music, usually vaguely folksy without being especially engaging, is more than once rather too modern in its feel and too diffuse in its impact to support the visuals. The music is the weakest element in the film; at times it sounds almost as if the decision to add music was taken so late in production that all that was possible was some improvisational doodling, which fits neither the delicately shaped mood nor the careful pacing and structuring of the action. The important part of Minister Sorrensen is a bit awkwardly written, with his changes of outlook being rather too sudden; John Heard's performance, though thoughtful, could likewise be more nuanced (he was probably responding to the part as written, but in this case he would have been better off to play against the script).

'Sweet Land' is a beautiful, funny, and often very moving film, with a deep and respectful sense of history and human relations. Both the action and the thoughts it provokes will linger long after the curtain closes. The film has much to offer, and I recommend it very highly.

Rollover (1981)

An uneven and unusual thriller worth watching.

[8/10 · 30 January 2006]

This is an unusual film: an adult thriller about the danger of fiscal manipulation. It's also unusual in that it remains relevant, perhaps even more so than when it was released; no less a person than renowned investor Warren Buffet has recently been warning of the dangers of having so much U.S. debt held by countries whose political agendas may not always require a stable or strong U.S. economy.

But is it a good film? With some reservations, I would argue that it is. Director Alan Pakula and cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno have done a very good job of shadowing the action; rarely does anything take place in strong light, and then almost always when the action either involves the Saudis (the first meeting between the cartel and Lee Winters, played by Jane Fonda, for example) or serves their interests (e.g. the death of bank inspector Mr. Fewster). The locations, large and small, take on their own lives; the World Trade Center becomes a monolithic anthill, and there is a wonderfully ominous shot of the arrangement for Lee Winters's death being made by two men amid a crowd on a descending escalator which captures powerfully the essential isolation of the individual amid the crowds, and thus wordlessly encapsulates the underlying political concern of the film. The 720 degree pan just before the film's ambiguous coda is a marvel, one of those things which looks quite simple until one realizes the amount of work that must have gone into making it work smoothly.

The performances are solid if a bit uneven. Hume Cronyn as the amoral main banker is superb, and Macon McCalman does a fine job as Fewster, a man who has gone in far beyond his depth and knows it. Fonda and Kristofferson (playing Hub Smith) are at their respective bests when portraying the manipulative sides of the characters, and less convincing in the romantic scenes (which aren't very plausible to begin with). Fonda's bleak expression when she thinks she realizes that Hub is betraying her is striking, and her reaction to the attempt on her life is completely persuasive. Kris Kristofferson seems rather stolid at first, until we realize that he is portraying a man from whom virtually all emotional capability has been leached by his dedication to success in his career; significantly, the most passionate sex scene takes place immediately after the success of a fiscal gamble of enormous proportions.

The screenplay handles the difficult task of dramatizing monetary transactions well; it is less effective when portraying the love scenes, especially the initial motivation for the central affair. But the climactic confrontation between Hume Cronyn and Kris Kristofferson is spot on; rarely does a character reveal moral bankruptcy as starkly as does Cronyn's, yet his words and his delivery both demonstrate his utter unawareness of the truth about himself. Indeed, the script generally manages to be both clear (albeit complex, requiring attention) and straightforward without becoming preachy or overly didactic.

The music is easily the weakest part of the film (in fact, I almost gave this a 7 based on the music alone). The opening credits are backed by one of the most insipid things I've heard in a long time, a ditzy little number that recurs regularly to no good effect, and the love music (intentionally?) conveys little of passion or even intense feeling. The music for menacing scenes has more character, but appears only intermittently, and not always when it's most needed. This score has dated badly, and undercuts the film's impact considerably.

But all things considered, I still enjoyed this, and recommend it to those looking for something offbeat (and, like Pakula's "All the President's Men", somewhat deliberately paced, though I find this one slightly better overall). It's a rare film in that it almost always treats its viewers as adults capable of giving it a fair chance, yet it is structured, and often plays, like a traditional mystery thriller. But the plot is not all here; the film's unspoken message is worth hearing, and heeding, as well: that when we allow the possession and manipulation of things to take precedence over human needs, we run the risk of becoming nothing but things ourselves.

Black Ice (1994)

Black Ice and the Cold of Space: A Surprising Parallel

[10/10 · 27 January 2006]

'Black Ice' is one of Brakhage's most striking films. An unusual depth of field is attained by melding linear with forward motion; the viewer experiences Brakhage's sumptuous flickers and splatters and explosions of color as if passing through them, rather than, as is more frequently the case in Brakhage's motion painting, as if watching them on a single plane.

An unusual connection will be noticed by viewers with a wide range of cinematic experience: this film shares a startling similarity of cinematic resonance with the V'Ger cloud fly-through in Robert Wise's 'Star Trek: The Motion Picture' (1979). The use of multi-plane visual depth and the frequent recourse to a deep blue color palette combined with flashes of hotter colors (reds and oranges in Brakhage, whites in Wise) links the two sequences visually; the settings (a patch of black ice and the literal fear of loss of vision in Brakhage; the depth of space and the absence of understanding-- metaphorical blindness-- in Wise) supply the unexpected intellectual and emotional link. It's not that the two sequences are identical, of course (Brakhage's sequences are much more rapid, for one), but that they work well together at a deeper level than mere superficial similarities. As it is unlikely that Wise and his collaborators knew Brakhage's work, and improbable that Brakhage was influenced by the earlier film. this stands as an intriguing illustration of the ways in which related aesthetic, emotional, and intellectual questions can independently stimulate related answers.

'Black Ice' is very short, but it has a far greater impact than its length would suggest; it is truly an example of visual poetry, and is well worth seeking out.

BloodRayne (2005)

Entertaining and trivial, but (in the theatrical version) not all that bad

[5/10 · 9 January 2006]

This is not a major piece of fantasy film-making, but neither is it anywhere near as bad as many would appear to think. It's considerably better than, say, 'Dungeons and Dragons,' and in some ways comparable even to John Boorman's wildly uneven 'Excalibur'. It's reasonably entertaining, which is all it really sets out to be, and thus it's rather more mediocre than truly atrocious.

The highlight of the film is undoubtedly the score, primarily by Henning Lohner. It's omnipresent (which is not always a bad thing in these sorts of films), but it manages to work up considerable excitement and even a fair measure of grandeur (aided in part by an odd motivic echo of the opening of Cliff Eidelman's score for 'Star Trek VI' ). The closing sequence of the film is much more impressive than might have been expected, in large part due to the music. In fact, proportional to the overall quality of the respective films, this score is considerably better than that for 'The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe'.

The production values, while far short of the Narnia and Lord of the Rings films, are not so cheap as to detract from the fun. Some of the sets (Kagan's central hall, for example), have real presence, and the FX are always at least passable and sometimes striking. The cinematography , while generally derivative in style and appearance, is at its best in the slower sequences; the action sequences tend to be choppy and even unintentionally blurry. In fact, had this film been a little less determined to whip up action so often, it would have been the better for it. There's a nice sequence where Rayne walks through a town market and sees the vampires beneath the human faces which suggests how much the film would have benefited from a less frenetic pace, for example.

The weakest element is the acting. Kristanna Loken, in the title role, is adequate and sometimes expressive (her final on-screen moments do not draw all of their power from the music); given more room to develop, her character portrayal might well have been more emotionally moving. Geraldine Chaplin manages to make the small role of the Fortuneteller relaxed and believable. Ben Kingsley has physical presence but little more as the villain; Michael Madsen is wretched as the leader of the anti-vampire group, as is Meat Loaf as an rather louche vampire. The rest of the players are generally competent but unexciting.

The screenplay, by Guinevere Turner, is not as confusing as some have claimed (or at least it didn't especially confuse me). There's not much in the way of character development, but as that is rarely the case in sword-and-sorcery films it seems unfair to belabor the point here. The motivations of the major characters are reasonably clear, if one-dimensional, and there is at least some attempt to give Rayne more depth than her type is usually allowed, which pays off in the ambiguous final shot.

I suspect that many people have watched this film expecting it to be wretched, given the reputation of director Uwe Boll. Having never seen any other Boll films, I am in no position to comment on his work as a whole, but it strikes me that the reaction to this one, at least, is rather unfair. Although it's not very good, neither is it awful; while there are many better films even within its genre, there are surely many more that are far far worse.

--This review was written regarding the theatrical release. Some years later I happened to see the DVD version, which is, oddly enough, noticeably worse. Apparently the production company tamped down Uwe Boll's desire for gore for the U.S. release, a desire he was able to exercise fully in the DVD version. The result is a much choppier (so to speak) and less effective film. I begin to understand why so many people think Boll is such a bad director....--

Ugetsu (1953)

A Film of Stunning Beauty and Emotional Depth

[10/10 · 8 January 2006]

Having read much about this film, I thought I knew what to expect when I finally had the chance to see it. I was wrong; no amount of writing can convey the richness and impact of the images and the overall flow of the film-- which is why this commentary will be brief. Suffice it to say that I recommend this film wholeheartedly to anyone looking for cinematic poetry (though not, probably, to those who, misled by its being set during the Japanese Civil Wars, expect an action film).

Perhaps the most striking thing about the film is the camera-work; on a first viewing one is scarcely aware of it much of the time, but the camera is in constant motion, emblematic of the restlessness which pervades not only the era and the central characters but, by implication, all of human life (in this regard, it's a very Buddhist film). This movement is never gratuitous; when the scene demands little or no movement the camera stays still. Notice, though, how often the camera's movement enhances the emotional impact of the scene, especially in the famous panning shot (not, as occasionally described, a 360 degree shot) of the reunion near the end. Along with this is Mizoguchi's penchant for long takes, which seduce the viewer into the rhythm of the film without calling attention to themselves or to his cleverness as a director.

But these are technical comments which may or may not be helpful in focussing a viewer's attention; what really matters is the film itself as a whole. It is truly beautiful, and powerful in the unexpected way of great poetry. Technique and emotion, simplicity of means and complexity of effects, walk hand-in-hand here, and the result is remarkable in a way which film rarely attains.

Tall in the Saddle (1944)

Very enjoyable, with a genuinely interesting female character

[9/10 · 11 July 2005]

There are better Westerns than 'Tall in the Saddle', but very few that are as much sheer fun. The plot is conventional, but the performances elevate the film above the ordinary, especially that of Ella Raines as the wild-spirited ranch operator. Raines is simply a hoot to watch, especially in the three way meeting between her, John Wayne, and Audrey Long in which she makes it clear that Wayne's expectation that no woman is going to "hogtie and brand him" is already in trouble. Watch her face; she manages to pack coyness, bravado, sensuality, wit, and smugness into a comparatively brief scene without ever overreaching herself. She's handy with a gun, with a knife, and with Wayne. The result plays off and balances Wayne's traditional laconic approach very effectively, and thus helps give Wayne's character more depth than was often the case in his mid-40s Western programmers (notice his reaction after his first encounter with Raines; for once in a Western you feel that there's a genuine reason for the hero ordering a whiskey in the middle of the day). I recommend this film highly; it's unpretentious, crisply made, and very enjoyable.

School of Rock (2003)

More lowest-common-denominator rubbish

[1/10 · 7 October 2004]

Anyone looking to prove that Hollywood is constantly aiming at the lowest common denominator intellectually need look no further than here. There is nothing here which is cinematic ally clever, mentally worthwhile, or even remotely original. It ought to be astonishing that this sort of rubbish makes so much money, but sadly it rarely is. Take a complete boor with no brains or taste, and present what is supposed to be an amusing story about how he doesn't need either to succeed in the world, and people lap it up. Is it because they feel superior to the central character? That they pay money to see a film such as this suggests that that 'superiority' is illusory. An amazing percentage of audience members seem unaware of the derogatory attitude toward themselves displayed by films such as this. If someone rubbed my face in excrement, I sure as heck wouldn't pay them for it....

The Ring (I) (1927)

"The Ring," while flawed, remains astonishingly powerful.

[8/10 · 29 September 2004]

This early film has its flaws-- a predictable plot and some overlong scenes of dubious relevance-- but it already clearly demonstrates Hitchcock's mastery of editing and the use of powerful images. It's also among the most expressionist of his films stylistically; note, for examples, the weird distortions he uses during the party sequence and the frequent echoes of both title and plot in the imagery.

Its core, though, remains the final match, which is still among the more exciting examples of cinematic boxing. Even though you know that the hero has to win, it becomes quite believable that he will lose, and the movement of his wife from the champion's corner to his, motivating the final plot pay-off, is very well entwined with the progress of the match. The inserts of the stopwatch do exactly what they should; you can almost hear the ticking (even though this is a silent film, the visuals often have a surprisingly auditory feel to them). The pacing becomes astonishingly rapid, and the viewer gets sucked into the excitement and brutality of both the match and the sexual jealousy which underlies it.

The only DVD release with which I am familiar is that of Laserlight, a public domain company. As with each Hitchcock silent they've released, they've attached various musical selections, mostly orchestral, to the action. The sound editing is frequently sloppy, and the sound quality varies widely, but some genuine care seems to have gone into most of the actual choices, and the music accompanying the final match works extremely well; it is unlikely that this sequence will ever be better accompanied than it is here.

This is a much more impressive film than its present obscurity would suggest. It deserves an honorable place in both the Hitchcock canon and the slender list of worthwhile boxing films.

Helen of Troy (1956)

Good action sequences highlight an acceptable take on Homer

[7/10 · 11 May 2004]

CinemaScope was first seen by many directors as getting rid of the need for certain kinds of editing, since it allowed so much more of the action to be seen at once. Robert Wise ("Odds Against Tomorrow," "Star Trek: The Motion Picture", etc.) decided otherwise, and became perhaps the first director to edit a CinemaScope picture as if it were a regular Academy Ratio film. The results, primitive though they are by modern Steadicam and CGI standards, are more fluid than many early wide-screen epics, and, more importantly, remain quite enjoyable.

The screenplay is nothing to write about. Leads Rossana Podesta (Helen) and Jack Sernas (Paris) are never less than adequate, but their passion is less than convincingly written, and the result leaves something of a hole at the film's dramatic center. Cedric Hardwicke is appropriately dignified as Priam, Niall MacGinnis a standout as Menelaus, and there are good bits from other actors, but the most impressive parts of the film are concerned with the spectacle of the assaults on Troy.

Wise lets out all the stops for the battles, which achieve a genuine power, despite being rather tame by modern standards (though watch for a few surprising parallels with some of the assault on Minas Tirith in "Return of the King"). The matte and process work isn't perfect, but neither is it distracting enough to derail the flow of the action. The Trojan repulse of the Greeks develops a frenetic pace which is still exciting, and the Trojan revelries following the victory, though rather chaste by comparison with more recent on-screen orgies, are a highly effective foil to the subsequent silent Greek exit from the horse, and the ensuing destruction of Troy is tinged with at least a touch of Homeric tragedy. Throughout the main action sequences, Wise's direction is immeasurably aided by Max Steiner's music, which is positively operatic at times.

Anyone expecting fidelity to Homer had better look elsewhere than a big-budget Hollywood spectacle (the famous horse, for example, comes from Virgil, not Homer). Those wanting a generally well made adaptation with some good performances and at least a half hour's worth of exciting battles could do far worse than looking here. Robert Wise's films are never less than interesting, and here as always he demonstrates his ability to keep the audience's interest alive, even after almost fifty further years of sword and sandal epics.

Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979)

This is a superb film filled with elegant, impressive, and powerful details.

[10/10 · 8 February 2003]

Most science fiction films emphasize action over thought. Of the few that offer intellectual as well as visual or visceral stimulation, Star Trek: The Motion Picture is certainly among the best, especially now that legendary director Robert Wise has released a 'Director's Edition' which much more fully represents his original intentions (no review based on any previous version, none of which were approved by Wise, should be considered valid any longer).

The plot is almost excessively simple: a gigantic energy cloud of alien origin is headed toward Earth, and the starship Enterprise must find a way to communicate with it and to take whatever action is necessary. But the point of ST:TMP is not the plot as such; rather, it is an examination of the balance between rationality and emotion which is vital to maintain and succor a genuinely human life (make no mistake; ST:TMP is, at its deepest level, about humanity, not spaceships and alien clouds). We see here a classic tension-- between the coldly rational mind of Spock (and, beyond that, of the entity inside the cloud) and the brash emotionalism of Captain Kirk and, particularly, Dr. McCoy. Underlining this is the one-time love affair between Commander Decker and Navigator Ilia, an affair cut off through fear of what each might have become, of the deep personal changes necessary in true mutual love. The elements come together in the magnificent finale, in which each of the main characters confronts their own greatest need and discovers that their quests can succeed only through the transcendence of the very desires which provoked the quests in the first place.

However thoughtful, the film does not lack for superb production details. Wise has edited the film much more tautly than before, so that each sequence stands in elegant balance with every other. The trip through the cloud and over what lies at its center is among the most beautiful such things in science fiction (easily surpassing the similar moments in 2001: A Space Odyssey). The first views of the Enterprise, shot largely from Kirk's perspective, are filmed almost as one might gaze at a long-absent lover finally seen again, slowly and sensuously and with great care not to miss anything. The set designs are superb, and the overall cinematography polished to a high degree. And of course Jerry Goldsmith's score, nominated for an Academy Award, remains among the finest of film scores; time and again it undergirds and enhances the action or the visuals absolutely stunningly.

Star Trek: The Motion Picture, like 2001 and Tarkovsky's Solaris, is not a fast-paced film, and those seeking action-packed adventure would do best to look elsewhere. But understood as what it truly is-- a moving and powerful meditation on a fundamental dichotomy of human consciousness-- it stands as a major achievement and an almost overwhelming cinematic experience.