Apocalypto & the Mayan Prophecy (2006) ***

It is rumored that the world will come to an end on December 21, 2012.  By whom, you ask?  Well, there’s a whole host of oracles out there, but the most famous doomsayers have to be the Mayans.  Their 1500+-year calendar ends on that date, and some believe this indicates that the Apocalypse will be upon us.  For my part, I feel as though I’ve been living through an apocalypse ever since the McRib was taken off McDonald’s full-time menu, so I eagerly await the four horseman as long as they are grilling McRibs over the fires of Gehinnom year-round.  MMMM…but back to the Mayans. Yes, there are many people who are predicting the end of the world—granted, mostly insane individuals. That said, who better to take on the Mayans’ own personal apocalypse than director Mel Gibson, who believes the Apocalypse began with Vatican II.

Mel Gibson has directed four films (The Man Without a Face, Braveheart, The Passion of the Christ, and Apocalypto), all of which are unique in their own way. Still, his Passion and Apocalypto are significantly different, in that one is primarily in Aramaic (with a bit of Latin and Hebrew thrown in for good measure) and the other is in Yucatec Maya.  Gibson said he wanted his audience to suspend reality and engross themselves in the visual elements of these films.  I think it adds a realistic touch to both pictures, but I can’t help but wonder if he contemplated the fact that when some people are reading subtitles they can’t focus on anything but the words and then they miss the images. Ah, but who am I to argue with Gibson—I have it on good authority (his) that he is one tough motherf___er ( you fill in the blank, I don’t want the censors to get me).

If you haven’t seen the film (perhaps you don’t like foreign films…or films that appear foreign but really aren’t) let me give you a quick tutorial.  The story takes place on the eve of the Spanish conquest of the Yucatan Peninsula (think that place where Survivor likes to go all the time, Guatemala and lower Mexico) and the Mayan people in the mid-1500s. Jaguar Paw (Rudy Youngblood) and his tribe are jungle dwellers who find themselves overtaken by warriors sent to capture human sacrifices and slaves.  It would seem that a plague has descended on the tribes who live outside the jungle, and the priests have said that only human blood will satisfy the god Kukulkan.  Prior to being taken captive by some really scary men, Jaguar Paw drops his pregnant wife and son down a hole.  His only goal is to escape his captors and return to what is left of his family. 

Seeing as the Mayans didn’t have guns or any type of sophisticated weaponry, the film is quite violent.  While bombs blow people up and bullets blow people’s heads off, spears, clubs, arrows, knives, and swords still draw blood.  You know a film is going to be bloodthirsty when one of the first scenes is a wild boar impaled by traps and then gutted for its organs which are passed out as gifts.  By the time you get to the human sacrifice scenes at the pyramid you are more than ready to watch the victims partake in this sacred ritual: stomach slit open; beating heart ripped out; head chopped off; head rolled down a very long row of steps; and, for good measure, the lifeless body thrown over the pyramid, too.  No one does human sacrifices like the Mayans—well, actually the Aztecs did them better, but still… If you don’t do blood, don’t do this film.

While the cast is comprised mostly of unknowns, the acting is quite good.  Even though he’s not asked to stretch himself too much, Youngblood is especially good as the determined Jaguar Paw.  Primarily known as a dancer, Youngblood thrives in scenes that require him to show off his agility and athleticism.  The more well-known Raoul Trujillo (who plays the warrior leader Zero Wolf) is intimidating as the uncompromising villain. His character is the type of “native” you have nightmares about. 

Overall, what I liked most about the film is its simplicity.  It’s a treat to watch a movie where the plot is simple, the acting is natural, and the setting is not a product of CGI.  In addition, I found the ending jarring, but in a good way.  Plus, it does prove the Mayans were excellent prophets.  They were right about a plague descending upon them in the 1500s—AKA, the conquistadors. Does this spell doom for mankind in 2012? Maybe. According to the Mayan calendar, 2012 does bring an end to the Age of the Jaguar. Yes, that’s right, our hero’s name was Jaguar Paw.  So, if on December 21 you feel something like a shift in the earth’s magnetic field remember you have only one person to blame for what’s about to come next—Mel Gibson, he’s about to burn the entire motherf___ing world down. For my part, I’ll be looking for the flames that smell like a pork patty, BBQ sauce, onions, and pickles served on a 5½ inch roll.  If you like, feel free to join me.

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Attack the Gas Station (1999) *

I’d like to say that the meaning of this 1999 South Korean film was lost in translation, but due to it being dubbed in English I can’t.  At first I could only surmise that director Kim Sang-jin was attempting to make an anarchic comedy with Attack the Gas Station. After watching this I went in search of answers: what the hell was it about?  I read that Kim was making a statement about Korean carmakers laying off workers and criticizing American economic imperialism.  Okay, so some of the story made sense after that bit of context.  Still, that didn’t make me dislike the film any less.

The story (written by Park Jeong-woo) is about four young Korean men who rob a gas station because they are bored.  Having just robbed the station a few days prior, the thugs show the viewer very quickly that they are not what one would describe as master criminals.  As a matter of fact, three out of four of them are pretty damn stupid.  Mad Dog (Yu Oh-seong) carries a stick around and hits anyone who calls him stupid—a lot of people get hit.  Rockstar (Kang Seong-jin) is a failed musician (probably because he dresses like a bad big-hair 80s band singer) who makes hostages sing so he can hear music.  Paint (Yoo Ji-tae) is an artist who likes to paint lewd images and then throw red paint on them and shout, “Finished.”  Of the four men, there is only one that I found even remotely substantive: No Mark (Lee Sung-jae).  An orphan and a gifted baseball pitcher, No Mark is the leader of this traveling insane asylum, and the only one I could ever envision being a productive member of society.

Kim tries to tie the senseless violence these men inflict on others together by showing past events in each man’s life that might have turned them into psychopaths.  I was not convinced that these “incidents” were enough to warrant such depraved behavior, and that’s a big reason I really disliked the movie.  While I haven’t read this anywhere, I am convinced that Kim and Park saw Michael Haneke’s deranged Funny Games (1997) and decided they should do a film with similar themes.  I didn’t like the senseless violence of that film, and I most assuredly was not enamored with it here, either. 

What makes this movie even more disappointing to me is that the few Korean films I have seen have all been pretty entertaining.  For example, The Good, the Bad, the Weird (2008) is a smart modern spaghetti western with a compelling storyline.  Oldboy (2003) is an inspired revenge tale. And, The Host (2006) is a strange but scary story that leaves you on the edge of your seat.  And, then there’s Attack the Gas Station, which has now diminished my appreciation of Korean cinema.  Oh, and there’s a sequel, too. Really?

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The Big Lebowski (1998) **

A plethora of who’s who comprises the cast of this 1998 Coen Brothers comedy about a case of mistaken identity gone terribly awry.  The Big Lebowski is chock full of memorable performances and has a far-out plot loosely based on the 1939 Raymond Chandler novel, The Big Sleep (which was first made into a movie in 1946, starring Humphrey Bogart as Detective Philip Marlowe). Like many early Coen Brothers’ films this was not a commercial success; however, over the years it has become a cult favorite. While I’m not a huge fan of this, I do admire the acting and the bizarre plot.

Jeff Bridges plays “The Dude” (AKA Jeffrey Lebowski), a white Russian-drinking and pot-smoking slacker who likes to bowl.  The Dude’s world becomes complicated when a porn kingpin named Jackie Treehorn (Ben Gazzara) sends his goons to the wrong Jeffrey Lebowski’s house looking for payment of Jeffrey’s wife Bunny’s (Tara Reid) debts. The thugs soon realize they have the wrong Lebowski, but not before one of them urinates on his rug. Why is this important?  Because after relaying this story to his bowling buddies one of them, a crazy Vietnam vet named Walter (John Goodman), convinces him that he should make the other Lebowski pay to have the rug cleaned. This is how The Dude meets the Big Lebowski (David Huddleston), a wheel-chaired millionaire married to a slutty trophy wife.  Soon after Bunny is kidnapped and The Dude is asked to serve as the bagman for the ransom. What ensues is one of the most peculiar story plots in the history of motion pictures—but what should you expect, it is the Coen Brothers after all.

What I like about most Coen Brothers’ films is that they are always unique in their own special way.  This one has a quirky hippie vibe—what with The Dude always smoking a doobie and Walter constantly referring to ‘Nam—but it also has a biting edge to it, especially when depicting the art world and nihilism.  Somehow these people from completely different social spectrums meet and create a chaos that is, well, rather paradoxically, a form of artistic nihilism.  While the story has some fat that could be trimmed (specifically the two appearances of Sam Elliott as “The Stranger”), overall most of the pieces of the messy plot come together in the end.

As for the acting, just about every character is memorably played by some of the finest actors in Hollywood today. However, there are three performances that standout above the rest.  First, John Turturro is virtually unrecognizable as Jesus, a bowling rival of The Dude’s team.  Playing a Latino with a heavy Cuban accent who went to prison for exposing himself to an eight-year-old girl, Turturro plays on every stereotype you can imagine.  Jesus’ clothes are way too tight, he is overtly sexual, and his machismo is beyond measure.  For such a small part, it turned out to be one of Turturro’s most memorable.

The second standout performance has to be Julianne Moore as Maude Lebowski, the Big Lebowski’s estranged daughter.  When you make your entrance in an overhead harness completely nude you must have gusto.  Playing an avant-garde artist with no inhibitions, Moore makes you pay attention to every word that comes out of her mouth in a clipped, faux British accent.  Maude would be pretentious if she weren’t so damn serious!  Some of the words that come out of Moore’s mouth would sound so wrong if they weren’t delivered by an actress who knew how to play her part to the fullest.

Finally, while I know Bridges is the star of the movie, it is Goodman who is the standout.  I don’t know what it is, but he has a habit of stealing whatever film he is in—even as a co-star or in a cameo performance.  His Walter is the most memorable thing about The Big Lebowski. Extremely gifted when it comes to voice inflection, body language, and most definitely facial expressions, Goodman turns what otherwise would have been an irritating idiotic sidekick into an exasperating psychopathic wingman. Whether he is jumping out of a moving car or interrogating a teenage boy, or most memorably throwing a paralyzed man to the ground, Walter is outrageously believable.  For me, if there is one reason to watch The Big Lebowski it is Goodman—he is most assuredly not an amateur.

Overall, this is a typical Coen Brothers’ comedy: uniquely written and strongly acted. Other than a few standout performances and an unusual plot there is nothing that makes me want to watch The Big Lebowski over and over again.

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The Night of the Hunter (1955) **1/2

Renowned screen actor Charles Laughton played some of the most memorable cinematic characters ever: Captain Bligh, Quasimodo, Nero, Dr. Moreau, King Henry VIII, Captain Kidd, and Sir Alfred Robarts, just to name a few, but like most actors, he thought he’d like to direct.  He’d had experience directing plays but wanted to helm a film that would make moviegoers "sit up straight again” at the theater and take notice.  And, so when he became enthralled with David Grubb’s best-selling novel, The Night of the Hunter, Laughton decided he would make it into a film. Unfortunately, it was both a commercial and critical failure and Laughton never directed another movie before his death in 1962. Today, his The Night of the Hunter (1955) is regarded by critics as one of the best films of the 1950s. I’m sure a man with such an ironic sense of humor as Laughton’s would have found this somewhat depressing. 

Set amidst the West Virginian countryside during the Great Depression, this is a movie that is one part gothic fairy tale and one part morality tale.  It is written in 1 Timothy 6:10 that “the love of money is a root of all sorts of evil, and some by longing for it have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.” This pretty much sums up ‘Reverend’ Harry Powell’s (Robert Mitchum) sociopathic existence.  Plagued with a pathological disgust of women (calling Dr. Freud) but an insatiable need for money to bankroll his false prophesies, Harry finds himself compelled to kill widows.  After being incarcerated for stealing a car, Harry shares a cell with a man (Peter Graves) sentenced to death for killing two people in a bank robbery where he stole $10,000 that was never recovered.  Once released from prison Harry sets out to find the man’s widow and the missing money. The problem is the widow, Willa Harper (Shelley Winters), has no idea where the cash is stashed, but her two young children, John (Billy Chapin) and Pearl (Sally Jane Bruce), do but have promised never to reveal that it’s hidden in Pearl’s doll. What ensues is a true battle of good versus evil.

The Brothers Grimm and German expressionism obviously influenced Laughton’s vision of this film. James Agee is credited with the screen adaptation of Grubb’s novel, but in reality it was Laughton and his assistant directors, Terry and Denis Sanders, who wrote most of the script that ended up on the screen. Much like the novel, the film focuses on the duality of good and evil, which is quite literally etched on Harry’s knuckles, with one hand reading Love and the other one Hate.  When a film starts off by quoting Matthew 7:15: “Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves,” and the next thing you see is a man in clerical garb, wearing a hat that looks like it has satanic horns, then you know this isn’t your everyday story of good versus evil.  Somehow the fact that Harry is perceived as a man of God makes his evil ways even more dark and sinister—a fact that would have not been lost on the Brothers Grimm.

There are two particular shots in the film that are obvious nods to the likes of Fritz Lang and Robert Wiene, pioneers of the German Expressionistic movement. The first comes early in the film when John is telling Pearl a bedtime story about a bad man looking to do harm.  Standing in a moonlit window as he relays the story, the boy finds himself silhouetted by the outline of a Puritanical hat belonging to a man singing his abased version of “Lean on Jesus” which he sings as “Leanin’”.  When film teachers instruct students on the power of a good foreshadowing scene this is beyond an obvious choice.  The other tip of the hat to Lang and Wiene comes in the bedroom scene where Harry kills Willa.  By this point in the story, Willa has become a brainwashed disciple of Harry and is so far gone that she can’t see him for the demon that he is, even when it is right in front of her face.  As she prattles on about her spiritual shortcomings, the scene is framed in such a way to make the bedroom appear as a church (steeple included)—she quite literally can’t see behind the shadows of delusion. 

While the first half of the film is dedicated to the depiction of evil, the second half focuses primarily on good. This is where Lillian Gish comes into the story.  Laughton desperately wanted Gish for the role of Mrs. Cooper and did what most could not do: he convinced her to come out of retirement and play what he thought was the lynchpin role of the film. Mrs. Cooper’s Christian compassion and charity are the perfect dichotomy to Harry’s greed and hatred.  As she says, she is a “strong tree with branches for many birds.” Reminiscent of the Old Lady in the Shoe, Mrs. Cooper is the caretaker of orphaned children and she takes John and Pearl in when they run away from Harry.  She is a formidable adversary to Harry, which is showcased in their pivotal showdown of wills and, well, religiosity. Never has there been a stranger duet than Harry singing “Leanin’” with Mrs. Cooper chiming in to sing the correct version of the song, “Lean on Jesus”. It is here that good and evil meet and only one can win—it helps that one brought a knife to a shotgun fight, though.

Mitchum campaigned hard for the role of ‘Reverend’ Harry and it shows in what is perhaps his finest performance.  Cool and cunning, as well as evil and deranged, never looked so good on a man.  There are very few actors who could pull off being both vile and charming, but Mitchum does it exceedingly well.  It is a shame that he was overlooked by the Academy Awards, but perhaps the world of 1955 wasn’t ready for such a dark and disturbing film. 

Overall, I enjoyed The Night of the Hunter. The story was gripping and Stanley Cortez’s photography was inspired. If I have one complaint about the film it has to be the character of Pearl. Was there ever a more helpless child in the world?  If I had to see John drag her up steps or attempt to put her uncooperative self in a boat one more time I may have screamed., “O come ye little children indeed!”

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A Room with a View (1986) **1/2

There’s a reason I’ve seen just about every film in Helena Bonham Carter’s oeuvre: she’s one of the best actresses of her generation. Her acting ability is often overlooked (especially by the Academy Awards, which has only granted her two nominations) due to her quirky roles, but even quirkiness requires talent and Carter has loads of that. At the ripe old age of nineteen she appeared (and starred) in her first feature film, A Room with a View (1986)—a movie that garnered eight Academy Award nods and three wins. Her endeavor in this Merchant and Ivory production led to her being cast in several period pieces over the next ten years (one being The Wings of a Dove in 1997, for which she received a Best Actress nomination), but it wasn’t until her turn in Fight Club (1999) that her particular quirkiness was allowed to be on full display from that point forward.  It helps that she became romantically involved with one of the quirkiest film directors ever, Tim Burton, in 2001, and that due to this relationship she has found herself paired in six films with Johnny Depp. For someone unfamiliar with her earlier work, A Room with a View might be a bit of a shock, as it is a film about British social conventions at the turn of Twentieth Century and Carter is somewhat restrained by this. Still, there are slight glimpses of what is to come.

Adapted from E.M. Forester’s (Merchant and Ivory’s author of choice) novel of the same name, A Room with a View tells the story of how Miss Lucy Honeychurch (Carter) inappropriately found love in the Tuscan countryside with a free-spirited philosopher named George Emerson (Julian Sands).  It is this inappropriateness, which is hilariously pointed out by Lucy’s chaperone and cousin Charlotte (Maggie Smith in an Oscar-nominated turn) that causes a rift in the relationship.  It takes an unbearable engagement to an exhaustingly boring and affected Cecil (Daniel Day-Lewis in an Oscar-nominated role) and the publication of Eleanor Lavish’s (Judi Dench) scandalous novel about Lucy and George’s Tuscan tryst to convince Lucy that there is more to life than social constraints, namely love and happinesss.

What I like most about the film is the acting performances. With a cast full of then and future Oscar winners director James Ivory had a pretty easy row to hoe with this picture, and I suspect he would be the first to say that his Best Director Oscar nomination and the film’s Best Picture nomination were due in large part to his cast.  As I’ve pointed out in previous reviews, Daniel Day-Lewis is an exceedingly gifted actor. He can play any part and make it completely his own, and that’s what he did with Cecil.  In the hands of a lesser actor Cecil may have turned into a caricature of the cuckolded fiancee. Instead, while Cecil is boorish and priggish he is also engaging to watch because Day-Lewis turns him into a character you don’t necessarily like but want to watch.  The same can be said of Smith’s role as Cousin Charlotte. No one plays exasperatingly idiotically polite characters like Smith, and that is exactly what Charlotte is. Smith expertly uses body language and facial expressions, not to mention that memorable voice of hers, to turn poor Charlotte into someone you first want to shake and then into a woman you want to embrace. 

The pairing of Carter and Sands is an interesting one.  Here are two actors who found themselves on the same career trajectory following the critical acclaim of this film, but one ended up on the A-list and the other on the D-list.  By far Sands’ portrayal of George Emerson is his best—perhaps he peaked too early in his career?  Still, one of the reasons I wasn’t completely enamored with Lucy and George’s pairing was because it was obvious that Carter was by far the more superior actor of the two. There are several layers to Lucy that must be peeled slowly away as the story progresses and Carter shows an unusual depth of character development for an actress so young. Never is Lucy more enchanting than when she finally tells Charlotte and Cecil what she really thinks of them.  Plucky and perky suit Charlotte, not to mention Carter, quite well.

Of course what would a Merchant and Ivory film be without beautifully designed period costumes (Oscar winners Jenny Beavan and John Bright), expertly crafted sets (Oscar winner), and pristine cinematography (Oscar nominated Tony Pierce-Roberts)?  All of the hallmarks of what comprises a Merchant and Ivory production are present here.  Edwardian clothes don’t excite me, but breathtaking shots of Florence and the Tuscan countryside do.  The first part of the film, which takes place in Italy, is where most of the visually stunning images are captured.  I suspect that is why Cousin Charlotte so desperately wanted a room with a view in the first place. 

Overall, A Room with a View is an interesting study in upper-class social etiquette in Edwardian England.  The movie benefits greatly from a stellar cast and a somewhat engaging story. 

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A Fish Called Wanda (1988) **

Don’t call me stupid for not loving this 1988 comedy from director Charles Crichton (with an assist from John Cleese). Yes, it has some funny parts, but it is definitely a film I could have died without having seen (although some man in Denmark did laugh himself to death while watching it).  Perhaps it’s the decade in which it was made (the 80s) that makes it shine a little less brightly for me.  There is something about the hideous fashion and over-synthesized songs of that decade that really irks me, and when it is on full display, as it is here, it is even more distressing because it is forever imprinted (quite literally) in the annals of cinema that the 1980s sucked. 

Written by Crichton and Cleese, this comedy-heist film about four eccentric jewel thieves takes place in jolly old London.  The thieves are led by George (Tom Georgeson), a cockney gangster who picks three of the worst criminals in the world to help him pull the job: Wanda, Otto, and Ken.  His girlfriend Wanda (Jamie Lee Curtis) is a complete slut and an even bigger liar. Otto (Kevin Kline) is a pseudo-philosopher and an outright psychopath who pretends to be Wanda’s brother, but is really her jealous lover.  And, then there is Ken (Michael Palin)—a stammering animal lover with absolutely no sense.  When the heist goes awry and George is arrested, the other three scramble to tie up loose ends and engage in wacky acts of betrayal.  In the middle of all this treachery is Archie Leach (Cleese), the barrister working on George’s case who becomes ensnared in Wanda’s sleazy web of lies.  And, no, it is not a coincidence that Cleese chose to name himself after Cary Grant (the real Archie Leach)—he was born 20 miles from Grant’s birthplace and greatly admired him. 

Obviously 1988 was a weak year for the Academy Awards, specifically in the Best Supporting Actor category, because Kline won an Oscar for his turn as Otto.  To me, watching him in this was like taking a class in overacting. If anyone in the movie deserved an Oscar nod it was Palin, and even that would have been a stretch.  Of course his scenes attempting to kill Mrs. Coady (Patricia Hayes) are my favorite, so I think that might skew my point of view.  But really, he is quite hilarious as the murderer of three innocent Yorkshire Terriers.  And, when I come to think of it, the only time I found Kline entertaining was when he was doing a scene with Palin.

The story is entertaining and Cleese’s straight-man act is enjoyable, so I can’t really give A Fish Called Wanda a poor rating. Still, Kline and Curtis’ less than stellar performances are grating to me.  Yet, the wardrobe and music are worse.  Costume designer Hazel Pethig definitely did not benefit from what passed for fashionable in the 80s.  I wonder how much Curtis cringes every time she sees how horrid her wardrobe was.  Oh, and the music (if you can call it that) by John Du Prez is a complete representation of what was wrong about 80s music.

Overall, A Fish Called Wanda is a passable 1980s comedy.  Unfortunately, to watch it you must hear and see everything that makes the decade one of the worst of the Twentieth Century.

 

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The Phantom of the Opera (1925) **

What is the price of fame? According to this 1925 silent classic staring Lon Chaney a deal with the devil…no, no, no that’s Faust; I mean a creepy Phantom. Please excuse my mistake; it was an easy one to make seeing as the opera performed in this film is Faust. Coincidence? I think not.

Christine (Mary Philbin), the understudy to the prima donna, has a mysterious voice coach who first communicates to her through the walls and then later in a face to mask meeting that she will be the star of the show, but only if she gives everything up but him and the opera. No, she’s not a schizophrenic, just so hell-bent on being a diva that she’ll do just about anything to get ahead—think Mariah Carey in the Tommy Mottola years. He causes all kinds of mischief to ensure this—threatening notes to the lackluster prima donna and dropping a chandelier on the audience to end a performance. Christine’s very annoying boyfriend, Raoul, wants her to give it all up and marry him, and since she is starting to get weirded out by the Phantom she agrees. This makes the Phantom jealous and so he kidnaps Christine and takes her to his man-cave. Instead of seeing posters of his favorite team and his collection of shot glasses, she sees his hideous skullface. To emphasize how shocking his face was the camera actually went out of focus. Eventually, Christine is rescued and the Phantom is chased by an angry mob to his drowning death in the Seine.

This film is ultra-melodramatic, but it is watchable due to the creepiness of Lon Chaney’s Phantom and the great set designs. The underground tunnel scenes are the best, with the unmasking of the Phantom and Raoul’s near-death experience in a torture room where the heat is unbearable (see Hell and Faust), Personally, I wished he had used the provided noose. But I digress. Anyway, the music is eerie and Lon Chaney is stellar. A good watch in October.

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Zero Kelvin (Kjærlighetens kjøtere) 1995 **

Set amidst the artic elements of Greenland, this Norwegian film from director Hans Petter Moland examines the effects of isolation and brutality on the human psyche.  Beautifully photographed by Philip Øgaard, Zero Kelvin (1995) is predominately a psychological thriller without the usual histrionics associated with the genre. While it is interesting to watch the volatile relationship between the two major characters, the film does drag in a few places, which hampers my overall appreciation of it.

Henrik Larsen (Gard B. Eidsvold) makes a fateful decision when he signs on with the Greenland Company as an animal trapper. Commissioned to write a book about the life of outdoorsmen, the Norwegian gentleman poet is thrown completely out of his element when he finds himself working for a crude, alcoholic foreman named Randbæk (Stellan Skarsgård).  The men are polar opposites, coming from two very different social classes and intellectual levels, and they immediately clash.  The only thing that stands between them killing one another is the pleasant camp naturalist, Jakob Holm (Bjørn Sundquist). When the two rival’s incessant and violent bickering becomes even too much for the peaceful Holm he deserts the camp and leaves the two men to their deathly feud.  It is at this point that the film takes an even darker turn, as Larsen is forced into a duel of survival on the artic terrain against a menacingly cruel Randbæk.

One of the most recognizable Swedish actors of his generation, and known throughout all of cinema as a prolific and versatile actor, Skarsgård plays Randbæk as a deplorably reprehensible character. He seethes with antagonism and almost every word he says drips with venom.  You can’t help but hate Randbæk and feel sympathetically towards Larsen. From his constant belittling and taunting of Larsen to his extreme cruelty exacted on the sled dogs, you find yourself hoping that he ends up dying painfully slow.  I usually don’t completely despise a character, but with Randbæk I had no choice. Skarsgård has said of the role that he “could see from the outset that it was a rewarding character to play because there were absolutely no limits to what he could do. It's one of the most delicious parts I've ever played. I've never been such a bastard before." That’s more than an apt description of Randbæk—he is a complete bastard. 

Perhaps it was the icy, artic air that contributed to how mean Skarsgård made Randbæk appear, because the crisp, austere images captured by cinematographer Øgaard would lead one to believe that only a certain type of person could survive in such an environment.  Working above the Arctic Circle in Svalbard, Norway, Øgaard adeptly uses the setting’s natural elements of ice, snow, and wind to create a vast, desolate wasteland which compounds both the characters’ and viewer’s sense of isolation. With his photography he creates a completely punishing atmosphere for an equally punishing story.

However, my biggest complaint with Zero Kelvin stems from Øgaard’s cinematography: the film sometimes drags because so much time is spent looking at the harsh terrain.  I think Moland and his editor, Einar Egeland, could have slightly cut some of the environment shots to keep the story’s pace a bit more engaging.  Yes, Øgaard’s images deserve to be admired for their beauty, but a good director knows when enough is enough.

Overall, Zero Kelvin is a somewhat engrossing psychological thriller with engaging cinematography, but it is not a film that I would categorize as must-see.

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2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) *1/2

No, I don’t like Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).  I’m sure I have offended countless sci-fi fans and cinephiles, but I don’t care because I find the film beyond boring. Yes, there are several interesting visual images, and for 1968, at the height of the Space Race, it was ahead of its time, but that doesn’t mean I have to revere it or recognize its perceived “greatness”.  The only thing I do like about it is the music—and even that contributes to the overall tedious effect the movie has on me.  If you fall asleep every time you watch something I think that sends a clear message. 

Based on sci-fi author and futurist Arthur C. Clarke’s short story “The Sentinel”, 2001: A Space Odyssey is a plodding look at humankind’s relationship with the universe.  There is a monolith that keeps popping up: on Earth at the dawn of man, on the moon, and on Jupiter.  I expect all of these “sightings” are supposed to be tied together, but having not read Clarke’s series I have no idea how, as the film gave me no conclusive answer. I’m a historian by trade, but I minored in philosophy, so I kept asking myself if Kubrick chose to open and close his movie with Richard Strauss’ “Thus Spoke Zarathustra” because he was trying to make some sort of nihilistic statement about Nietzsche’s concept of eternal recurrence and the Übermensch. I suspect this is the case.  Okay, I somewhat understand what he was doing, but what about the average person on the street who never read Nietzsche or Clarke, do they get it?  Probably not, but I don’t think Kubrick cared, either. 

I have been told that people liked to drop LSD and then go watch this—I can see that.  There is an abundance of vast spatial dissonance and towards the end there is a plethora of psychedelic images, so I understand how this might appeal to Dead Heads.  For me, these images did one of two things: made me sleepy and/or gave me a headache. I’m not a special effects geek, and so while it is obvious that Kubrick and his crew were way ahead of their time, it does nothing for me.  Maybe I lack the ability to be awed by these endeavors because so much has been seen and discovered since this film was released.  Still, I can’t see how Pauline Kael wrote in 1968 that 2001: A Space Odyssey was "a monumentally unimaginative movie.” There is plenty of imagination, but, for me, that’s not enough to make me like it. 

Minimalism has its place, but too much of it in a film can leave viewers feeling completely detached.  That is the effect that 2001: A Space Odyssey has on me.  Sparse, minimal dialogue; sterile set designs; and, a complete denial of human pathos makes for bad cinema in my book.  To makes things worse, when Kubrick does attempt to make an emotional appeal he does so with the supercomputer HAL (voiced by Douglas Rain), who is represented as both creepy and evil.  Is Kubrick making a statement about emotions?  Is there no room in his future world-view for feelings, and if you do have them does that make you deficient and/or deviant?  For a humanist like myself, that is an unbearable bitter pill to swallow.

The one element of the film that I liked was the music. Kubrick wanted to create a non-verbal experience, and you will notice that he uses music throughout the film except in the rare cases where there is actual dialogue.  While he bookends his movie with Strauss’ “Thus Spoke Zarathustra”, he also creatively uses Johann Strauss’ “On the Blue Danube” and György Ligeti’s Requiem.  Still, even though I found Kubrick’s musical choices inspired, I also think they contribute to my desire to fall asleep every time I watch his movie. 

Overall, I don’t dig this film.  To me, it is boring and lacks any emotional appeal.  Yes, there are a number of enticing visuals, but that just isn’t enough for me. Plus, the creepy baby at the end gives me nightmares.

 

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12 Angry Men (1957) **1/2

In director Sidney Lumet’s first feature film, 12 Angry Men (1957), one juror asks another, “What kind of man are you? Who tells you that you have the right like this to play with a man's life?” The duty of a juror is to judge the evidence presented without prejudice or sympathy and render a verdict. The problem is every person who sits in a jury box has their own personal views regarding race, class, and gender, as well as their own personal problems. Reginald Rose’s Oscar-nominated screenplay (adapted from his stage play) does an excellent job of showcasing these very issues in this taut, dramatic film.  Aided by brilliant cinematography, outstanding editing, and stellar acting, 12 Angry Men is an inspiring look at one of the most disliked and avoided duties of American citizenship. 

Our jury is deliberating a first-degree murder charge involving an 18-year-old minority boy from the slums who is accused of stabbing his father to death.  If convicted, the mandatory sentence is the death penalty.  On the surface, it appears to be an open and shut case of guilt, but one juror, played by Henry Fonda, has doubts.  As the lone holdout, he takes it upon himself to make the other eleven jurors (all men, hence the title) reluctantly (and in some cases belligerently) reexamine the evidence.  Along the way we learn there are other contributing reasons for why they think the boy is guilty: racial and class prejudice, familial issues, and indifference.  It is a searing analysis of what actually influences jurors to make the judgments that they do. 

While I have a particular issue with the fact that all of the jurors are men (women could vote and thus serve on juries in 1957!), that does not damper my appreciation for how Lumet and cinematographer Boris Kaufman shot the film.  I’m not sure whether they chose to use black and white film to accentuate the viewpoints of the jurors (everything is seen as either black or white) or because it was cheaper, but it works. The beginning of the film is shot with wide-angle lenses and at an above eye-level perspective. This cleverly depicts how distant the jurors are from one another on many levels.  It also provides the viewer with the ability to observe the idiosyncrasies of each juror.  As the story progresses and becomes heated as jurors start changing their verdicts, the film is shot from much lower angles and closer shots.  These techniques heighten the drama and create an almost claustrophobic atmosphere.

With over 365 camera sets-ups and multiple angle shots, it is obvious that cinematography played a vital role in the overall production, but without clear, decisive editing it would have been useless. Having worked for several years on dramatic productions for television, Lumet knew the value of editing, and he and Carl Lerner expertly and concisely cut 12 Angry Men to create a smooth, cohesive feel.  While there are a lot of panning shots, the film is appropriately cut at crucial moments.

All twelve actors give fine performances, but three stand out to me. Fonda is obviously the star, and he plays his calm, rational Juror No. 8 well, but he serves more as a moral compass than anything else.  I’ve seen him play this part before in The Ox-Bow Incident (1943) and Young Mr. Lincoln (1939), so while he’s good here it’s not what I consider one of his standout performances.  No, when I think of the jurors I remember Ed Begley (Juror No. 10), Lee J. Cobb (Juror No. 3), and George Voskovec (Juror No. 11).  Begley plays his rude, bigoted part with just the right amount of anger and callowness.  By the end of the film, when almost every man turns their back on his poisonous prejudice, he does an excellent job of conveying his character’s resigned realization that no one respects him or his views.  Cobb’s Juror No. 3 is violently vitriolic and difficult to forget. His vehement agitation serves as the actual pulse of the movie.  And, finally, I think Voskovec’s turn as a naturalized citizen with an appreciation for the American justice system deserves to be recognized.  His dealings with both Cobb and Begley are memorable, but it is his confrontation with Jack Warden’s Juror No. 7 that hammers home the importance of the jury system. 

Overall, 12 Angry Men is an intelligent look at an important element of the American justice system.  It benefits from creative cinematography and editing, and has an outstanding cast.  It is a tad overdramatic at times, but that does not lessen its overall effect.

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