Amour (2012) ***

So, so depressing—that is the best way I can describe director Michael Haneke’s Amour (2012).

For close to two hours I sat in abject misery watching Emmanuelle Riva’s character slowly descend into physical and mental incapacitation after suffering a series of strokes, while her husband (Jean-Louis Trintignant) helplessly watches.  I’m not actually sure what age group this film appeals to—most under-thirties probably would be bored, while everyone else probably endured the film with a complete sense of dread and depression. 

Without a doubt, the story is poignant and the performances are powerful, but I’ve come to a point in my life where watching emotionally draining films with no life-affirming moment or resolution just rub me the wrong way.  Facing immortality—yours or a loved one’s—is difficult enough in the realm of reality, why must it be faced so brutally in the fictional world as well.  Yes, art imitates life, and the best art touches on our humanity, but when there is no glimmer of hope at the end of anything, in this case a film, what really is the use?  It’s like reading Thomas Hobbes and Friedrich Nietzsche at the same time while swigging a bottle of gin and swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills. 

All of that said, the mere fact that Amour elicited such a strong emotional response from me tells me that Haneke and his cast did a spectacular job in telling one of the most emotionally raw stories about death that I have ever seen.  While I did not enjoy watching the film, I was mesmerized by it—yes, this IS possible.  I didn’t check several times to see how much longer I would have to endure the agony because the movie was asinine—I did it because I wanted to know when I would finally be able to stop watching such heart-wrenching filmmaking. 

This in itself is surprising, as most of Haneke’s work (Cache {2005}, Funny Games {1997}, The Piano Teacher {2001}, and The White Ribbon {2010}), at least for me, is anger-inducing.  All of his films, this one included, are uncomfortable to watch.  His films are usually filled with mentally unstable people who do extremely irrational things in very calm manners.  As such, he presents cinema that is jarring and exhausting to watch. Yet, Haneke’s Amour has something new in it—heart.  While he would never allow sentimentality to creep into one of his movies, Haneke does permit the viewer to feel some empathy for his characters this time. Still, there is some Haneke callousness in the presentation of the couple’s daughter, Eva (Isabelle Huppert), and a nurse who is fired for abuse, although we don’t see it. 

Overall, Amour is a gripping story that I hope I never watch again. 

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It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) ***

It is a myth that the suicide rate increases between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  However, the “most wonderful time of the year” is not always so wonderful for everyone.  Christmas cards, crowded stores, wrapping presents, and mounting debt can weigh heavily on the psyche. And, then there are those who have lost loved ones or feel as though they haven’t any loved ones at all.  For these people, the holiday season is a torturous time, full of regrets and sorrows.  What-ifs, should-haves, and if-onlys play cruel tricks on those who carry around ghosts and faded dreams in their troubled minds.  I suspect this is the reason that It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) has endured as a Christmas tradition for more than fifty years. Everyone—yes, everyone—has a little of George Bailey running around in their subconscious.  As a wise person once told me, circumstance touches everyone—no one is immune.

I enjoy watching It’s a Wonderful Life every Christmas season because I can relate to George Bailey (James Stewart). An adventurer at heart but a duty-bound person in reality, George and I both made life-altering decisions based on the cards circumstance dealt us—even if that deck was full of jokers we played the game by the rule of responsibility; I expect many others can say the same.

For those unfamiliar with George’s story, it is a simple one. From a very young age George exceeded expectation: he saved his brother (Todd Karns) from drowning and prevented his drunken pharmacist boss (H.B. Warner) from accidentally poisoning someone. When his father (Samuel S. Hinds) died of a stroke he forwent a trip to Europe and then college to head the family’s struggling building and loan company. Instead of spending $2,000 on his honeymoon he used it to stave off a run on the bank.  He invested in a town, Bedford Falls, and a group of people that at heart he wanted nothing more to do than to escape.  Along the way he married a girl (Donna Reed) he knew worshipped him, and agreed to live in a ramshackle house filled with children that required he continue in a job he hated in a town too small for his ambition. And then a bit of ironic circumstance slapped poor George in the face: his undoing was to come at the hands of his own obedience to duty and responsibility.  This, no doubt, was the last bitter pill that George could allow himself to swallow, and so he took it believing that at least he did what was best for others.  Ah, but what would have life been like for all those who benefitted from George’s benevolence and self-sacrifice if he had never existed?  It takes an angel (Henry Travers) seeking his wings to show George that what he viewed as a failed existence was of significant importance to so many others.  

In the end, It’s a Wonderful Life, is a redemption tale. Upon release some critics found the movie too sentimental and said that it idealized an unrealistic world.  By this time just about any film from director Frank Capra was labeled as overly-sentimental by many critics (perhaps you are familiar with the term “Capra-corn”?), and so many overlooked the universal theme of circumstance—it touches everyone.  And, so this corny film that lost $525,000 in 1946, now draws millions of viewers every Christmas. I’ve heard many people say that they watch it to remind themselves that perhaps they didn’t live the life they wanted, but at least they lived the life they got.  They, like George Bailey (and myself), endure the circumstances of life. Perhaps you are not a religious person—you are the perfect candidate for this film which Capra made to combat atheism—but there is one particular Bible verse that applies to this movie. It is written in James 5:11 that “we count them happy which endure”.  Happily, the spirit of It’s a Wonderful Life continues to endure today. 

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Do the Right Thing (1989) **

I was a teenager when writer/director Spike Lee’s, Do the Right Thing (1989) hit theaters. I was a lot more naïve and free-thinking back then than I am now. For me, there was no question that racism existed and that many African Americans had a reason to be “angry”.  Now, as I have aged and experienced the world, I still think African Americans still have reasons to be “angry”, but not for the same reasons that I thought back in 1989.  When I watch Do the Right Thing now I get a little aggravated at the mixed message that Lee delivers.  There’s no doubt that this is a powerful film, but now nearing the age of 25, its message has not aged well.

The story takes place in Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn on one exceedingly hot summer day. Mookie (Lee himself) is a pizza delivery man for Sal’s Pizzeria. He lives with his sister (Lee’s real-life sister Joie Lee), but has a girlfriend (Rosie Perez) and baby whom he doesn’t really support.  He has an odd relationship with Sal (Danny Aiello) and his two sons, Pino (John Turturro) and Vito (Richard Edson).  Pino despises African Americans, while Sal and Vito are more friendly toward the African Americans who frequent the pizzeria. The neighborhood is full of caricatures—a drunk old man (Ossie Davis), a window-watching elderly stateswoman (Ruby Dee), a boom-box toting giant (Bill Nunn), a stuttering mentally challenged young man (Roger Guenveur Smith), a Black Power agitator aptly named Buggin’ Out (Giancarlo Esposito), and three chair holder downs (Robin Harris, Frankie Faison, and Paul Benjamin).

The film is a study in how African Americans, Hispanics, Koreans, and whites get along with one another in this racially diverse borough.  Stereotypes abound, and at one point in the film Lee has a member of each race spew as many racially charged descriptions about another race as they can think of. In this, at least, there is a very balanced take on how some races view their counterparts. Yet, after this, I find the film unbalanced in its analysis of race. 

The film hinges on Sal’s right to hang pictures of Italian Americans on his restaurant’s wall and to refuse to allow Radio Raheem (Nunn) to play his boom-box in his restaurant.  There are many arguments on both sides, but the fact remains that if you respect all people’s rights and not only what you perceive to be yours, then you know that if someone owns a business they can run it however they want—it is your right not to patronize it if you don’t agree with the owner.  For me, that is doing the right thing.  So, when Sal busts Raheem’s boom-box with a bat and Raheem proceeds to attempt to choke Sal to death for it while only his sons appear to be trying to help Sal, I wasn’t offended when the police tried to restrain Raheem.  Did they go too far when they choked him to death? Yes—but whose to say that Raheem wouldn’t have done the same thing to Sal if the police hadn’t come?  This is one very important sticking point that is NEVER mentioned in discussion of this film. 

But the thing that aggravates me the most about Do the Right Thing is when Mookie throws a trash can through Sal’s window and the entire neighborhood proceeds to destroy and loot it—and then one idiot burns it down.  In 2001, we had a week-long study in stupidity when African Americans rioted when a black teenager was fatally shot by the police.  Businesses were looted (mostly ones frequented by African Americans) and many African American entertainers cancelled bookings in the city in protest.  As a result, an even more antagonistic relationship developed between the African American community and the police—so much so that the police responded exceedingly slow whenever they were called to an emergency.  In the three months after the riots, 77 people were shot in Cincinnati—76 of those were African Americans.  For me, destroying your community to make a point is NOT doing the right thing. 

As such, when I watch Do the Right Thing I get frustrated that Spike Lee does not clearly make this point.  Running two quotes at the end of your film, one by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and one by Malcolm X, that contradict one another about whether it is right to use violence to achieve and maintain your rights, is a cop-out.  Also, the audacity the Mookie shows to “get paid” the day after the riot is just ridiculous.  You throw a trash can through your boss’s window and incite a disturbance that unquestioningly destroyed said business that employees you, and you still want to get paid?  My God, are you trying to bolster the racial stereotype of African Americans with their hands out asking for money when they don’t deserve it? 

As for the overall production value of Do the Right Thing, Lee was smart to frame his story within a 24-hour period.  This allows for no real meandering and keeps the plot moving steadily.  He was also smart with his casting decisions, as he mostly chose actors who fit their characters perfectly. Ossie Davis as the philosophical borough drunk was interesting to watch, as well as Robin Harris, Frankie Faison, and Paul Benjamin as the would-be Greek chorus of the story. Hands down, however, the  most riveting performances come from Aiello and Turturro.  Aiello earned an a Best Supporting Actor nomination for his conflicted portrayal of a man who wants to continue on in a neighborhood that has dramatically shifted in racial dynamics over the years. And, Turturro is phenomenal (as usual), as a pathologically racist who is surrounded by the races that he loathes so much.

Overall, Do the Right Thing is a polarizing film.  There are some who find it right on point and thought-provoking regarding the race discussion in America.  For me, however, I think the movie is ambiguous and doesn’t make a clear statement on race.  The story is powerful, but its ending is troubling and delivers a contradictory message.

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Nosferatu: Phantom of the Night (Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht)1979 **1/2

Director/writer Werner Herzog so revered F.W. Murnau’s classic 1922 silent film, Nosferatu: Symphony of Terror, as the greatest German film ever made that he remade it in 1979 and called it Nosferatu: Phantom of the Night. Unlike Murnau, Herzog had more freedom to base most of his film on the Bram Stoker novel. He didn’t have to change character names (even though he chose to name the heroine Lucy instead of Mina) and could follow the novel much closer.  Yet, he still chose to base his story in Germany (as Murnau had), and he humanized his Count Dracula far more than Stoker ever did. Like most fans of the original film, Herzog was mesmerized by the interplay of shadow and light that Murnau employed.  As such, he imitated many of the most iconic shots in the original, and created a mesmerizing visual treat.

The story is well known, Jonathan Harker (Bruno Ganz) leaves his beautiful and devoted wife Lucy (Isabelle Adjani) in Wismar to travel over the Carpathian Mountains into Transylvania to present Count Dracula (Klaus Kinski) with a deed for a house. Even after being warned by countless gypsies and reading books that tell the ill-fated story of those who cross the path of Nosferatu, Jonathan still chooses to dine with the Count and stay in his creepy, dilapidated castle. After seeing a locket with a picture of Lucy, the Count decides to incapacitate Jonathan by sucking his blood. Along with ten black caskets and countless rats, he travels via boat to Wismar—wiping the entire crew out on the voyage.  Much of the same befalls Wismar as well, and only Lucy seems to know that Count Dracula is to blame after a feverish and amnesic Jonathan returns.  To rid the town (and perhaps the world) of the pestilence that is Dracula, Lucy sets out on a collision course with fate.

The biggest difference between Murnau’s and Herzog’s films, of course, is that there is spoken dialogue.  Still, for the most part, the dialogue is sparse and only serves to move the story along.  Who needs a bunch of jabbering when you have atmosphere, anyway?  This works in Adjani’s favor, as her vacuous, but beautiful, looking face says so much more about her situation than any words ever could.  She looks and acts like a somewhat willing bride of Dracula. 

If you read my review of Murnau’s Nosferatu, then you know I believe there was no greater Dracula than Max Schreck.  Still, Kinski does his best job to imitate the master.  He looks and moves much the same way as Schreck, but he also had the opportunity to use words to express his character’s anguish of immortality.  Like Schreck, he is eerily creepy and unpleasant to look at.  Overall, he does a fine job of mimicking Schreck’s performance.

Still, what I most remember about the movie are the images Herzog and cinematographer Jorg Schmidt-Reitwein create.  Throughout the film they chose to frame and light scenes in which Kinski’s glowing, white face is the only thing that can be seen.  And, just as Murnau chose to create shadowed images of Dracula as he prowled the streets of Wismar, so does Herzog. Perhaps the most striking image is the recreation of the first face-to-face encounter between Lucy and Dracula, where his shadow looms over her first in a tight-quartered bathroom and then later in her bedroom.  These images alone are worth the price of hearing Renfield’s (Roland Topor) cackles.

Overall, Nosferatu: Phantom of the Night is a visually striking film, bolstered by a fine cast.  However, it does lack originality—as Herzog heavily imitated Murnau’s work.  Making a remake of an admired film has its pitfalls, and I expect Herzog’s admiration for Murnau’s film overshadowed his own ability to truly make his own movie—although he did give Dracula a bit more humanity than previously seen.

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The Adventures of Prince Achmed (Die Abenteuer des Prinzen Achmed) 1926 **1/2

Lotte Reiniger is not a household name like Walt Disney, but she was one of the most important animators in cinematic history.  Known for her silhouette animation, Reiniger paved the path of the animated fairy tale and all others animators owe her a huge debt of gratitude.  Her The Adventures of Prince Achmed (1926) was one of the first animated feature films, and, today is the oldest known surviving one. 

Primarily known as an avant garde animator, Reiniger began The Adventures of Prince Achmed in 1923 and enlisted several of her artist friends to help her with the 3-year-long project. The story was taken from One Thousand and One Nights, with a focus on The Adventures of Prince Achmed. Told in five acts, the plot revolves around Prince Achmed battling both an evil African magician and the demons of Wak Wak Island for his true love Pari Banu.  I have never read One Thousand and One Nights, so I was not familiar with the story.  Like all fairy tales, a suspension of disbelief is required to watch the film.  In this particular case, it doesn’t matter, because the story is just a guise to showcase some pretty spectacular images.

Using stop-time animation, Reiniger designed cardboard cutouts and used them with thin sheets of lead to create magical silhouetted images.  This was a timely and painstaking way to design images (one of the many reasons that it took three years to complete the film), but the elaborate designs are a sight to behold.  While Reiniger created the images, her husband Carl Koch captured them on film.  As complex as the animation was, Koch’s ability to seamlessly capture his wife’s vision is remarkable.  The entire story is an amalgamation of intricately designed images raveling and unraveling into other images.

Walter Ruttmann designed the incandescent backgrounds and Edmund Dulac used Islamic patterns to create the inter-title cards.  The original musical score was composed by Wolfgang Zeller, who worked very closely with Reiniger to ensure that the music matched every frame of the movie.  And, if that wasn’t enough, color tinting was used throughout the movie. In addition, Reiniger used a multi-plane animation stand to create depth of image—something that is often first attributed to Walt Disney, but it was actually a Reiniger invention. 

While I would not suggest that The Adventures of Prince Achmed be shown to a roomful of six-year-olds on a Saturday afternoon, it is still a stunning piece of work.  Like Disney’s Fantasia (1940), it is an artistic triumph that is probably best enjoyed by adults. 

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The Eagle (1925) **

Rudolph Valentino was an attractive man with an aura of sophistication.  While Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin, and Harold Lloyd ruled comedy in the silent film era, Valentino, along with John Gilbert, reigned supreme when it came to dramatic romantic heroes.  I have only seen a few of his films, but from what I’ve watched of his work, Valentino excelled at looking good while not doing that much.  Now, I don’t mean that as a jab—quite the opposite, actually.  Many silent era actors and actresses had a bad habit of over-emoting and over-using facial gestures and hand movements. Valentino, at least in The Eagle (1925), avoids such behaviors.  Yes, the overall plot is ridiculous, but at least the acting was not (except James A. Marcus—he was bad).

Vladimir Dubrovsky (Valentino) is a lieutenant in the Russian Imperial Guard. His daring rescue of a runaway carriage and the Czarina’s (Louise Dresser) prized horse places him in the path of Catherine II.  Obviously hot to trot, even while wearing an unflattering military uniform, the Czarina wants Vladimir as her new conquest.  When he rebuffs her advances the Czarina puts a bounty out on his head. This, in turn, causes him to return home just in time to find his father (Spottiswoode Aitken) broke and dying.  The Dubrovsky estate has been stolen by a cowardly heel named Kyrilla Troekouroff (Marcus).  Vladimir takes an oath of vengeance and begins wearing a black mask and calling himself the Black Eagle—yes, if this sounds a bit like Zorro, it is, but there is no Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. 

What is unusual about The Eagle is that although there is romantic drama, it is a comedy at heart.  Valentino was not really known for his comedic skills, but in this picture he gets to showcase his natural comedic abilities.  He not only plays a man riding the Russian countryside wearing a black mask, but he also impersonates a French tutor in order to get close to Kyrilla’s daughter, Mascha (Vilma Banky), whom he finds quite beautiful.  The film turns into a bit of a farce once Mascha figures out who her tutor really is, which affords Valentino an opportunity to use that twinkle in his eye for more than seducing women. 

Stylistically The Eagle is remembered for a tracking shot of a banquet table full of guests and food.  Director Clarence Brown was one of the few silent directors who had an enormously successful career in the talkies.  He had an eye for naturalism, and it shows with how he handles his actors in this movie.  He obviously knew how to work with “personalities” because he often found himself directing not only Hollywood stars like Valentino, but Greta Garbo and Joan Crawford as well.

While the ending of The Eagle is completely absurd, overall it is an entertaining movie.  Valentino and Banky have nice chemistry—neither one seems to dominate the other and the play well together. Marcus is a bit of a ham, but his character was worth a laugh or two.  And, poor Dresser gets to play an aging Czarina who would rather have people shot than be rejected sexually.  So, even though the story is ridiculous, at least the movie is full of delightful characters.

 

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Rosemary’s Baby (1968) **

(There could possibly be spoilers in this post.)

What’s worse: delivering Satan’s son or having divorce papers delivered to you in front of the entire cast and crew on a movie set?  Such was life for Mia Farrow during the filming of Rosemary’s Baby (1968).  Director/writer Roman Polanski’s taut horror tale is widely considered one of the best horror films ever made.  For me, it’s mildly creepy, but not really that scary. 

Rosemary (Farrow) and Guy Woodhouse (John Cassavetes) are a young married couple who make a fateful decision when they opt to lease an apartment at the Bramford in New York City.  The mammoth building has a bad reputation as a hotbed for witches and other unpleasant types. Guy makes quick friends with their senior citizen neighbors Minnie (Ruth Gordon) and Roman Castevet (Sidney Blackmer), but Rosemary finds them crass and nosy.  Their overbearing nature takes new hold when Rosemary discovers she’s pregnant. Minnie plies her with a tannis root concoction of a drink and insists Rosemary change her OBYGN to a friend of theirs, Dr. Abraham Sapirstein (Ralph Bellamy).  The pregnancy is wrought with unpleasant stomach pains and a dramatic weight and color loss for Rosemary—not to mention cravings for raw meat. Realizing that something is obviously not right, Rosemary starts to envision some sort of nefarious plot is afoot when it comes to her unborn child.  She was right.

Other than the fact that she becomes impregnated by Satan, the plot is quite plausible.  Polanski had a habit of making ordinary things like domesticity and friendship vulnerable to human baseness and ulterior motives.  Who could suspect the friendly, elderly couple next door are Satanists who would drug you so that Satan could rape and impregnate you?  And, who would ever imagine that their husband would go along with such a scheme to ensure that his acting career took off?  Now, the end of the film is way too much of a stretch for me—I just don’t envision any woman changing her mind about raising the child of Satan—not even the most Catholic woman on the planet.

Polanski earned an Oscar nomination for his adapted screenplay of Ira Levin’s hugely popular 1967 novel of the same name. I suppose Polanski wondered why mess with a good thing, so the script was very faithful to the book and those who read the book surely recognized huge sections of dialogue taken directly from the novel. While Farrow was far from Polanski’s first choice for the role of Rosemary, he ended up being very pleased that he had an actress so amenable to some of the crazy things he asked her to do.  In particular, there’s a scene in the film where Rosemary wanders into New York traffic—a scene that was shot by Polanski using a handheld camera—which was not cleared with the city of New York. That’s right, it wasn’t a blocked, staged scene—it was freaking real!  Did Farrow have a death wish following the delivery of divorce papers?  Yes, it is up to you, New York, New York, indeed!

While I’m not a big fan of Farrow, she does a nice job of playing a mouse-like waif who is almost too willingly led down a path paved in not-so-good intentions.  It’s hard to feel sorry for someone that stupid, though.  Her complete opposite is Ruth Gordon as Minnie.  Even when her character is doing very bad things she comes off as the helpful crazy lady next door.  Gordon won a Best Supporting Oscar for her turn as Minnie, and she deserved it.  The voice, hair, clothes, and mannerisms were perfect for the role. While Minnie didn’t come off as evil incarnate, her husband Roman did.  Rosemary’s Baby was Blackmer’s final film, and he went out as one of the best minions of Satan ever.  Perhaps it was his eyes, but he looked the part.

So, did Rosemary’s Baby live up to its storied reputation as one of the best horror films ever?  I guess it matters who you ask.  For me, when I watch a horror film I want to be scared.  At no point during the movie’s 136 minute run was I frightened.  Films such as The Exorcist (1973), Candyman (1992), and The Omen (1976) are far more scary than Rosemary’s Baby. I don’t know if this is because most of the horror is implied or not, but, for me at least, Rosemary’s Baby was more a study of elongated dread with not much payoff in the end.

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Koyaanisqatsi (1983) **1/2

My regular readers know that I am quite adverse to avant garde cinema.  There are not enough words to describe how much I disliked such avant garde films as Flaming Creatures (1963), L'age d'or (1930), and Un Chien Andalou (1928). Yet, something miraculous has happened, I have found one that I liked—Koyaanisqatsi (1983). Director Godfrey Reggio’s unusual film about the interaction between nature, human beings, and technology has been described as visual tone poem.  It benefits greatly from being set to composer Philip Glass’ music, as well as the brilliant cinematography of Ron Fricke.

I can’t really explain what Koyaanisqatsi is about, since it doesn’t have a plot in the traditional sense.  It starts off with a cave painting and breathtaking shots of vast, pristine geographic formations.  I expect this was to showcase the beauty of unspoiled nature.  Slow motion and time-lapse camera work and editing capture some of the most spectacular images of landscapes that I have ever seen.  In addition, there are some pretty awesome sections of floating clouds—which come into play when Reggio gets around to depicting technology.

Once nature has had its due, Reggio turns to juxtaposing the simple but breathtaking beauty of nature against the world of technology: machines, transportation systems, and massive building structures.  It is not a coincidence that the Los Angeles highway system is displayed in such a way that it looks like an anaconda strangling its prey.  Nor, is it difficult to determine that Reggio doesn’t particularly like skyscrapers—with their mammoth faces blocking the clouds that so graciously reflect off the cold exterior of the buildings.  And, really, even though there is absolutely no dialogue in the entire movie, who couldn’t figure out that Reggio took great delight in showing the behemoth and derelict Pruitt-Igoe housing project in St. Louis being demolished.

But it’s not all nature and big, hulking building that gets Reggio’s attention—humans get their due, too. Still, we probably get the worst treatment, as we come off as pretty miserable.  Large crowds of primarily unsmiling people permeate throughout this section of the film.  We have become slaves to the technology that we’ve created, and mostly we come off as rats living in a maze of our own making. Personally, I could have done without the people, but I suppose Reggio’s overarching message would have suffered without us.

With skyscrapers eclipsing the beauty of the moon and the Hopi Indians prophesizing that, "Near the day of Purification, there will be cobwebs spun back and forth in the sky," I have no doubt that Koyaanisqatsi was a film with a message, no matter how much Reggio may have said that it was up to the “viewer to take for himself/herself what the film means." Generally, I agree with Reggio about the state of the world—life is out of balance and humans have committed ecological homicide. I also agree that we no longer control technology, but rather that it controls our every move. 

Who knew I would actually enjoy watching avant garde cinema this much?  I may just have to watch the complete trilogy, Powaqqatsi (1988) and Naqoyqatsi (2002) to wrap my mind completely around Reggio’s ultimate philosophical endgame. 

 

 

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Adaptation. (2002) ****

I don’t understand why director Spike Jonze doesn’t make more feature length films. Shorts, videos, and documentaries are all he has really produced since making the brilliant Adaptation. (2002) and almost brilliant Being John Malkovich (1999).  Why won’t Charlie Kaufman and his fictional twin brother Donald write truly original screenplays for Jonze anymore?  It boggles the mind…

Anyway, I guess it’s obvious that I adore both Jonze and Kaufman, as well as their brainchild, Adaptation. Nicolas Cage plays twin brothers Charlie and Donald Kaufman—that’s right this is a semi-autobiographical film about Kaufman’s struggle to adapt Susan Orlean’s (Meryl Streep) non-fiction book, The Orchid Thief. The premise is that after writing the screenplay for Being John Malkovich, Kaufman is given the assignment of adapting Orlean’s book, but due to his insecurities and writer’s block Kaufman struggles with the project. It doesn’t help that his twin brother Donald is around to annoy him, either.  And, really, how do you write a script about orchids? 

The only truly autobiographical element of Adaptation. is Kaufman’s writer’s block while adapting The Orchid Thief.  The twin brother, a romance between Laroche (Chris Cooper) and Orlean, and one of the strangest drug addictions I have ever seen, are all fictional.  As I write this, I wonder if I am making the film seem confusing or convoluted in some way, and, perhaps I am, but it isn’t.  Without a doubt, it is one of best written movies I have ever seen—and the performances are also stellar. Which, of course, extends my disbelief as to why Jonze and Kaufman don’t make more films together.

Overall, Adaptation. was nominated for four Academy Awards. And, just like Being John Malkovich got short shrift by the Academy regarding a Best Picture nod, so did Adaptation. Freaking Chicago (2002) won Best Picture that year!  My God, all four of the other films nominated (Gangs of New York, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, The Hours, and The Pianist) were better than Chicago—oh, I’m getting off track here--suffice to say, if your three principal leads get nominated, as well as your screenwriter and his fictional brother, surely you might get a Best Picture look—especially when you were a far superior film to the actual winner! This rant is now over…

Cage, Streep, and Cooper all earned acting nominations.  Cooper won a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his quirky portrayal of a delusional, but highly intelligent orchid thief who is haunted by the events of his past.  His interactions with Streep’s New York intellectual/journalist, Susan Orlean, are priceless.  They make an extremely odd couple, but their mutual loneliness and sadness draw them to one another.  I particularly found watching Streep get hooked on snorting ghost orchid up her nose to feel happy oddly fascinating.  I’ve seen Streep do some pretty screwed up things in movies—giving kids away to Nazis and Dustin Hoffman and dancing around and singing while wearing overalls—but snorting green flower residue and deciding to kill someone to keep this a secret just aren’t character traits that one would envision being in her wheelhouse.

And, as it is always difficult to play twins—just ask Bette Davis—I believe Nicolas Cage deserves a lot of credit, too.  Sure, at first it’s disconcerting to see him talking to himself—I mean his twin—but once you adjust it is easy to determine when he is playing either Charlie or Donald.  It helps that each brother had love interests played by two very gifted actresses--Cara Seymour and Maggie Gyllenhaal.

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention one of the smartest and unique things about Adaptation.—part of the movie takes place on the set of Being John Malkovich.  There are cameos by John Cusack, Catherine Keener, and, of course, John Malkovich.  While most of Adaptation. is fictional, this small element adds a touch of authenticity to the Charlie Kaufman character. 

Overall, I love Adaptation. It is probably in my top 10 of the best films of the last twenty years. Graced by a highly imaginative script and standout performances from every last cast member, Adaptation. is one of those films that I never get tired of watching. Ah, if only Jonze and Kaufman would make more movies like it—preferably together. 

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The Great White Silence (1924) **

In the sake of full disclosure, I must admit that I cheated when it comes to watching director Herbert G. Ponting’s, The Great White Silence (1924).  I actually watched the 1933 reissued version of the film, which was called Ninety Degrees South and had sound. Documentaries can sometimes be difficult enough to watch with sound, so the idea of watching a silent one about an expedition to Antarctica and the South Pole just wasn’t all that attractive to me, especially since I knew there was a sound version of it. That said, the only sound in this movie was that of Ponting’s voice narrating what was already on the title cards of the silent version, with a few personal asides.

Without a doubt, the best thing about The Great White Silence is the cinematography.  Ponting captures several breathtaking images of glaciers, icebergs, and various other ice and snow formations.  It is said that many of these images were obtained at great peril to his own life.  Knowing full well that 99.9% of the population would never be able to lay eyes on the pristine beauty of such a remote and desolate place, Ponting took great care in photographing the wonders of Antarctica.

Yet, geographic formations weren’t the only things Ponting filmed.  Of course, he made it a point to portray the hardships and recreations of camp life, too.  Only the English would brave arctic temperatures to play a game of football (soccer to Americans) on the ice!  And, then there were the animals.  The Siberian ponies and sled dogs are given their due as well, but Ponting was especially enamored with the penguins and seals of Ross Island.  His depiction of these creatures was quite educational, and I learned a lot about how seals ward of killer whales and how penguins incubate eggs.  Oh, and we get to see Englishmen dance around with penguins, too.

The whole point of Captain Scott’s expedition was to make it to the South Pole before the Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen.  Scott had brought Ponting along to take pictures that he would use on a lecture tour once he returned to England.  That lecture tour never happened because Scott and four others died on their return journey from the South Pole—which they had arrived at second, behind Amundsen.  We only have Captain Scott’s journal to tell us exactly what happened on this fateful trek, because Ponting did not accompany the group to the South Pole, as it was determined to be too dangerous.  As such, the last half of the film is comprised of a lot of diagrams and still photography that was later recovered by the search party that found three of the explorers dead in a tent—one had died earlier and been buried and another had walked out into a blizzard to kill himself.

While The Great White Silence was pretty much a commercial failure, it is still of great historical importance.  Ponting’s images of Antarctica are a sight to behold. Yes, it gets a bit preachy at the end, when Ponting extolls the courage of Scott for having died for the honor of his country, but that was the English way.  Even though Ponting’s images are nearly 90 years old today, they are still remarkable. 

 

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The Goddess (1934) **

While not well-known to modern audiences, China’s Ruan Ling-yu was considered one of the greatest actresses of the Silent Film Era. Her nickname was the “Chinese Greta Garbo”, as she had an innate ability to convey her every thought with facial expressions and body language. And, like Garbo, she did not rely on overly-theatrical movements. Instead, she had a natural film presence that lured her audience into viewing her as they would their next door neighbor.  Of course, she possessed a beauty enhanced by flawless skin and piercingly emotive eyes.  While her career was cut short by her suicide at the age of 24, Ruan Ling-yu is still one of the most iconic Chinese actresses ever.

The Goddess (1934) is probably the most revered Chinese silent film ever made.  In it, Ruan Ling-yu plays an unnamed prostitute who works the streets of Shanghai to provide her son with a better life.  Scorned by her female neighbors and bullied by her gambling pimp (Zhang Zhizhi), Ruan Ling-yu’s character hides money away so that she can educate her son and turn him into a respectable young man.  While life seems to conspire to defeat her, the prostitute takes solace in the unconditional love and adoration of her son.  In the end, she makes the ultimate sacrifice to ensure her son’s future.

This was director/writer Wu Yonggang’s first film, and he was quite fortunate to have Ruan Ling-yu as his star. In 1934, China was in the midst of a civil war and having to deal with Imperial Japan, so to say that Yonggang’s Shanghai-based production was stressful would be an understatement.  Known as a Leftist director, Yonggang greatly benefitted from the Communists’ victory, and he enjoyed a directing career that spanned over 40 years.  His egalitarian worldview shaped The Goddess into a story about a woman’s sacrifice for the betterment of her son.  The overall tone of the film is humanistic. There is no judgment one way or another about how Ruan Ling-yu’s character earns her money. Instead, Yonggang presents a realistic view of what many women in Shanghai had to do to survive. 

While Ruan Ling-yu’s performance is mesmerizing, the same cannot be said by the overall production of The Goddess. Of course, I viewed a rough restoration of the movie, so that could have contributed to its overall aesthetics.  Still, there wasn’t any highly creative cinematography or set designs, which for me, at least, are necessary to push a silent film to the forefront of my memory.Thankfully, the story is compelling, so I can somewhat overlook what I consider lackluster photography and set designs.

Overall, I enjoyed watching Ruan Ling-yu’s performance. It gave me some context to consider the next time I watch Maggie Cheung play her in Stanley Kwan’s, Center Stage (1992). However, I think I would have liked the movie much more if the cinematography had been more memorable.

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A Throw of Dice (1929) **

 

Director Franz Osten’s A Throw of Dice (1929) is rather unique, in that it was filmed entirely in India and used Indian actors but it is still considered a German production. If I were judging the film strictly by its production scale, it would be a homerun.  With a cast of thousands, set amongst the vast Indian countryside and housed in beautiful palaces along the Ganges River, A Throw of Dice is on the same scale as D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance (1916).  However, I don’t judge a movie solely on the magnitude of its cast or set design.  While these things are definitely important, I also need to be enthralled by the story.  Alas, this is where A Throw of Dice falls short for me.

Based on an episode from The Mahabharata, the story centers around two Indian kings (but I expect they were really Rajas) in love with the same woman.  Sohan (Himansu Rai) is an evil king, who plots to kill his cousin and rival king, Ranjit (Charu Roy), by having his henchman/flunky shoot Ranjit with a poisonous arrow on a hunting trip.  Unfortunately for Sohan, there is healer nearby who saves Ranjit’s life.  As if things weren’t bad enough between the two kings, they both fall in love with the healer’s daughter, Sunita (Seeta Devi). When Ranjit wins Sunita’s heart, Sohan plots to unravel their happiness. And, this brings us to the title of this film: A Throw of Dice. Ranjit has a gambling problem that Sohan tries to use in his favor by playing a dice game with loaded dice—things never end well in dice games, just ask Nas.

Okay, let’s start off with what I liked about A Throw of Dice: the film score. Silent films can be difficult to watch, but fortunately the re-mastered 2006 score for A Throw of Dice is pretty darn special.  Nitin Sawhney’s score is both engaging and authentically Indian (although he is British Indian), so it fits perfectly with the film. While you don’t hear many silent scores with lyrics, Sawhney minimally uses vocals, and when he does, it always seems appropriate. 

The acting is pretty natural, too.  Histrionics and overacting, pillars of most silent movies, are not really present in A Throw of Dice, except in one scene where the henchman has an exaggerated death scene.  There is no mugging for the camera or overuse of hand gestures or facial muscles. Pretty much everyone in the cast seems at ease with allowing the camera to capture the spirit of each scene. 

Still, I was not really that impressed with the overall narrative of A Throw of Dice. I never found myself truly engaged in the story, nor did I particular connect with any of the characters.  I did, however, find Sohan to be an evil bitch, but not enough for me to care one way or another about what happened to him.  (It puzzles me why Rai would want to play the bad guy in this, as he was one of its producers.) Plus, for an 80-minute movie, the plot moved pretty slowly.  Of course, this could probably be attributed to Osten’s desire to capture the majestic beauty of the Indian countryside more than crafting a truly memorable story. 

Overall, A Throw of Dice is aided by a wonderful film score and a unique setting.  That said, I never found myself invested in the plot, nor did I really connect with any of the characters.  While it was great to see tigers, elephants, and palaces, the story never really took hold for me.  Still, it was nice to watch a silent movie with naturalistic acting, and to see what silent Indian cinema looked like.

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Lone Star (1996) **

Once I got over the fact that hunky Matthew McConaughey was in director John Sayles’ Lone Star (1996) for less than ten minutes, I came to the conclusion that the interconnected plot and characters are the best thing about the film. Without giving the ending away, which falls somewhere between ICK ICK ICK and is it really ICK?, I have to say I admired how Sayles wrapped the intersecting stories together to create an ambiguous conclusion. That said, Lone Star is somewhat hindered by an overabundance of characters and peripheral stories.

The film starts off with a body, a Masonic ring, and a sheriff's badge being discovered in the desert. Both once belonged to Rio County Sheriff Charlie Wade (Kris Kristofferson)—a racist, corrupt, evil son of a bitch who liked to shoot people in the back if he didn’t get a cut of whatever they were doing. For more than forty years the racially diverse Texas border town thought they were free of his reign of terror, but now Sheriff Wade is back for his last payoff.

For Sherriff Sam Deeds (Chris Cooper) the number one suspect is his father and former sheriff, Buddy Deeds (McConaughey).  Sam had a difficult relationship with his father—mainly because he ended his son’s teenage romance with a local Mexican girl named Pilar (Elizabeth Pena)—but, by all other accounts, the residents of Rio County loved Sheriff Buddy.  Yes, Sheriff Buddy used his position to get building contracts for his friends and to curry political favors, but he didn’t kill anyone or take money out of anyone’s pockets, either.  As such, when Sheriff Sam tries to put the pieces together as to who killed Sheriff Wade, he meets with some resistance.  In the end, however, the truth about who killed Sheriff Wade comes out in a rather unexpected way—thus, creating an ending that is shocking and Icky.

What Sayles does particularly well is show how segregated Rio County is. He attempts to show how the blacks, Mexicans, and Anglos view their positions in the border town and tie it to the overall plot.  Of particular interest was how established Mexicans like Pilar’s mother, Mercedes (Miriam Colon), viewed “wetbacks”.  Perhaps the funniest thing in the movie happens when she calls Border Patrol to pickup some Mexicans she sees crossing over. 

Still, I think Sayles goes a bit overboard with how many stories he tries to cover.  For example, although I absolutely loved seeing Frances McDormand's Bunny maniacally ramble on about every football team in the state of Texas, this was one of several peripheral elements that could have been cut.  There is also a story about a young female Army soldier who joined the military to escape a crime-ridden section of Houston which could have been easily omitted. 

Sayles’ unique use of flashbacks to explain what led to Sheriff Wade’s demise is quite resourceful.  I like how he merged the flashbacks with the present to meld the two time periods together.  Sometimes this technique can be misused which can create confusion, but the way Sayles uses it comes off quite seamlessly.

While I was not wowed by any particular performance, the two standouts would have to be McDormand and Pena. I don’t think it’s possible for McDormand not to shine in whatever she’s in, so it’s not surprising that her one brief scene in the movie is one of the most memorable. However, Pena was a revelation as the sexually pent up Pilar.  It’s too bad that she really hasn’t been given many opportunities to shine since Lone Star.

Overall, I was impressed with how Sayles incorporated the past with the present in Lone Star.  Yet, for me, there are too many peripheral elements which slow down the overall pacing of the film. This ultimately takes a lot of sting out of the Icky and jarring ending.

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