Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Bros before Hos

It's a week of brothers apparently. I am off to the Toledo, OH bureau of Maven, Inc. today, as my little brother (not so little anymore- he's taller than I am, and his sense of sarcasm is twice the size of mine) is graduating from high school. I've alerted him that this milestone of adulthood is highly inconvenient for me, as there are several delicious events coming up, including Cake at Boston's Earthfest, and John Williams directing the Boston Pops. But family duties trump all, and so I will be reporting from the mid-west for the next two weeks.

Perhaps most unfortunately, I will be missing the Brattle Theater's celebration of film makers the Coen brothers, called "A Gathering of Coens." It started May 16, and continues until Wednesday, with "Raising Arizona," "The Big Lebowski," "Barton Fink," and "Miller's Crossing." I know everyone and their mother loves "Lebowski," but see if you can stretch out a bit and watch Miller's Crossing if you haven't already. It's stupendous.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Les Chansons d'Amour (Love Songs)

Directed by: Christophe Honore
Written by: Christophe Honore
Starring: Louis Garrel, Ludivine Sagnier, Clotilde Hesme

The Boston Gay and Lesbian Film Festival was a couple weeks ago, and unfortunately I had to work through most of it (stupid rent). I cannot accurately describe the depths of my despair at having to miss Turkish/Italian director Ferzan Ozpetek's latest feature "Saturno Contro (Saturn in Opposition)." If you have no idea who I'm talking about, go rent "La Finestra di Fronte (The Window in Front)" right now.

I was, however, able to make the screening of "Love Songs," a quirky little French musical about a struggling young couple who decide to engage in a threesome. It's a film that has a lot of charm, but unfortunately not much in the way of coherence or narrative organization. The plot is a bit clumsy, moving forward in fits and starts instead of smoothly transitioning. The music may have a big part to play in this; the tunes are generic French pop-fueled compositions, and they seem to appear out of nowhere, jolting the viewer out of the narrative. And, though this is not the film's fault, there is nothing more awkward than having to translate a musical number into subtitles. A genuinely touching line in French becomes something like "Let it (your saliva) trickle like sweet venom down my throat." Such lyrical faux pas does nothing for the rhythm of a piece, as it simply makes the viewer stop and desperately try to register the absurdity of the phrase.

The jaunty, frothy first third of the film is tripped up by a senseless death that causes the parties in the threesome to reevaluate themselves in an absurdist reality that can be both cold and filled with congeniality. The boyfriend, Ismael, begins being stalked by both his girlfriend's sister Jeanne, and a local Breton boy. Alice, the "trois" in this menage a trois, is shunted to the side in the aftermath and must become the ruler of her own happiness. Despite the loose threads of the narrative, or perhaps even because of them, this second portion of the film is moving and delicate, and this frailness becomes almost charming.
This is a film that in the end is saved by moments of quirkiness and charm, though the work as a whole is such a muddle. In one moment, Jeanne enters Ismael's apartment to find him in bed with another woman, whom she assumes in Alice. When she discovers it isn't, she does not respond, but simply lights up another cigarette, sucks it down and stares bleakly into space. It's a throwaway moment, but it's witty and indelibly French.
Photo courtesy of Indiewire.com, via Takepart.com.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Wristcutters: A Love Story

Director: Doran Dukic
Writer: Doran Dukic, based on the short story "Kneller's Happy Campers," by Etgar Keret
Starring: Patrick Fugit, Shannyn Sossamon, Tom Waits, Leslie Bibb

Normally, films that deal with teenage depression and death are laden with well-intentioned "messages," generally directed to parents rather than to the teens themselves. The story is usually told with de-saturated color and a grimness of purpose that, well, just depresses you. Most think this is an appropriate reaction, but I have long held the theory that within drama there are sad films and then there are depressing films. The first is genuine encapsulation of human emotion. The second is merely manipulation of the viewer.

What a delicious surprise, then, that "Wristcutters," about a boy who commits suicide after breaking up with his girlfriend, is at heart a gently funny road movie. The boy, Zia (Patrick Fugit) commits suicide by the title's method at the beginning of the film, and enters an otherworldly way station for people who have "offed" themselves. He establishes that the universe he's inhabiting isn't terrible or hellish, just kind of depressing. "It's fitting that this place is exactly like life," he says in a voice over, "only a little bit worse." Zia has a job at a pizza place, and hangs out in a dingy bar after work, trying to guess how the other patrons killed themselves. But when he learns that his girlfriend (Leslie Bibb) also committed suicide a month after he did, he goes to find her at the edges of the world beyond the city where he lives.

Along for the ride is his Eastern European rocker friend Eugene (Shea Whigham) who electrocuted himself with his own guitar. They take Eugene's car, which has a black hole underneath the front seat they keep dropping things into, and listen to Eugene's music as they travel "East-ish" into a barren wasteland that has the curious look of a Dali painting set in the Nevada desert. They pick up a hitchhiker (Shannyn Sossamon) who says she was put there by mistake and is looking for the people in charge of this humid purgatory to send her home.

Perhaps the strangest thing about "Wristcutters" is that you tend to forget it's about suicide. In spite of the title, the film doesn't dwell on the violence of Zia's beginning act, but rather on his determination that his life can still have meaning, even after it's ostensibly over. It is a sad movie, but it never depresses. Eugene's entire family killed themselves, in various ways and for various reasons. But the horror of their deaths is nonexistent; they all live together in this world and love and support each other, just as they did in life. The point, of course, is that the worst thing that can happen to you is not death, but loneliness.

The three travelers end up in a community run by a man named Kneller (the inimitable Tom Waits,) a place where lost souls somehow end up, and maybe perform some miracles in the process. These scenes where the characters rest and recharge for the road ahead are the most lovingly rendered in the film, and Waits steals the movie as a weary, battle-scarred hippie assisting people with their salvation.

The film is hardly perfect. The ending especially looked a bit sloppily done, the rhythm was sped up too abruptly and the climax was improperly explained (though it did feature a cameo by Will Arnett, and who can say no to that?) The last 20 minutes were filled with action and rushed exposition; it almost looked like it came from a different film from the lovely, delicate nature of the previous hour. And without giving too much away, I felt like the denouement was a bit of cop-out in terms of resolution. But a less than perfect ending is a small price to pay for Ducik's overall vision, which is moving and sad- but not depressing.

(Photo courtesy of Autonymous Films, via The New York Times)

The Swan Song of Dissent

This reporter is much dismayed after recently reading about Warner Bros.' decision to give the ol' heave-ho to both Warner Independent Pictures and Picturehouse, two semi-independent speciality arms of the corporation. Anne Thompson of Variety delivered the bad news May 8:

"The Draconian studio is shutting down not one specialty arm but two, both Warner Independent Pictures and Picturehouse, with the notion that New Line Cinema can handle whatever specialty needs the studio has. New Line chief Toby Emmerich will be given something to do going forward."

Warner Bros. recently absorbed New Line Cinema after "The Golden Compass" became a financial disaster and left the studio unable to remain independent. The vague idea is that New Line can take over where Warner Independent and Picturehouse left off. I've always had fond feelings for New Line (they did produce and distribute the live-action versions of "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," which basically defined my childhood) but judging their production line-up on imdb.com, they don't exactly have the adventurous spirit that defined the two now-defunct companies. For example, Picturehouse has an illustrious recent past, with "Pan's Labyrinth," "La Vie En Rose," "A Prairie Home Companion," and "Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story." Warner Independent has "Good Night, and Good Luck," "Everything is Illuminated," and "We Don't Live Here Anymore" under its belt. It's true that New Line has a few sort-of indie hits with "Be Kind, Rewind," and "Love in the Time of Cholera." Recently, though, it's been working with dreck like "Semi-Pro," "Mr. Woodcock," "Rush Hour 3," and, God help us, "The Butterfly Effect 2."

The studios will be able to finish work on several films slated for release this year, including Picturehouse' "Mongol" and Warner Independent's "Towelhead." According to Variety, the executives are meeting over the next few weeks to discuss the status of other projects at various stages of production and distribution.

Warner Bros. is staying mum about where exactly they want to take New Line and claims this does not mean they are stepping back from working with riskier, independent films, according to President and COO Alan Horn in Variety:

"After much painstaking analysis, this was a difficult decision to make, but it reflects the reality of a changing marketplace and our need to prudently run our businesses with increased efficiencies. We’re confident that the spirit of independent film making and the opportunity to find and give a voice to new talent will continue to have a presence at Warner Bros.”

Oh Alan, my friend, how I would like to believe you. But, alas, my innate elitism says that New Line, now that it's completely under your thrall, will become a cabal of corporate whores with no sense of artistry. Warner Independent and Picturehouse at least had a small voice of vision and imagination within the robotic drone of the "tentpole" films and focus group-approved family fare. Think about a world with no "Pan's Labyrinth." Now think about a world without "Mr. Woodcock." Which world would you like to live in?

Monday, May 12, 2008

Indiana Jones and the Awesomeness of the Melting Nazi

My beloved Lance Mannion posted yesterday on watching the three "Indiana Jones" movies in preparation for the stupidly-titled latest film coming out this summer. He specifically mentioned that the melting Nazis in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" were a bad decision, taking away from the spirit and life of the series. Thus quoteth Lance of the Mannion:

"Great movie with such a disappointing and ill-conceived ending, so far removed from the tone and spirit of all that had gone before, that I'm sure the original audiences would have walked out of the cineplexes befuddled and depressed if John Williams' rousing march hadn't come back on over the end credits and carried us all back to the moment when the whip snaps the gun away from the treacherous guide and Harrison Ford's scarred and scowling face looms out of the shadows and the adventure started all over again in our imaginations."

I respectfully disagree.

I also recently watched "Raiders of the Lost Ark" on the teevee yesterday. And I love the melting Nazis! The melting Nazis are one of the main things people remember. When you meet someone who doesn't know the films that well and you say "I saw 'Raiders of the Lost Ark' last night," they always reply with "Is that the one with the melting Nazis?" When I was a kid, and my mother brought "Raiders of the Lost Ark" home from the library where she worked, do you know what I was waiting for? The melting freakin' Nazis!

I do agree with Lance that the ridiculous inclusion of the quasi-mystical elements of the film are somewhat randomly included, and pretty darn cheesy. I think it's best when it's a little cheesy. It's best with a little bit of randomness. And however stupid you think the magical Ark is, you have to admit, the sheer visual impact of the melting Nazis is bonafied bad-ass. Not to mention the righteous triumph that Spielberg must have felt in defeating Nazis with a lost artifact that signifies God's covenant with the Israelites. The defeat of the cartoon villain had to occur in a way that was gruesome, ironic and particularly cartoonish. The Ark was an obvious choice.

Also, I agree with Mannion that convincing Karen Allen to come back as Marion Ravenwood was the best decision Lucas and Spielberg ever made. Marion is everything a heroine should be: for God's sake, the first time we see her, she's drinking a Nepalese sherpa under the table. After her, "Temple of Doom's" Willie Scott might as well have been played by Paris Hilton.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

Me Likey the Neon

I was bored today, so I decided to dabble a bit in the art of Blogger template. I went a little mad, as you can see. I wanted to keep the dark background, which I think works for this milieu, and I used the neon pink and white to demonstrate some sort of art-deco, old-timey movie house, city at night, feeling... thingy.

Ok. I know nothing about design. But I rather like it. Any of you web design moguls out there have any thoughts? Any tips for further renovations? Do you like it? Does it give you seizures? Let me know!

Monday, May 05, 2008

In other culture news

Your Movie Maven is happy girl this week. I do not have school for eight months, since come July I will be swallowed into the maw of a full-time six-month internship at the arts section of a certain newspaper. I plan to take on a personality akin to Jennifer Jason Leigh in "The Hudsucker Proxy;" so from now I'm "a fast-talkin' career gal that thinks she's one of the boys." Now if only I could find a guy named Smitty...

In other news, the fact that I don't have classes means one thing for me: I get to read for fun. So I went to the library in Copley Square last weekend- America's first large municipal library, doncha know. I came out smelling a little worse for wear, but I had a re-usable tote bag full of delightful goodies to attend to my imagination whilst I'm at my current, soul-sucking telemarketing job.

My first recommendation: Henry James' "The Portrait of a Lady." Specifically, the Oxford World's Classics edition. It's tidily enclosed in a small blue cover, perfect for train travel. And it has a nifty introduction by John Updike. I've read it before several times, but I swoon over James' perfect phrases like "dusky pestiferous tracts," and observations like "'If all good people were hidden away in convents, how would the world get on?'" Poor, wonderful, foolish Isabel Archer is my ultimate female character, whom James most exquisitely (and unfairly) dooms, even after it appears that she's won. The ending will frustrate you, but in a way that miraculously still seems complete.

And for those who will ask, yes, I am still reviewing movies. What is the Movie Maven without her cinematic delights? Expect my review of "Iron Man" (God help me) this weekend.

Play It Again, Sam

The New York Times has an excellent article compiling five filmmakers' favorite summer films. Especially of note is director Larry Charles' hilarious piece about choosing John Waters' "Female Trouble" for a first date, and director Tamara Jenkins' discussion of the first time she saw "Last Tango in Paris."

Even those who aren't movie buffs know the wonderful experience of seeing a good movie in the dog-days of summer. One's life can be changed, sitting in the unnatural cool of a darkened theater, goose bumps raising the hairs on your bare arms. Afterward you burst out into the night, the hot air hitting your body like a wave, your mind spinning. It's the weekend, and you don't have work the next day- there's nothing to distract you. You aren't thinking of chores or your job or homework. You feel elemental, like something inside of you has been re-arranged. And you always, always remember the ending.

My favorite summer movie I saw not in the theater, but in a barn about an hour outside of Sacramento, California. I was 14 and I had gone to California for six weeks to spend time with my relatives who live throughout the state. It was a momentous trip for many reasons- my first plane ride, the longest stretch of time I'd ever spent without my parents, the first time I ever saw the ocean. I lived for most of the time in a cabin that stood outside a renovated barn owned by my Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Cameron. The barn sat on Carolyn's in-laws' farm, populated by cows, horses, an organic garden and a peach orchard. They didn't have cable- didn't even have a television inside the house- but out in the old stable that functioned as a garage they had an itchy old couch and a TV with a VCR.

It was there I watched "Casablanca" for the first time.

Carolyn and I put her kids to bed, and then sneaked out to the garage. We covered ourselves in a blanket, and scarfed popcorn as the emaciated barn cat curled up next to us. We were far from civilization on that unusually chilly night, and there was nothing to distract us from the Rick and Ilsa and their beautiful, sad, soft-focus love. I was 14 and completely entranced; it was a film of action, of suspense, of surprising humor and grim determination for justice. I trembled when Rick's customers drowned out the Nazis' vulgar singing with a rendition of "La Marseillaise." I almost cheered when Louis Renault threw the empty bottle of Vichy wine into the trash. And I was old enough to perceive the rumbling undercurrent of pure sex that flows through the film like a natural spring beneath the earth. No talks about it, but you know it's there, a hidden pool of energy waiting to burst through the surface.
It was the perfect time for me to discover "Casablanca" that gorgeous night, during the summer when I really first began to discover myself. There are so many movies that I don't remember with any clarity, so many I've forgotten I've even seen. But that experience of sitting with my wonderful aunt on a smelly couch in a dark barn, basking in the glow of the Cinemascope, is as sharp as if it happened yesterday. And that ending, that final shot, is etched into my brain: Rick and Louis, not walking off into the sunset, but simply being enveloped by the mist at the Casablanca airport. They're uncertain of their fate, but confident in their resolve. Not a bad ending for an uncertain 14-year-old girl to see.

Friday, May 02, 2008

A Thought to Ponder While Watching "Lost"

I have finished with questioning the writers on "Lost." They're either madmen, geniuses, frauds or some fascinating combination of the three. They will take us where they take us, and I'm willing to let them take the reigns.

But I have one last question for them, completely unrelated to the psychology, metaphysics, philosophy or the stupid polar bears of the show:

Why, oh why, oh WHY do they think that we care at all about the future of Jack and Kate? Because we don't care. We really, really don't.