Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Perhaps it was my glorious missive on German expressionism way back when...

I finally stopped being a dumb-ass and put a site-meter on the blog.

It is my new obsession.

Turns out there are a few people I don't know who actually look at the thing. Not many, but, you know, it's still better than my previous assumption that the only people who read my blog were my parents. I've only been doing a count since establishing the site meter (two years of page views lost, oh, the horror!) but there are more people finding me than I had thought.

Makes a girl feel good, is all I'm sayin'.

Also, apparently 2.5 percent of my readers speak German. Which is probably one dude in Berlin who googled "Philip Seymour Hoffman" and clicked on me accidentally. But just in case:

Tagfreund! Wilkommen zum Film-kenner!

Monday, June 09, 2008

Oh, Brave New World!

This post was supposed to be about my experience watching Tarsem's (of "The Cell") new film "The Fall," which is supposed to be a flawed, if visually stunning feature. But I became grievously ill last Saturday and, alas, was unable to go. Hopefully I can see it this week before it leaves theaters, and will be able to comment this weekend.

So, instead, for those of you who may be in the New York City area, there's a documentary about camp visionary Derek Jarman playing, starting today at the Museum of Modern Art (you may know Jarman from the quote under the title of this blog.) "Derek" features highlights of Jarman's work mingled with reflections by one of his former actresses, the luminous Tilda Swinton. Jarman was an indie film revolutionary until his death from AIDS in 1994. I grew to know and love him after watching his gay camp version of "The Tempest," which features dancing sailors and Elisabeth Welch singing "Stormy Weather" at Miranda's wedding. It is spectacular, to say the least, and a beautiful reverie on the discovery of new worlds. Stephen Holden most astutely described the experience of watching a Jarman film in his review in the New York Times.
As excerpts from Mr. Jarman’s films whiz by, a common element is a sense of the actors playing games of dress-up after rummaging through a trunk in the attic.
Also of note: as soon as the blasted Netflix has deemed it appropriate to send me my effing DVD, I will be commenting on Season One of "The X-Files" in preparation for the film coming out next month. Hurrah for post-Cold War paranoia! Hurrah for young adorable David Duchovny!

Iron Man

Directed by: Jon Favreau

Written by: Mark Fergus, Hawk Ostby, Art Marcum and Matt Holloway
Starring: Robert Downey Jr., Gwyneth Paltrow, Terrence Howard, Jeff Bridges

Whilst I was away at the OH Bureau I did manage to get my monthly prescription of Bad-ass from "Iron Man," not once, but twice within about two weeks. The film about Marvel Comics' weapons monger-turned-superhero is hardly perfect, but it's got panache and a devoted sense of death-metal infused spectacle that feels less like a movie and more like you've just sped down Highway 1 in a muscle car. In other words, it's an awesome dude movie.

Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) is a heartless businessman who surrounds himself with babes, toys and everything else that an endless amount of money can buy. But then he gets captured by a vague Arab-based terrorist organization, meets a nice doctor who teaches him what's really important in life, and escapes by building the first Iron Man suit out of metal scraps that he finds in a cave. He then becomes a crusader, destroying the weapons he made that have fallen into the wrong hands. He's flanked by his dedicated assistant, Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) and military man Lt. Rhodes (Terrence Howard), and must grapple with his former partner with the kick-ass villain name of Obadiah Stane (Jeff Bridges).

This is a film that doesn't really hold up to repeat viewings. The first time I saw it, I was blown away by the spectacular action sequences, the excellent soundtrack, and Downey's intense, frenetic performance. It's the giddy sense of being blown down that highway with an engine humming under your body. But with a second viewing the seams start to show. I was continually irked by the film's vaguely sexist tone (at one point, Stark's being asked important questions by a Vanity Fair reporter; the next scene is of her fucking him) and it's weird romantic affection for capitalist excess. The plot began to feel lurching and cumbersome after a while; I found myself checking my watch. And there was the overwhelming sense that despite the vague themes of wealth and power and a man's place in the world, the film ultimately rings hollow. There's not much in "Iron Man" beneath the slick veneer of cool gadgetry and awesome stunts.

To it's credit, though, the movie did manage to capture something about America's ambiguous role as crusader for justice. At one point, Stark's suit is able to pick out civilians from terrorists in a besieged village. His guns shoot all the terrorists, leaving the civilians standing looking stunned in the carnage. Both times I saw this, a smattering of applause broke out in the theater. It was the one moment where something like a soul emerged from the movie. It was a recognition that our deepest wish as a nation is that we could have the ability to pick out friend from foe.

There is also some sharp writing in the script, made all the more vibrant and witty with Downey at the helm. Downey's madcap, interrupting delivery is perfect for the role. His Tony Stark is not a brooding, melancholy soul a la "Batman"; he's in many ways a riotous teenager, with more money than sense and a subconscious that's all id. One of my favorite extraneous moments is when he consults with Pepper on whether to buy a Jackson Pollock.

Tony: Is it a good example of his Spring collection?

Pepper: Actually 'Springs' is the neighborhood
in East Hampton where he worked, not 'Spring' the season-
it's a fair example. I think it's overpriced.

Tony: I need it. Buy it and store it.

Comparatively, when Stark decides to become a hero, he takes a different tack than any other super hero I've seen on screen. He gradually grows to understand that his business has been corrupted, that the weapons he made to protect his nation's soldiers have been used against them, and that his beloved business partner has been plotting against him. During these scenes of illumination, the look on his face is not righteous indignation, or stoic resolve, as it would be for any other budding super hero. It's far more elemental than that; again, more id.

Tony Stark is simply pissed off.

Photo courtesy of gizmodo.com

The Strangers

Directed by: Bryan Bertino
Written by: Bryan Bertino
Starring: Liv Tyler, Scott Speedman

It's been a long time since I've screamed in a theater. I've always found that the recent glut of torture porn films never really frightened me so much as simply grossed me out. I thought "Saw" was a brilliant concept that was poorly executed, and that "The Hills Have Eyes" was simply silly. I felt the same way about those inbred hicks as I feel about the prospect of putting my hands on raw meat. It's a little icky, but hardly something to get worked up over.

In terms of contemporary horror I'm more a disciple of the Japanese school of thought; that is, that there is nothing as terrifying as the moment before you see the monster. It's the calm before the storm, not the storm itself, that sends chills up your spine.

"The Strangers" could perhaps then be described as an amalgam of the American and Japanese philosophy of terror. Writer/Director Bryan Bertino took a very American plot line- the home invasion/middle class fear of rural America/slasher motif- and manipulated it, so that instead of feeling shocked, one feels a relentless sense of dread. Bertino understands the importance of silence, of anticipation. He knows that there is nothing he could put up on the screen that can compete with our own deep-seated fears. Instead of attacking the audience with gore and noise, he simply gives us a visual, and lets our natural fears do the work for us.

Let me give you an example, based on the audience I was with. When one of the masked intruders that terrorizes Kristen McKay and James Hoyt (Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman) first appears in the frame, there is no music. There is no clang of arrival. We, the audience, see Kristen looking out the window, and the masked man appears behind her. We don't even notice him at first, so intent are we on our Liv's lovely features. Then, unanimously, we the audience spot him, our stomachs sink, and we all emit a soft scream. He says nothing, and disappears into the shadows a moment later, but the horror of his presence lingers in the ensuing silence.

The three faceless people who torment our young lovers are most menacing in the fact that they appear to have no motive for their crimes. Their tempers are calm and unflappable. They are not madmen wielding chainsaws. And the only one we hear speak, known in the credits as "Dollface" (Gemma Ward), has a soft, girlish voice that still kind of creeps me out when I think about it.

There's only one major disappointment in the film, which is the last five minutes or so. It involves two Christian boys on bikes and an end shocker that looks like it was tacked on after the producers held a focus group. Note to everyone making a horror film: focus group-approved endings are lame. Always. There's really no other way to say it. For those who haven't seen it yet, just trust me: walk out of the theater when the pick up truck drives away. You'll feel far more satisfied.

Photo courtesy of firstshowing.net

Friday, June 06, 2008

Housekeeping

Well I've returned from the Ohio Bureau of Maven, Inc., fairly intact and well-rested for the daily slog of work. Boston seems to have celebrated my return by dropping its temperatures to the 50s and raining all day.

Oh- and go Celtics.

Anywho, I've decided to keep the new bad-ass layout and will continue to tinker about with the HTML as necessary. Also, I've been weeding the blogroll, removing dead sites and such, and I've added a few for your perusal. The first is The Comics Curmudgeon, where a wonderful man named Josh comments on the daily comics. Never have I more appreciated "Apartment 3G" and the infamous Margot "Finger Quotin'" Magee. Also, my good IRL friend Hillary has recently joined the blogosphere with The Vanguard and I, a missive on life, love, libation and trying to get her Ph.D. in the U.K. She's on my blogroll- won't she be on yours?