Movie Maven

Brave new world, people! According to an article in today's Slate, there are scientists working on mapping the genome of the woolly mammoth in the hopes of someday resurrecting the pre-historic animal using elephant DNA.

My God, have none of these people seen "Jurassic Park"? It's nothing if not a cautionary tale about what happens when scientific hubris is matched against the chaotic forces of evolution (Hint: when Samuel L. Jackson is devoured, it means hubris is losing.) As the great Dr. Ian Malcolm, as played with schlimiel bravado by Jeff Goldblum, says, "The lack of humility before nature that's being displayed here, uh... staggers me." Turn back, fair scientists, before your children are forced to flee vicious velociraptors, with nothing but Sam Neill to protect them!

The story goes on to say that the next logical step would be to resurrect the neanderthals, to, um, learn about them. (?) Of, course this is met with trepidation from both the religious community, and the more squeamish members of the science community. Where will it end? Will we test on neanderthals and use them in experiments? Do we consider them humans? These are all important ethical and philosophical questions. But my fears about this great leap into unknown territories of generative science have less to do with moral quandaries and more to do with my worry that these guys all just got stoned and watched "Encino Man" too many times.

No one, no matter how well-intentioned, should ever take cues from Pauly Shore. It is tempting the fates, my friends.

The Gender Analyzer is 70% sure that I am a man.

Quoteth the A.I. program (that I like to think looks like Haley Joel Osment):

We think http://www.emoviemaven.blogspot.com is written by a man (70%).

In the words of Joe Biden, let me say that again:

I, your Movie Maven, with the blog outlined in pink, who has a photo of Jean Seberg as her handle, who's name is Movie Maven, is apparently a man.

What. The. Fuck.

Perhaps this gross miscalculation in the program's brain just means that the tone of my writing is strong and self-assured. Bad-ass. Perhaps it thinks I'm a man because of my penchant for filthy language, love of Quentin Tarantino movies and discussions of the best films that have shit blowing up for no reason.

Obviously, the A.I. is a filthy sexist.

I demand attention be paid to this grossly discriminatory internet meme! I call for the banning of all interweb robots that think I'm a dude just because I don't like Julia Roberts!

For shame, obviously flawed text classifier- for shame!

I do not like to sully the sanctity of this blog with political discourse. For one thing, it's not the specialty I've assigned it; for another, I didn't want a bunch of crazies posting misspelled caps-lock eloquence about that 'BAMA HAlF BREED MUSLIN!!!1!!

But in celebration, I will bend this rule today only to say this. When my grandchildren ask me about the night a black man first became president, I will have this touching story to tell them:

"Well, kids, grandma was getting snackered on Magner's and vodka tonics, while screaming at Keith Olbermann and refreshing fivethirtyeight.com every ten seconds. Then, after they announced that he won, I joined my friends outside to stumble down Huntington Ave., high-fiving strangers in cars and shouting 'WOOOO!!' every time it got too quiet."

Yes, indeed, it was a dignified moment in America.

Nothing can sour my mood today, not even the sobering news that gay marriage was banned in California. Today is a day for America. Obama is not the messiah, but he is a grand message to the world:

We are not as hideously stupid as you think.

I've reached the point of exhaustion, peaches. On average, there are seven film openings per week this fall, and, frankly, only about 1/4 of those are actually watchable. When I saw a preview of Saw V directly after watching Made of Honor on HBO, where it will play continuously for the next six months, I just about gave up on life altogether. I'm going to see Rachel Getting Married this weekend, and hopefully Jonathan Demme's supposed return to form will help me out of my cinematic slump.

But, for today, I'm not going to talk about movies. I'm going to talk about music in movies. (Yes, I know, I'm a renaissance woman.) Some of my favorite albums are actually soundtracks, cohesive artistic endeavors in their own right. I've decided that to open up my world beyond the classic film review (and in a desperate attempt to blog regularly) I am instituting a weekly column about notable soundtracks, and why you should listen to them.

Here are the rules I shall obey by: No musicals. No biopics about musicians. No concert films. Yes, this means I will be skipping some terrific music. But the point is that I will be highlighting soundtracks that are not the main focus of their respective film, yet become inextricably linked with them all the same. Also, I'll try not to highlight soundtracks that everyone and their mother already knows. This means no long speeches over the brilliance of John Williams' Jaws theme. It is brilliant, but you've heard it before.

I'm going to begin this week with Quentin Tarantino, perhaps the Zen master of the compiled soundtrack. Can any film buff listen to Chuck Berry's "You Never Can Tell" and not think of the twist contest scene from Pulp Fiction? Or hear Stealers Wheel's "Stuck in the Middle" without remembering Michael Madsen cutting off a cop's ear in Reservoir Dogs? Tarantino's soundtracks are key ingredients in his film making, and an ideal method of conveying the retro-hip pastiche he does so well.

Perhaps Tarantino's most unsung project is Death Proof, his stunning homage to the fast-car exploitation films of the 1970s, and one-half of the highly underrated Grindhouse program.The film is nothing less than the heterosexual male id in cinematic form: a purposefully grainy montage of squealing wheels, flaming rubber, blood, sex, and plenty of T&A. Yet Death Proof is most charming for the way it seems to gain retribution the (hundreds?) of actresses during the 70s who reached their untimely cinematic end lying in a bloody pool along Highway 1. I'm not giving anything away when I say that you haven't really lived until you've seen Kurt Russell roundhouse kicked in the face by a girl.

Like the film, the Death Proof soundtrack is a compilation of possibly the best road music in the world. Rhythmic guitar and horns pump through all the tracks, starting with Jack Nitzsche's title score "The Last Race". "Race" pulsates ever so slightly, the beat matching the fetching twitch of DJ Jungle Julia's ass (seen in close-up in the first scene, of course). Smith's "Baby, It's You" and T. Rex's hilarious and bewildering "Jeepster" exemplify the rhythm and blues tones of the soundtracks first half, before delving into the more rock-oriented second half, with Willy Deville's "It's So Easy," and "Hold Tight," by the fascinating Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mich and Tich. The feisty final track "Chick Habit" rounds out the line-up.

But perhaps my very favorite track is the Coasters' "Down in Mexico," played during the too-sexy-for-theaters lap dance scene. "Down in Mexico" is an ode to slumming, in which lead vocalist Carl Gardner's silken voice wraps around your hips and refuses to let go. True to the R&B stylings of the 1950s, the song is pure as the driven snow- except, it isn't. The sex is all between the lines- there's something about the lyrics describing a Mexican chick dancing with three fishnets tied around her waist that makes you feel vaguely dirty. Even if your not watching Vanessa Ferlito grind into Russell while you're listening to it.

So now it's your turn chickens- let me know what soundtracks I should feature here and why.

Hello, all, miss me? My life is consumed with the profession that actually pays me for a living so I haven't been able to post. No excuse, I know, but it's hard work keeping myself in the lifestyle to which I'm accustomed.

Anywho, I'm just checking in to alert you to an excellent blog, written by a good friend of mine and contemporary in the art of entertainment reporting. The title, Entertainment Writers are Journalists Too is a rallying cry for all the cultured intellectuals, who, yes, like to talk about Miley Cyrus.

Directed by: Gregg Araki
Written by: Dylan Haggerty
Starring: Anna Faris, Danny Masterson, Adam Brody, Roscoe Lee Browne

I'll be seeing "Pineapple Express" this weekend, though mixed reviews fill me with trepidation about relinquishing my precious $10. But I'm too intrigued to see a stoner/action flick to not take the risk.

I am a connoisseur of the stoner flick, ever since I was a freshman in college, spending evenings in my buddy's apartment "chillaxing" in her inflatable chair and watching "Half Baked." After deciding to see "Express" this weekend, I was inspired to watch "Smiley Face," a movie that was completely ignored when it came out, but which I had heard about from several people as the best stoner movie action around.

A homage of true pot cinema, it is the story of Jane F., who gets really baked off of her roommates cupcakes, and then must travel to a hemp festival to convince her dealer not to take her furniture cause she hasn't paid for her drugs, because she spent all her money on this really awesome sleep number bed, which is the one thing she really doesn't want her dealer to take, and she also has to pay the power bill, and buy enough pot to remake the pot cupcakes that her roommate made so he doesn't know she ate them.

So, basically, the story is a story your buddy would tell you if she was high and you were chillaxing on her inflatable chair, Supertramp playing gently in the background.

The film is a glorious meandering through Los Angeles, a place that in itself looks like a bad trip. Faris is wonderful precisely because she doesn't at all seem concerned with seeming either pretty or likeable. Her hair looks like it hasn't been washed in a few days; her eyes are perpetually bloodshot and her movements are slow and deliberate without ever seeming graceful. Her inner monologue is a masterpiece of stoner logic; in one delightful scene she decides that owning a picture of President Garfield to display her love of lasagna would be "totally meta."

When you actually think through what happens in "Smiley Face" you don't come up with much. But that's actually a good thing. Weed is special in that it makes every movement of your body seem like a momentous, arduous task, so it makes sense that taking a bus across town to Venice Beach could be construed as an epic rivaling "The Odyssey."

Faris leads, or rather is followed by, a sparkling supporting cast, including ur-straight man John Krasinski, post-"OC" Adam Brody as a pot dealer with hilarious rasta dreds, and Roscoe Lee Brown as both the narrator and existential muser within Jane's toked-out soul.

The most fascinating part of "Smiley Face" is really the paradox of portraying marijuana in film. It's hardly a social commentary on drug use: pot is demonstrated as a funny, and primarily harmless drug that just makes people stupid for a little while. When Jane asks if not paying back her dealer Steve will get her killed, Steve scoffs. "Oh, come on Jane, I deal weed. I'm not gonna break your kneecaps. At the most I'll, I dunno, take your furniture or something."

But there is something to be said for how pot also can make you extremely unlikeable once you've had too much. No one likes the lazy, self-involved idiot who borrows your money and doesn't pay the power bill cause she spent it all on weed. So we don't mind when Jane gets her comeuppance for her escapades at the end of that sun-drenched day in Los Angeles. Though we do hope that maybe she'll replace her furniture with inflatable chairs.

Written and Directed by: Craig Brewer
Starring: Christina Ricci, Samuel L. Jackson, Justin Timberlake

If I had to describe "Black Snake Moan" in one word, the only one that seems remotely fitting is "writhing." The Southern Gothic fable about a wild girl and the God-fearing bluesman who tries to cure her of her wicked ways is a tale that, for the first half at least, moves forward like the titular snake, slithering and undulating in ways you didn't know could appear in nature.

When we first see Rae (Ricci), she's making love to her boyfriend (Timberlake) for the last time before he joins the army. It's a lovely intimate moment, but the second he drives away, she falls to the ground, clawing and moaning like an alley cat in heat. The cicadas in the background swell in time with her wailing, and oh, she just can't help herself, she needs it, she's gotta have it now. She goes on to a party where she takes all manner of hillbilly meds, fucks a guy on a football field and ends up beaten on the side of the road in just her confederate t-shirt and dirty white panties within the first 20 minutes of the film.

Watching Rae self-destruct is both terrifying and fabulously fun to watch. Ricci and Craig Brewer, who wrote and directed the film, understand the special paradox of melodrama: it's so serious it becomes absurd, and its absurdity becomes an somewhat accurate portrayal of truth. Rae embodies sin and inequity, but in actuality she's a victim, and the message is beautifully buried underneath all the dirt and sweat. What follows is a deliciously surreal turn when Jackson's Lazarus finds Rae, takes her home and chains her to a radiator in order to "heal" her. The most remarkable thing about this turn of events is that Brewer miraculously manages to avoid the obvious icky racial issues surrounding the image of a large black man keeping a white girl chained up in his house. The only shame is that about halfway through the film, the reason for Rae's affliction is neatly "explained." After this, the film begins to take itself too seriously, which is a little disappointing.

But, oh, this cast. Samuel L. Jackson is fabulous as Lazarus. Jackson does his own singing and guitar-picking, and his voice is a striking mix of longing, hate and sheer sexual virility. I have a theory that if you simply put Samuel L. Jackson into the frame, the mise en scene immediately becomes 45 percent more bad-ass, and this film goes a long way to prove it.

I think Justin Timberlake is a little overrated as an actor (people seem to fall over themselves when they realize he can actually deliver a line) but there is a delicacy to his performance here as Rae's cuckolded boyfriend Ronnie which I wasn't expecting. He surrounds his character with the thinnest veneer of machismo, which, when stripped away, reveals a hot ball of pain and insecurity. It could have been a throwaway character, but Timberlake manages to hold his own nicely with Ricci and Jackson.

The last good part of "Black Snake Moan," is set in a honky-tonk, with Jackson singing a raging version of Stack-o-Lee and Ricci whirling in a trance-like (and entirely sober) state. Yes, Jackson's singing her pain, he's singing the wickedness out of her, and in that moment you can practically wipe the Louisiana humidity off your foreheads and smell the warm spilled beer cooking on the bar. Jackson's role may be to lead Rae back to God, but Brewer never lets us forget that this is a movie about humanity.

Photo courtesy of Collider.

Directed by: Christopher Nolan
Written by: Jonathan Nolan, Christopher Nolan and David S. Goyer

My God, it's such a mess. The plot is packed to the gills. There are nameless characters that flow in and out, spouting pertinent dialogue, and then dissolving away with no explanation. It has the look of a film that was obviously carved up from a much longer movie like a Thanksgiving turkey. It jerks in fits and starts, allows the audience no way to stop and catch their breath. There are plot and continuity holes that you could drive a truck through. And the themes (Duality! Moral ambiguity! Patriot Act! Patriot Act!) are dropped sometimes with an audible thud.


And it went to his head. He lost control, created a monster. He became drunk with power, and every little idea that popped into his head was given to him (i.e.: 'Hey, I know! Let's do illegal wiretapping! With sonar!'). He was a mad scientist, not remembering from his "Memento" days that sparing is usually better, that if you want a film to brood on the moral ambivalence of human kind, it needs to whisper sometimes, not bellow.


Primarily though, the film is salvaged, and even wrestled into something vaguely coherent, by its spectacular cast. Christian Bale is an even better Batman than his last go-round, and a thousand times better as Bruce Wayne. In the first film he had a tendency to stiffen his dialogue, thinking that a haunted nature could be expressed by simply excising one's personality. He learned his lesson, and in "Knight" Bale says forty different things simply with a turn of his head, or the merest clench of his (admittedly yummy) jaw. Katie Holmes has been forbidden from spreading her crazy within 500 yards of a Batman set, and as such has been replaced by the luminous Maggie Gyllenhaal as Rachel Dawes. Gyllenhaal manages to imbue her damsel in distress a brain and a soul. Nolan never quite gives her her due in this blue-toned boys club, but at least she manages to hold her own.

But why do I prattle on about Bale and Gyllenhaal. We know who you really want to talk about.

It would have given me that surge of malicious glee only critics can feel to say that Heath Ledger's performance was over-hyped. There's something about the populist love of a person that makes the elitist in me want to run over that love like road kill. And it's impossible to ignore the fact that perhaps his performance would not be considered as Oscar-worthy had he not died an awful, pointless death.

But the stunning, improbable truth is that I didn't remember Ledger the man at all as I was watching him on screen. Such was the power, the absolute engrossment of his performance. His Joker is like something out of a Coen brothers film: there's a move involving a pencil that is both horrifying and outrageously funny in much the same way as Steve Buscemi's wood chipper scene in "Fargo." His movements are lurching and twitchy; he hunches his shoulders and leans slightly to one side, his tongue slithers out of his head, and yet it never feels overdone. His characterization is so wonderful you want him on the screen every moment; when he leaves you can't wait for him to appear again. And though the plot might be convoluted and even absurd, you couldn't care less as long as he's there in his frosting makeup and carved grin. You don't even remember it's Ledger until the movie's over, and you realize that this particular Joker is no more. There will be no sequels for Heath Ledger's Joker. And I don't envy the man who might replace him.

There is lots of tongue-wagging about "The Dark Knight," and the records it will break, the cinematic value it will have in the future, the filmic culture it will inspire. I'm not sure it'll ever beat "Gone with the Wind" or "Titanic" either in terms of box office numbers or place within the film canon. But, flawed as it is, it has filled me with hope. The mainstream film industry has been lagging, putting out an absurd amount of schlocky films every week and filtering them in and out of theaters like water. Cheap Wal-Mart pieces that you forget about five minutes after seeing it. The idea of movie-going as a true communal experience, something that you share again and again has really been lost within the last few years. Perhaps "Dark Knight" won't make as much money as "Titanic." But if it's allowed people to regain just a little bit of the wonder we used to feel going to the movies, then it has truly accomplished something great.

Photo found on Lee Side Story

An excellent quote from intrepid reporter Sara K. Smith of Wonkette fame:

Reporters are a lot like common housecats: they laze around until they see some shiny thing, which they toy with for two minutes before going back to vomiting and sleeping on your clean laundry. (Bloggers are a lot like common bums, who cut straight to the vomiting and laundry-soiling.)

Just saw a delightful version of "As You Like It" last weekend. It was the play chosen this summer for free Shakespeare on the Common, which was recently saved from certain doom by popular demand, after sponsor Citibank had considered making drastic cuts to the play's run. A tragic move it would have been on their part, as this was some of the best Shakespeare I've ever seen, free or otherwise, and a true jewel of the Boston arts and culture scene.

The Boston Globe review of "As You Like It" is here, and for the most part I concur with all statements therein. It was a sprightly show, with a balletic Larry Coen as Touchstone the clown, an excellent recitation of the "All the world's a stage" speech by Fred Sullivan, Jr. as Jacques, and Marin Ireland as Rosalind, who managed to be adorable without making me want to hurl into my pic-a-nic basket.

But the true delightful surprise was in the young Buck who played Orlando, a gentleman named Frederick Weller. I kept thinking as I watched him that he looked terribly familiar. Then I realized he reminded me of Mary McCormack's partner Marshall in the new USA show "In Plain Sight." The same gangly, yet muscular features, the same languid voice. It was uncanny.

Well, actually, it wasn't uncanny. It was the same guy.

If you haven't seen "In Plain Sight" you should give it a shot. The dialogue's not terrific, but both McCormack and Weller more than make up for it with tight, intelligent performances (they ain't so bad to look at either). It's also nice to see a show where the female protagonist isn't constantly talking about shoes.

And, if you're in the Boston area this weekend, definitely make a trip to Boston Common to see Weller, et. al. cavort in one of the Bard's most playful plays.

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

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!

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

Written by: Bryan Bertino


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

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?

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.

Directed by: Christophe Honore

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.

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.

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)

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?

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.