Mark's Home Fries Cinema

Crazy Heart

2010-02-08T17:07:00.000-08:00

****

The Enduring Kind

With so many terrific performances over the course of his lengthy film career, it is somewhat surprising that screen actor Jeff Bridges has flown under the radar for nearly four decades. Then again, the trademarks that help make Jeff Bridges the great character actor he is are perhaps the very same ones that allow for such an extensive oversight to exist. His latest film Crazy Heart has awarded him his fifth Oscar nomination and will likely win him his first Oscar. Bridges’ first nomination was for the low-key western-drama The Last Picture Show; both the film and nomination helped Bridges launch his acting career. It seems fitting then that his role as Bad Blake in the low-key country music drama Crazy Heart would be the one that finally honors him with an Academy Award.

   Crazy Heart tells the story of a washed-up alcoholic country singer named Bad Blake and his attempt at redemption as both a musician and a human being. It is a movie where characterization and emotional themes act as the driving forces for its plot and story. Bad is not his real name, but, as the man himself discloses, it is the name he will keep until his tombstone reveals otherwise. Such is the character of Bad Blake. He is straight and to the point and does not mince words. However, Blake is a deeply insecure man who tries to hide his demons behind quiet talk and a loud bottle of booze. As with all such characters, his weary heart eventually catches up with him.

   Like all good movies, Crazy Heart slowly and subtly seeps into its viewers’ consciousness days after its first viewing. A lot – but not all – of this credit is due to Bridges’ heartbreaking performance. There was not a single moment in Crazy Heart when I found myself aware of Jeff Bridges the actor. Instead, Bridges immersed himself so seamlessly into the character of Bad Blake, that one could easily mistake his performance as being biographical. His work in Crazy Heart is a masterful example of natural acting. Not only does Bridges himself sing all of his character’s songs (with an alluring husky voice and all), but it is his more subtle touches of method acting that permit the plausibility of his emotionally climatic scenes. With every belch, grunt and nervous bite of his lip, Bridges slowly develops Blake into a fully sympathetic character. Thanks to such attention to detail, Bridges gives Blake the chance for a believable and, more importantly, substantial redemption of sobriety.

   Despite what some critics and filmgoers have said about Crazy Heart, it is not a movie that relies solely on the performance of its main actor. Yes, it may be true that without Jeff Bridges this movie would not have worked as well it did, but if it were not for Maggie Gyllenhaal and her wonderful performance as Blake’s love interest Jean Craddock, Jeff Bridges himself would not have worked as well as he did. Gyllenhaal richly deserves her Oscar nomination for best supporting actress in what is surely her best performance of her young career. Her character acts as an essential motivator to Bad’s maturity and growth as a man. She is, however, a three-dimensional person in her own right. A balancing act such as this is a much more difficult task to pull off than one might think it would be. Gyllenhaal handles this challenging role beautifully, as she creates a believable character with real insecurities, real flaws and believable life choices. Without Gyllenhaal’s subtle display of Jean’s own self-realization, Blake’s redemption in all of its sincerity would not have resonated as naturally as it did.

   The two main characters of Crazy Heart are Bad Blake and Jean Craddock. Riding alongside both of these characters, however, is the unseen but always heard T-Bone Burnett. With the help of composer Stephen Bruton and singer/songwriter Ryan Bingham, Burnett composed the music and songs written for Crazy Heart. One song in particular ( The Weary Kind ) almost acts like another character in the movie. If there ever was a shoo-in for best original song at the Academy Awards, it would be The Weary Kind. Not only does the song hold up on its own apart from the movie, but it also acts as both a poetic and direct influence on the movie’s plot, characterization and thematic detail. As the movie unfolds, Blake slowly develops and creates that which will eventually become his big comeback song: The Weary Kind. Just as Blake gradually sifts through his experiences, and matures through the ebb and flow of his triumphs and disappointments, so too does Burnett write The Weary Kind as a counterpoint to Blake’s personal development. In the movie, Blake writes the song in fits and starts along with some specific experiences (both good and bad) which he learns how to better endure over the course of time; one of the lines from the song is written as follows: “This ain’t no place for the weary kind”. On its own, this line might reflect the philosophy of a silent ‘man’s man’. However, after having experienced the full duration of the movie Crazy Heart, I now hear the line as follows: “This ain’t no place for those who don’t endure the weary kind”.

   Crazy Heart is a small and quiet movie. It develops in a slow and casual manner, and might be too laid-back for a mainstream audience to sit through comfortably. It never tries to be a plot driven movie, nor should it. Produced by legendary actor Robert Duvall (The Godfather, The Godfather Part II, Apocalypse Now), who also has a small role in the film as Bad’s old friend Wayne, Crazy Heart was destined to be a character piece. Along with Scott Cooper’s heartfelt direction, one can feel Robert Duvall’s deep understanding of human character pulsate within every scene of Crazy Heart. It seems like a deeply personal film for Robert Duvall, and one of which he should surely be proud. It won’t be the most memorable story ever told on film, but thanks to the likes of Jeff Bridges, Maggie Gyllenhaal, and T-Bone Burnett, it should be able to endure the test of time, and remain a strong affirmation of the character piece kind.

The Hurt Locker

2010-01-19T19:15:00.000-08:00

*****

Stuck in the Middle of War

The Hurt Locker is the best film of 2009. In fact, it is one of the best films I have seen all decade. It is a visceral, succinct, and brutally stark depiction of the Iraq War. It is also a timeless meditation on human conflict in general, and will without a doubt endure the erosion of time’s rust. The most fascinating aspect of The Hurt Locker however, is the fact that it works individually as both a pro-war and anti-war movie, while functioning as neither. It opens with a quote from American journalist and war correspondent Chris Hedges: “The rush of battle is a potent and often lethal addiction, for war is a drug.” Thankfully, The Hurt Locker is as equally addictive in its potency as a film.

Directed by Kathryn Bigelow (Point Break, Strange Days), The Hurt Locker tells the fictional story of an American bomb squad unit and its missions to defuse bombs in the streets of Baghdad in 2004. Bigelow and screenwriter Mark Boal (In the Valley of Elah) strip down all unnecessary war movie clichés, and allow the movie to speak for itself. With its seamless fusion of directing, acting, cinematography, and sound design, The Hurt Locker is as unbearably intense and realistic a war movie that ever was. It is a technical tour-de-force with honest performances and an insightful script, and, like every great film, leaves you wanting more.

   The film’s lead role as the bomb squad unit’s team leader, SSgt. William James, is played by Jeremy Renner (28 Weeks Later, North Country). Given the somewhat reckless sense of abandonment in which SSgt. James approaches the field of battle, one could easily scrutinize him as being the typical All-American cowboy. Give credit to Mark Boal and his subtle script however, since the character of SSgt. James is written with far more depth and complexity than would any mere stereotypical redneck. That being said, much of the credit in constructing James as something more than a mere ‘adrenaline junkie’ is due to Renner’s breakthrough performance. The first few scenes involving SSgt. James give one the impression that he is too heroic for his own good. But with great patience and a strong understanding for his character, Renner slowly reveals the subtle nuances of a more three-dimensional-like James. It is a more difficult performance than meets the eye and one which will surely catapult Renner to movie stardom.

   If there is any justice in the Academy Awards, then Kathryn Bigelow will become the first woman in its history to win Best Director. Her work in The Hurt Locker is nothing short of visionary. The title of the movie can be perceived as a philosophical reflection on humanity’s perpetual state of war, and throughout every scene of the film Bigelow’s camera acts a visual testament to such contemplations. Thanks to Bigelow’s direction, The Hurt Locker is a perfect marriage of style and substance. Her framing, camera movement, and scope help reflect the film’s perception of war as being both an endless drug and an inevitably in the journey of life. There are some important scenes in the movie that resolve unanswered questions central to the film’s plot. Unlike many directors working today, Bigelow trusts her audience to digest her visuals, and from them, piece together the answers to the film’s uncertain questions. Instead of verbally explaining such questions, her decision to resolve them visually makes their realization all the more powerful. It is a classic example of cinema’s unique aesthetic as an art form.

   The cinematography and editing in The Hurt Locker are both first-class. Given the relentless tension of the film’s subject matter, these two facets of filmmaking had to be shipshape. Thanks to the film’s consistently kinetic camerawork, its storyline unfolds like a two-hour session of Russian roulette. The tension is almost unbearable at times, but it never serves as mere action-like fodder. Through cinematographer Barry Ackroyd’s dizzying camerawork and austere lighting, the film’s relentless tension mirrors its own thematic concept of war’s endless magnetism and dominion over the human race. The masterful editing of Chris Innis and Bob Murawski help to connect Ackroyd’s endless stream of images in such a seemingly effortless manner, that the end result becomes that of a visual depiction of a shattered plane of glass that has yet to fall apart. On its own merit, the editing is a beautiful work of art. It perfectly brings together Bigelow’s conception of the permanence of war.

   There is no doubt about it: war is hell. Whether it is a war between nations or tribes of people, or an individual’s own inner battle between the forces of good and evil, war will only beget more war. Given the undeniable truth of such facts, The Hurt Locker’s portrayal of Chris Hedge’s insightful words (“war is a drug”) seems all the more formidable and realistic. No matter which way one decides to perceive the philosophical, political, and spiritual outlooks of The Hurt Locker, there remains one underlining message throughout: in order for us to truly live as human beings, we must first learn how to live through war. Whether it is through outer or inner wars, the result is the same: the battle continues...

A Single Man

2010-01-14T09:04:00.000-08:00

** ½

A Moment of Pretense


   Colin Firth has been acting in films and television for nearly 30 years. Like many actors before him, Firth has had to endure an unreasonable legacy of typecasting. He has made his career out of playing a young, suave, handsome Brit, and whether he personified good or evil, it mattered not: his role remained the same. With his latest performance in A Single Man, however, all of his earlier potential has finally burst wide open. It is all the more a shame then that his breakthrough performance had to come through the pretentious mess that is A Single Man.

   Directed through the longwinded vision of fashion icon Tom Ford, A Single Man is an ostentatious string of visuals, with a screenplay thrown in the mix. Tom Ford is a famous American fashion designer, and A Single Man is his directorial debut in film. It is an ambitious debut, and a deeply personal film at that. Thanks to Ford’s extensive background in fashion design (and photography), A Single Man runs rampant with visual flair and expressionistic tones. If this film had been made as sheer avant-garde, it might very well have been a masterpiece. However, Ford made a haphazard attempt to balance his unique visual style with that of a lazy semblance of script and plot. Simply put, his attempt fell flat.

   Aside from of all of his pompous close-ups and jarring editing, Ford (in collaboration with first-time screenwriter David Scearce) decided to adapt Christopher Isherwood’s 2001 novel A Single Man. The film’s story centers on the character of George (Colin Firth) and his inability to cope with the accidental death of his former lover Jim (Matthew Goode). George is an English professor at a university in 1962 Los Angeles, and has no choice but to keep his closet homosexuality a secret. Like many gay men of that time period, George kept the status quo by involving himself with a female lover. This lover (Charley, played by Julianne Moore) was more like a best friend to George; in fact, besides Charley, George did not have many friends at all, if any. Firth did the best he could with Ford’s meager script, and helped transform George’s tight-lipped loneliness into something more universal in its understanding of anguish.

   If it weren’t for the exquisite performance of Colin Firth, A Single Man would have been as lifeless as a coffin. This is particularly unfortunate, since Ford was trying to illuminate the notion of living life in ‘the moment’. In order to cinematically reflect this philosophical outlook, Ford used many gratuitous close-ups, and, with the help of his editor Joan Sobel, applied a disorienting style of editing. The result ended up looking forced and over-the-top, and only served to alienate the audience from its desired message. There is one scene in particular which best highlights the indulgence of Ford’s storytelling technique. It takes place in a jam-packed parking lot, as George engages in a conversation with a stranger whom he had just recently met. The topics of the conversation vary from the profound to the mundane in a matter of seconds, and seem wholly improbable as mere introduction banter. The worst part of this scene, however, has nothing to do with the unrealistic dialogue, but more with its baseless use of background space. For some reason (or better yet no reason), the two men spend the bulk of their conversation in front of a massive billboard of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. Oooooooooo...very symbolic! Yes, Tom Ford, we understand: you are a very cultured man indeed.

   Once again, the saddest part of this movie lies in the fact that a truly wonderful performance was nearly lost in its cluttered spectacle. Colin Firth helped as best he could, through bringing an emotional balance to the film’s cold intellectualism. But in the end, even Firth’s unspoken words couldn’t trump the film’s vanity. Firth’s performance is nothing short of poetic, and richly deserves an Oscar nomination. Firth was, in every sense of the word, A Single Man. Even when the film tailed off into overwrought sentimentality, Firth held his ground. Instead of acting as the film’s emotional catharsis, the ending was laughable in its unwarranted sappiness. If the movie had been more emotionally conscious leading up to its climax, then perhaps the ending might have been more powerful. Instead, for much of the picture, Ford trapped his characters inside a model shoot-like box, when all they really wanted to do was live.

Ingmar Bergman

2010-01-11T07:02:00.000-08:00

The Unbearable Silence Of Violence

   In the final scene of Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring, a man falls down to his knees and cries out to God. The ground on which this man has fallen, is the very same ground on which his daughter was previously raped and murdered. In an accusatory manner, this middle-aged father derides God for being an idle witness not only to his daughter’s murder, but also to the resultant act of vengeance that he inflicted on her perpetrators. “You saw it. God, you saw it. You allowed it to happen. I don’t understand you. I don’t understand you.” These words not only act as the focal point of this man’s prayer (and of the movie itself), but also operate as a reflection of both Ingmar Bergman the filmmaker, and Ingmar Bergman the human being.

   “The fear, the anxiety, the shame. The humiliation. The rage...I want to agree; I want to confess; I want to be good; I want to pay for what I’ve done.” Although these words were written by Ingmar Bergman himself (from his autobiographical book Images), in direct correlation with his being an accused tax evader, they stand strong as a true reflection of Bergman’s exceptional honesty. Many filmmakers try to sugar-coat the tragic side of life, especially when it comes to the notion of death and the inevitable mortality we must all face. The cinema of Ingmar Bergman, on the other hand, makes certain that its audience never forgets this inescapable fact of life. In his book Images, Bergman wrote, at length, about his ‘monumental fear of death’, and the countless anxieties he had to endure as a result of this most foreboding feeling. There is hardly a single frame in any Bergman film that does not deal with this personal dread. The remainder of this essay will focus explicitly on two contrasting ways through which Bergman dealt cathartically with his own fears: his 1972 masterpiece Cries and Whispers, and his ‘swan song’ film Fanny & Alexander.

   “It’s but a tissue of lies. All of it.” These are violent words, spoken within a scene of violent physicality. It is this precise balance of inner and external suffering that makes up the heart and soul of Cries and Whispers. In Images, Bergman stated that the colour red was the definitive symbolic colour for representing the “interior of the soul”. Since the colour red is not only the colour of blood, but is also a symbolic colour for the emotions of the human heart, it becomes fitting that one can see it, in some form or another, throughout every single scene of Cries and Whispers. There is one scene in particular which brilliantly demonstrates this thin line between inner human battles and their consequential acts of external violence. Bergman tells the story of Cries and Whispers through an unconventional use of flashbacks, with one of these flashbacks depicting a brief scene between one of the film’s three sisters (Karin) and her husband.

   The two are seen sitting across a dining room table, as they eat their supper in near-total silence. Rarely do they even look each other directly in the eye, as Karin’s husband eats his meal in a most cold and methodical-like manner. Finally, Karin poses a simple question: “Do you want coffee or are we going to retire immediately?” Without looking at her, her husband replies: “I don’t want coffee. Thank you.” Before he has even finished saying his ‘thank you’, Karin has broken into pieces the glass of red wine she was holding in her hand. Her husband looks up at her and smirks ever so subtly, and without a word, promptly continues eating his dinner. After the meal is over, and her husband has left the table, Karin picks up one of the broken pieces of glass and repeats her mantra: “It’s but a tissue of lies. All of it.” The scene transfers to their bedroom quarters, as Karin holds this same broken piece of glass in her hands, and stares at it blankly. Altering her mantra ever so slightly but significantly, Karin elaborates: “It’s but a tissue of lies. It’s a monumental tissue of lies.” She then gets up and sits down on a nearby chair, and taking the piece of glass in her hand, begins to cut open her vaginal area. In any other movie from any other filmmaker, this would be misogynistic filmmaking at its worst. However, thanks to Bergman’s meticulous attention to his characters’ emotional scars throughout the full hour before this moment, it actually becomes an authentic statement on the sheer rawness so often found in human behaviour.

   This particular scene is not only important in formulating the cathartic climax of Karin’s suffering, but it also discloses Bergman’s self-exorcising, as he tries to weed out his own demons through the creative process of his brooding yet honest brand of filmmaking. In Cries and Whispers, Bergman introduces each of the main characters and their respective flashbacks through using half-lit/half-shadowed close-ups of their faces. It is Karin’s introductory close-up however, that is perhaps the most poignant and self-illuminating of all the others. Just like in the other close-ups, Karin is looking directly into the camera with half of her face seen in the light, and the other half covered in shadow. She looks nervous and distraught, and gives the impression that she is ready to explode at any given moment. All of a sudden, she opens her mouth through an intense gasp and begins to silently mutter a few gibberish words. As though giving the impression of needing a momentary sense of release, she then closes her mouth and eyes and the screen fills up entirely with the colour red. This single shot embodies the entire thematic core of Cries and Whispers, as well as a possible declaration from the heart of Ingmar Bergman, himself. Through this one gasp, it seems like Bergman was trying to visually express, and thus better understand, that which he never could fully realize: his own personal pain and suffering.

   Fanny & Alexander was made by Bergman as his swan song and he described the movie as being “the sum total of my life as a filmmaker.” Since Bergman made this film his most earnest acknowledgement of the triumphs and disappointments that he had experienced both as a filmmaker and a human being, many critics have described Fanny & Alexander as the movie in which Bergman finally found some peace with God. In short, the movie’s story is told through the eyes of two young children (Fanny and Alexander), as they weave in and out through life’s endless thread of ups and downs, joys and sorrows, births and deaths, and many other of life’s numerous cycles. Bergman had long established himself as a true master of film through making a career out of brooding, meditative, and utterly candid cinema. Through making Fanny & Alexander however, it seemed like all of Bergman’s ideas, beliefs, anxieties, and hopes were coming together in one giant ‘spinning wheel’ of a movie.

   At one point in the film, the children’s father becomes gravely ill and dies. Not long after their father’s passing, their mother (Emilie) decides to marry a priest (Edvard) and they all move out to the countryside where he lives. Moving in with a new parent is a difficult scenario for any young child to have to endure. However, it isn’t long after moving into Edvard’s home that Fanny and Alexander realize just how horrific a man their new father truly is. Not only is their stepfather an extremely rigid and strict man, but he is also verbally and physically abusive towards the children and their mother. If this movie was made in Hollywood, there would have been a great risk of stereotyping the priest’s persona. But through the visionary mind of Ingmar Berman, Edvard stands for something far greater than just mere stereotype. As has been the case with many practising Catholics, Bergman (who grew up in a family of devout Lutherans) had suffered a long-lasting battle with what has become known as ‘Catholic guilt’. If one were to approach the cinema of Ingmar Bergman from an emotional standpoint alone, one may feel this sense of Catholic guilt percolating right through the frames of Bergman’s camera. Thus, it almost seems as if the priest from Fanny & Alexander is a direct personification of Bergman’s own life experience with this profound spiritual guilt.

   In her review of the Criterion Collection’s Fanny & Alexander dvd release, film critic Katherine Monk headlined her article with a profound yet simple declaration: “Bergman makes right with God”. Granted, this declaration of sorts could be applied to many of Bergman’s other masterworks, yet what makes this statement especially applicable to Fanny & Alexander, is the way through which Bergman surrendered cathartically to his never-ending battle with guilt and anxiety. There is a scene towards the very end of the film in which (after Edvard’s ‘accidental’ death) Alexander believes he has seen the ghost of his abusive stepfather. The scene begins with Alexander eating a fruit biscuit in relative calm and serenity, as he walks down the hallway of his original childhood home. Suddenly, the camera reveals a cross dangling behind Alexander’s shoulder, which, we realize soon enough, is hanging from Edvard’s ceremonial cassock. Before the audience even has time to digest this frightening image, Alexander has been shoved to the floor. While still lying on the floor, Alexander raises his head and looks directly at Edvard. Edvard turns around and enlightens Alexander with a horrifying proclamation: “You can’t escape me.” Those four simple words, as terrifying and powerful as they were, ended up being the prescription for Ingmar Bergman’s greatest cinematic redemption. It is an epiphany that can only be revealed through experiencing a lifetime of portentous emotional suffering. Now that Alexander has come to a better understanding of Edvard’s inescapable presence, he will no longer need to resist the pain of his own abusive past.

   Bergman passed away on July 30th, 2007 at the age of 89 years old. He was labelled by Woody Allen as “probably the greatest film artist, all things considered, since the invention of the motion picture camera”. It is all the more significant a tribute that these words would came from Woody Allen, since he is generally recognized as one of the greatest comedic directors American cinema has ever known. Upon closer reflection however, one may better understand how this paradox of filmmaking styles could lead to such towering words of admiration. On superficial levels alone, joy and laughter are two conditions that are bound to be short-lived. A more substantial state of happiness however, tends to arise from one’s ability to become more mindful and conscientious of life’s inevitable falls and disappointments. It is only through learning this life long lesson of embracing the numerous emotional scars of life, where one’s darkness can truly be reflected into a reality of light. If all of life’s real joy and laughter are rooted in this painful lesson, then the films of Ingmar Bergman are the funniest lectures one will ever attend. Bergman was a true master in the art of finding light in the darkest recesses of the human heart. Even if he had to suffer a lifetime of heartache in order for this to be realized, his suffering was not lived in vain. Through viewing the countless works of art he created onscreen, we can only send up a prayer of hope, that one day all of us will bask in the full summer light that Ingmar Bergman now calls home.

Daybreakers

2010-01-10T15:20:00.000-08:00

***

Embrace The Distant Light Of The Sun

   Let’s face it: the ‘vampire film’ is a dying breed (yes that also includes the Twilight films). It seems like all of the originality has been sucked dry from this allegorical genre, which makes it fitting then that Daybreakers would tell the story of the world in 2019 (only 9 years away!), as ruled by vampires who find themselves on the brink of extinction. In this not-so-distant future world, human beings make up only 5 % of its population. As such, the dwindling human blood supply is creating havoc on this newly immortal planet of vampires. Hence, the ruling vampire government is forced to hunt down the remaining human population and store them in a massive vault, so that they may preserve their blood supply and eventually create an abundance of imitation human blood. Yes, indeed, vampire movies can be rather silly.

   The legend of the vampire was never meant to be taken seriously on a literal level, but rather a metaphorical one. This vampire/human allegory (beginning with Bram Stoker’s classic novel Dracula) has formed the shape of many different metaphors throughout human history. Depending on the historical context of their times, many authors and filmmakers alike have created vampire stories which subtly - or not so subtly – mirrored the societies in which they lived. The same can be said about the Spierig brothers film Daybreakers. While keeping with the longstanding traditions of the vampire legend, the Spierig brothers (who also penned the script) have updated the genre to our narcissistic times of fierce consumerism and lackluster humanitarianism. With our modern day society replete with online consumerism, social networking, and endless shopping malls, Daybreakers is a fitting testament to our own world of forgotten humanity.

   Sometimes it seems like our world is trying all the harder to forget (or neglect) the pains and tribulations of human existence. We constantly trick ourselves into believing that the more we consume or the more we have, the easier it will be to forget our pain. However, it is through these pain-driven gains that we continuously find ourselves revisiting the worst of our pasts. In Daybreakers’ finer moments, this unrelenting reality acts as the driving force to its storytelling.

   In all vampire stories, the vampire is simply a reflection of our ugly side as human beings. With Daybreakers, this ugly side becomes the fallibility of the human race to recognize and accept the reality of pain and destruction. Daybreakers tells the story of a vampire named Edward Dalton (Ethan Hawke), a valued government worker helping the vampire cause of finding a cure for the human blood (or lack thereof) epidemic. Unfortunately, for the vampires, Edward feels empathetic towards the remaining humans, and is thus wary of the government’s systematic approach in hunting down the minority human race. It isn’t until Edward meets Lionel ‘Elvis’ Cormac (Willem Dafoe), a human who used to be a vampire, that he discovers the ultimate method for curing the extinction of his vampire race.

   The method is deceptively simple, but one which nonetheless poses an inevitable question: Duh??! Why did they not think of that before? Everyone knows by now that vampires have only one weakness: the sunlight. If they are in direct contact with sunlight, they will die within minutes. Lionel’s back-story of how he became human again is surprisingly moving and poetic. In a car accident, Lionel was ejected midair into the daylight, which, due to the open sunlight, caused his body to burst into flames. Upon landing in a dark tunnel of a nearby creek, Lionel gets up and discovers that he has not only survived the accident, but has also become human again. He then comes to realize that episodic exposure to direct sunlight can transform a vampire back into a human being. This fantastical scene not only functions as a key plot twist, but eventually serves the movie as a philosophical motif for the human condition.

   Unfortunately, there are only a few such intriguing facets to the movie. Otherwise, the film ends up getting bogged down in highly clichéd action sequences and equally corny dialogue. Despite the film’s unevenness and awkward transitions, howver, it still manages to absorb its audience with moments of thoughtful introspection. With its focal point centering on the evolutionary idea of ‘the survival of the fittest’, Daybreakers takes the traditional vampire metaphor and spins it back towards human decency. Through employing the idea of the vampires’ intermittent exposure to daylight, the Spierig brothers have taken the ugly side of the vampire (human) psyche and have used it as a means for teaching a valuable lesson: the more we stay away from either the absence or presence of light the more immediate the burning of pain will be.

   Given the fact that Daybreakers relies too heavily on its central concept, it can hardly be called a groundbreaking vampire movie. If it weren’t for this one sharp thematic twist or Willem Dafoe’s performance, Daybreakers would be tedious at best and laughable at worst. Thankfully, Dafoe puts forth his gritty acting style and carries with him some of the best lines and scenes in the movie. Standing next to him, however, is Ethan Hawke, who continues to look like a deer caught in headlights. Despite the film’s flaws, it is a worthwhile movie-going experience. It is deserving of one’s time if not for its slight resurrection of the vampire concept, then at least for its valiant effort in trying to make something artful out of something fundamentally ridiculous. However, before seeing this or any other vampire movie, one should be prepared to embrace its distance from the ordinary, so that the extraordinary can be less painful to endure.

Up in the Air

2010-01-06T14:50:00.000-08:00

*****

Suspend Your Disbelief and Fly Back Down To Earth

Sometimes we watch movies that transcend everyday life, and by so doing, are transported to a higher state of art. Other times, we watch movies that are ‘slices of life’, and by so doing, are better equipped to handle life’s daily lessons. Every now and then, however, we watch a movie that both transcends and affirms our everyday realities. This rare occurrence has most recently come to pass with the release of Up in the Air.

Directed by the up-and-coming sensation that is Jason Reitman (Thank You for Smoking, Juno), Up in the Air gives us a timeless story, yet one which deftly mirrors the times in which we live. The film opens with a sequence of various people being fired from their jobs. Most of these people end up venting with some valid complaints, but it is the last person who sums it up the best: “Who the fuck are you?” Immediately, we see a man, who then answers this question through voice-over narration: “Excellent question. Who the fuck am I?” We soon learn that this man works for a company, who in turn is hired by other companies to fire their own employees. In short, this man (Ryan Bingham, played by George Clooney) is a despicable character.

Movies have the unique, if somewhat frightening, ability of making unsavory characters likeable. Whether this is a commendable feat or not, it is still a very impressive and mystifying accomplishment. For the first half of Up in the Air, it is clearly evident that Ryan Bingham is not only an unscrupulous man, but one who represents all that is cold and detached in modern day society. Yet somehow, he manages to come across as being charming, charismatic, and even likeable. This trickery of sorts was successful thanks to George Clooney’s wonderfully subdued performance, as well as Jason Reitman’s outstanding screenplay (adapted by Walter Kirn’s novel of the same name), and taut direction.

Up in the Air is essentially a fantasy about contemporary society. Since the financial crisis began in late 2007, millions of people have lost their jobs through cost-cutting and downsizing. With Up in the Air, Reitman combines this real life situation with a slight stretch of human imagination. I sincerely doubt (or hope) an employee such as Ryan Bingham actually exists in the real world. However, given how cold our modern day communication has become, his character and job status are not too far off from where we may be headed. There is a scene in the movie when an employee from a major company in Detroit actually gets fired (or rather ‘let go’, according to the ‘integrity’ of Bingham’s work) through a webcam on his computer. Even worse than this however, is the location through which Bingham’s co-worker Natalie Keener (Anna Kendrick) is firing this poor man: the office next door. Absurd? Absolutely. Far-fetched? Perhaps not.

It is this seamless combination of the fantastical and the real that makes Up in the Air a modern day masterpiece. Reitman’s witty script allows for the movie to breathe on its own, yet at the same time propels the film into a constant sense of motion. It is the sort of script that Bingham himself would approve of. As though it were not enough for Bingham to make a living off firing people he has never met, he also gives motivational speeches (of the half-Tony Robbins-half isolationist kind) to help people learn the art of losing human connection. Bingham’s backwards justification for living in such ‘a cocoon of self-banishment’ stems from his ‘bullshit philosophy’ on the human condition. According to Bingham, “we must make no mistake about it…living is moving”. Bingham sees human beings not as swans, but as sharks; the more we slow down, the quicker we are to die. Fair enough, but instead of moving forward together as a unified species, Bingham feels that human nature was meant to develop more in the guise of a constant stream of individuals. Reitman’s script incorporates two contrasting aspects that would bring dimples to Bingham’s boyish smile: a sense of confidence in taking time to develop, and a constant sense of motion. Thankfully, Reitman goes a step further than his anti-hero, by adding a third aspect to his dichotomous thematic material: a balanced set of ideals and character traits.

As original a film that Up in the Air is, it would have been a dreadful bore had it not been for the three-dimensional writing of its two supporting characters. Early on in the film, we are introduced to Alex Goran (Vera Farmiga), who is quite easily (or willing to be) seduced by Bingham’s charms. Through a chance meeting at a hotel bar, Alex and Ryan slowly develop a casual love affair with no strings attached. Alex seems to have everything that Ryan looks for, in regards to relationships with women. She’s smart, witty, beautiful, and best of all, comes with no rules. She is the mirror image of Ryan himself. In fact, at one point she instructs him to think of her as merely Ryan himself, "but with a vagina". It would have been too easy and cheap for Reitman to write Alex’s character as merely the mirrored image of Ryan; as such, Reitman makes sure that there is more than meets the eye when it comes to Alex. This three-dimensional quality of Alex’s character would not have been nearly as powerful, if it weren't for Vera Farmiga’s performance. Farmiga’s portrayal of Alex is a classic lesson in the ‘less is more’ style of acting. Farmiga is subtle, quiet, yet fiery when she needs to be. She transforms Alex into a complex character of open-mindedness and compassion, yet not without her moments of vanity and deceit. It is a terrific performance, and one which will surely give her an Oscar nomination in February.

The other major role is Natalie Keener, as played by Anna Kendrick. For the most part, Natalie is everything that Ryan is not: idealistic, romantic, a believer in marriage and true love, etc. However, in order to keep Natalie from becoming the mere antithesis to Ryan’s character, Reitman diversifies Natalie by instilling within her a variety of personal traits. At times, Natalie can come across as being naïve and inexperienced, but she can also be tough, zealous, and fiercely independent. She may be a dreamer, but in many ways she is far more realistic than Ryan when it comes to the art of human relationships. This cross-section of human characteristics acts as an important counterpoint to Ryan’s stubbornness, and becomes essential to Ryan’s maturity as a human being. Natalie is the only likeable main character in the movie, and in many ways, the most diverse. Kendrick works through the motions of her character with seamless confidence. She allows Natalie to be weak and human, while continuing to infuse her with hope. Her character in many ways represents the core of the film’s message, and her performance will surely take your breath away.

In this day and age, it is easy to make a film that either negates or glosses over the realities of our troubled times. At the same time, it is just as easy to make a film that overindulges itself with the struggles of our everyday lives. Up in the Air manages to stay away from making either of these polarizing mistakes, and instead, creates a funny, bright, yet dark and dramatic mood piece. It is a sublime masterpiece, and one which fits perfectly with our modern times. It asks us all to stand up and keep the good fight going, while remaining diligent and realistic with all that must come to pass. So go out and buy a ticket to see Up in the Air; you will soar down to earth like you’ve never soared before.

Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call, New Orleans

2009-12-08T14:41:00.000-08:00

Bad Movie: Port of Call, Over-The-Top Filmmaking

   “Watch me fuck your girlfriend!” I would elaborate on the scene that housed these words from Werner Herzog’s latest movie The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call, New Orleans, but like the movie itself, why bother? Oh, Nicolas Cage. Wherefore art thou Leaving Las Vegas? Let’s face it: Nicolas Cage has delivered one remarkable performance throughout his god-awful career, while lampooning the rest of the way with performances of quote unquote acting. Whether or not he has parodied himself throughout his career is a topic for another time. Simply put, the man is a bad actor. The biggest travesty of Nicolas Cage’s latest role is the fact that its caricaturization was performed through the lens of director Werner Herzog’s camera.

   Werner Herzog has made a career out of creating larger-than-life characters caught within the boundaries of frantic scenarios. With such classics as Aguirre: The Wrath of God, The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser, and Nosferatu the Vampire, Herzog has created a cinematic world full of eccentricities, agitation, and madness. More times than not, his philosophy on the true nature of cinematic storytelling has worked to his credit. In the case of Bad Lieutenant, however, his vision has fallen flat. Herzog muscles his way through Bad Lieutenant with some striking visuals and assured direction, but there is only so much a camera can do with an awful script and Nicolas Cage.

   For some bizarre reason, Bad Lieutenant has received many glowing reviews. Some critics have even suggested that there’s an outside chance of Cage receiving his third Oscar nomination for this role. If this should happen, Cage will join the illustrious company of James Coco and Amy Irving as the only three actors to be nominated for both an Oscar and a Razzie (an annual awards show given out for the worst achievements in the movie year) for the same performance. Cage’s work here in Bad Lieutenant is nothing short of embarrassing.

   There is a scene late in the movie in which Cage - playing the role of a cocaine addicted narcotics detective named Terence McDonagh - is fired for malpractice and consequentially stripped of his badge and gun. Being the lawless lawman that he is, Terence decides to continue his ‘detective work’, despite the loss of all of his credentials. In the hopes of paying off a mounting gambling debt, Terence continues his pretension of being a legitimate detective, by cutting a deal with a notorious drug lord. The payoff scene through which Terence (all doped up on cocaine and God knows what else) receives his cut of the drug money, is perhaps the worst display of ‘acting high’ that I have ever seen. Whether it is through his shakes, his agitation, or outbursts of laughter, Cage turns his character into a complete joke. His work in this scene is so over-the-top that one almost wonders if Cage was performing that way on purpose. If such is the case, then Cage has not only given one of the worst performances of the year, but in the process has also made a mockery of acting as a credible art form. I can hear the call of the Razzies now.

   Despite boasting the unfortunate combination of an awful script and dismal ensemble cast, Bad Lieutenant does have some intriguing moments. For instance, there is a scene early on in the film where Lieutenant McDonagh is staking out a murder scene. As McDonagh sifts around the scene of the crime, he comes across a murdered child and finds a note sitting on the desk next to him. It reads as follows: “My friend is a fish. He live in my room. His fin is a cloud. He see me when I sleep.” Upon reading this note, McDonagh finds a glass of water containing this goldfish. He picks it up and holds it to the light, with his eyes glazing through the glass like a drugged-up teenager. It is a subtle moment of symbolism, as it foreshadows the enigma of Terence McDonagh and all of his eccentric and peculiar mannerisms.

   It is a shame that both Cage and Herzog could not continue this line of subtlety. Instead, they created a cartoonish environment which ruptured out of control, and simultaneously taught us one valuable lesson: A movie’s friend is a good script. He lives in its actors. His fin is the actors’ performances. He sees us when we sleep...right through a bad, overdone movie.

Film Music: The Role Of The Film Score

2009-12-02T16:15:00.000-08:00

Fly Me Through The Moon...

   The world of film music is unique and little-understood. It seems that no matter which direction this art form takes, it is destined for no man’s land. Music in film is many things at once: background music for the action on screen; an amplifier of emotion when dialogue can no longer do justice; or a showy manipulator when a movie cannot carry its own weight. Add to this confusion the commonly held belief that film music is inferior to concert music, and one can only agree with film composer Danny Elfman, that this is indeed one “crazy art form”. More often than not, our real-life situations are played out without the enhancement of a background score; therefore, the creation of music in film is seemingly a superfluous one. However, if the purpose of creating art is to heighten our compassion and understanding of the human condition, than film music is an art form born out of sheer courage.

   Picture in your mind the following movies: “Star Wars”, “Jaws”, and “The Godfather”. Do this same thing again, yet this time pay closer attention to the specific feelings that may or may not arise from such recollections. Surely there was some sort of feeling that came to you, as you envisioned each movie. Whether or not you describe these feelings in words, you did, at least, generate some sense of reaction. The fact that each title came with a very different reaction means that each movie has its own unique atmosphere. There are countless factors that contribute to a film’s overall feel, and one of these factors is undeniably the music that is written for the movie. No more so is this true than with the above three titles. All one has to do is hear the words “Star Wars”, and sooner than later the now classic John Williams fanfare will ring out in their mind. And how is it possible to hear the word “Jaws”, and not hum the two most famous musical notes in film history? Duh-Dum… Duh-Dum… Duh-Dum, Duh-Dum, Duh-Dum, Duh-Dum...etc. And just try to speak of the movie “The Godfather” without immediately recalling the music that underscored the feelings of power and grandeur. There are many reasons why these reactions come so easily to us; more often than not they are the same reasons that made these three films the classics they are today. Time and again, one can associate the greatest films ever made with the greatest film scores ever written. In this essay, I will move beyond the general understanding of such truths, so that I may delve more deeply into the precise methods of film composing. I will focus on two of the most popular film scoring devices (the use of leitmotifs, and the developmental method), and will reference two key examples of film scores that highlight these contrasting styles.

   According to “dictionary.com”, the definition of ‘leitmotif’ is as follows: “A motif or theme associated throughout a music drama with a particular person, situation, or idea.” This definition has its roots outside of film music, and derives from the term ‘Wagnerian technique’. The legendary opera composer Richard Wagner was by no means the first composer to explore the concept of the leitmotif, yet he was the one who worked the most at establishing it to the level that it remains today. It is Wagner who had the most direct influence on the roots of film music, as many composers in the early days of film thought that the ‘Wagnerian technique’ of leitmotifs had a unique potential in the world of film music. Throughout many of Wagner’s classic operas the notion of musically highlighting specific characters (along with their own personal traits), philosophies, concepts, or scenarios, was one that had an infinite amount of potential. Whenever a specific character came on to the stage, a musical motif that represented the character’s nature would accompany him. This same device would occur with many of the opera’s other characters as well, so that the audience would (often subconsciously) have a musical understanding of what was transpiring on stage. The employment of such techniques brought a more rich and substantial listening experience, since the audience was able to have a more direct and personal association with the characters and the story. Since the world of opera involves not only music but plot and story as well, the pioneering film composers felt that it was only a natural progression to use the ‘Wagnerian technique’ in the world of film as well.

   The first composer to take this transformation to a level not seen before his time, was Max Steiner; and the film score which he composed that changed the world of film music forever, was “King Kong”. Over the opening credits of the 1933 classic “King Kong”, we hear a deeply ominous three note motif, which descends downward with each passing note. This opening musical theme is otherwise known as the “Kong” motif. Whenever there is a need to highlight the savage and barbaric quality of the monster that is ‘neither man nor beast’, this three note leitmotif can be heard in the movie’s soundtrack. The introduction of this famous leitmotif immediately gives way to a more rhythmic and march-like theme (the “Jungle March” motif), which in turn passes itself over to a more desperate and uneven musical theme (the “Ann Darrow/Stolen Love” motif). Finally, this brief succession of leitmotifs culminates in the most intense and frightening theme found in the entire score: the “Sacrificial Dance” motif. This entire musical introduction happens all within the span of 2 minutes, and throughout its entirety we are introduced to no less than four of the score’s main leitmotifs. These four motifs will all be further developed and understood as the movie takes off, and the story unfolds. This prophetic use of leitmotifs in the opening credits is a technique that has been emulated time and again, ever since the release of “King Kong”. It is a brilliant technique, since many of the major themes found throughout the score are revealed in such an economical fashion and long before their future development, that the audience is given the chance to have these musical themes subconsciously installed into their minds. The end result is a most ingenious and subtle one. When the time comes to recall these motifs amidst the visual action on screen, one can automatically associate the specific actions with their suitable leitmotifs.

   Moving ahead to the scene in “King Kong” where the lead actress (Fay Wray) has been kidnapped from her boat by a group of natives who live on an uncharted island, we come across a sacrificial dance which the native people are performing. Fay Wray’s character ‘Ann Darrow’ is in the process of being tied up between two separate towers, a situation which Steiner underscores through a barbaric and brutally intense realization of the now fully developed “Sacrificial Dance” motif. The very moment Ann Darrow is being tied up to the towers, her own musical theme (“Ann Darrow/Stolen Love” theme) can also be heard. These two themes play off each other throughout the entire scene, and grow in intensity as the scene becomes more and more barbaric. Once the natives have finished tying Ann up to the towers, two giant doors of an equally massive wall shut her in so that no outside person can break in to save her. As the doors slam shut the music comes to an abrupt stop, only to return shortly thereafter as the native leader announces and introduces his fellow people to the great ‘King Kong’. Steiner uses some source music as two native guards let out a thunderous crash of a massive gong, in order to highlight the ritualistic worshiping of this indescribable beast. We soon hear the roars of what will become known to us as ‘King Kong’, as he approaches Ann from a nearby forest. As soon as Ann –and us the audience- sees Kong for the first time, we hear a terrifying version of the “Kong” motif, followed immediately by Ann’s infamous scream of terror, accompanied by the “Stolen Love” theme. Throughout the musical interplay of both themes, there remains a sustained series of terrifying screams from Ann that coincides with the horrifying roars of the great Kong.

   Whether or not the audience is consciously aware of these particular motifs and their symbolic meanings is of no real importance; the effect remains the same. With the riveting and intense sound quality of the musical accompaniment, the viewer is drawn into the movie’s visuals through a much more profound experience. Most importantly, the music compliments the images on screen in a way that does not overpower them. The result is a perfect marriage of story, thematic detail, and music. The score to “King Kong” is commonly regarded as the film score that started it all for film music. Consequently, Max Steiner has long been labelled the ‘Grandfather’ of film music, and these two scenes in the movie are only a couple of examples of what makes “King Kong” the ultimate ‘leitmotif’ film score.

   Many of the greatest film scores have utilized leitmotif as a musical tool; developmental scoring, however, is a more subtle technique. One of the first major film scores to use the method of developmental film scoring was “Citizen Kane”. The composer of this 1941 masterpiece, directed by Orson Welles, was Bernard Herrmann. Herrmann is commonly cited as the greatest film composer who ever lived and “Citizen Kane” is always ranked amongst his finest accomplishments. “Citizen Kane” tells the story of a great newspaper tycoon named Charles Foster Kane, as he travels through life with many different dreams and aspirations, always holding on to the hope of finding true love, despite all of his endless changes in personality and outlooks on life. Of course the heart of “Citizen Kane” really lies in the quest of one person’s attempt in finding out the meaning of Kane’s last word on Earth: “Rosebud.” This person’s hope in finding the answer to this question lies in his belief that if one could define the meaning of a person’s dying words, they may have a greater chance at understanding what life is all about. To approach the task of scoring such a movie (one that is in constant change, thematically speaking), Herrmann decided to use the developmental technique, since he felt this style best reflected the ever changing atmosphere that made up the life story of Charles Foster Kane.

   The opening scene of “Citizen Kane” begins with the image of a ‘No Trespassing’ sign posted to a gate. Upon revealing this image, we hear in the musical score a short succession of five notes, which ends up being known as the “Power” motif. This theme has a dreary and tragic sound quality to it, and evokes a feeling of utter desperation and exhaustion. The camera then pans upward from this ‘No Trespassing’ sign as it makes its way up the gate, until it reaches the top where we can see in the far distance a mansion sitting on top of a hill. Throughout the camera’s panning of the gate, a secondary musical theme is heard. This secondary motif is otherwise known as the “Rosebud” motif, and has a more enlightened sound to it than its predecessor. It is also a slightly faster paced theme than the “Power” motif, and contains within it a touch of hope through its searching-like quality of sound. The timing of the “Rosebud” motif’s introduction blends perfectly with the visuals on screen by beautifully reflecting the many changes of the gate’s architecture (the gate’s visual style changes no less than three times). Much more meaningful than being a mere reflection to an ever changing look of a mansion’s gate, is the true meaning behind the “Rosebud” motif in the first place. Since this motif is, in many ways, representative of Kane’s constantly evolving quest for the ultimate truth in life, one can see how this musical gesture combines so well with the symbolic image of the ‘changing gate’. The result is that the audience is left with a raw sense of longing and nostalgia for the key to life’s truths.

   Later on in the film, there is a scene which depicts the breakdown of Kane’s first marriage to a woman named Emily Monroe Norton. The scene lasts only 3 minutes; yet through a brilliant use of economical editing we are able to bear witness to a disintegrating marriage all within this brief passage of time. With nearly every single cut of a frame, Herrmann beautifully captures the marriage’s fall from grace, as he employs a theme-and-variation-like device very reminiscent of the ones used in the days of Mozart. As the scene begins with Kane and Emily full of joy and cheerfulness as they sit close to one another at their breakfast table, Herrmann uses a single theme that is really a combination of the “Power” and “Rosebud” motifs. Throughout the many cuts and moments in this scene, Herrmann edits his own way through his ‘marriage’ theme, along with its own musical disintegration. He does so through a brilliantly constructed set of variations on his derived ‘marriage’ theme, which helps heighten the intensity of the conflict on screen. As the cuts grow more rapidly and Kane and Emily grow further apart, the changes and moderations of the initial musical motif become more pronounced. This methodical process builds its way up to a climax, until it reaches the last shot in the scene. In this shot we see Kane and Emily sitting at their dinner table as far away from each as possible, as they exchange glaring looks to one another while reading rival newspapers in total silence. The music in this last shot is a recapitulation of the opening ‘marriage’ theme, but it evokes a much greater sense of tragedy and loss.

   If I had to pick one musical cue in all of film music that best represented the artfulness of the developmental film score, it would be this cue from this classic scene in “Citizen Kane”. It captures everything a developmental score should have within it: recognizable themes; a rise, development and fall of these themes; and a perfect blend with the film’s own story, imagination and thematic detail. It is not only one of the best scores of its kind, but is one of the greatest film scores ever written.

   Film music is a constantly evolving art form. Whether it’s from the silent era or from film music being made today, it is one art form that will never remain stagnant. Film music today tends to lean more towards an atmospheric style of composing, which is plain to see in scores such as “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon”, “Atonement”, “There Will Be Blood”, and “Brokeback Mountain”. For some film music fans and critics alike, this style of composing is inferior to that of the classics of the past. Whether or not film music today is becoming less artful or prominent than it was before, is merely a matter of opinion. It is forever exciting to witness the many faces and changes that film music goes through; this endless ‘changing of the guard’ however, is paradoxically the most permanent aspect of film music. It seems that the art of writing film scores is destined to reside in never-never land, as it tries to find its “voice”.

Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire

2009-12-02T10:28:00.000-08:00

****

Moving Forward Through The Past

   Oscar Wilde once wrote about the morbidity of modern society's sympathy with pain: "The less said about life's sores, the better." This restrained philosophy is the base of the thematic core of director Lee Daniels' sophomore film Precious. Sometimes movies act as entertainments in themselves, and sometimes these entertainments stand for something more than mere escapism. Occasionally, however, a movie such as Precious will contain neither of these features, and instead, will stand on its own merit, with no need for glossy entertainment or pretentious moral reasoning. Life is sometimes just that: life. Sometimes, life has no words in response to its questions.

   Precious is a hard movie to watch, but a very worthwhile film to experience. The film is shot in an almost documentary-like fashion, which helps augment the strong sense of rawness and vulnerability found within many of the film's key performances. Precious tells the story of an illiterate teenager named Clarieece Precious Jones (Gabourey Sidibe), who has already experienced a lifetime of unimaginable abuse and suffering. Her father sexually abused her and impregnated her with 2 children; her mother is physically, mentally, and emotionally abusive towards her; she is overweight and consequently made fun of by her school peers; she has no friends, and instead takes care of her abusive mother (who is on welfare) by cooking her meals, and cleaning up around the house. The list goes on, and on, and on. Thankfully, the courage for a better life is carried along with her, as Precious never gives up hope for herself and her future, even when her life has seemingly hit rock-bottom.

   Newcomer Gabourey Sidibe gives one of the best performances of the year, and one which will surely land her an Oscar nomination come February. It is one of those jaw-dropping performances that is so overwhelmingly powerful, that upon finishing the movie one cannot help but feel fully connected to her character. Sidibe infuses the fictional character of Precious with such raw humanity, that one completely forgets she's fictional at all. This authentic sense of empathy instilled in the viewer, is accomplished thanks to Sidibe's seamless balancing act between the horrors of her character's past and present, and the blissful fantasies of her unknown future.

   These fantasy sequences occur a few times throughout the course of the movie, and are brilliantly staged by Lee Daniels and cinematographers Andrew Dunn and Darren Lew. The garish lighting and flamboyant sets in these sequences are beautifully expressionistic of Precious' inner yearning to escape her horrific living conditions, while at the same time they reflect the artificiality of her ever realizing such a polarized experience. On the opposite spectrum, the contrasting atmosphere of her abusive flashbacks is of equal brilliance in lighting and design. In contrast to the obtrusive glitz used in the fantasy scenes, the flashback sequences are shot using very little light. With its jarring editing, dizzying camerawork, and great use of light and shadow, these flashback scenes are truly menacing and quite difficult to sit through. They are, however, important bits of filmmaking, due to the realism they show in portraying the true nature of abusive flashbacks.

   The other remarkable performance in Precious, and a shoo-in for a best supporting actress Oscar, comes from Mo'Nique as Precious' mother Mary. As central to the film as Precious is, it's the character of her mother who truly drives the film's thematic power. Mo'Nique is mesmerizing (and equally frightening) throughout her entire performance, but there is one scene towards the end of the film involving Mary, Precious, and Precious’ social worker that becomes a crucial turning point for Precious' future. Without a doubt, Mary is a horrible mother and a villain in the truest of senses. There’s never any true justification for her motives or actions, and as such it could have been easy for Mo'Nique to turn Mary into a caricature. However, the way in which Mo'Nique handles this seedy character is nothing short of phenomenal. So as to not risk revealing any of the crucial details of the emotionally climatic scene nor its turning point, I will refrain from discussing it any further. I will, however, hark back to Oscar Wilde's quote on human anguish, which, as a philosophy, mirrors the key decision made by Precious towards the end of the film.

   As students of any subject matter, whether it be science, religion, literature, philosophy, psychology, etc., it is always important to look to the future. In order to succeed with these forward strides, however, a diligent student must always be mindful of past inspirations in his or her field. Only when it comes to the subject of life itself, does the student’s diligence become truly imperative. In Precious, the titular character is forced to endure an unfathomable amount of abuse, on route to her self-discovery. Nothing will ever erase the horrors she had to go through. Not even the wisdom of her social worker and all of her schooling can help Precious remake her past. Sometimes, there is just nothing that can be done. It is with these precious cases, however, that the less said, the more accomplished.

The Road

2009-11-30T06:09:00.000-08:00

***1/2

The End Less Travelled

   For decades now, cinema has been fascinated by humanity's fear of the end of the world. Unfortunately, the nature of this fascination has had more to do with the subject's potential in bringing in box office success, than the emotional core found within this grave fear. With such greedy exploitation, Hollywood has forever romanticized humanity's greatest fear: the end of all living things. It has been a long time coming for a filmmaker to step outside the box of this clichéd genre, and finally create something real and humane with this bleak subject matter. With The Road (adapted by Cormac McCarthy's novel of the same name), director John Hillcoat has made one of the most credible post-apocalyptic movies in recent memory.

   Much of this credit is due to the outstanding lead performance of Viggo Mortensen, and the stark cinematography by Javier Aguirresarobe. The story takes place in post-apocalyptic times, but unlike many other Hollywood predecessors, this film gives no explanation for the exact cause of its apocalyptic environment. Instead, The Road focuses on the relationship between a father (Mortensen) and his son (newcomer Kodi Smit-McPhee), as they travel episodically from one desolate area to another, merely trying to survive another hour. Mortensen gives an extraordinary Oscar-worthy performance, as he once again steps outside his heroic Lord of the Rings-like typecast, and strips his character down to the bare necessitates of life and basic human survival.

   Coupling Mortensen's gritty performance is the film's cinematography. With no need for epic explosions or in-your-face special effects, Aguirresarobe's cinematography relies heavily on the natural elements of light and shadow. His images are as bleak as the story itself, and reflect in perfect unison the film's discernment of that which truly matter in life. The majority of our everyday lives are filled with superficial codings, with scarcely a day passing by when all of life's true necessities are recognized. The Road juxtaposes images of skulls, empty cans of food and drink, naked and starved human beings, with those of abandoned ships, decrepit buildings, rusted cars, and so on. Despite the bleakness of such imagery, these pictures help form the film’s wakeup call.

   However, as great as Mortensen is as the father, McPhee is equally successful at portraying a ‘cute’, whiny 12-year old boy. Since The Road exhibits such an enormous scope of gloom, it is imperative for the story to involve at least a few moments of human innocence. However, almost every time McPhee opens his mouth to speak, one begins to expect an upcoming cry of whining and complaining. The frequency of such complaining inevitably becomes distracting from the film's more tactful handling of human anguish.

   Found within this episodic journey of father and son, is a back story of the mother's gradual departure from the family and its plight. The mother is played by Charlize Theron, who gives an honest and empathic performance of a mother in conflict, as she tries to make the impossible choice of either surrendering herself over to the family's likely demise, or choosing survival through hope. Her scenes have the potential for being heart-wrenchingly powerful, but they have such little screen time that whenever they do transpire, they end up falling flat emotionally. For such a key character, in terms of shaping the father's driving ambitions for his son's survival, it is unfortunate that she is not given more screen time.

   The film's other major shortcoming is its climax. After revealing such a gritty and credible portrait of the end of the world, the film's climatic scene between father and son seems relatively insulting to the intelligence and prudence of its audience. Through falling back on the melodramatic dialogue of yesteryear's disaster flicks, director Hillcoat loses touch with his unique vision of an end less travelled. When all is said and done, however, The Road will be able to hold its head high as at least one film that tried to be real, even while the majority of other such films took the easy route.

Slumdog Millionaire

2009-11-13T14:02:00.000-08:00

** 1/2

An Unfortunate Fairy Tale

   Once upon a reality, there was a need for fantasy. Through a shared pursuance of redemption, human beings have created ingenious methods for enduring suffering. Whether it is through performing physical activity, or turning to more creative outlets such as the human intellect, we as a species are consistently looking outside of our realities in order to enhance the quality of our everyday experiences. This tool for survival could very well have been the same source that helped spark the storytelling genres of fantasy/science fiction, as well as the ageless legends and fairy tales that have been passed down from generation to generation.

   There is, of course, a potential danger in using such survival techniques; dangers, which tend to spawn from the inevitable rebound effect of denying one's own personal reality. In real life, this all-too common scenario can harvest tragic consequences. This same situation constructed within the confines of cinema, however, tends to yield itself towards a more offensive exploitation. It is within this precise consequence of romantic flair, where "Slumdog Millionaire" wrecks its own train of heart.

   "Slumdog" tells the story of a young Indian man who is living in Mumbai and finds himself in an inquisition of sorts, as he attempts to justify the legitimacy of his recent success on India's version of the popular TV show "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" The movie begins with our protagonist (Jamal K. Malik, performed with an earnest sense of yearning by Dev Patel) having long surpassed the expected benchmark of achievement for the show's contestants. For the Indian authorities however, this accomplishment by Jamal is all the more astonishing, given the nature of Jamal's background while growing up. It is known that Jamal lived the majority of his young life growing up in some of the poorest, most violent and most diseased ridden areas in all of India. As such, it is this reality of Jamal's upbringing that gives the authorities the 'justification' for their thorough inquiry.

   Here we find ourselves back in the reality of customizing human suffering. Yet once more we find ourselves within the clutches of pure Hollywood fantasy. For this is yet another movie in a long line of factory like productions, where the depraved realities of horrific living conditions take a subordinate step backwards, in order to let in the stench of implausible delusions. Remarkably, each prominent experience of suffering that Jamal endured as a child and teenager had within it a real life scenario that reflected the correct answers needed for "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" As Jamal sifts through his own past in order to find the correct answers for the TV show, we the audience are supposed to buy in to the absurdity of this implausible plot.

   Yes it is true, that director Danny Boyle was not afraid to reveal the harrowing conditions found underneath the rapid development of India's middle to upper class. Still, it is the unfortunate path which Boyle and screenwriter Simon Beaufoy take, that only leads to the complete negation of "Slumdog"'s theme and message. Let's face it: the combination of some of the world's most robust economies hitting a low point not seen since The Great Depression, and the continuance of countless wars and lands ravaged by famine, would seem to lend itself well to a movie like "Slumdog Millionaire". With its story of rags to riches contained within a boundless sense of epic proportions, this movie would seem to be a panacea.

   It is all very well to learn the lifelong art form of embracing the light in the ugliest of experiences, but to make an attempt of this sort through such an improbable dream that is "Slumdog Millionaire" is not only counter-productive, but futile. Being able to acquire a sense of wisdom and profundity through one's own suffering, has been a courageous achievement witnessed time and again throughout human history. Yet, if we are to believe in the possibility of translating our moments of suffering into the correct answers for world issues on a hit TV game show like "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?", then we might as well stop believing in the possibility of redemption altogether. One of the biggest stretches of credulity for the audience is that Jamal's quest of being on this television show is based on his dreams of reconnecting with his childhood love. He actually believes that she will be watching the telecast, but the plot is not convincing enough to give these dreams any real hope of becoming successful. Since most of us go to the movies in order to escape (thus enhance) our everyday lives, one must ask what the point is of making such a movie as "Slumdog Millionaire"? This film clearly does not work on a literal level yet it remains equally pointless on any metaphorical scale. It may have its endearing moments from time to time, but it ends up being no more substantial than the ridiculous Bollywood music video, found in the end credits.

And now for the million-dollar question: How could I possibly write such a polarizing commentary on a movie that won 8 Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Director?

Answer: A) I am far from being an Academy Awards scholar.
B) I copied and pasted Roger Ebert's review of "Slumdog
Millionaire".
C) I've never even seen the movie "Slumdog Millionaire".
I took just one look at its title, and began writing.

D) "It was destiny."