My Left Foot (1989)

If not for the Oscar-winning performance by Daniel Day-Lewis, I probably would not have felt inclined to watch My Left Foot; the at first glance cookie-cutter tale about how one savant overcomes his unfortunate condition to make something of his life is so played out, even movies themselves with little merit (Tropic Thunder) are justified in taking potshots at the genre. At best these films get by on their lovable characters in unusual situations that otherwise mask their overt adherence to genre conventions (Forrest Gump, Rainman) and at worst are over-rated pieces of mediocrity that bank on our sentimentality (A Beautiful Mind). Jim Sheridan's My Left Foot is the happy exception, neither preachy or idealistic, My Left Foot tells a familiar tale with riveting honesty, obvious passion and utter devotion.

My Left Foot tells the tale of Christy Brown, who was able to overcome is physical affliction to become a novelist and artist by utilizing his only workable appendage (can you guess what it is?). The film follows Brown's life from birth into adulthood, explaining how he came to be such a lauded figure.

Sheridan's arresting drama is best known for the virtuoso performance by its lead. Day-Lewis's take on the cerebral palsy stricken Irishman Christy Brown is certainly nothing if not perfect (never have I felt so devastated watching someone drink from a straw), but it's unfortunate that history has chosen to let Lewis's performance overshadow the many merits ofMy Left Foot. The film is full of rich, honest performances, Home Alone 2's Bird Lady, Brenda Fricker was recognized by the Academy for her role as Christy's mother, but I was particularly taken by Ray McAnally's performance as Mr. Brown. The role allows McAnally to explore all the emotions you'd expect for a father in Mr. Brown's situation; disappointed, confusion, pride, anger, jubilation, despair, and all with just the right level on intensity.

Jim Sheridan is also criminally overlooked for this film (he was robbed at the Oscars, the best director award instead going to...Oliver Stone). The images are at times breath-taking, featuring some of the most effective POV shots I can recall having seen, as well as some striking, Kubrickesque hand-held takes which no doubt influenced what has now become one of Hollywood's most overused tricks. My Left Foot, though offering few surprises, is extremely well executed in all areas of production (I even had Elmer Bernstein's theme stuck in my head for a day after I saw it) and deserves the opportunity to be re-examined so that it may take its place as one of the best films of the eighties (modestly put). A

Other semi-related thoughts:

-Kind of have less respect for Forrest Gump now. It even took the whole narrative within a narrative concept from this film.

-Everyone else gave really great performances too. Especially Hugh O'Connor as the young Brown.

-It seems at times that Day-Lewis is just doing a superb insulting imitation of a mentally retarded person, making me wonder if my friend Bo could win an Oscar. Not to take anything away from his performance though (he broke 2 ribs and was so committed to the role that he was fed by friends in his wheelchair when the crew broke to eat.)

-My Left Foot, whose ankle I rolled playing basketball last year, was very uncomfortable for most of the movie. Watching him just pick things up and drag his body with his foot...jeez.

The Hurt Locker

Few war movies are able to portray combat on a truly personal level that separates the whole of the war from the stories of the men who fight. Most movies about combat are so focused on soldierS that the plight of the individual is rarely addressed, and if so it is at best secondary to the main narrative (or made into an overblown caricature, such is in the fairly awful Jarhead). Of course, this only makes sense when you consider that this is the very nature of the army, to strip all individuality away from the soldier and emphasize the whole of the unit; thus, it would take a truly remarkable film by a skillful director in order to break this paradigm so that we may peer into the soul of one enlisted man, and as you may have inferred, veteran filmmaker Kathryn Bigelow's The Hurt Locker is such a film.

Bigelow achieves this so successfully because in place of a story-driven narrative, the plot of the film is concerned with the essence of an idividual. That man is hot-shot Sgt. William James, played with powerful ambiguity by Jeremy Lenner, who becomes the leader of Bravo company's EOD unit, who's job it is to find and disarm road side bombs. As his tour of duty winds down, Sgt. James becomes more and more reckless in his job, seemingly seeking to fulfill a death wish.

Never before has a film about war portrayed combat as such an interpersonal struggle. When we think of war, it's usually as a battle between two opposing armies, but we rarely conceive that these battles are fought by and won 3 or 4 dead soldiers at a time. This is war on an extremely individualist level; there are no presidents, no grand plans, just instinctual improvisation when the shit inevitably hits the fan. The Hurt Locker is essentially a series of scenes oozing with extreme tension; our protagonists' lives could end at any second, be it from a sniper, bomb, or even a fellow soldier. From the first scene, we are brought into a world in which we are never allowed to feel safe for even a minute, and for some, they may never be able to leave. B

Other semi-related thoughts:

-The aesthetic of our current quagmire is pretty unappealing to me, full of vast expanses of desert and gray, colorless cities. Makes you yearn for the days of wars fought in jungles.

-I would be so incredibly inept as a soldier.

-Its interesting how our sympathy for these characters works in comparison to films about vietnam where the soldier is often seen as a victim of the draft where as there is a tendency to think of our current enlisted men as wanting to kill.

-Having an entire theater all to yourself is pretty fuckin great.

Chicago Museum of Holography

Yesterday, a few buddies and I headed into West Loop to go visit the Museum of Holography, a 4-room palace devoted solely to the art of the hologram. When we got there, we were extremely disappointed to find that the door was locked and gated, despite it being 2 hours past when they should have opened (posted hours are wed-sun 12:30-5). My friend Joe persistently rang the doorbell as I checked out the side door, all the while our other friend JD ridiculed us for our determination. "Ringing the bell over and over won't make it any more open" he said, as just then a little old lady, who had to have been at least 90, shuffled up from downstairs in her socks and slowly drew back the gate and unlocked the door. "Our hours are Wednesday to Sunday from 12:30 to 5" she explained to us, to which I replied "Well, today's wednesday" "Oh is that right?" "and it's almost 2:30" "Oh well you came all this way, you might as well come in." Barely able to contain our laughter, the four of us were led in by this sweet relic of the past. Persistence triumphant.

We then offered her our $5 admission (if we hadn't I doubt she would have remembered to charge us) and she then proceeded to explain to us that if we understood atomic physics, then we understood holograms. We nodded, and then she explained how to view the holograms; stand roughly 3 feet away and move our heads and our bodies from side to side to get the full effect. She then flipped on the lights, bringing to life walls full of pictures depicting everything from Mike Ditka to an eagle that turns into an owl, then back into an eagle. Let me just say, if I wasn't particularly impressed by holograms before, I am now bewildered by their majesty and endless possibility. One room was devoted to medical holograms, with 3D renderings of testicles and lungs ("they're not just hollow bags, you know" our curator barked). A main exhibition hall was filled with larger works, such as a shark and a painter who magically created as you moved from one side of the room to the other. The highlights though were definitely the holographic mini-movies, contained in clear cylinders reminiscent of Zoetropes that recalled the holograms projected by R2D2. These cylinders displayed pieces such as "Time Man" one chemist's inexplicable journey through the cosmos, and my personal favorite "Michael Jordan", depicting His Airness simply smiling, spinning, and passing a basketball around his body from one hand to the other.

After we had seen the entirety of the museum's offerings, we were greeted back in the first room by a cat, and our elderly curator. This is when things got really interesting. After asking us how we heard about her establishment, at least twice each, she handed us hologram glasses and told us to look at our hands, which revealed holographic projections of our usually non-holographic hands. Then she prompted us to look up at the lights, revealing the whole spectrum of white light. Then she had us do all this maybe 3 more times, while asking us how we heard about the place. She went on to explain (again about 3 or 4 times) that this rainbow light is all around us, we just weren't built to see it "because otherwise we'd all be driving through rainbows all the time!" she told us 3 more times. Her cat however, is a "night hunter" and can barely see any color at all. She then took out a collection of about 10 spinning flat discs, "see these? they have no color at all." She then spun them all in rapid succession, displaying for us a melee of spinning patterns and colors, only enhanced by our magic glasses. "This is what the universe looks like. And Here we are. And when I spin it this way, all the energy of the universe is flying outwards, and when I spin it this way, it all comes back in." Though I had a lot of trouble biting my lip to keep myself from bursting out in uproarious laughter (the four of us just about fell apart the second we stepped out the door) it was maybe one of the most beautiful experiences of my life; crazy, but beautiful. If you live in or are visiting the wonderful city of Chicago, and haven't been to this Museum before, I struggle to think of many better ways you can spend an hour and 5 bucks. A+

Other semi-related thoughts:

-David was the fourth

-With the closing of the MIT Museum of Holography in 1992, this became the only such Museum in the US (as our wonderful curator told us over and over again)

-She told us that the kids come in "squeeling" with excitement over the holograms, expressing hope that they will grow up to take the technology to more advanced applications. She may be right.

The Hangover

A friend of mine critiqued my critiques recently by pointing out that I'm not likely to have many negative reviews because I only write about the films I'm inclined to go see in the first place. Then I thought "Well, I did see The Hangover this summer." So here it goes. What a heap of mediocrity. Todd Phillips's latest attempt to be added to the annals of comedy (I think most people probably have already forgotten about Old School) is full of contrived plot devices, racism, rampant misogyny and missed opportunities, and just on the whole isn't terribly funny.

The story centers around a group of friends who take the trek from southern California to Vegas for a bachelor party (activating the "gotta get back by the wedding" plot device). They wake up hungover, their hotel room a mess, with their soon-to-be hubby nowhere to be found, and no recollection of how any of this came to be. But don't worry, by the end of the movie you'll find out even more than you needed or wanted to know about their reckless night of pre-marital debauchery.

The movie isn't without merit though, and his name is Zach Galifianakis, who single-handedly carries the film (and owns the best lines). Without him the characters are pretty much the meat-head Stifler-type and the nebbish decidedly unhip friend of the group, along with the likable, handsome, missing MacGuffin. It is disappointing though that the movie insists on singling Galifianakis's character out as the weirdo outsider, not to be confused with the "cool" that the rest of the characters embody. And this perfectly exemplifies the main flaw of the film; that it wants to be a daring, stand-out comedy, but is too self-conscious and eager to be accepted that it falls into the trappings of all the other "buddies who party together and get into shenanigans" movies of the past decade or so. I mean what would you expect from a movie about guys who can't remember their crazy night in Vegas beyond blacking out and marrying a stripper, rubbing elbows with the likes of Vegas celebrities such as Mike Tyson, or doing a Rainman scene? How about some originality, perhaps. C-

Other semi-related thoughts:

-You get the genius Jeffrey Tambor in there with a bit part and don't even give him any good lines? Come on!

-Just because a character is small, Chinese, and has a silly voice, doesn't mean making him swear and say lewd things will make him rounded or funny. It'll probably just come off as racist.

-Babies wearing shades are pretty funny.

-People need to stop thinking that they can re-create or improve upon the magic of Animal House. It's never gonna happen, try something else.

The Spirit of the Beehive (1973)

Victor Erice's debut film, The Spirit of the Beehive is atmospheric masterpiece, and exercise in the cerebrally visual, with its eery cinematography (shot by a blind DP) and editing carrying the heft of the mostly dialogue-free film. It is more than alluded to that the Spain the film depicts is a bee-hive unto itself, with most of the settings tinted a amber yellow, and things such as windowpanes and Spanish shingles recalling the honeycomb of the hive. This could probably be viewed as a critique of fascist Spain, with Franco acting as the country's queen bee, all the workers laboring tirelessly to satiate her fat ass.

In the same vein as cineaste films such as Amarcord and Cinema Paradiso, Victor Erice's The Spirit of the Beehive charts the impact that one film, Frankenstein has on a young girl in immediate post-civil war Spain. When confronted with a situation far beyond her years, it is through the lens of this film which she is able to address her circumstances.

The real charm of The Spirit of the Beehive though is its recounting of the events that bear importance to children. There are these moments, that for some reason or another, stick out in our minds as important and unforgettable elements of our childhood, though if they were to occur in our adult lives, they would probably bear little meaning to us; things such as making shadow puppets on the wall, or a specific class lesson, or a particular film. This theme is beautifully embodied in a scene in which the young heroine extends her arm to an injured stranger, offering him what in her hands seems like a comically oversized apple. When the man reaches to accept it, we see that for him it is barely a snack. Simple beauty like this scene marks The Spirit of the Beehive, giving us much to watch, much to absorb, and even more to think about. B

Other semi-related thoughts:

-Important childhood memories for me: biking home in 3rd grade and being confronted by a squirrel with no eyes, crying when the pet dog was almost killed by the tunnel fire explosion in Independence Day

-The Spanish Civil War yielded one of the most iconic and expressive war photographs of the century, Loyalist Militiaman at the Moment of Death

-What is honey exactly anyway? Just like, post-vomit pollen or something? Bears love that shit.

In the Realm of the Senses (1976)

Holy shit. What a movie. Where to start? Well, my first encounter with Nagisa Oshima was in my freshman year world cinema class when we watched is brilliant Japanese New Wave masterpiece Death By Hanging. The film had stellar performances and was incredibly inventive, but what really stood out were the jabs taken at the moral ambiguities of the establishment. The New Wave in Japan was probably more revolutionary than in other countries because of Japan's rigid hierarchical structure, which these films aimed to subvert. Senses continues this theme, not only challenging Japanese society, but its films as well.

The film tells the tale of Japanese folk hero Sada Abe, who became famous in the 30s for the events which the film depicts (I'm going to try to remain vague here as to not give anything away). While working at an inn, she falls in love with the owner Kichizo Ishida and the two run off together for a non-stop sex romp which gets more and more volatile until the film's climax (pun very much intended).

In the Realm of the Senses is undoubtedly most famous for its (plentiful) scenes of unsimulated sex, something that is against Japanese law even for porno (in an interview, Oshima boasts that Senses is the first "hardcore pornographic film" made in Japan). But the film is so much more than just bumpin' uglies. When Abe and Ishida have sex, they are so in their own world that they don't mind the spectators who are unwittingly drawn into their passion. Oshima portrays such robust sexuality as fighting the mores of Japan, and such a quest for personal gratification in direct opposition to the extreme nationalism that was prevalent at the time of these events. It is inevitable that we too are brought into our protagonists' lurid existence, forcing us to confront our own ideas regarding sexuality and society. In the Realm of the Senses isn't the easiest film to watch, but it is surely one you'll never forget. B

Other semi-related thoughts:

-The film also largely plays out the binary relationship between violence and sex, with the two eventually becoming indistinguishable.

-there is a really really brilliant scene where after the two get married an orgy ensues presided over by an old man singing a song with his arms tucked into his sleeves pretending to be a bird. It would probably go on my "greatest scenes ever" reel.

-In Japanese porno, genitalia and penetration are pixelated. This prompted my friend Joe to once comment "why does that girl like eating pixels so much?" In the Realm of the Senses to this day still cannot be shown uncensored in Japan.

-On the way back from picking up some egg drop soup just now there was an old guy pointing at the ground talking to two even older people sitting on the bench in front of him and he said "500 dollar sneakers" and then paused before "1000 dollar purses". That's all I heard, but it was great.

District 9

District 9 has been touted as one of the most substantial films to come out so far this year, which it is; but thats hardly a substantial feat as it is 2009 and not any other year in the history of films and film-going (though the 2nd half already has yielded a lot of worthwhile shit with more interesting looking stuff to come, hopefully). Though the movie is bookmarked by some really engaging faux-doc sequences, the bulk of what lies in between is, unfortunately, pretty standard action/sci-fi fare.

The film begins as a documentary looking back on the events surrounding the evacuation and relocation of the residents of District 9 in Johannesburg, a dilapidated shanty town for aliens. The film continues following our protagonist, bureaucratic boob Wikus (non-actor Sharlto Copley, who gives a multi-layered, strong "everyman" performance) as he and his team go about serving eviction notices to the "prawns", without a doubt the most interesting and engaging portion of the film, before something happens that fucks everything and the movie loses its reportage style in favor of an omniscient camera concerned primarily on action (so much so its lens is often being spattered with blood).

For me, this is where the film sort of loses my interest,as it devolves into a fantastical "one against all" narrative that really betrays the first part of the film. There are a lot of really interesting elements at play here; a gang of Nigerians who rule district 9 with cat food, shady government dealings, a ticking time-bomb of a plot device and the aforementioned documentary all allude to a socio-political message that the film never really gets around to because it gets too lost in a lot of CG action and exploding heads and robots. There is a lot of imagery and situations recalling apartheid-era South Africa and modern refugee camps, but not much substance arises out of the allusions beyond the surface of them. First time director/co-writer Neill Blomkamp is clearly talented and adept, as well as visually inventive with a knack for interesting, well-rounded characters, but it seems as though he got cold feet and left one leg in the door of standard science-fiction as he was trying to achieve something new. That being said, I hope he can fully extricate himself from those trappings for his next feature, to which I look forward (even if it's "District 10"). B-

Other semi-related thoughts:

-This is certainly no Cloverfield.

-The advertising campaign was pretty great though, lets see some more subtlety like that (I'm looking at you "Sorority Row")

-Kudos on making a film about aliens coming to Earth in which the humans are the monsters and we are made to sympathize with the "other". This theme plays out most notably with Wikus ;)

-The ending goes on and on through all these pointless jukes and jerks; pointless because we know what the hero ultimately will do, and he finally does it.

-fuck fuck fuck Transformers. Two times.

Ponyo

Chances are if you're not already a fan of Hayao Miyazaki this film probably wont make you one, because its more of the same, but the same sure is pretty fun. His films bear the mark of a true auteur; consistent in tone and subject matter dating back to the eighties, they often feature very young protagonists who encounter various unique creatures who either assist or challenge them in completing what would be a gargantuan task for someone their age that will ultimately deliver them to maturity. Ponyo is certainly no exception, but it's still good. Damn is it good.

The story is a re-telling of the tried-and-true Little Mermaid, centering around a young boy Sasuke who finds a fish with a human face who just happens to be the daughter of some powerful ocean wizards or something (again, explained just enough so it barely makes sense, just accept it). Inevitably boy and fish fall in 5 year-old love making Ponyo determined to use her magic to escape her human-hating father (superbly voiced by Liam Neeson who I usually can't stand) and join Sasuke as a real human child. Think they'll succeed?

It's weird, the movie isn't particularly unique in its narrative arc, you know what's coming up next pretty much throughout the movie, but it's just such a fun and satisfying time that you spend in Miyazaki's world that you don't really mind. Here Miyazaki has abandoned the insane detail of his more mature films such as Spirited Away or Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind, the style is more of a throwback to works like My Neighbor Totoro, in favor of rich, inoffensive pastels and broad brushstrokes that possess a certain universality, appealing to both young and old around the globe. I could see this movie being really empowering and special for really little kids, as it doesn't talk down to them, it meets them on their level and ultimately they save the day. This is the essential charm of a Miyazaki film, they seem to portray reality as viewed from the eyes of a child, taken purely at face value. "Hmm, there's a fish with a face. ok." The man can keep charming the little kid in me until he fuckin dies. A-

Other semi-related thoughts:

-Miyazaki is a lot like Lynch, you know its one of theirs just by looking at it, and both their films exist not in reality but in the mind of their creators, and are governed by their logic, you're just along for the ride.

-Wait, this movie actually made me have a dream that I saw a Lynch children's movie. That shit is certainly not coincidental.

-The movie is worth seeing alone for its silent opening sequence depicting the world from which Ponyo comes; da ocean.

-Ponyo also has an infectious theme song, on par with Totoro. Here it is.

Inglourious Basterds

There has been a lot of talk regarding the historical revisionism central to Tarantino's newest referential revenge flick, particularly by Daniel Mendelsohn over at Newsweek and Johnathan Rosenbaum, who claim that Inglourious Basterds "turns the Jews into Nazis." But like, really though? Come on. Tarantino isn't a child (nor are we). He's not trying to put the idea into our heads that this is how World War II was won by the allies, I think he just wanted a subject for revenge so universally despised, who represent such a clear, inarguable division of good and evil, that he could make them endure whatever he wished and still have the audience applaud in delight (as they did at the midnight screening I attended). Since when is historical fiction/revisionism problematic in Hollywood cinema? Why are there those who demand a simulacrous representation of actual events in their popcorn fare? And why is it that the Holocaust is particularly off-limits to creative re-interpretation? Is it because it's so full of human tragedy and representative of the entire scope of what a person is capable? Isn't that precisely why it offers such a fertile framework for a treatise on any number of subjects (in this case revenge and film itself)?

As a Jew, I'm surprised more people aren't a little more insulted that the film that most associate with the Holocaust (that was shown to my entire 8th-grade class), directed by one of the most powerful members of our clan (the anti-Gibson one could say), is about the dubious altruism of a German business magnate. I'm also shocked by the large segment of those who are interested in these kinds of things who cannot abide Benigni's (fucking) brilliant Life is Beautiful, seemingly only because it is a comedy with a decidedly unfunny setting. These folks seem to want nothing more from their Holocaust films than an acknowledgment that it happened and it was terrible (which is certainly present in both Basterds and Life); but there is the potential in this tragic event that has come to define a century to discuss so much more than the happening itself.

For me it will be hard to make a film about the Holocaust more touching, relevant and downright entertaining than Life Is Beautiful, but if it comes to pass that when discussions arise about Holocaust films that Inglorious Basterds is the one that first comes to mind for some, I would have little problem with that. The dialogue is rich, the acting flawless, the action satisfying, and the many moments of tension downright butt-hole clenching, directed with a Hitchcock-ian mastery. Yes, it does deal with sensitive subject matter that is pretty dead serious to say the least, but this is more or less just the frame for a wonderfully engaging story. All said and done, Inglorious Basterds is the most fun I've had at the movies in this really fucking terrible year for them, and thats something of value; and like it or not, just by virtue of being a Tarantino film, it is certain to be remembered, watched and discussed as long as people are talking about these sorts of things. B+

Other semi-related thoughts:

- Maus turns Jews into mice; thats better than having them achieve the symbolic revenge for which we so crave? But don't get me wrong, I love Maus.

-Cloverfield is a film about 9/11 far more relevant than United 93 and that Oliver Stone one.

-"What If?"s are a fundamental part of our post-modern culture. From Dr. Strangelove to "Steampunk", gotta have "What If?"s. They're great. And they're so prevalent since forever; don't give me this bullshit.

-Not that we're particularly oppressed, but I'm down with seeing some depictions of jews that are empowering as masculine and strong characters as opposed to nebbish and neurotic (though I admittedly would fall in the latter category).

-Israel is wack