Glenn Heath Jr.Filed under: Screening Log | Tags: Jim Sheridan, Johnnie To, Tobey Maguire
Vengeance (To, 2009) – Striking and exciting, besides the lame “Memento” plot twist late in the film. Nobody directs the movement of actors and guns better, and the scene between two factions of hit men in a dimly lit park perfectly captures To’s bullet-time grace and mystery, as smoke, gun powder, blood, and tree bark spray across the frame. The joys of each violent set-piece thankfully overwhelm To’s inability to create a convincing mythology, making the film a vibrantly hued and fractured vision on revenge even during it’s most ridiculously melodramatic moments.
Brothers (Sheridan, 2009) – Had me hooked for a while, especially with Tobey Maguire’s strangely enigmatic performance. His seamless fluctuations between kind Dad and brutal soldier masks the film’s many flaws during the opening act. But ultimately Sheridan can’t help himself with the sentiment, and his film remains too glossy, punctuated, and fleeting to be anything poignantly memorable.
Full Battle Rattle (Gerber, Moss, 2008) – A case of interesting subject matter lacking the proper cinematic execution. The conflict of this doc is spread thin between far too many subjects who never develop beyond the surface. The “simulation” scenes are especially anti-climactic through the lens of the camera, and provide little insight into the psychology of the soldier. However, by the end, as the soldiers are heading back to war, and the Middle Eastern actors return home, the film achieves a deep sense of fractured identity on both sides, asking who we are, and what are we fighting for?
The September Issue (Cutler, 2009) – Ironically, the fashion elements are the most interesting thing about this poorly constructed doc on Anna Wintour, inspiration for Streep’s character in The Devil Wears Prada. Instead of a calculating piece on the pitfalls and realities of magazine/journalism business, we get meandering fluff, simply conceived to highlight a few moments of bickering between uninterested subjects. No cinematic style to match the fashion world, and no heart to take the story through and through.
Filed under: Screening Log | Tags: Meryl Streep, Jane Campion, Nora Ephron
Due to my increasing workload at GCP and other ventures, I’ll be writing about multiple films in each post here at Match Cuts. Call it short bursts of prose to cover as much ground as possible.
Bright Star (Campion, 2009) – Wonderfully romantic and tender, with certain passages so lovely that Keats’ words and Campion’s visuals seem to merge together. The contours of clothing and textures of nature parallel Abbie Cornish’s hauntingly nuanced turn, the finest female performance of 2009. She breathes a genuine devotion into a woman combatting social limitations and interior emotional bursts. A masterpiece.
An Education (Scherfig, 2009) – Oscar came calling today, so I had to catch up with this critical darling. Perfectly banal and predictable melodrama with a fine lead performance and little else. The conflict has no edge, no complexity, and leads to the only obvious coming-of-age conclusion. A fine turn by Olivia Williams, who gives the film some life in key scenes, has been predictably overlooked.
Julie and Julia (Ephron, 2009) – Maybe it was my foul mood, but Ephron’s breezy, satisfying slice of culinary whimsey hit the spot. Even though she was nominated for an Oscar, this film proves most critics take Meryl Streep for granted. As Julia Child, she gives just another one of her countless great performances, transcending the mediocre and plodding narrative with a revelatory passion for scene-chewing joy.
The Escapist (Wyatt, 2009) – Potent British grit and grime, with not a single exterior shot to alleviate the cramped, compounding pressure of the story. The fine cast compliments a strange flashback structure, yet the singular trajectory lacks the needed punch and conflict to make this a classic genre film.
Collapse (Smith, 2009) – Purposefully alarming and striking, freely spraying bullets of damning material at countless worthy subjects. But this film’s explosive ordinance only takes us so far, and by the end credits the slew of conspiracy theories and projections dissipative into the either. Philip Glass’ musical stylings seems to have influenced every modern documentary score, and it’s getting old fast.
Damning circumstantial evidence floods much of Louie Psihoyos’ The Cove, a superb documentary highlighting the economic, social, and political factors causing the annual slaughter of dolphins by Japanese fisherman. Using a myriad of potent interviews, telling confessionals, and not so civil acts of disobedience, the filmmakers construct a daring plan to document the operation from the inside out. It all leads to a bloody final crescendo confirming the film’s social and political thesis, haunting video footage of fisherman slowly stabbing the dolphins to death.
The images aren’t for the faint of heart, but thankfully their brutality does not define the story. The Cove is more spy film than eco-horror, focusing on undermining the process in question rather than simply illuminating the brutalities at work. Psihoyos and his devoted team get their inspiration from legendary environmentalist Richard O’Barry, who ironically got rich in the 1960’s training the dolphins for Flipper. This dynamic gives The Cove a much needed interior conflict to parallel the exterior danger the crew puts themselves in, staging reconnaissance missions into the titular cove and enduring constant harassment by Japanese police and hooligans.
Arrogance posing as tradition seems to be the root of all evils in The Cove, at least for the corrupt Japanese politicians and businessmen convoluting their message that whaling and dolphin killings are apart of their heritage. This smells like bullshit to a lot of smart, diverse people, and The Cove lines them up to deconstruct and destroy this devastating operation. The Cove presents a one-sided onslaught of information and material, avoiding a journalistic slant in favor of an all out blitzkrieg on behalf of the small cetaceans of the world. Their actions speak louder than words.
The Bitter Tea of General Yen centers around one of those “ahead of its time” romances, an interracial relationship between a white American missionary and a Chinese general/bandit, flung together by chance during the Chinese Civil War of 1927. But Capra isn’t concerned with romantic foreshadowings leading up to this fateful connection, since the situation stems from a time of war and murder. The disturbing and lovely push-pull comes in a more confined space after the fact, where neither character can move but closer to the other.
Religion, faith, loyalty, and deception play large roles in both reinforcing and reversing stereotypes about Anglo imperialism and Chinese representation, yet the slow attraction between Megan (Barbara Stanwyck) and Yen (Nils Asther) feels genuinely unique, beyond such considerations. When these two gaze into each other’s eyes, the fledgling narrative melts away, Capra quieting the volatile space with the silence of perception and the tragedy of reality.
Even though this connection is born from jealousy, power, and control, both Megan and Yen come to see each other as life-changing forces. There are constant references to the brutality and unpredictability of China and its traditions, but Capra sees these traits in love itself, in the very act of committing to someone or something beyond yourself. The consequences are twofold, damaging to the psyche but completely worthwhile in the long run. The bitter irony of the title might be the greatest aspect of this revolutionary melodrama from Frank Capra, if not its most innovative.
It’s Death Wish, The Brave One, and Gran Torino, but also so much more. Daniel Barber’s no-holds-barred revenge film Harry Brown transcends its genre ancestors by situating the great Michael Caine front and center, an aged force of brutal morality battling a younger generation of sadists and mongrels terrorizing a London slum. Caine’s anger slowly burns as he watches his wife die, a friend get murdered, and his neighborhood slowly succumb to fear, until finally his vigilance comes to a bloody boil. This violent resurrection is messy and potent, if not completely unbelievable.
Do we root for Harry as he picks these scum-bags off one by one? Yes, since Barber gives his villains no redeeming traits. These teens are savages, leisurely lorded over by an older criminal racket that can’t control them, and must be exterminated to restore civilized order. Not a surprise in films like this. The most interesting element of this familiar arc is how Barber inserts the relationship between violence and entertainment. The opening hook consists of cell phone footage of an unrelated gang initiation, then a horrifying random murder of an innocent single mother. This gives Harry Brown a raw intensity despite it’s polished look.
Barber’s film might not be revolutionary, but it does showcase a multi-faceted Michael Caine performance and a layered variation on the revenge genre, where the worst elements of technology and culture have joined forces and completely rebelled against civilized morality. And in this instance, Harry represents a silent majority of elderly innocents raging against this unpredictable social menace.
