Bride of Frankenstein

I love the horror pictures Universal made in the 30's. I don't know why - horror is one of my least favorite genres overall- but I simply cannot resist them. Dracula was, I believe, the first one I saw. It was on late at night (Starting around 11 or 11:30, as I recall), when normal commercials have stopped and commercial breaks are filled with big-boobed women breathlessly reciting phone numbers, and ads for terrible phone ringtones. It made for a nice contrast with the film, which is all about repressed sexuality and hidden desires.

There are a few standard tropes in horror, and in this period in the 30's, they were explored one by one for what felt like the first time. Dracula was about the dangers of sex. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was about the duality of man, about the perversity hidden by a thin layer of civilisation. The Wolfman is about our fear of our animal nature, the Invisible Man about how much "others" looking at us influences us, and so on.

Frankenstein is of course a Faustian tale, about the hubris of trying to play God, about the dangers of science, too. There is another more literary strain too, though: both novel and movie are about the responsibility of a creator/author for his creation.

In the first movie, the big mistake Frankenstein makes is not just that he makes the monster, but also that he abandons it. The "monster" is not really evil, but he lacks education: because he was abandoned he has no restraint, no morals. He kills a little girl, not because he wants to, but because he doesn't know that she won't float, and the rest of the people are killed mostly out of fright and anger.

Interestingly enough, James Whale, who directed both Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein, tried to abandon his creature too after the first film. He wanted to do loftier things than horror, but eventually he was lured back, accepting to direct a sequel only if he could write it.

In the tale that he wrote, the monster gets not just one but two educators. The first one is a kind old blind man, who teaches him not only to talk but also what friendship is. The second teacher however, is the evil-minded Dr. Pretorius, who uses the monster to get Frankenstein to pick his work back up. Frankenstein resists, at first, but once he's convinced he plunges back into full-fledged obsession.

I'm afraid too much from my "return of the repressed" literature course is coming back here, I could go on and on about this film, about its handling of women, about Else Lanchester's performance(s), about the framing of the story, about how it could be analyzed in the context of queer cinema. I won;t though, because the most important thing that you can say about the film is that it's absolutely marvelous, thrilling and entertaining, better than the original, and a classic everyone should see. It will take only 75 minutes of your life, and nothing could be more worth it.

Incidentally, Gods and Monsters, Bill Condon's great film about James Whale, which features a re-creation of the set of Bride of Frankenstein, is on "Canvas" (a Belgian channel) tonight at 0:10. If you don't mind staying up late, it's worth checking out.

Plein Soleil

Alain Delon is breathtakingly gorgeous. I probably could have watched him, photographed and frequently shirtless like he is here, reading the proverbial phonebook, and I still would have been captivated.


It seems shallow to point it out. But in fact, in Plein Soleil, the first film adaptation of Patricia Highsmith's The Talented Mr. Ripley, Delon's beauty is essential. He has not just an amazing physique, but also an angelic face, a face that seems incompatible with his fundamentally evil nature. If we look just at his actions, then Ripley is a monster, a callous and cold-blooded killer with purely selfish motives, who doesn't even seem to understand love, just desire. But because we're so used to associate evil with ugliness, and beauty with truth and goodness, we go along with his story, try to understand him, try to justify his actions to ourselves, to be able to look at him and admire him without guilt.

This is a very different Ripley than Matt Damon's in Mingella's 1999 film. His Ripley was mostly a cypher, someone so empty that he needs to adapt someone else's personality and life to know who to be. He was a chameleon first and foremost, though admittedly the homoerotic subtext was also a big part of that film, a bigger one than it is in Plein Soleil. Delon's Ripley is more nefarious, also a little pathetic especially in the beginning, ultimately more evil in nature but because of his beauty also more alluring.

I liked The Talented Mr. Ripley, especially for Jude Law's amazing performance. It's the more suspenseful movie of the two. But this one digs deeper somehow. Highsmith created a fascinating character in Ripley, one whose motivation is so obscure many different interpretations are possible, a character also who makes for intriguing films. Ripley's Game, with John Malkovich in the titular role, is an underseen little gem, and I still very much want to see Hopper's take on the character in The American Friend. So far though, Plein Soleil is the Ripley film I like best.

First Bergman, then Antonioni...

It's a good week to die, apparently. I have to admit this news affected me a lot more, because while I've only seen two movies by Antonioni, I love them both.

When you read a synopsis of the plot of an Antonioni movie, it often seems like it's an action movie, almost, a mystery, something suspenseful. Take Blow-Up, for example: "A man discovers he might have photographed a murder". Or the Passenger: "A man takes the identity of a dead man, who turns out to have been an arms dealer". It almost feels like there should be exclamation points at the end, but Antonioni never resorts to them, and subverts your expectations. He lures you in with these seemingly plot-driven premises, and then turns them into meditations on reality, identity, and the inability of finding an absolute truth.

Blow-up ends with the famous mime scene: mimes are playing tennis without a ball or rackets. When at some point "the ball" goes out of the tennis court, David Hemmings picks it up, throws it back, and all of a sudden we hear the sounds of the ball hitting the rackets. Then, in the famous final shot, our protagonist simply disappears. The Passenger ends with a similar disappearance, and a masterful shot that goes on forever, daring us to find meaning or purpose.


I know, I know, two films is too few to really know a filmmaker. I need to see l'Avventura, l'Eclisse, and many more. But I do know that based on the two movies I have seen, Antonioni is a filmmaker I admire and love, and in my mind, he didn't die: he simply, from one frame to the next, vanished into the unknown.

Rest in peace, Ingmar

In memory of Ignmar Bergman, I finally saw one of his films tonight. "The Seventh Seal" or "Det Sjunde inseglet". Appropriately enough, it revolves around death.

I don't know why, even knowing about the iconic chess-match paid homage to by Bill and Ted, I expected stark, grim realism. The film is very grim in parts, but realistic? It's more of an absurd fairy tale, an allegory, and to my great surprise, it's funny.

I'm not sure if I like it yet, don't know quite what to make of it. I do know I've never seen anything like it, and that it's a shame I was reluctant to see Bergman's films until now. It's always sad when a great man dies, but this one leaves a legacy to be reckoned with, and one I'm planning to explore in detail.

Glen or Glenda

You'd think the label "worst director of all time" would be, well, hard to live up to. It's a form of overly high expectations, after all, what if people come to your films expecting terrible and getting merely mediocre?

Don't worry though, "Glen or Glenda" is anything but merely mediocre. The reason it is this terrible, and fascinating, is because it's so incredibly earnest, so filled with ideas and good intentions, so convinced of its own importance. It's a movie that has no lesser goal than to spread understanding and acceptance of transvestism (a term which is defined, in almost the same terms, twice, as if to pound it in our head, or maybe Wood had simply forgotten he'd already done it).

But what a strange movie this is. It's hard even to talk of "scenes". Glen himself gets some lines with his Barbara, but as Glenda he is mostly just followed through the street by a voice-over. There are multiple framing devices: a doctor who tells the story of Glen "and all the other Glens" to a concerned policeman, but also strange bits with Bela Lugosi as some puppeteer going nefariously on and on about "pulling the string" and "puppy dog tails and fat big snails". There's even a scene of him in a lab, but what he's mixing we don't know. It produces a lot of smoke though.

There are weird dream sequences too, and then, there's his love of stock footage. When we see Bela, for example, it's framed by shots of lightning. The story of Alan - also told by the doctor- is mostly narrated over war footage. A shot of a highway, cars streaming through, comes back over and over again with only a mere excuse for it the first time.

It's a totally bizarre film, and while it can be applauded for at least trying to make transvestism normal, it spoils that by being thoroughly homophobic. It confirms that Wood might, indeed, be the worst director of all time, but also a director with so much ambition and so many ideas that it's amazing none of them turn out to be good.

So do yourself a favor. Don't go see the merely mediocre "I know who killed me" or anything like that this weekend. Treat yourself to something truly terrible instead.

Recently Seen Roundup

2.50, less than the cost of renting a movie, for a movie a) starring Humphrey Bogart b) directed by John Huston c) with Peter Lorre in a supporting part and as I later found out d) co-written by Truman Capote, how could I resist? I'm glad I didn't, because while Beat the Devil is a mess of a movie with a plot that's both ludicrous and not quite there, the lines and the performances are wonderful. I want to see more of Jennifer Jones now, who's hilarious here, and what about this short bit by Peter Lorre on time:
"Time. Time. What is time? Swiss manufacture it. French hoard it. Italians squander it. Americans say it is money. Hindus say it does not exist. Do you know what I say? I say time is a crook. "

Also for a mere 2.50, "Reform School Girl". I already had a postcard, two in fact, of the poster, and I just had to see what was behind it. It turns out it's a lovely little B-movie, 73 minutes long, which is a lot less outrageous and sleazy than you'd think, although I'll admit it contains plenty of girls walking around in their nightgowns and pulling each other's hair. The girls here are scary, seriously, scarier than the guy who's supposed to be the main bad guy. The acting from some supporting players is as bad and over-the-top as you might expect, but all-in-all this is very worth seeing, and not only for the camp factor.


I can admit it now: I'd never seen Fast Times at Ridgemont High, but this gap in my cinematic education has now been filled. I liked it a lot, mostly because it has no narrative ambition aside from showing a year of this kids' lives. It also shows all too clearly how out culture had regressed and grown more conservative in the past 25 years. Sure, in sex comedies, the girls still freely have sex, but they don't think about it like the girls do here, not to mention they're not by far as complex characters as Stacey and Linda are here. And the way abortion is treated in this movie? I don't think it could happen any more today.

I also saw "The Sea" or Hafið, an Icelandic movie my cousin (hey Ruben!) lent me. I liked how it started the same way it ended: it emphasizes how images in and of themselves are often meaningless, but are given meaning by what comes before. Aside form that, the plot is overdrawn, with soap-like developments being divulged with much ado but little surprise, and the only really redeeming thing are the character quirks and the strong performances. It also gives a good impression of how claustrophobic it must be to live in such a small, isolated community.

Finally, I've also been watching "Flight of the Conchords" a lot, and I just want to say, Jemaine and Bret? I love you. The series by itself if plenty fun, with supporting characters Murray and Mal are over-the-top but hilarious, and then there's the musical numbers, which bump this series from good to great. Little things like the "binary solo" in the humans are dead are brilliant, and some songs you can't even decide which excerpts to lift out. So, I'll just leave you with the following:

Goodfellas

I saw Goodfellas 4 days ago already, but I kept putting off writing about it. Why? Well...I'm afraid I'm going to blaspheme.

Oh, not blaspheme in the "fucking show yourself, you goddamn bloodsucker" way I was talking to the hiding mosquito in my room on my hunt after the movie, infected by the language. No, blaspheme as in: I didn't really like it all that much.

Oh, Scorses is definitely a master filmmaker, so I did find much to admire: there are some breathtaking tracking shots, the dialogue snaps like it should, basically every technical aspect is perfect. Somehow, though, I was unaffected.

One thing might be that it's long, and that I didn't find the story particularly engaging or suspenseful. To put it crudely, I didn't really care who lived or died. It might be that I found the switching between the perspective of the voice-over from Henry to Karen and back distracting and unnecessary. More importantly, I think it's from a lack of affinity with Scorsese's take on the mafia as a topos.

It's interesting that almost every director to take on the genre of mob movies has his own take on it. To Coppola, the family aspect, the traditional side, was most important. To Tarantino, gangsters are just the epitome of cool. In Mann's movies, being a gangster is just a job like another, with it's own rules and ethics, sure, but not all that different from being a cop, a journalist, a cab driver.

To Scorsese, it's a calling.

And see, that's where he loses me, because I can't for the life of me understand Henry. He describes it in detail: he likes the respect he gets, the perks, that he doesn't need to wait in line.

I mean really? To not have to wait in line you're ok with hurting and killing people? You're happy to exploit people?

Of course, the element of the film that is intriguing, I have to admit, is the unreliability of the narrator. Henry justifies a little too much, tries too hard to justify the mafia as a not-so-evil form of business. They protect these people after all, see? Also, in the voice-over he seems reluctant to use violence, quite a nice guy actually, but he seems just a little too eager to hit his wife for that to be true.

I'm almost scared to type the above, to justify myself by saying "it's not the movie, it's probably just me". After all, this is #92 on the most recent AFI list, #18 on the imdb top 250. But I'll be bold, and say it outright: I think Goodfellas is overrated.

If you'll excuse me, I'll go run and hide now.

Hairspray & Once

Yay! My first two press screenings. Two musicals, but they couldn't possible have been more different. Whereas everything in Hairspray is oversized, from the protagonist to the hair through the feelings and the stars, Once is one of the smallest, most understated and most quietly charming films I've ever seen.

I liked Hairspray more than I thought I would. It's infectious, the way a musical should be, and even if I was a little disturbed because it seemed to equate discrimination against fat people to racism, I ended up rather liking it. It's mainly because it feels so refreshing to see people really dance instead of shots of moving body parts edited together as fast as possible, but also because of the performances. I wasn't really impressed with John Travolta, but I admire him for taking the role straight, without apologizing for it through caricature, James Marsden was a true surprise here (what a voice!) and I'm sure we'll hear more from Elijah Kelley.

But Once, well, that's an entirely different ballgame. I don't want to say too much, actually, because I think it's best seen without any expectations or prior knowledge. I'm grateful to Sam from filmspotting because he was the one reviewer not agreeing with the near universal adulation of this film. It lowered my expectations enough that I could still be surprised by how wonderful it is.

I'm very happy that Glen Hansard, of the Frames, plays the main part, and not Cillian Murphy as was apparently planned at first. Together with the hand-held camera and the naturalistic style, the fact that it's two unknown faces playing the unnamed Guy and Girl means there's a very everyday quality to the film. Realism is the last thing you expect in a musical, but the music is totally organic here.

Ok, I'll stop now. Go see it! I mean, seeing Hairspray, you'll be entertained, but it doesn't really stick in any way, not the music or the details. Once, on the other hand, is still playing in my head.

The Deathly Hallows

This is the end, then. 7 books, and the saga is concluded.

I know no-one likes a spoiler, but does it count if it's relatively minor and occurs on page 52? Just in case, I'll give you some space to surf away...




















Hedwig dies! And you can understand how that would be upsetting to me. Well, not quite upsetting, but unsettling, in any case. And her death is only the beginning. She was the reason I started reading, after all, narcissistic as that might sound: this was just before book 4 came out, I was bored while babysitting and picked up a copy of the Dutch translation of the second book. I noticed the name, and asked my dad to bring back the English version of The Philosopher's Stone from his trip to London. He brought back the first three, and three days later, I'd finished them just in time to buy the fourth.

The Harry Potter books really aren't for children any more, are they, although I dare say books 3, 5 and 6 were darker: whereas those has touches of the psychological thriller, this one is a war book, maybe most clearly because the school year doesn't frame the story any more: society isn't teetering on the brink any more, it's fallen. The book goes from action scene to action scene with very little of the self-doubt and the despair in daily routine that filled the other books.

I never quite understood the Potter hype, but these are gripping books. I mean, I read this one in a day, mostly because I was in a lot of delayed trains (enough to get me to page 481), but also because it's a thrilling adventure with many small mysteries to be resolved. There are no less than 10 important magical artifacts in this story, maybe too many, in fact. And as for the resolution, I won't spoil anything here, but I was glad to discover I was right all along about one particular detail.

However, I didn't stand in line on Friday night: I simply strolled into the bookshop on Saturday morning and was able to buy it right away. And I am not as in awe of the saga as a whole as many people seem to be. I love the humor, the inventiveness, the richness of the world J.K.Rowling has created, but in the end she is just a little too traditional for me. Oh, I love the small satirical touches she has here, and this book could even somehow be seen as allegorical of the war on terror, but she's simply not on the level of, say, Roald Dahl, because in the end, she's simply not cynical enough. Love conquers all, and the "nineteen years later" epilogue is really some of the most soppy and sappy stuff I've ever read. Totally unnecessary, too: it only serves to stir up some feeling and allow the reader to feel better after putting down the book. If you're going to let the body count climb so high - and climb it does- it feels like a cop-out to not take the consequences of that.

I don't mean to be cranky. I enjoyed every book (my favorite would have to be either the first one, for its humor, or the third, for obvious reasons), and Rowling deserves every penny she's earned for introducing so many children to the power and magic of reading, showing them that books don't need to be any less thrilling than films or television. I just hope these children will go on to discover there's much more to read out there than wand-waving and selfless sacrifice.

Heathers

Oh why oh why did I not see this film when I was, say, fourteen or fifteen? I might have truly loved it then, watched it over and over and memorized every line. Now I was merely fascinated by it's bizarro twist and turns and the absurd grandiosity of its ambition. I was laughing out loud at some moments (the whole "eskimo" business is amazing), shaking my head at how far they were pushing the boundaries of logic in others.

I don't think any movies get dated as quickly as high school movies. It's the need to differentiate between the popular people and the geeks, I suppose. We have to see who belongs to which group right away, but while geeks look more or less the same throughout the decades, the popular kids go through at least one fad every year. This is so clearly an 80's movie, with the shoulder pads and big hair, it's a little bit of a distraction.

But I shouldn't whine. I can't think of any high school movie so deliberately strange and dark, so nasty. The only one in recent memory that comes close is "mean girls", which has a similar trio of "heathers" at its center. I loved the baby-faced and totally psycho Christian Slater here (admittedly, when do I not love Christian Slater, but that's another story), with his ambition to destroy society by destroying the high school he sees as a representative of it. I even liked Winona Ryder: her character is not very consistent, but the look on her face as she stands straight at the end, like the action hero at the end of a film,bruised, bleeding, and blackened by smoke but triumphant, is priceless.

Too bad I've grown to realize high school's not that important or representative, after all...

What I've been ...

...watching

He Walked By Night (Werker & Mann, 1948)
The only reason this film could have been included in my film noir box is its cinematography, with long shadows and crooked angles, and a great chase through the sewers at the end. The only other interest it can have is historical, as this film is clearly the forebear of every police show ever made: we follow the police, see even the CSI unit of its day, see how a portrait of the suspect is made, etc.

The Fabulous Baker Boys (Kloves, 1989)
I finally saw this, after hearing Nathanial at the Film Experience sing its praises for so long, and I'm glad I did. The cinematography is indeed gorgeous, as is Michelle Pfeiffer. The performances are spot on, and there are too many well-caught details to name them all here. Also: who knew the Dude was sexy?

Escape from Alcatraz (Siegel, 1979)
What can I say? This is my idea of fun: Clint Eastwood being snarky and kicking some ass. Admittedly, this film is a bit too slow, Clint doesn't really kick that much ass, and the characters are caricatures, but hey. Dirty Harry this is not, but it's fun enough for an hour or two, when you're tired and not up for anything more sophisticated.

...reading

Ghostwritten (David Mitchell)
The last book by Mitchell I hadn't read yet, I liked it. For the first half and more I was just ok with it, going along with it and admiring his craft but not particularly transported, but the last two of the nine stories really hit it out of the park.

As She Climbed Across the Table (Jonathan Lethem)
I keep running into female physicists lately. There's one in the second to last story in Ghostwritten, and this book is entirely about a guy in love with one. This is no masterpiece, but Lethem has fun with the concept (woman falls in love with big void in space whose only characteristic is taste), and manages to surprise you with some observations and ideas.

...listening to

Spoon - Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
No need to say much about it, just listen to it. "The Underdog" is my favorite so far.

Quentin Tarantino's Death Proof OST
At first I couldn't stop playing April March's "Chick Habit", now it's Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Titch who get me dancing to "Hold Tight". One plays while a guy gets the shit beaten out of him, the other just before four girls get gruesomely killed. The songs bring a grin to my face. Should I be worried?

The Big Heat

On the outside, this is almost a boring story, and not very noir at all. Glenn Ford as Sgt. Bannion is the proverbial straight cop in a bent town, too good to be true, not cynical but still convinced good will beat evil in the end. He almost goes vigilante, almost lets his own darker side burst through, but in the end he lets a woman do the dirty job.

Ah, but that's where the film gets interesting, with this woman. Gloria Grahame is glorious as Debbie, who seems a supporting character for much of the movie, but don't get her angry. She's ditzy, perpetually drunk, and makes no excuses for placing money above everything else, but she's the cynical hero of this noir tale in the end. She's the one who gets all the good lines, too: she says of her perfume that it's "something new. It attracts mosquitoes and repels men", and as explanation for her roaring rampage of revenge, all she offers is a pouty "Vince should have never ruined my looks. It was a rotten thing to do".

She gets a raw deal, Debbie. All she does is execute Bannion's wishes, so that he can keep his conscience clean and return to his Sgt's desk while she's punished. She's by far the most interesting character here, but like the other women, she ends up by the side of the road.


I really can't recommend this film enough. It's deceptively simple, but there's so much lurking beneath the surface, so many repressed feelings and undercurrents of violence, violence against woman in particular. And then there's Lee Marvin, who is positively amazing here, making his sadistic thug more interesting than he has any right to be. It's a noir as noirs should be: in the end, the bad guys are punished and good does win, but we don't get to feel triumphant about it.

Gerry (continuing the 'going crazy in the desert' theme)

In the music of Arvo Pärt, the gaps, the silences, are just as important as the notes that are played, if not more. The same can be said for Gerry, and for the other two films in Gus van Sant's informal trilogy about (violent) death, Elephant and Last Days. This might be the emptiest of them all, but they have in common a total lack of motivation, structure, and above all meaning, defying viewers to make anything of the raw images.

As I watched this film, my mind often wandered, and I even went back one time, only to find that I had, in fact, seen and registered the shots that came before, just hadn't processed them. It might be the best way of seeing this film, and the two others: just letting the images stream through is, repressing our innate yearning to analyze and destroy.

Happy 100

Is there anyone comparable today? Sexy, self-possessed yet vulnerable, and most importantly, never, ever hiding her intelligence? Happy Birthday, Ruby.

The Sheltering Sky

There's nothing quite like going crazy in the desert, is there?

Bernardo Bertolucci's "the Sheltering Sky" opens with grainy B&W images of Manhattan: all the familiar spots, the neon signs, the skyline. Strange, as the movie takes place entirely in Morocco, albeit with American protagonists. But it's not the only strange detail: Paul Bowles (who wrote the novel the book is based on, and which I must read sometime soon) is briefly in the first half of the movie as a narrator, then disappears -likethe main characters do from civilization- for the rest of the movie, only to re-appear to deliver some memorable final words.

This isn't a good movie. I think. The plot meanders and stalls, the characters are sketchy and hard to understand, and I found myself bored and impatient with it for long stretches. While Bertolucci doesn't quite make the mistake of portraying the Moroccans and Tuaregs as noble savages, he does take too much of an anthropological interest, filming anything and everything vainly looking for some revelation. Still, at the end, I was oddly moved. Maybe owing to those final words, no doubt taken directly from the book:

"Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well, yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless. "

It's not as deep as it wants to be, of course, but it made sense to me on some level. It made me want to see the movie again keeping that in mind (though not right now).

Debra Winger has a strange face. It shifts so much it's impossible to get a firm grasp on it, and at the same time it can be almost unbearably still. One scene she's a traditional beauty, the next she's almost unrecognizable, anonymous. She would make sense in the Manhattan world we glimpse, all fashionable clothes and wit, but it also doesn't quite surprise you when she "goes native".

I miss Morocco, sometimes.

Death Proof - revisited

As already occurred to me yesterday, Crash and Death Proof would make a nice double feature: Crash is about people turned on by car crashes, and Death Proof is about one man for whom car crashes are a form of sexual aggression. He's a rapist, in a way: in the first part he his successful, and in the second, the girls take back the night.

I already discussed Death Proof at length before. This post is merely to contemplate the differences between the version I saw as part of Grindhouse a month ago, and the longer, stand-alone version I saw tonight.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure which I prefer. I do know I'm happy I saw both.

The main advantage of seeing Death Proof in it's originally intended form is that a) it doesn't really need to be longer than 1.5 hours, b) the fake trailers rule and c) Planet Terror is a lot of fun, and puts you in precisely the appropriate mood to be able to appreciate Death Proof.

However, there are things to be said for the longer version, too, and luckily, in the arthouse theater I went to see it, it was preceded by the trailer for Planet Terror, and that one only. The lenthening of the dialogues is not really necessary, and makes some drag on a bit too long, in fact, and the many more shots of feet and legs are somewhat superfluous, but two of the three extra scenes are definitely worthwhile. The first one is, of course, the "missing reel": Vanessa Ferlito's lapdance, which is all you'd expect it to be, and set to music worthy of Tarantino. But the second one, which was a surprise to me, is a long, mostly black and white, opening scene to the second half. It features something creepier even than the lapdance, and it also makes for a wonderful little moment when the color gets "switched on": the colors jump out at you, the yellow of the car, the pink of Rosario Dawson's shirt. It signals that this half is going to be different. That these girls are different.

Aside from that, the films are very similar: you still get the scary/funny moment when Kurt Russell's Stuntman Mike suddenly looks into the camera and grins, telling you that now the action's going to start, the brilliant moment with the beat-up Dodges spilling out into our world is still there, and at the end, you still walk out feeling like kicking the air, humming "Laisse Tomber Les Filles" and yelling yeah.

I wonder though: the triumphant feeling I got again tonight walking out of this film, do guys have it too? Is it gender-dependent that this fighting back feels to empowering? There's often criticism about films, for example about this new "torture porn" genre, that act like they "deserve" to degrade and abuse women as long as the women get the upper hand in the end, but truthfully, is that really so bad an attitude? As long as I get to be in the second batch of women, I'm not sure I think it is.

I'm still pissed Grindhouse was split up. I still think it's underestimating the viewer, and ripping off film lovers. But the longer version definitely has some things to recommend it.

Crash

First, the awesome news: I will soon be reviewing movies for the Dutch film website filmtotaal, and I couldn't be more thrilled. I mean, not only will I get to go to advance screenings and stuff, but, for the first time, I'll get paid (a little) for writing. Like a real journalist. I feel like Pinocchio. Hopefully I won't turn out to have been transformed into a smoking donkey.

Anyway, when introducing myself on the message boards, I listed a few of my favorite directors. Among them was David Cronenberg. And well, while I can honestly say I've loved all the Cronenbergs I've seen so far, it is true that, at the time of writing, I'd only seen two: eXistenZ and A History of Violence. Luckily, these things are easy to remedy, and now I've added Crash to that list. I'm glad to report that Cronenberg is, in my eyes, now 3 for 3.

I'm sure I don't need to add this, but I will just in case, for clarity's sake: I am not, I repeat, not referring to the recent Oscar winning Paul Haggis film about racism. I am instead referring to the Cronenberg film about people who get turned on by car crashes.

And boy, do they get it on. I don't remember seeing any other film -that wasn't porn- that included so much sex. In all kinds of positions, between numerous different couples, mostly in cars, but not exclusively. The most surprising thing is that, with maybe one or two exceptions, these sex scenes are not just window-dressing, they're not there (just) to titillate, no, they're essential to character development and even to the plot.

It's amazing to me how flatly and non-sensationally Cronenberg films everything. He views these characters without judgment: he never presents them as freaks, but I don't think he thinks we should fully go along with their fetish, either. As such, the film is fascinating, and you get to understand the appeal of mangled steel and scarred flesh, without necessarily needing to share in the obsession.

Still, the amount and graphic nature of sex scenes is not the most remarkable thing here. No, that would be the total lack of conflict in the plot. There is no jealousy, and while there is definitely physical danger, it is unaccompanied by any fear or pain. Our main character, played by James Spader, is impossible to read: he goes along with everything, and is clearly affected in some way, but it's unclear what it is exactly that he seeks.

Because of the lack of conflict, it's not really surprising that the ending is nothing more than a reflection of the beginning: James and his wife start out unsatisfied, longing for something they can't quite reach, and they end up exactly the same way, just with a different method, a different goal. Even the words are the same: "Maybe the next one". It's a film about people who are forever looking for the next thing, the next thrill, and the only conclusion you can draw is that whatever they try, they'll always be unsatisfied.

I still think that A History of Violence is the more controversial and though-provoking film of the two, not in spite but because of its apparent normalcy, and it's the more coherent, precise film too. However, I did enjoy Crash very much, and I'll definitely be watching more Cronenberg soon.

Some more Othello screengrabs

Easy, Tiger

Ryan Adams' latest, Easy Tiger, has been out for a few weeks now. I downloaded it right the first day it was available, to decide whether to buy it or not. Yet I kept postponing writing this review.

Why? Might it be that *gasp*, I simply have nothing much to say?

In general, I've disagreed with the majority of critics about Ryan's albums. I actually liked the reviled Rock N roll and 29, even loved Love is Hell, especially pt.1. At the same time, I wasn't too enthusiastic about the critically well-received Jacksonville City Nights, which was too country for me, and Cold Roses, which I found pretty much a snooze. So when critics starting praising this album, lauding its consistency in particular, I was worried.

It is a consistent album, but why is that a good thing? Yes, true, there are no wtf-moments, no strange unpolished, out-there songs, but there's also no greatness here, and what's worse, there are no surprises. There's no innovation here, no stretching: it's all pleasant and harmonic, sure, but that's not why I like (or should I say liked? Already?) Ryan.

The only moment that half-way stands out is "Halloweenhead", and it should be said that the last two songs, "These Girls" and "I taught myself how to grow", are quite good. But this album stays a disappointment, maybe best illustrated by "The Sun Also Sets": it starts out interestingly, with a seemingly classic chord progression that doesn't go where you think it will, but the song then devolves into, well, "generic Adams", and who would have thought two, three years ago that there would ever even be such a thing?

Much has been made of Ryan Adams' recent sobering and cleaning up, and I feel almost guilty, complaining that the manic outbursts and unbearably quiet cries of despair are gone. Of course I'm happy he's gotten his shit together, but I won't be buying this CD.

Othello

Wow. I mean, wow.

Othello opens with a funereal procession, heavy dramatic music playing. The shots are truly black and white, in that there are barely any greys: the figures are just black silhouettes set against a forbidding fortress. A man in a cage hangs overhead. This is a tragedy, there's no mistaking it, and when the title card comes up, accompanied by some -by now stereotypical- lute music, it's a jarring contrast.

This is how Shakespeare adaptations should be done. This is how theater adaptations should be done, period. Welles both enhances the theatricality here, and at the same time uses every tool and possibility offered by the medium of cinema. One breathtaking shot follows another: in some, the characters are dwarfed against the backdrop of the Essaouira fortress, insignificant and powerless, and in the next they can be seen looming ominously large, filmed from below, often set against a monochrome sky.

It's one of the most efficient and unencumbered Shakespeare production I've seen, too. Nothing feels rushed, and time is taken both for long silent passages and grand speeches, but the film lasts only 90 minutes and nothing seems superfluous. Many directors confuse respect for the source material for a prohibition against leaving anything out (I'm looking at you, Kenneth), but Welles gets to the essence here, to the core of this jealousy-driven story.

Then there's the voice. Has there ever been a deeper, more majestic, more thrilling voice than Orson Welles'? At some points, it literally sent a chill down my spine. Some might object to the blackface used in the movie, but I cannot imagine Othello now with anyone's voice but his.

I could talk on and on about this movie: the intriguing scene in which Rodrigo is murdered; the shots of Iago with the empty cage hanging overhead; the strangling of Desdemona; how this makes me want to go back to Essaouira. In the end, of course, the film's a mess: some of the text is very hard to understand, Rodrigo's motivation is never made clear, and I didn't find Iago at all convincing. However, it's a mess that's imminently fascinating every step of the way, and with more memorable shots than I could keep track of, shots that make you gasp in surprise and wonder, shots that remind you of why Welles is revered for more than just his hypnotic voice.