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.

Croupier

It's sometimes so nice to come into a movie with no expectations or preconceived notions about it, and so rare, unfortunately. It's the big movie geek dilemma: you want to read everything that's being written about a movie you're eager to see, but this does have the side-effect that you lose the ability to be surprised. By the time a movie finally comes out here in the Netherlands, it often feels like I've seen it already.

All I knew about Croupier was that a) it was about a croupier and b) it was Clive Owen's breakout role. My crush on Clive Owen made point b) enough of a reason for me, and after just watching Ocean's Thirteen two days ago, the casino setting seemed appropriate.

I loved: the noirish third-person narration - though it spooked me a little, as when I get in a writerish phase I start narrating my life to myself in my head, also in third person; the unreliability of said narration, Clive Owen as a blonde, even if it isn't for long; Clive Owen's hat; the surprises of the plot; the cynicism; Clive Owen's grin at the end.

I wasn't convinced so much by: the South-African accent on the woman from ER; the ending; the overall tone; the quality of Jack's writing.

So the verdict? Definitely worth checking out.

The performance that changed my life?

Note: contribution to the Performance that Changed My Life Blog-a-thon

Can you ever really say something changed your life? As much as we talk about movies being transformative, do they really ever transform us more than a moment? Sure, when I walked out of "The Science of Sleep", for example, I felt like creating something, I felt like I could, in fact, create something, but did I really become noticeably more creative after seeing the film? Unfortunately, the answer is no.

I'm not sure any performance really changed my life permanently. I am sure, however, that there is one that sent an almost painful pang of recognition and revelation through me.

It's a performance from "Lost in Translation". But it isn't Bill Murray's.


It was the scene where Bob and Charlotte lay on the bed together that did it, when she talks about her aimlessness. It wasn't just that the details fit: I had a horse phase, a phase in which I photographed everything including my feet (and pizza's before and after, that sort of thing). I wanted to be a writer, still do somewhere, but as soon as I sit down and start writing I hate every word.
But as I said, it wasn't just the details. It was also her flat tone of voice. Her expression. The way she seemed to accept what she was and wasn't, but at the same time also the way you could feel the despair lurking under the surface. The combination of not too high self-esteem and an arrogance toward girls who use Evelyn Waugh as a nickname. She was me - except of course much, much sexier.

Many other actresses of Scarlett Johansson's generation are more talented than she is, and have much more range, more depth. I don't dislike her as much as some do, and I in fact love her voice, but I have no problem admitting she's no great actress. Nonetheless, in this part (and in another one from before she got all glossed up, in Ghost World) she is absolutely perfect, and could not be more genuine.

Did her performance change me? I couldn't say in which way. But it did affect me greatly, and that alone makes this performance worthwhile.

Ocean's Thirteen

Oh, do I love it when Soderbergh just sits back and has some fun with his boys.

I refuse to apologize for it, either. The Ocean films might not be high art, perhaps, they might not have any important message or central theme or whatever, but they're pure, undiluted fun. More importantly, perhaps, they don't confuse being fun with dumbing down and making fart jokes. Instead, this film, like the others, finds the fun in nice small character moments: Danny and Rusty finishing each other's sentences and sniffling over Oprah, Roman's competitor being called Greco, Virgil leading a Mexican worker's revolt, Basher's letters, Linus' nose, I could go on. Soderbergh himself, in the meantime, amuses himself as "Peter Andrews" by going crazy with color filters, strange angles, overlays, even a split screen at some point.

Not everything works, of course. The big seduction of Ellen Barkin is too puerile and vaguely reeks of sexism, even for a boys-will-be-boys movie like this. The inclusion of Toulour feels tacked on, and as much as I love seeing Vincent Cassel (francophile that I am) there should either have been more of him or none at all.

But why nitpick? I saw this in a full theatre and I'm fairly sure everyone left the movie with just a little more jaunty a step than they came in with. This is a movie about the pleasure of letting yourself be scammed: there might be nothing here, but it's a great time at the movies while it lasts, and sometimes, that's all you could ask for.

A Bout de Souffle - first thoughts

Maybe the clearest way to illustrate the difference between France and the US is that the American idea of Jean-Paul Belmondo is Richard Gere.

It's amazing how the two Godard's I have seen so far are both very similar and very different. The style is what's similar, mostly: the jump cuts, the acting style, the fascination with the sound of gunshots. The form is what's different. This is the film I should have watched with my parents, not just because it's linear and focused in a way "Masculin Feminin" was not, but also because of the wonderful touristic shots of Paris.

Of course, this doesn't mean I liked it any less. You can definitely feel Truffaut's touch in the quirkiness of the characters and in the logic of the central love story, and as you might now I absolutely love Jules et Jim, the only Truffaut film I've seen so far. And how can you NOT fall in love with Belmondo chain smoking through the film giving his best impression of Humphrey Bogart -albeit a bit too filled with youthful enthusiasm to be able to approach Bogie's cool. He's not conventionally handsome by anyone's definition, but there's something about him that makes you understand exactly how he can wrap any girl around his finger. And Jean Seberg, ah, Jean Seberg, she's such a lovely little pixie, hair cropped short, every feature so clearly delineated and so mobile.

There are wonderful scenes here. The two lovers kissing, then taking their sunglasses off, the interview with the novelist, I could go on.

The conclusion? I need to find a way to get a hold of Bande a Part.

Whistle Stop

I was worried there for a while.

See, film noir is my reliable genre. Whenever I pop one into the DVD player I know that I might not love it, that it might not be particularly well-written or well-acted, that they might be some cheesy effects, but I can be sure that I'll at the very least enjoy watching it. I have a hard time articulating what makes the grim, cynical world of noir films so comforting to me, but it is.

You can imagine that tonight, I watched "Whistle Stop" with growing dismay. It started promisingly enough, with a mysterious Ava Gardner decending of an ominously whistling train. But almost everything that followed disappointed. The main character wasn't snarky or disillusioned or even truly tortured: not only was he much too old for the type he played, but he was just a wimpy, spineless drunk, and not the good kind. The Femme Fatale looked classy and acted fatale-y at first, but she soon turned out to be a sheep in wolf's clothing. The only one even remotely capable of interesting me was the sleazy nightclub owner played by Tom Conway.

I responded in the only natural way: I tried to find reasons to disqualify the film as a noir. There weren't enough shady metaphors, for one, there was no noir dialogue. The femme fatale ended up being a woman who stood by her man unconditionally. There was no deception, no double-crossings; there were plans of murder, yes, but they were diffused and then almost forgotten.

I needn't have bothered, because one thing gives it away entirely, and makes the point like all the above arguments can't: this film has a happy ending. And so this evening has for me too: my first film of the night might have been a disappointment (I'm about to watch the next one, my second Godard, "A bout de souffle"), but I don't have to discard my comfort genre just yet.

The Player

The Player has suspense. Laughter. Heart and hope and sex and violence and, of course, a happy ending. It's Altman saying a royal and distinguished Fuck You to Hollywood, by making a movie that both honors and mocks Hollywood, and that manages to follow the template of a Hollywood movie, that has all the elements of a generic Hollywood movie, but that's impossible to mistake for anything but an Altman movie.

I liked it, as you might have gathered from the above. I didn't love it though, because despite all the loving references to classic films, it is a bit of a cold movie, a bit glib. So many Hollywood players appear in this film, yet all seem to be feeling superior to what's being depicted. It's as if by appearing in this movie they're distancing themselves from "the system", but of course they're still inside it.

Masculin Feminin

This is certainly a milestone in my cinematic education: my very first Godard. I checked. In my defence, his films are not easy to get a hold of, and they're not exactly the kind of films often shown on Dutch television. So when I saw that Masculin Feminin was on sale for a mere ten euros, I decided to ignore my resolution not to buy any more DVD's until I'd seen all those I already have, and gave myself a holiday present. (actually, two: they had Drugstore Cowboy for 6 euro. Who could resist?)

All this, of course, to build up anticipation for the crucial question: what did I think?

Aside from how refreshingly bizarre and unpredictable I found it, I'm not quite sure yet. There's simply too much to it, I think, to absorb in just one sitting, and I mean that as a good thing. It's a portrait of an age and of a generation, but I'm not sure what exactly it says about that age, that generation. There's affection in how Godard portrays his protagonist, Paul, but also some detachment, a certain sense of mockery too.

I love how Godard frames his images. It's as if he sometimes felt he was being too precise, too preditable, and decided to just shift the image a little to the left or right, leaving someone's face cut in half, another oddly centered. I love the playing with sound too: phasing in, phasing out, fitting with the images or not at all.

During the conversation Paul has with Mlle 19 ans, my father said the film was not that much different from the third one we saw yesterday, and I bristled, because to me, it couldn't have been more different. Ego-documents, after all, are made by people who think their own lives are the most fascinating thing there is, and Masculin Feminin is all about putting this shameless self-display under scrutiny.

Paul is also someone who -perhaps like most 21 year olds at some time or another- thinks his ideas are revolutionary, that he will re-invent the world single-handedly, that he alone is "pure" in his quest for the truth, for philosophy, for enlightenment. And in the interview scene, not only is it shown how terribly naive and silly Mlle 19 ans is, but also how silly and naive Paul is for feeling so superior to her.

Maybe that's the overwhelming theme, in the end, the arrogance of youth. But this seems too harsh: Godard never passes judgment, he just observes his characters, shows them to us without any apparent slant, and lets us be the judge. "The children of Marx and Coca-Cola" is right: they are communist, idealistic, paint "Paix au Vietnam" on an American embassy car, but in the end, they drink the Kool-aid, or well, the Coke.

I realise this post in incoherent, but in some sense it is appropriate with such an incoherent film: it's not just the jumping back and forth in both image in sound: a man gets shot, without apparent consequence, a man stabs himself and it's neither a joke nor something particularly meaningful: it just happens.

The end could be tragic, but due to what came before, it just is, random and slightly sad, but not very significant.

After watching this film, I finally understand where "Les Amants Réguliers", Philippe Garrel's 2005 film, comes from. It takes place only a few years after this one, and the plot is, in essence, similar, but the almost 40 years in between make a world of difference: the fun is gone. While Godard doesn't romanticise, you can tell he enjoys spending time with these people, and that he understands the fun inherent in being young. Garrel's film was a reaction to the nostalgia of Bertolluci's "the Dreamers", but he might have gone too far in the other direction: too disillusioned, perhaps, by how little has changed despite all the upheaval of the sixties.

I have to admit I have a strange sort of longing for the summer of '68. Is it possible to be homesick for somewhere you've only heard of? Fourty years since the summer of love and it seems the world hasn't changed that much since the fifties, except for technological advances which seem almost superficial. But I suppose as long as there's 21-year-olds in the world, we should be alright.

Graduations

June's the month of graduations. Yesterday I went to see my little brother, all grown up and looking mighty dashing in his suit, receive his high school diploma. And tonight, I went to see three graduation films from the Dutch Film and Television Academy in Amsterdam.

The first, "Bomber", was set in a near-future dystopic version of the Netherlands and revolved around a group of graffiti-spraying friends who don't quite know how to deal with the war. Is merely making impressive "pieces" enough if their efforts are so easily effaced by a waterhose? I liked the atmosphere - quite similar to fellow angry-young-people-in-the-suburbs film "La Haine"-, the moment where they erupt in (rap) song is well done, and the ending took me by surprise, but unfortunately the main character lost his believability as soon as he opened his mouth, and the dialogue was far from stellar.

Then came the film my dad and I really came to see, "Gödel", about the eponymous mathematician. It didn't disappoint. You could say it's about the last period of his life, when he was so paranoid he was starving himself to death, but that would be an incomplete statement. It's also about the distinction between reality and delusion, about where the film ends and the filmmaking begins. Gödel changes his mind about which part of what he sees is real, which part is not, the set collapses around in and at some point the director comes in to discuss with two critics what the ending should be. It's too pretentious by half, artificial and even glib, but you know me, I rather enjoy pretentious and glib (see also: my idolatry of Dave Eggers), and despite all the gimmicry, the film ends on a perfect note.

Finally, the third film, and unfortunately by far the least interesting of the three. The title (translated by yours truly) is "Daddy is gone...and I still had something to ask", and the documentary is precisly what you'd expect from such title, except maybe twice as long. There is really nothing remotely original or even simply visually inventive about this one. I'll admit part of my disinterest might come from my general feeling of "meh" when it comes to ego-documents, but really. Compare this for example to "Four Eyed Monsters", a recent debut film that's still available in its entirety on youtube. It's also an ego-document, but it's embellished by so many visual flourishes, so many little details that surprise you, that's it's interesting much beyond its cliched quirky boy-meets-girl story. This film however apparently thought an opening and closing shot of an ant hill and some jumping back and forth in time would be enough to make the story interesting. Unfortunately, it is not, especially not when every fact and feeling is rehashed at least twice.

All-in-all, it was a wondeful to celebrate that...my summer break has started! I did my last exam today, and I could not feel more relieved, despite, as expected, failing one course. I met my dad in Amsterdam, we had some ridiculously overpriced but delicious sushi and went to these movies, with one of the most generous audiences I've even seen a movie with. Afterwards we walked to the station, over the wallen (we saw a "de majoor is thuis" banner), saw an amazing double rainbow, and well, these are all irrelevant details but it comes down to: I had a great time, and I can already feel myself relaxing. You can expect a definite uptick in posting frequency from now on!

La Stanza del Figlio

Sometimes there's movies you've been wanting to see for a long time, but somehow keep delaying. Requiem for a Dream is such a film for me: I've heard it's great, I want to see how great it is, but I enver quite feel up putting myself through it.

La Stanza del Figlio I've actually owned on DVD for a while, but the word "tearjerker" on the backflap held me back. Luckily, I had a friend over, and she picked it as the film we would watch.

The thing is, this is not a tearjerker. Yes, it is about a son dying. Yes, it's about grief, and there is much crying done in the film. But at no point did I ever feel manipulated. The film never felt melodramatic, the music never swelled to try to push feelings over the top. For lack of a better word, it felt real.

Maybe that's why I didn't cry, even if I'm usually quick to shed a tear or two over a movie (or book, for that matter). But I was more moved than I've been in a while, because everything felt true.

Did I mention it's funny, too? The main character's a shrink, and much of it stems from his patients, but despite the fact that they're all somewhat pathetic figures, the overall sense you get is that despite everything, life does go on.

La Stanza del figlio is not a masterpiece. It's too small in scope for that, too innocuous. But it's note-perfect in what it sets out to do, and definitely worth watching. Just don't let the "tearjerker" label scare you away.

John From Cincinnati

I know, I know, I'm supposed to be focusing on my studies. But this morning I (barely) passed my CFT oral exam, and my next exam isn't until monday, so sue me.

I actually was delaying writing this post about HBO's new John from Cicinnati until I'd seen at least one more episode, possible two, because to be honest, I'm not sure what to think yet. The show alternates between infuriating and enchanting me, and I don't know on which it'll settle. In fact, I'm not sure it will settle.

Let's start with the good: the athmosphere, for example. The credits - as you can see above- are wonderful, perfectly capturing the freedom but also the salty dirtiness of surfing. I hate surfing. I tried it when I was in LA, taking lessons in Venice because it felt appropriate, but I was horrible at it, and the waves kept coming at me and pushing me around and making me feel all around powerless and humbled, not to mention thoroughly infused with salty water and miserable. But I love the IDEA of surfing. The idea of not letting the wave beat you but conquering it instead or - as my tendency to want to vanquish the wave was apparently my mistake- to collaborate with it and use it to achieve something close to freedom.

As you can see, surfing has the tendency to become about more than just standing up on a big board. It's easy to mystify and aggrandise, to infuse with more meaning than maybe it's worth.

The show revolves around the Yosts, a "legendary" surfing family. Granpa hurt his knee and is still sore about it, dad got ruined by the money and the fame (see also: Lords of Dogtown), and the young son is the new hope. Their lives are filled with strange and stranger characters, and the series opens as the strangest of them all arrives: John from Cincinnati (same initials as Jesus Fucking Christ, as pointed out at the House next Door), who might as well be from Mars, has magical pockets and possibly magical powers, and who opens with "the end is near".

Whether I'll end up liking the show will probably depend on whether I can get to like John. He's still too strange now, but without it being made cute or quirky, and without allowing us, really, to laugh at him. I admire David Milch, the creator, for daring to write a character so unlikeable, cryptical, and impossible to identify with, but maybe there's a reason there aren't many like him around.

Then there's the mysticism, which is fascinating but bordering on ridiculous - and sometimes stepping over that line. There's Ed O'Neill (from Married with Children, if the name doesn't ring a bell) soliloquizing endelessly to his birds. What he says makes no sense, but it's so well-written, intriguing, and brought with such conviction by O'Neill that you can't help but listen.

In conclusion? I'll wait and see. But I'm definitely intrigued enough to keep watching.

Hanging on

You might be wondering about the lack of posts lately. Well, exam time is coming up, and I'm alternately studying for them and having periods of despair about them, which leaves little to no time for movies or anything else cultural.

I had "Kull the Conqueror" on in the background one night. It was perfect for my mood at the time, but it's not a movie that necessitates a lot of attention: I went off and had a shower in the middle, and it didn't feel like I missed anything. As such, it's also not a movie I can say much about (though an in-depth analysis is, no doubt, possible). I can feel myself reverting to this kind entertainment, "this kind" meaning brainless and offering quick satisfaction: sitcoms, "Flight of the Conchords" and romance novels (thank you Lani!).

As such, here is my resolution: starting the day of my last exam, June 29th, I'll do my best to watch a movie a day, and post my reactions here. I also have many books lying around that beg to be read, there's music I want to listen to attentively, and since I'll need a recuperative period after hopefully getting through the next week and a half, I'll take my time for all of them.

Wish me luck... and see you on in July.

Death Proof

This morning, I heard a critic on the radio summarily dismiss Death Proof (Tarantino's part of Grindhouse, released separately here) without offering any further qualification. Death Proof (from here on: DP), he said, was a movie honoring bad B movies by being, itself, a bad - and worse: uninteresting- B movie.

I object.

True, DP is, to borrow a phrase from The Squid and the Whale, minor Tarantino. The only QT movie it's arguably superior to is Kill Bill pt. 1. But it's much more interesting than "just" a bad B movie.

QT's films typically take place on one of two levels. His first three (Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, and the underrated Jackie Brown) take place on the first level, which I'll call level A. On level A, every character shares QT's intimate knowledge of and deep interest in pop culture, but this also implies that this level shares its pop culture with the real world. While it is undoubtedly a movie world, the rules of our world apply: gravity sucks, lethal wounds will kill you, and nobody has superpowers. In fact, the one time these "rules" seem to be violated, in Pulp Fiction, it is seen as a miracle. Level A is a tweaked version of our own world: the details might be different (Big Kahuna burgers and so on), the cars are cooler, and there are surreal elements, but the basis is the same. QT points to this, for example with the mostly diegetic music in Reservoir Dogs.

Then there's level B, where the movies take place that the characters on level A would love to watch, as QT himself remarked. Kill Bill is resolutely on this level, which is much more cartoonish and flexible. The "rules" of our world don't apply so much there: gravity is challenged at some points, the Bride survives being buried alive and can certainly be said to have "superpowers", especially in the scene where she beats an incredible number of samourai, blood spouts out in gallons at the time, etc. It's a mythical world centered around a superhero on a quest that she ultimately achieves. Notably, while it's not a linear movie, it does end at the resolution. There are still some resemblances to "the real world": superman, for example, exists there too. But aside from the scene with Vernita Green/Copperhead, it's on its own plane.

What about Death Proof? It seems at first to be on level B as well. There is an intimidating "supervillain" with the stereotypical villain name Stuntman Mike, and a "superweapon": his Death Proof car. The first half of the film plays out as a male fantasy with four girls filmed and objectified as lust objects (with QT's foot fetish clearly on display), and tagged as soon-t0-be victims from the get-go. They're more individualised than they would be in the standard B movie, and the director clearly shows his affection for it, but his camera is predatory. Furthermore, the girls are not real, but designed to embody a fantasy, as evidenced clearly by the lapdance subplot.

As if we needed more evidence about which level we're on, QT even has two characters from Kill Bill, the sheriff and son #1, who we know live on level B, make an appearance.

The second group of girls is very different, but they still fit on level B: Zoe Bell plays a superhuman version of herself. She is already rather extraordinary (and attention is pointedly called to this in an early conversation) but she's admitted that the stunts in the films are impossible even for her. After the first chase, the way in which it's shown she survived is almost cartoonesk, and it comforts us about the rules of this world.

And then QT pulls out the rug from under us.

During the second chase, the "mythical" cars, Mike's black Dodge Charger and the girls' white Dodge Challenger (the color coding also appropriate on this level) suddenly burst onto a road filled with sedans and SUV's, and by this, QT suddenly takes us from this level B movie world not to level A, but straight into the real world, our world. We could be in those cars, and by this trick QT reminds us how vulnerable we are, and while we were at first an audience safely standing on the outside ironically looking in, we are now in this. We're involved. And the chase gets much more thrilling because of it.

It's just a detail. A small thing some might miss. But it shows that DP is not empty, but open, and filled with touches that show that QT is incapable of making an uninteresting movie.

There are many other things I could expound on: the look Kurt Russell gives the camera just before stepping into his Chevy Nova, the nostalgia touch that shows QT is aware many young people might not get his references, the strange theme of abstinence and sexual frustration that comes up in both parts, the differences and parallels between the two groups of girls, etc. The soundtrack choices are inspired, as we're used to from QT by now, and certainly worth a few words. But I think I've written enough for now.

__________________

"There are few things as fetching as a bruised ego on a beautiful angel"

The Fruitstand in NY

The name of my blog comes from mishearing a line in Ryan Adams' "Damn, Sam, I love a woman that rains". The original line goes:

"I'm as calm as a fruit stand in New York, and maybe as strange."

But you know what? Fruit stands are not so strange at all in New York, nor calm (is anything calm in NY? I wonder). In fact, they're everywhere.

I'm not going to go through my whole visit here. We did all the touristy things: visited the Met, MoMA, even the museum of Natural History, went up the Empire State Building, made a boat tour, saw how little there is to be seen at ground zero, went to Battery Park, had pizza on Mulberry street in Little Italy, inhaled the smells of Chinatown, strolled in the Village, had a picnic in Central Park, walked down 5th Avenue and over 125th street in Harlem, had a cappucino from Starbucks and a Cosmopolitan at a restaurant with a group of 4 female friends chatting right behind us, took a taxi over the Brooklyn Bridge, etc etc etc, bla bla bla.

Don't get me wrong, I loved it all, and wasn't bored for a single second, I just imagine it'd be boring to read all the details.

But then: the absolute highlight of the trip? We went to Shakespeare in the Park! To be precise, we saw the first showing of Romeo and Juliet, starring Lauren Ambrose of Six Feet Under fame, and Oscar Isaac, apparently well known on Broadway, and who played Joseph in The Nativity story.

It just felt like the ultimate NY experience. I'd heard about Shakespeare in the Park, but we only realised it was on when we stumbled across it that morning. We naively showed up only an hour before they'd start handing out tickets (the tickets are free, you get them on a first come, first served basis) and followed the line that had already formed until we finally found our spots, three bends in the road further.

Everyone was just sitting calmly in the sun, with a book or a laptop, often an iPod, some with folding chairs. Entertainment was provided in the form of a flute player who made sure "Hey Jude" was in my ears for the next two days, the bossy Rosie who informed us of the rules, and three people selling merchandise.

The guy sitting in front of us told us he'd once gotten there at 8:30 and still left without tickets, but this being the first day, we were in luck, and 1 hour before was enough for the three tickets we wanted. We had subway sandwiches and canned beer (my father made sure to photograph "the crime": my 17 yo brother taking a sip) in the park beforehand, and I felt like I could move to the city right that second.

The play was good, if somewhat long. Romeo and Juliet were good, but I was most impressed by Mercutio (Christopher Evan Welch). There were still some start-up problems (some forgotten lines, torches that went out when they shouldn't and didn't when they should) but the set was impressive, a shallow pool with a movable bridge over it. More than everything though, it was amazing just to be there: in the middle of Central Park, with mostly New Yorkers around us, fireflies around the lights, the occasional duck wondering what all the fuss was about and sometimes a chopper to remind us we weren't in Verona.

Second most memorable thing? Well, I am, and remain, thoroughly a film geek, and it WAS raining the first day we were there. So can you really blame me for draggin my brother and father to see Grindhouse in the Cinema Village, the only theatre in Manhattan still showing it?

I'll get more into it, especially QT's offering, later, but suffice to say I came out bouncing. I'm so happy I saw it the way it was originally intended, and not chopped up like it's now being released in the Netherlands (a longer version of Death Proof is out now, Planet Terror will be released in August). I might (movie buff that I, after all, am) go see Death Proof in theatres here after all, I'm more than a little curious about Vanessa Ferlito in that missing reel, but I'm glad I saw Grindhouse as a whole in a tiny little theatre in the Village.

To sum it up? I had an amazing time, and am now painfully crashing back to reality.

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers: first thoughts

Barbara Stanwyck is my new idol. Really, cool, smart, fierce, if it wasn't for the murderous instincts she has in the two movies I've recently seen her in (this one and Double Indemnity) she'd be a perfect role model. I'm hoping to get a hold of "The Lady Eve" soon, I can't wait to see how she does comedy.

Also, does Lizabeth Scott look like Lauren Bacall or what? Slightly more wholesome, slightly less cunning maybe, but wow. And an impressive actress, too.

And that leaves...the men. Who are definitely less impressive than the women in this film, at least character-wise. This is Kirk Douglas' debut, but he doesn't register so much, really (admittedly, it might have been the part). As for Van Heflin, I don't know if it's because standards of attractiveness have changed so much, but I had a hard time buying him as a ladies man, and his flirting seemed WAY too over the top.

All in all though, a nice little noir. I like the twist that the blackmail is called into life by the people who fear it. There's a nice undercurrent of class tensions. And whaddaya know, there's even a sort-of happy ending.

Which just leaves one question: why is it that when I feel crappy a nice and cynical film noir is exactly what I need, while a feel good comedy will leave me feeling crappier even than before?

The Departed: first thoughts

Great music. Great use of diegetic/nondiegetic sound and music. Nice parallels (grocery bags)

Shot of the rat at the end felt a bit obvious.

So why can I only make technical comments on this movie? There was one tense scene, and I felt bad for one character at a certain point, but it's -despite the irish roots- a fairly heartless movie. You don't really mind who kills who, or why. At least I didn't.

Also, wasn't the point of this movie that you would root equally for both doubles? I only cared for Leo's character, and not even that much.

Still, I shouldn't be too harsch. It's a well made movie about doubles. It has some pretty good performanced. Alec Baldwin and Mark Wahlberg should form some kind of comic duo. I'd definitely go see it. And Jack? Well, he's just...Jack. I have to say, I expected more from the "waving around a pink dildo part". As it was, I didn't even notice the color. But well, you can't really blame him, after all, "being Jack" provides most of his income.

I wish I could swear with a (sometimes somewhat inconsistent) Irish accent.

Whoop-de-fucking-do

Thank you for smoking - first thoughts

"Michael Jordan plays ball. Charles Manson kills people. I talk. Everyone has a talent. "

Not much to say about this movie, really, except a vigorous "cool.". I like it when a movie can be so refreshingly cynical, and nobody would've been better as Nick Naylor than Aaron Eckhart. The guy could probably get me to smoke. Well, not smoke, probably, me being asthmatic and hating the smell'n all, but I get the feeling he's selling: basically, there's so much in life that's bad for you, we might as well resign ourselves to the risks we're taking as long as it feels good.

So, nothing much to criticize. The movie's not particularly deep, but it achieves what it wants to do: it makes you laugh, and it lands some digs. It might not get anyone to smoke (hopefully it won't) but it might incite someone out there to join a debate club. And I did adore the credits. And JK Simmons, who should always play acrimonious bosses (see the Spider-Man films and "the Closer" if you need more evidence), rules. And I love to look at Adam Brody in almost anything. Rob Lowe is hilarious. And I'd love to criticize Katie Holmes at this point, just for balance sake, but she's fine, not great, replaceable, but fine.

Jeff Megall: Sony has a futuristic sci-fi movie they're looking to make.
Nick Naylor: Cigarettes in space?
Jeff Megall: It's the final frontier, Nick.
Nick Naylor: But wouldn't they blow up in an all oxygen environment?
Jeff Megall: Probably. But it's an easy fix. One line of dialogue. 'Thank God we invented the... you know, whatever device.'

The Good German - first thoughts

Is Soderbergh somehow fundamentally incapable of making an uninteresting movie?

I don't think this is among his better films; it's too clinical, too calculated, perfectly in the style of 40's movies but not quite there in tone. I cared for Rick and Ilsa, and even for Holly and Valli, but Clooney and Blanchett? /they do their best, the co-operate, but they fail to inject enough feeling to make this more than just a genre exercise.

A very well executed style exercise, don't get me wrong.

But it does make you wonder: can you be brilliant and still have a heart?

Looking for a second hand bike in the Netherlands you land, well, not quite in the seedy underbelly of society but definitely in a different body part. I started out at the regular bike repair shops and supervised parking facilities, where the most notable thing is the slightly obsessed look in the eyes of the people at the former, and the lone bear attitude of those at the latter. Then I went down the canal.

I almost bought a bike from a transvestite I've been waving to from the ship forever, but his prices were on the high side, so I ended up buying one from the tall, nice (though kinda smelly), multiply pierced guy I'd visited before, and who'd gained my trust by telling me what was wrong with the bike I considered. Then I returned to crazy eyes, who convinced me to buy a huge lock in my suddenly overprotective mood.

Buying a second hand bike, you can't demand perfection, you cannot expect love at first sight. There is never a spark, but any bike you buy has to catch your eye at least. And this one caught mine (I'll post a picture tomorrow).

I've temporarily christened it Johan. It's a guy, that much is for sure; after the timidity of the saddle on my last bike, this one makes itself felt quite clearly between my thighs. And Johan seems to appropriately reflect it's second hand nature. I do plan on spray-painting him over purple and bright green, so I might want to change its name to something more flamboyant then. Hedwig seems an obvious choice, but I'm afraid people would miss the joke and think me incredibly self-centered. Frank-N maybe? Any suggestions are welcome.

It feels good to be mobile again.

H.

Nothing is sadder than the sight of a bike lock, neatly cut through, lying on the side of the street on monday morning.
Oh well, it had to happen sometime.

I don't know why exactly, but I picked it up and carried it around with me, this reminder that I hadn't just forgotten where I parked, as I did my groceries on foot, trying to muster up some disappointment or anger. I couldn't find anything, not even a pang for the money I'd have to spend on a new one.

I guess that's what they mean with taking life as it comes.

Goodbye Girls

I finally watched the final Gilmore Girls episode. I just felt like until I'd seen the last episode ever, the show wasn't over yet. But you can't postpone a goodbye forever.

And let's face it, while Gilmore Girls is still a great show, it was time. I'm not saying the series ever really "jumped the shark", but everything after Rory (temporarily) dropped out from Yale was just not quite as good as what came before. The girls being apart meant there was less of the dialogue I always watched the show for, and shortly after that problem was resolved, Amy Sherman-Palladino left. I'm not as critical of David Rosenthal as many bloggers seem to be, but it's undeniable that the dialogue was a few beats more slow after he took over, and the references more obvious.

I have a hard time articulating how much I love (or should I say loved) this show. I identified with Rory: all through highschool I had at least one book in my bag, even if it was often bad science fiction instead of great literature. I had some journalistic ambitions, once upon a time. I was someone who dealt a lot better with schoolwork than with life. The one I wanted to be, though, was Lorelai: I wanted to speak so fast, flirt so easily, and most of all, I wanted to be so strong and independent and entirely, uncompromisingly, me.

I think that's why the finale, or actually the last two episodes, felt true to me: it was about the girls, their lives, their plans, and only a little about the men who revolved around then -- because it would have felt off to see their lives revolve around men. Logan's all-or-nothing proposal was strange, but Rory's reponse made sense: she may seem quiet and sweet, but she has ambitions, and it would have been unlike her to choose a guy over her career. As for Lorelai, some people seem disappointed there was no wedding at the end, but it's been established throughout the series that Lore is not the marrying kind -- which is why her wedding to Chris felt all wrong. When she proposed to Luke, it was a wonderful moment, but she didn't leave him because he was putting the wedding off, she left him because he wasn't including her in his life.

I know, it's a little strange obsessing about the motivations and feelings of fictional characters, but when you've watched a show faithfully every week for so long, it feels not only like you know the characters, but like they're a part of your life. Rory's dilemma's upon graduating were embarrasingly familiar, and I should probably get a WWRD T-shirt to remind myself that it'll all turn out all right, even if I wasn't raised by a village, or if I don't live in a world where my idol would show up and give me her card.

Byebye girls. Bye Paris, bye Emily and Richard, bye bye Taylor and Kirk. Bye Lane, bye Luke.
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Sherry: Your uniform is darling. Really, I love the blue, 'course I'm sure you look good in anything.

Lorelai: Oh, yeah. You should see her in chaps.

Sherry: Really?

Rory: No. That was just my mom being funny.

Sherry: Oh...

Lorelai: It comes and goes, you'll learn to notice the signs.

Christopher: The waves get really still, the animals start to act funny...

___________________________________________________________________

Lorelai: My life stinks. Hey, let's look into each other's eyes and say "I wish I were you" at exactly the same time — maybe we'll pull a Freaky Friday.

Rory: Or we can just pretend that we did and you can go around acting really immature. Oh, wait…

Lorelai: I can't believe you won't switch bodies with me.

Rory: Forget it. Then I'd have to date Kirk.

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Lorelai: [Phone rings and Lorelai answers] Independence Inn

Emily: You should really identify yourself when you answer the phone at work.

Lorelai: Sorry, Independence Inn, major disappointment speaking. Better?

Emily: Yes, thank you.

___________________________________________________________________

Lorelai: God, I’m starved.

Rory: Think about something else.

Lorelai: Like what?

Rory: Something disgusting that will take your appetite away.

Lorelai: Ari Fleischer?

Richard: Ari Fleischer is our nation’s mouthpiece, young lady.

Lorelai: Officially not hungry now.

___________________________________________________________________

Emily: I've called several times the past few weeks and you've skillfully avoided every call.

Lorelai: No, that's not true. I've left messages on your machine.

Emily: Yes, messages. And then if I happened to pick up, you'd hang up. Or if the maid picked up, you'd ask for me, then claim you were driving through a tunnel so you might get cut off, and then you'd make garbling noises and hang up

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Atame: first thoughts (one day later)

I recently watched, at the recommendation of a friend, the MadTV mashup of Grey's Anatomy and House. The Greys' anatomy part of it was funny enough, but rather obvious (and let's face it, the show isn't exactly hard to mock) but there was a line that stuck. To paraphrase: Grey's Anatomy is a show written for women by women. House is a show written by men for women who like abusive men.

What does that make Atame? A movie written by a gay man for?

Not gay men exclusively, I'm fairly certain. Sure, the set design couldn't be more campy, but the central pairing couldn't be more heterosexual, and while I'm sure any gay men likes looking at Antoinio Banderas (so young here, so young...) as much as the next girl, I'm sure they're not the only target. But then, who is?

My dad liked it, but mostly for the style and photography: he thought the "message" (I highly doubt there is one intended) was too misogynist, as in his view the movie argued the way to make a woman love you was to hit her and tie me up. My mother (A "new conservative" according to some web test, though she vehemently denies it) liked it to, though she thought it was a little weird.

As for me? Well, what can I say, I have a huge crush on House.

I think that of the three early Almodovar films I've seen (the others being Matador and Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios), this might be my favorite. I like Mujeres a lot, but it does get so silly at the end that it kind of loses its heart, and in my eyes it is a little contemptuous of some of its characters. I loved Matador, but I'm not sure the conclusion worked. This film, while there are some clear weak spots to be found, enchanted me, maybe because it's so Hitchcockian, but at the same time so much more free and fun.

Hitchcock said something along the lines that our should film every love scene like a murder, and every murder like a love scene. In this film, likewise, it's never quite clear whether a scene will end in sex or death. In Matador, this was the point of the whole film, but in Atame, it's a little more subtle, and a lot more relatable.

The obvious Hitchcockian parralel to this film is of course another favorite of mine: Marnie. In both films, we have the damaged, fierce woman who a man with a violent streak tries to tame. Almodovar does Hitchcock one better here though: not only does the woman here get set free only to come back willingly, but it's even the case that when she finally gives in (and even somewhat before that) she's the one in control. Marnie is a very racy film, but it never dares to go that far, to transcend gender roles and expectations quite so much.

With Hitchcock films, I always get the feeling he must have been quite the kinky guy, but still repressed in a way (hey, he couldn't help it, he was british, after all). With Almodovar, I get the feeling he's not only fascinated by the kinky side of humanity, but that he also has a deep understanding of it.

As an aside: the tiny man, huge woman image he revisited in Hable Con Ella is also present here.

Whatever the case, I'm glad there are still more old films of his to discover (La ley del deseo, in particular, but also Tacones Lejanos (High Heels) and Carne Tremula), and that we can look forward to many of his more mature entries like Volver also.

First thoughts on the Prestige

(try to write something smarter and more insightful than just that you can't decide who's hotter, Bale or Jackman. You can do this, you've been pretending to be intellectual like, forever. Ok. Let's do this)

Remember how I mentioned ambivalence in the context of Marie Antoinette? Well, it's also what redeems this movie, it's refreshing to not be told who to root for (kind of like Heat, in that way, but even more so).

I did figure it out. Most of it, anyway. But there was much nice trickery. I have some questions, but they would involve spoilers, and more thought than I can muster right now.

Liked the jumping back and forth in time, I'm not sure it was entirely necessary, but the many, many, many doubling were cool, underlining the themes, too. Nolan is a guy with style.

Has there been a casting choice as brilliant as David Bowie as Nicola Tesla? Ever?

Magic in movies is tricky. After all, movies ARE a form of magic, and we're so used to distrusting what we see. Or actually, we're so used to accepting that we're being fooled, we're no longer looking for the trick. And even if we are: they're not secret, witness "the Matrix revisited" for instance. And even then, there were still real tricks: in the later movies, it just came out of the pc. When everything's possible, what's there left to marvel about?

Luckily, there are still illusionists like Michel Gondry around.

Anyway, scatterbrain, the verdict? Cool movie. Not sure much of it will linger though. Also: I should have seen this in the theatre. Some movies need a big screen. And I have always enjoyed a good show of lightning.

Just a last aside (after a list of many): it's funny that almost two centuries after Frankenstein, electricity still speaks to the imagination.

Detour - First thoughts

There's something about classic noir, and Detour is as classic as they get: cynically narrated from when it's already all gone to shit by an everyman, sad-sack, doomed protagonist. The booze is plentiful, the women are just as cynical as the men and much more manipulative, and boy do I love it.

That's probably why noir is my favorite genre. It's not so much that many of my favorite films are noirs: the selection at the top is a little eclectic. It's just that I haven't met a noir yet I didn't at least enjoy.

Detour's a perfect introduction. It's short (about 70 minutes, still impressive for a film shot in 6 days), the sets and dingy and the rear projection can either be called clunky or appropriately claustrophobic. And most important of all: it conveys the basic message of noir: life's a bitch, and then you die. Or, as it's said in this film: "That's life. Whichever way you turn, Fate sticks out a foot to trip you".

Sidenote: the origin of the forever bad endings was of course that under the production code, no crime could go unpunished: at the very least, a guilty conscience should drive the culprit crazy, like in "Scarlet Street". I'm generally opposed to censorship, but there really is something to be said for the production code: not just because it forced filmmakers to be creative (see: It happened one night) but also because without it, the cynical world of film noir would have been much different.

Most notable about this one? Aside from the fact that Tom Neal makes me think of Kurt Russell (and wouldn't he make a great noir hero?), I loved the character of Vera, "as rotten in the morning as she'd been the night before". Women in noirs are generally bad news, but at least they have a mind of their own.

(here's bright lights on the film)

Impossible Dreams (from a film buff)

I just had to post it: any film buffs out there owe it to themselves to download the latest episode of Escape Pod, and listen to the story. You won't regret it.

Marie Antoinette

It's been a while already since I saw Sofia Coppola's latest. More than a month, according to my filmlog. At the time, I didn't really know what I could say about it that hadn't already been said, in fact, I couldn't even quite tell who I sided with. But after reading this insightful defense of the "new mannerism" in the film and this Bright Lights article on the film as a fashion show (and this is, for once, not meant derogatively), I do suddenly feel inspired. And I'll try to restrict this inspiration to 500 words tops. Starting now.

I like to pose as an intellectual, but truth is, I'm quite shallow. I half wish there was a reverse-gender Beauty and the Geek so I could participate. Like most people, I'll pick up the gossip magazines when I'm at the dentists/barbers/wherever, even if I refuse to actually pay a single cent for the rags, and will vehemently deny even knowing what "Brangelina" and "TomKat" are (and btw, they should inflict some kind of horrendous torture on whoever started the name-meshing trend). As mentioned before, I love those novels with half-clad people on the cover, and though I draw the line at reality TV, I can't tear myself away from those MTV docs about star lifestyles.

At the same time, when it comes to actual art, I'm generally unmoved by whatever's just aesthetically pleasing. I might enjoy my low culture, but I can only appreciate high culture if there's something more to it that just beauty. That's for example why most paintings from the Renaissance leaves me rather cold, but I have a somewhat ridiculous indulgence for modern art. As long as it's doing something surprising, I'm interested, if not necessarily conquered.

This is also why I was wondering about what to think about Marie Antoinette: I didn't know whether I liked it only for it's sheer ingenuity or for something else. Until, that is, someone confronted me about liking this film while simultaneously dimissing 300. After all, he said, Marie Antoinette was just "300 for chicks", with shoes instead of swords, cake instead of blood. Weren't both films just as focussed on style over substance, on mood over meaning?

My answer (after some rumination, and lame protests about how 300 was nothing more than an endless, more or less live-action episode of Dragon Ball Z) was that there were two main differences between the two films: ambiguity, and a sense of self-relativation/irony.

See, one of the things I admire most about Marie Antoinette is not something Sofia Coppola did, but rather something she didn't do: pass judgment on Marie herself. She's been accused of being too kind to the reviled queen, but I don't think she is: the girl she puts on screen is flawed in many ways, just not pure evil like she's depicted in french history. The film can be interpreted both as a condemnation of her shalloweness and as a defence of her innocence. 300? Sparta, good, Iran, bad, pretty much sums it up.

That, and Coppola remembers never to take herself too seriously, and by this she reolutionarises the generally solemn tradition of period films. Among the shoes, there's a pair of sneakers: the shot is short and without emphasis, in fact, it's easy to miss, but if you do notice it it's a nice reminder that above all this is a version of a story without any ambition to depict the one and only truth.

And with that, I'm out of words.

Séverine: uncompromising?

The reason I watched Belle de Jour last Friday was because my father told me he thought Séverine should be on my list of uncompromising women. I was glad for the excuse, and admired the movie a lot. But while I think Deneuve's character is indeed strong and fascinating, is she really uncompromising?

Oh, she goes after her own desires, yes. She does not conform to society's norms, sure. But she wants to. What's more, (and worse), is that she doesn't take responsability for her actions, in fact claims that she's pushed by something beyond herself. This is not just because she relishes being out of control: it's because she cannot, even in the end, accept herself.

This is most clearly seen in the scene where she is confronted with Henri Husson, the man who gave her the address of the surprisingly fashionable brothel where she is now employed. At first, she blames him for leading her there, as if she had no say in it herself. Then, she says:

"Je suis perdue. Ça se passe malgré moi. Je ne peux pas résister. Je sais qu'un jour il faudra que j'expie pour tout ce que j'ai fait, mais sans ça je ne pourrais pas vivre."

(freely translated):

"I am lost. It happens in spite of myself. I cannot resist. I know one day I will have to atone for all that I've done, but without this I could not live."

The crux is in the sentence I italicized. She takes refuge in saying she simply cannot help herself. And that's why Séverine, while she is undoubtedly one of the most fascinating women ever put on screen, is not truly uncompromising.

First Reaction: El Laberinto del fauno

Wow, is this film brutal. Being punched in the stomach brutal. Despite myself, I'm too used to Hollywood conventions. I was scared, I was afraid (not the same thing), I was horrified, I cried, and yet I cannot help but describe the film as wonderful, as in, filled with wonder and promise and imagination and despite everything hope. Most amazing feat: there are many elements of outright fantasy, but the violence and pain and fear are more real than in many other movies. I don't remember the last time I cried so much at a movie. So happy I saw it on the big screen. But I can't recommend the experience to anyone.

One gripe: why the shot of Ofelia talking to empty space? Entirely uneccesary. Trust your audience! Ambiguity is a good thing. Will get back on this in contrast with Bunuel.

Note: as another revival attempt, and also as a kind of notebook for myself, I will henceforth (love that word) write a quick reaction to any new movie I see as soon as possible after seeing the movie. Uncensored by me, uncritical, it doesn't need to be more than 50 words but I need to write something, anything. I'm curious what it will yield: probably not coherence or correct grammar, possibly not even full sentences, but who knows, insight?