Nobody Knows Anything

One cinema visit this week marked with a *. It would seem that at last the post-Oscars movie drought is over and the summer tentpole madness can begin.

Batman (1989)

I’ve gone back and forth on this film ever since its first release when I thought it was a piece of overhyped garbage. Looked at again all these years later accompanied by Warner Bros’ first ever DTS track, has it improved any? I still don’t think the script is up to much, Jack Nicholson’s one liners are deeply inane, the much hyped giant Gotham City street set, built semi-permanently in Britain to service a host of sequels and then scrapped once Batman Returns (1992) - which I really like - was filmed in Hollywood, doesn’t look as good as the much smaller one Ridley Scott built for Blade Runner (1982), there’s a giant unacknowledged debt to the 40s retro look of Brazil (1985), the pre-CGI effects look more than a little quaint and not so hot, and the climax of the film at Gotham Cathedral looks like it was made up on the set by the cast and crew, because it was. So Batman is currently in the file marked not that great for me. I liked it more ten years ago. Hey ho.

In Bruges (2007) *

I was concerned that this would be a playwright’s attempt to better the opening 15 minutes of Pulp Fiction (1994) and he wouldn’t be up to the job. Thankfully, Martin McDonagh takes the subject matter of two hit men sentenced to a vacation in Bruges into a whole bunch of different and more interesting areas, in which he’s helped enormously by a trio of vastly talented actors (Brendan Gleeson, Ralph Fiennes and Colin Farrell), a game cast of supporting players and Herculean amounts of swearing, so much so that the title of the film probably was In Fucking Bruges, but they decided in the end not to go with that one. The big surprise of the film is Colin Farrell, who actually delivers an actual performance once he’s got some proper dialogue and character beats to get his teeth into. Farrell is so good in this film that you wonder whether it was a total waste of his time to have gone off to Hollywood in the first place and that he should perhaps have concentrated on theatre and cracking parts in British films as good as this one.

Three cinema visits this week, marked with a *.

World Trade Center (2006)

There’s a certain amount of reverence and respect accorded this film by American reviewers, whereas British reviewers have been keener to point out the film’s apparent shortcomings. There’s also a certain amount of surprise expressed by reviewers that this isn’t some crazy wacked-out conspiracy flick along the lines of the notoriously poor and ill-considered online documentary Loose Change. For someone like myself, who’s been following Stone’s films since the brilliant Salvador (1985), Stone overcomes the principal problem of inertia at the drama’s heart (two men pinned down under the rubble of the South Tower) through sheer filmmaking technique; 20 years ago, Stone used a similar methodology to bring Eric Bogosian’s one man show Talk Radio (1988) to the screen. And yes, Craig Armstrong’s music may be a touch too melancholy, the character of Dave Karnes seems a little too convenient, but, and it’s a big but, as the excellent documentaries on Disc 2 make all too clear, these events really happened, the reality was much worse than anything that could be depicted on film, and was it worth making this film just to give a taste of what it was like to be in the worst place in the world on September 11th 2001? Yes, it was. The highest compliment I can pay this film is that it is exactly as good as the Naudet Brothers’ 9/11 (2002).

No Country for Old Men (2007) *

I don’t personally think the Coen brothers have suffered a loss of form since O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000). I even liked The Ladykillers (2004) because I thought it was about time we had a comedy with some proper swearing in it. There is no denying though that this entirely unironic return to the dark Western noir world of Blood Simple (1983) is on an entirely different level of filmmaking. There are immaculately constructed suspense sequences that rank with the best of Hitchcock. There is a thoroughly unnerving turn from Javier Bardem as a black-clad psychopath and a neat appearance as a working class Texan housewife by the Scottish Kelly Macdonald. There are probably going to be awards as well.

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (2007) *

This film combines three of my favourite cinemagoing tropes in one: the dark vision of Tim Burton, musicals, and excessive gore. There are any number of over the top throat slashings in this film, all perfectly executed, and all different from one another. The posters for Planet of the Apes (2001) promised that Tim Burton dark vision thing, and instead, in what must have been Conceptual Mistake #1 on that project, Burton elected to shoot the entire movie in bright sunlight with no darkness. Big mistake. No such chances have been taken here: Fleet Street looks like a suburb of hell, grime, filth and smoke are everywhere and the phrase sepulchral gloom comes irresistibly to mind. Add in a pitch perfect Londoner’s accent from Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter as the Goth Queen of the pie shops (a close relative of Fight Club’s (1999) Marla Singer) and some tremendous music and lyrics from Stephen Sondheim and you have an entire package of bloody excess well worth surrendering to.

Cloverfield (2007) *

I must clearly not be as tuned in as I thought I was, because all of the alleged internet buzz around this film passed me completely by. Existing really as a sharp reprimand to the dreadful American remake of Godzilla (1998), the creators of this film are quite clearly saying, no, you fools, THIS is how you make a monster movie. Although the conceit of continuous filming in the face of any number of imminent and certain deaths does stretch credulity a little, for the most part this is an unnerving success that very satisfactorily leaves an awful lot unexplained. And it’s about damn time there was a mainstream popcorn movie that let the audience have a chance to fill in some of the gaps for themselves.

Flesh for Frankenstein (1973)

Oh if only Tartan had released it in 3-D so Udo Kier could be dangling chunks of liver in your living room. Filmed in Italy at Cinecittà just before Blood for Dracula (1973), this is a film both inspired and uninspired, both grotesque and irritating. Udo Kier’s endless barking gets on your nerves early, and he’s got a lot of exclaiming still to do as Baron Frankenstein, obsessed as he is with creating a new master race, obsessed as he is with noses, obsessed as he is with molesting the internal organs of a female zombie (Dalila Di Lazzaro) while impotently humping her, having already had sex with his sexually voracious sister (Monique Van Vooren), which has produced two young children who will carry on his work after his death, his liver impaled on a ten foot pole and dangling in your living room, in 3-D, if Tartan had released it that way. And so on. And so on. The BBFC’s continued attempts to cut this film over the decades look particularly childish now the film’s available uncut. There was a continuing lack of appreciation of the film’s absurdist tone over a period of thirty years; the film’s gore isn’t pleasant, but it isn’t realistic either, and it’s successfully drowned out by all of the amateurish performances and intentionally bad dialogue.

No cinema visits this week.

Avalon (2000)

This film may be too much of a secret. A lot of barriers have been placed in front of it to stop it appearing too commercial or mainstream. All of the dialogue is in Polish, all of the post-production was completed in Japan. It’s a beguiling mystery, a mannered reflection on the nature of games and reality, life as a game, the kind of film Andrei Tarkovsky might have made if he’d lived longer, lightened up a little, and bought a PlayStation. The director Mamoru Oshii is probably an unfamiliar name, but he’s the guy Jim Cameron and the Wachowski brothers look to for inspiration because they treasure his point of view.

Corpse Bride (2005)

The stop motion is almost too exquisite. The whole thing is a visual fest of design and innovation. Filmed alongside Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005), this is as pure as Tim Burton gets, a dark sensibility smuggled into a children’s film.

Tarzan (1999)

Disney seemed to have got the whole animation thing completely worked out here. The heavy duty implementation of the Deep Canvas software had allowed their 2D painters to paint backgrounds in 3D, and animators have always been able to move their characters through 3D space. It has catchy songs from Phil Collins in Peter Gabriel mode, a fantastic vocal performance from Minnie Driver that alone is worth the price of admission, and a Tarzan who actually seems to have been raised by apes, rather than selected to play the role because he won a muscle building contest. Yet, in a few short years, Disney would be firing animators and switching to CGI, having dropped the ball completely and seen Pixar pick it up and run with it, scoring touchdown after touchdown. You know, there is a reason they call these films animated classics, and it isn’t just empty marketing hyperbole.

The Apartment (1960)

When was the last time a Hollywood actor played as weak and passive as Jack Lemmon does in this Billy Wilder film? As the story proceeds, you find yourself willing him to finally take a stand, admit his love for Miss Kubelik, and tell his boss to take his job and shove it. Billy Wilder, knowing this is what we want, knowing this is what Lubitsch would do, denies us this for as long as he can.

Eyes Wide Shut (1999)

The majority of Americans who’ve seen this film have not of course seen exactly what Stanley Kubrick wanted them to see, which is pretty ironic given the film’s title. During the party scene at the mansion, a number of CGI figures were superimposed over some of the more, shall we say, athletic performances. This, as Roger Ebert and others have pointed out, is a desecration of Stanley Kubrick’s work, memory, and reputation. The film runs two and a half hours and could probably have benefited from the removal of a good twenty minutes or so. The pace would then be not quite as glacial as it is. But Kubrick died and it was not to be. A lot of people concentrate on how good Nicole Kidman is in this film (and it’s damned difficult to take your eyes off her; back to the title again) but I think Tom Cruise actually delivers as well, it’s some of his best work on film. Arthur Schnitzler’s original novel Traumnovelle appeared in the 1920s alongside the work of his Viennese compatriot, Sigmund Freud, though their views on sexuality are quite different. In fact, this film has more in common with Fight Club (1999) than might first appear. It too is playing with fantasy and reality. After all, how much of what happens to Bill Harford on his night on the town is a male fantasy? How much has he been pushed into imagining/living these situations by his reaction to his wife’s female fantasy? The female fantasy that could have so easily ruined all of their lives if enacted in reality, just as the male fantasy threatens to do.

The Proposition (2005)

It’s taken him twenty years but director John Hillcoat has finally made a good film, and it’s an Australian Western. Discovering a pretty much untapped resource is a film director’s dream, and here Hillcoat has brought to life a forgotten episode in Australia’s history. Of course, it had been deliberately forgotten. Although Nick Cave’s script is fiction, a lot of the darkest deeds contained in his screenplay are, as they say, based on true events. The Wild West in America was a fairly out there place, but the real Wild West in Australia was every bit as crazy as a Spaghetti Western like Django (1966) or the films of Sergio Corbucci.

Oh dear, three months in, and I’m already adjusting my DVD watching so as to make a nicer set of movies to write about. See next week, if things work out.

Trading Places (1983)

This is why I’ll never make a killing on the stock market; I flat out just don’t understand the commodity trading scenes in this film. It’s a reminder of a lot of things, of a time when John Landis could still direct, and Eddie Murphy could still be funny, and American film comedy could still have something to say.

Showgirls (1995)

By now, I’ve clearly gone insane. I spent all my time talking about Pandora’s Box last week talking about Showgirls, and this week I’m gonna spend all my time talking about Showgirls talking about Pandora’s Box (sort of). Taking my cue from the Pandora’s Box commentary track from academics Thomas Elsaesser and Mary Ann Doane, here are some very odd thoughts about Showgirls that link the film to Pandora’s Box more than they should. Consider the film as a fetishistic object. Consider the following as an allegory of cinema: the prostitute, the pimp and the client standing for the leading actress, the director and the spectator. These themes can be found in the films of Godard and Fassbinder, especially in films concerning the spectacle of women. And Showgirls is about nothing else than the spectacle of women. It all fits. Nomi Malone is clearly the prostitute figure at the heart of the film, who denies that she’s a prostitute at the same time as she exploits her body to get ahead; the late plot detail that she’s been arrested for soliciting earlier in her life is not much of a surprise. Nomi is surrounded by pimps, men who exploit her and encourage her to exploit herself: the guy in the pickup truck at the start, the boss of the Cheetah, the guy at the disco, all of the men at the Tangiers, and the rock star who rapes her friend. Nomi is also surrounded by clients who watch her and pay for her services, whether with money or employment; it starts on stage at the Cheetah, continues in the lap dancing back room, and finishes on the stage of the Tangiers. And somewhat inevitably, this plays into the subject of the film itself. A naive and inexperienced actress, Elizabeth Berkeley, has been persuaded into exposing more of herself than perhaps she should have done by a couple of pimps: Joe Eszterhas and Paul Verhoeven, all for the supposed delight of anyone who’s ever watched Showgirls. The exploitation of Nomi is the exploitation of Elizabeth, so how complicit is the viewer of the film in this exploitation?

All That Jazz (1979)

There was a fair amount of accusations of pretentiousness levelled at this film when it first appeared and did all those things that Hollywood would prefer American movies don’t do: win the Palme d’Or at Cannes, excoriate the whole business that is show, reveal that the man behind the curtain isn’t a wizard but a painfully flawed human being after all. And yet All That Jazz is one of those films that’s improved over the years like a fine wine. Bob Fosse only directed five films, but all of them are great, and I guess that isn’t so bad.

Chicago (2002)

Rob Marshall’s directed two, and nobody has anything good to say about Memoirs of a Geisha. It is odd that Chicago has the structure it has, in which the musical numbers all take the form of dreams or nightmares (except perhaps the last number). It’s almost as if Harvey Weinstein had a backup plan in case the film didn’t work for an audience: Chicago the musical without the songs.

Ed Wood (1994)

How fabulous is this film? Before the Academy recognised Johnny Depp, I already knew he was one of the best actors of his generation. As Joel Schumacher and Michael Bay continue to prove, all you need to make a bad film is a total lack of talent. Ed Wood’s films were terrible, of course, but at least they didn’t drain the resources of Hollywood and clog the multiplexes of the world to keep the studio limping on for another year.

Sunset Blvd. (1950)

So here is the flip to David Lynch’s Mulholland Dr. (2001). Norma Desmond is really creepy and it’s great to see an actress really commit to playing completely unhinged on the big screen. This is a film about what happens when the studios don’t want you anymore because there’s always someone younger and hungrier waiting to push you down the stairs backstage and take your place in the show. This is a film about what the show does to you, and what’s left when there’s no one remaining to worship your image any longer.