I know you want me to say the new DVD pick of the week is Walk The Line, which was released this morning, but that just wouldn't be like me, and since I don't think Reese has done much good since Freeway it shall certainly not take this position here. I have not seen the film, though I probably will once my Movie Rental punch card has been filled (therefore I will not have to pay for it). Come to think of it, it's been even longer since Juaqin has done anything good, but ahhhh... remember To Die For?

No, today's recommendation is a reserved one, stemming more from my desire to fantastically violate Kevin Bacon than from the merit of the actual film. The film in question is Atom Egoyan's most recent offering Where The Truth Lies. It's not great, but it's very pretty and Kevin Bacon is very creepy in that sexy Willem Dafoe sort of way. And he's naked a lot. But, if you're like me, and all you want to do is look at Kevin Bacon fucking, need I remind you of a little cinematic gem called Wild Things?

Joyeux Noel finally finds its theatrical release in the United States. But I mean really, couldn't they just sit on this one until vraiment noel? This film was ALL OVER France when I was there last November. It is supposed to be quite a good little film. Maybe after this Friday, you may find a review of it here.

And because of my double feature last night, the already on DVD pick of the week is none other than Johnny Guitar which Amazon is listing as Out Of Print. Hopefully your local videostore stocked it before this travesty occurred. It might be your only chance to see Joan Crawford in drag... wait, what am I saying? She's always in some sort of drag.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 02:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

In screenwriting, there are times when a writer (presumably young, but not exclusively) has created such a consistent fictive world that his/her eyes shine with excitement and wonder. The wonder contained in this sparkle is the possibility of this infinite world and its potential for screen adaptation. A screenplay is, however, finite, and this excited writer must also have the gumption and skill to hone this world down to a discernible 120 page script, 360 if we're talking a trilogy (which we've been talking a lot, lately). But that first screenplay must be so consistent, so taut, so refined that it leaves the viewer rapt for the sequel with a great understanding - not only of this fictive world - but of those narratives which are to come. This is something that the first Matrix film achieved, and quite well, I might add. Yet dramatic tension is something that the following two films lacked, and though this critic did not see them, it is my understanding that the movies became too comfortable with their fan following. The Lord Of The Rings movies worked in this regard. They were consistent worlds and well written scripts.

In adapting Sergei Lukyanenko's novel, Nochnoi Dozor(Night Watch), screenwriters Laeta Kalogridis and Timur Bekmambetov (who also took the director's seat) leave some very key elements on the wayside in their cinematic interpretation of the novel. One leaves Night Watch rather confused as to what just happened. The story is told in a rather straightforward fashion: After a truce between Darkness and Light, the former helms a Day Watch and the latter a Night Watch to ensure neither meddles with the human race. On a routine mission, Anton, one of the night watch (i.e. a good guy), discovers the son he had attempted to abort(supernaturally, of course) some 12 years ago. He also discovers a woman who harbors a vortex which spells Armageddon. He must save his son from a vampire with a taste for revenge and undo the curse that has opened the vortex within the unsuspecting woman - with Moscow plunged into a blackout, no less. But what of this alternate dimension called "The Gloom?" Regarding this, and various other plot flourishes, as a viewer, we are left completely in the dark.

The film was a tremendous success in Russia and has been picked up by Fox Searchlight Pictures with the intent of a grand theatrical distribution. In order to aide the videogaming culture's acceptance of the film, the studio experimented with new methods of subtitling. "Come to me" bleeds red and then evaporates on screen. During conversations, the respective dialogue appears beside its speaker. This approach, which could very easily have been obvious or overtly catering (though, at times, it is both of these) was a rather refreshing reconsideration of a pesky little necessity. The main fault of the film, again, lay in its inconsistencies. And I'm talking screenplay, here. For instance, Anton experiences premonitions. This is how he knows he is an "Other." We never experience any of these said premonitions until(perhaps) the last ten minutes of the film. To introduce these visions so late in the game disrupts the narrative flow of the film, leaving what is spoken somewhat divorced from what is shown. This is one example in many.

The film's visual style is rather nice, though not as original or as gleefully fun as something like last year's Transporter 2. Likewise, the action choreography leaves a little to be desired. When a character lifts a truck going full speed with one hand and flips it, on course in front of him, you want it to be just a little more thrilling than it is in actuality. The most effective element of the film is its recognition of a vast history of national folklore which defines Russian culture. As you sit there, watching powerplants explode because of some unattended sausages and Jeunet et Caro like chain of events sequences transpire under a murder of crows, you realize that something like The Matrix could not touch the weight of the film because of its lack of cultural lineage. As a young nation, America lacks the history of lore and storytelling that makes the best moments of Night Watch a most thrilling viewing. If you are in the mood for a decadent Sci - Fest that will keep you coming back for the next couple of years, by all means. If films like The Matrix or Underworld get you hot under the collar, than this one's for you. Everyone else, I think you can wait to on demand it.

And lastly, I would like to have a moment of silence for Don Knotts who died on the 24th of Lung Cancer.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 11:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So, actor Sam Riley has been cast by Anton Corbijn as Ian Curtis in the forthcoming biopic Control. The grapevine has Samantha Mortan cast as Deborah Curtis. Riley is in the Leeds band, 10,000 Things. This (fortunately) dispels the notions that Jude Law was to play Curtis - this rumor is an old one, and most unlikely at best. Thank god we don't have to laugh our way through that one. Now, this could almost be a respectable production, though, admittedly, I know very little of these 10,000 Things. But hey, this is a film site, NOT a music one. Now we can pour all of our suffering into watching Nicole Kidman do her best (which is inevitably the worst) Diane Arbus in Fur.

Why, God, why?

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 11:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I rented a screener copy of The Beat My Heart Skipped a few months ago (which is techinically illegal on the part of the rental store, but alas...). It is a French remake of the 1978 film Fingers starring Harvey Keitel. However, director Jacques Audiard infuses the story with the requisite spunk to distinguish it apart from its origine so as to not resemble all of these current Hollywood facsimiles. Sometimes, when you watch a film, you know, straight off the bat, you are going to like it. An old instructor of mine once argued that you can tell with every film five minutes in if you are going to like it. I don't necessarily agree with that, but one minute into De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté (which litterally translates to My Heart Stopped Beating) I was hooked.There's something intentionally small about the movie's intentions that allow it to swell from whisper to scream(a thing the film seldom does), from mise en scene to melodramatic swooping cinematography without, well... missing a beat.

The film begins with a personal anecdote about the mental decline of ones father. From the camera's focus, it is apparent that this confession does not come from our protagonist, but the tone created here, is carried throughout the film. That Thomas (an alarmingly convincing and devastatingly beautiful Roman Duris) labors to become a concert pianist is not considered with the superfluous brevity that a film like Hillary and Jackie (which I have admittedly not seen, but I assume) treats this matter as life or death without acknowledgingng its "drop in the bucket" actuality. Also of little significance is Thomas' current gig as a "real estate hooligan", infesting rats in homes and scaring tenants late with the rent. The first forty minutes of the film has an impressive amount of exuberance and though this does die down, the narrative works well to propel you ahead. The film never lags or overly poeticizes its contents. With great kudos to Duris, who truly steals the show (and is hot as fuck), this is the real treat of the film. In a time when everything has 42 ounces of schmaltz poured all over it, when a film like De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté comes along, it truly makes you appreciate honesty in cinema. Since Wellspring has finally sorted out the travesty that is the film's home distribution (apparently they sent every store in the country screeners instead of rental copies) I would certainly recommend checking this one out. Oh, and be sure to look for the naked pictures of Duris which are circulating on the internet. Like here.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 07:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Horror movies have seen better days. Now, I realize, going to the theaters in the early months of the year is an extraordinary gamble. I mean, what do we have to choose from right now? Pink Panther? Curious George? Big Mama's House 2? Of course, with the genre trend booming, we have our pick of countless brainless horror sequels and remakes, which sadly make it to the top-ten box office place; sometimes even the top three. When A Stranger Calls is one such remake. Starring Camilla Belle, who looks like the love child of Selma Blair and Britney Spears - with a name to match - the film focuses on the first twenty minutes of the original (which is really all that anyone remembers, anyway). Now, any horrorite might think, goodie, extending the chase, fight, cat and mouse for the entire movie could be fun. Yeah, right. No matter how many times I am reminded, I seem to always forget that the horror industry is a very Catholic industry. We must endure the most trivial plot and character development for the five minutes of promised delivery of killer, stalk, slash, blind goreness which was all but eradicated as I noticed the PG-13 rating as the ticket tearer tore my ticket.

And sure enough, all that When A Stranger Calls delivers are cats running through the dark, birds flying around loudly (like the "rats" in The Exorcist), phones ringing at the most silent moment. When the frightening iconic moment occurs, ("We've traced the calls, they're coming from inside the house!") it's been so parodied and expanded upon, we realize, we're so beyond that as viewers. Or so I'd like to hope. People in the US are eating up When a Stranger Calls. This film was one of the most boring, obvious, psuedo-porno's I've ever seen. It's full of popsicle sucking and wet t-shirts, girls walking through the windy dark trail, and though the music swells, you know nothing will be waiting for her at the end of the trail but a black cat or ice cubes clunking in the freezer. Eventually, you realize that, until the last five minutes, nothing is going to happen, save birdies and kitties going bump in the night. Even when the killer comes, it is a PG-13 movie. Nothing worthy of note happens. A very brief chase sequence is thwarted by the POLICE! Not even a dramatic end meets our killer, which allows for a direct DePalma rip-off to close the film. This is the kind of film that they were making fun of in the nineties, yet the short attention span of the general public has ensured another generation of that exact same stuff pornographied, and all we can do is sit back and (not?) watch as the studios recycle the films that we're already dated to begin with.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 11:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The first line of Gregg Araki's The Doom Generation is "fuck." Our more than caustic teenage protagonist has lost her skull lighter. This is only, of course, after the soundtrack has informed us that "God is dead and no one cares." "Welcome to Hell" reads a sign backed with actual flames inside (what we can only surmise from the music) a hardcore club. And this is the first ten seconds. That The Doom Generation never relents from this onslaught of brash imagery is its greatest strength, yet this trait would be nothing without Araki's signature mix of appreciation and parody. It is not entirely without adoration (or sensitivity) that Araki alienates his teens.

As the second part of the "Teen Apocalypse Trilogy," The Doom Generation is perhaps his most commercial venture - relying on its brazen packaging to ensure video store distribution (which is how I first encountered it in the mid nineties with a little yellow stickie on the box that said "You Must Be Eighteen Years or Older to Rent this Film!" I was not, so of course I did - frequently! I knew the owners). It's commercial prospects were only helped by its moniker of "A Heterosexual Film by Gregg Araki." Araki's prior ventures were the forlorn homo pics The Living End ("an Irresponsible Movie by Gregg Araki") and Totally F***ed Up ("Another Homo Movie by Gregg Araki"). However, apart from its claims, The Doom Generation is anything but heterosexual. Araki uses the premise of a heterosexual film to allow a more surpressed element of desire to invade the film. The all consuming quest for love that generally rules Araki's (more romantic) teenage characters is further complicated by the fact that, though the greatest chemistry and the greatest potential for honesty arises from the unrequited attraction between the two male leads, their previously stated heterosexuality prevents them from acting upon their obvious impulses. These impulses seem an impossibility as the characters (or perhaps just the James Duvall character) are either too fucked up or stupid to realize its presence. Their numbness or complacency keeps them from actualizing that which they most desire.

To call the film misunderstood is an understatement. It seems that because the film's protagonists appear numb and complacent, viewers perpetually read the film as such, when it functions more as a document of generational temperament. Araki, ever part of the (counter?)culture he represents, recognizes its faults, but does not preach against it so harshly as to completely alienate his figures. (This is an approach that probably best worked in his as-of-yet unreleased film Three Bewildered People in the Night which removed violence from the plot to present a more mundane - and more naturalistic - narrative concerning entirely-too-heady artists and the anguish their artistry causes.) To create a more polarized world in which his "doomed" generation exists metaphorically, Araki relies on midnight movie style acting. His teenagers are not supposed to represent real characters. Even their names are metaphoric: Xavier Red, Jordan White, Amy Blue. By using cardboard actors (INTENTIONALLY! It always shocks me when people respond to the bad acting as though it was not intentional. One must wonder if they have never seen camp or midnight movie before. The bad acting in Araki's films is usually exceptionally good.) Araki's figures embody a generalized role within the culture he represents. When Amy starts the film off with her, "fuck," it is a delivered not from a girl, but an entire generation. It is the anthem of Araki's teenagers - from soundtrack to dialogue. In an act to better drive this point home, Araki uses completely recognizable personalities (either culturally specific to that moment in time or to the childhood of these teenagers) to man the convenience stores (Perry Farrell, Heidi Fleiss, Margaret Cho), fast food chains and bars(Matthew from Herbie the Love Bug, Darcy from Married... With Children). Even the assailants are played by two huge indie deities of the nineties Parker Posey and Skinny Puppy

It almost goes without saying that Araki's world is hugely regional, as well. When discussing their parents, Jordan claims, "My parents live in Encino." Any further description in Araki's world is superfluous. Encino represents a lifestyle and a whole world of codes completely divorced from the sensibility of Araki's teenagers (when in fact, most of the characters would probably come from such places). The lost souls for the film wander throughout Lost Angeles trying to escape what made them. Yet, outside of this context, they would lose their validity. Every set stylization (as they really are quite brilliant here) isolates them. Every fast food shop (Carnoburger!) and Quickimart are so hopelessly Los Angeles - something Araki captures to a tee. The Doom Generation only gets better with age. It is just as good as when I saw it when I was young. Better, in fact, because the irony that many people often mistake for contempt in Araki's films is so honest and endearing. For people who are becoming familiar to Araki's cannon through Mysterious Skin this is a harsh and frightening world, but it is a far more consistent one than is present in Skin and, in my very humble opinion, a far better movie.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 01:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)