Today FINALLY saw the DVD of Fassbinder's perhaps first quintessential film, Why Does Herr R. Run Amok. Yes it is a mouthfull, but it is also a brilliant and obliterating. The premise is one which I am certain many can relate to, a man (herr R, of course) slowly becomes so tired by the opressive monotony that is 9-5 life that, in the final crippling moments of the film... well, I won't give it away. It is a slow film, but ultimately rewarding. A could not recommend it more highly. It has been out of print for a considerable amount of time, and though I have not yet had the pleasure of viewing this particular transfer, I strongly urge you to rent it.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 03:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Okay, with my ardor for absurd action films, I don't know how I let three years transpire between the release of and my partaking in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. If you have not had the pleasure, allow me to be perhaps the first to inform you that it is WONDERFUL! Celebrity cameos abound(really, they pull everyone out of the woodwork - from Eric Bagosian to Jaclyn Smith, Carrie Fischer to Matt LeBlanc), the film finds its greatness in the fact that never, for a second does it take itself seriously. Instead its all wet T-shirts and plummeting helicopters, karate chops and bucking brontoes. Of course it helps that the arch villain is played by the exceptionally trashy (though, for that there need be no acting) Demi Moore, who had EVERTHING done for the film. Watching her writhe and wriggle her too-buffed, plasticine body is far more frightening than any horror film I have seen this year. The explosions and bad CGI are so bad they're great, the stunts so absurd they can do nothing but work. The only flaw in the film is Burney Mack who is so unfunny it hurts. But modern action could learn a lesson or 8 from this and the somewhat similar Transporter 2. Certainly the atrocious X-Men: The Last Stand could have had a little bit more fun with itself - instead of just being horrible. Might I, instead, recommend curling up with this one. It's really a hell of a lot more fun. And really, isn't that the point?

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 10:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Back in 2000, when X-Men was released, people were worried that one of the best comics with valid social concerns would come out looking like Supergirl. Of course they were excited, too. And that excitement is what will bring people into the theaters to see the third installation in the franchise. As they staved off mediocrity with the first two features, two films which resonated with contemporary social parallels and cultural concerns that made them very valid, the third installment perhaps prophetically titled X-Men: The Last Stand succumbs to the action fiasco that threatened to devour the first two.

What this film ends up doing is set the stage for an X-Men 4 where they won't have to pay so many big stars as, yes, the rumors are true, there are deaths. I won't say who, but in the trajectory of the film, they arrive entirely too soon to have any real emotional impact on us, leaving a mostly new stock of American Idol-esque X-teens. As can perhaps be gleaned by the comparison, none of these newbies have any sort of charisma. Charisma is the last thing on Brett Ratner's mind. Instead, it reads something like this: "Blow shit up! Explosions! Explosions!" And not in a good way. Previous destructive exploits yielded giddy pleasure where these just like fire for fire. If there's no plausibility in the film (and believe me, in this film it is a dirty word) than there are no consequences for any of the explosive action.

The film has entirely too many characters, and Ratner's claim to fame, the Rush Hour movies, are so duo heavy that an ensemble crew goes entirely to waste on him. None of the potentially fantastic new characters are given their moment in the sun - many of the figures on those poorly designed billboards which cover the city have 5 lines of dialogue, tops. Choosing to focus on Halle Berry doesn't help. Even when she's shooting bolts of lightning out of her fingertips, she's boring. Kelsey Gramer's Beast is also quite dull - again, because of this disdain for any plausible storylines. He is meant to be a political representative, but you never for a moment believe that a culture so mutant phobic would take advice from a bellowing furry blue beast.

The script is a succession of "wouldn't it be cool if..."s all threaded together with a very weak storyline. Everything moves along entirely too quickly and, similar to the would-be-critical plot of this year's Ultraviolet, the film never allows its audience to think about the terms of its claims. The premise is ponder worthy, surely. If there was a cure for difference, would you take it? But you can't see through the smoke of all the explosions long enough to think about much of anything. The rest is all parlor tricks. Those slight, cheap visual puns which make an audience snicker once, but leave a great lot to be desired. There's a scene where Magneto fantastically moves the Golden Gate bridge. When all is done, the couple in the car in front of him locks their doors. He shoots them a knowing look. The audience laughs. Snore.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 10:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Oh the seventies. While watching the sexploitative trash fest Double Agent 73 which stars the infamous (and ever-so-aptly named) Chesty Morgan, I realized the (pardon the pun) enormous difference between sex now and sex then. When we first see Morgan, she is sunning herself on a well needed vacation. The camera pans down her body and cellulite and slight bruises pepper her stems. Morgan was a sex symbol, of this I have no doubt, yet in this day and age, one slight glimpse at imperfection can make the most headstrong pecker wither. And imperfections are abound in this film. It's one of those shoddily done productions that may only flourish when wearing cult goggles. For Chesty may have the bosoms, but the talent is completely absent. She has one expression for everything and a voice which I am thoroughly convinced is not hers. The plotline concerns an espionage plot which finds a hidden camera inserted in one of Morgan's ample bosoms. This, of course, creates a situation in which Morgan can remove her clothes as frequently as is humanly possible. To watch her clasp at her breast and the completely unconvincing camera flash ('just where does that come from?' one wonders). But wonder one mustn't. This is the sort of film where you just sit back and enjoy the cleavage. And the last shot is truly worth it. Without giving much away, it involves tits, of course, and an airplane. Now that's something you don't hear everyday.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 01:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Again, hating to allow music to influence a film site, it is not without reservation that I unreservedly celebrate the new... rather, first ever live DVD released by P J Harvey. Now, if you take a moment to think about how many Divas of her stature have released live DVDs in the double digits, I think we may bestow a considerable amount of praise on Ms. Harvey's restraint. We'll see if the DVD's any good. The tour, which I saw more times than I'd care to admit to, found Harvey in top form with a spunky burst of rock and vigor. In either case, On Tour: Please Leave Quietly is delightfully priced at $16.98 (though most retailers are carrying it for considerably less).

In the realm of disrespect, we find Miss Huffman strutting her "womanly" stuff on the changing cover of the DVD for Transamerica which lands on the shelf today. It's none-too-surprising that the film which, at the time, I deemed "Tranny tunes" would have an equally as obnoxious cover.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 02:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I believe Neil Jordan's newest offering, Breakfast On Pluto was to be his reintroduction to the (arthouse) mainstream. It's been 6 long years since America has indulged and even longer since it has enjoyed. The End Of The Affair was the last film to garner wide distribution (and oscar attention) despite (or perhaps because of) its limp melodramatics. I still find it surprising that the Crying Game was so widely celebrated. Of course the script is flawless, the acting stellar (well, mostly) and the direction tight as can be. Perhaps the Dill caharcter was just so universally empathetic that people across America were able to deal with a few little "details, honey. Details." Certainly Jordan took this success into consideration when making Pluto. It's very familiar territory afterall. Trannies, nightclubs, Irish internal conflict, Stephen Rea. Only this time, Jordan is less concerned with making us understand than making us laugh, then cry...then laugh...then cry...

This would-be complex world is so caught up in being complex and binary (bitter/sweet, tender/violent) that it sometimes forgets to just BE. The world stands like a nostalgic technocolored Disneyland - all of the buildings and characters flat and propped up on two by fours, like the face of some palace in an unnamed studio backlot. As the film is based on a book, of what I am guessing would have about 700 pages, the characters come and go in quick sound-byte styled snippets, firmly imposed by chapter intertitles. This prevents any sort of relatability to the characters - particularly our protagonist, Kitten.

I would like to say Pluto is not worth the effort, but that's not quite true. Though, I don't think I would recommend the film to anyone who is not already interested in seeing it. Your ability to stick it out is essential here.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 12:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So, in addition to acting in the new David Cronenberg film alongside Viggo Mortensen, Watts will also be playing Anna in Michael Haneke's own remake of his film which was just recently released on DVD Funny Games. You can read more about this travesty here. Haneke had been talking about American offers to remake Funny Games for some time now, though it is something I never thought would come to fruition. It is something that sounds so antithetical to the premise of the film which is a theoretical horror film which implicates the viewer very strongly in the on screen horrors. Thanks to Joe for the heads up.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 09:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

According to various websites, the forthcoming remake of Nicholas Roeg's masterpiece Don't Look Now is to be penned by World Trade Center's Andrea Berloff. The producers are claiming to have done away with the blade wielding midget who inspired so much fear (and was really the best part of the original) because it's not "contemporary" enough. What, are they going to replace her with a CGI dead girl whose long wet black hair covers her face and decays when you touch her. To further the horrors, Telegraph reports that potential star include Russell Crowe, Cate Blanchett, Naomi Watts, Julia Roberts and Clive Owen. The new version will also be "sexier." The film will take place during the summer because, well, summer's sexier. How anyone could make a film more erotic, let alone a single scene which radiates such steaming eroticism than the original sex scene between Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland is completely unbelievable, especially considering it could feature Julia Roberts. They'll be writing more sex into it. Absolutely no one involved in the first Don't Look Now is remotely interested in the projects. DuMaurier's (who wrote the short story on which the film was based) daughter called the remake "pointless." You can say that again

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 11:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

In select theaters, Cineastes are thrilled to welcome Jean Pierre Melville's Franco Noir ThrillerArmy of Shadows. It is the first time the film has come to the United States in any form and is being universally celebrated. So, perhaps instead of filling Tom Hanks' wallet this weekend, might I suggest something decidedly more French than Audrey Tautou who is about as French as Halle Berry is black. Also, Olivier Assayas' Clean is released in LA this weekend to wonderful reviews.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 11:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Michael Haneke is a man whom few Americans know by name, yet his impeccible cinema should garner far more respect that it does receive. The director of the dubioius films The Piano Teacher and Caché, Haneke's world is cold and scrutinous. Today sees the release of 4 of his earlier films, including the hitherto unavailable emotional glacation trilogy. Sadly, Kino did not see fit to put them all out in one slightly more economically feasible box set, but you can now purchase The Seventh Continent, Benny's Video, 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance and Funny Games, or for god's sake, at least rent them. You won't be sorry. A little disturbed perhaps, but not sorry.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 04:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So, I finally watched The Woodsman. It's a decent film, made better by Bacon's rather compelling performance. Though, here, the importance lies more in the age that has stained the mug we know from the sunnier glory days of movies like Footloose. Age has weathered the rambunctiousness down to a web of sadness and weariness that stretches over his countenance. Like Bill Murray in last year's Broken Flowers, age has a great deal to do with the potency of his performance (and The Woodsman is a character piece, first and foremost), but it is not everything here. At times surprising, at times cliché, the film presents a (mostly) compelling cast of recognizables in delectibly mundane roles, Benjamin Bratt (go figure) certainly being the worst of the bunch. If there is any moment out of character with the rest of the film, it is when Bratt loses his cool on Bacon's Walter, grabbing him by the collar and cursing at his "disease." The rest is a moody, rather well considered piece of cinema(yet I'll cherish the day when a film like this comes along without "gritty," being its primary descriptive term). A majority of the film rests in the most minute details - and it is these moments that are perhaps the most overlooked in the film's actor-focused praise - for instance, Kyra Sedgewick lighting a half smoked cigarette. This is a moment so undeniably true to her character, yet so easily overlooked, you realize this is a director who truly cares for her craft. That said, I probably won't remember much about The Woodsman next year(unlike the similarly themed masterpiece, Clean Shaven, a film I will never forget), but the film's subtle considerations of light and its muted undercurrent of bird imagery, though somewhat trite, allows the film a little breathing room to be about just what it should, the small quiet moments, trapped alone in the house, when our worst fears come, not like CGI Boogeymen from the closet, but in the shape of small, nagging urges. It is those desires that hold the greatest potential for self destruction. Not meteors falling from the sky, as Hollywood would have you believe.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 05:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, might I recommend the classic film Morocco. The film has been written about repeatedly for a diverse number of reasons. It was Dietrich's first American film (2nd with the inimitable Josef Von Sternberg). The pair were shipped straight to Hollywood as a package due to the success of his German film (making a wise decision to make two cuts on the film in English and in German) The Blue Angel - from which Dietrich's most famous song, 'Falling In Love Again' was taken. Morocco does not have the sheer decadence of their later collaborations (see The Devil is a Woman or The Scarlet Empress) but there is a tumultuous eroticism which is unparalleled even to this day. Dietrich's infamous drag act, flirting with a girl whilst donning a tuxedo heated many a colar for men and women alike. Remember, this was just at the invent of the talky, and though Dietrich is her most feminine in this film, due to her thick Bavarian dialect, she is unmistably "other." It also proves what an absolute looker Gary Cooper was. As the irideemably sexy Légionnaire Tom Brown, Cooper is a great counter for Dietrich. The Direction is unusually tight for V.S. who, though meticulous, would not put as much emphasis on things like sound in his later films. The final moments betray the entire film's brilliance. Using sound, V.S. undercuts the traditional Hollywood ending, providing a more ominous resolution. Morocco is just one of the 5 films included in the recently released (and reasonably priced)Marlene Dietrich Glamor Collection. Best enjoyed with this.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 12:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last night, inspired by a 2004 performance I caught on You Tube of Slave To The Rhythm, I watched Grace Jones' One Man Show. It's a video that's far more concept than concert, and all the better for it. Taking cues from Bowie and Kraftwerk, Jones' performance is just that. Jones is no stranger to performance. It could easily be claimed that her whole life is one big performance. She certainly still keeps the headlines busy - slapping train station attendants and baring her breasts at Disneyworld. A One Man Show coincided with the release of Jones' Nightclubbing LP which contained her biggest hit, 'Pull Up To The Bumper.' Still collaborating with her paramour/stylist, Jean-Paul Goude, Jones' assembled the show as a free flowing set of performance pieces. Though I am certainly no expert when it comes to theatrical performance, Camp gesture and theoretic analysis are certainly my fortay, and these are what left me slack-jawed last night, only to hit play again and experience that whole thing once more. I have always adored Grace Jones, and this is why. There are no easy answers in her self (which I present here as standing for her music, the performance of her persona and her film roles - which, more often than not, are an extension of that persona). Jones refuses to abide by any typical moniker (perhaps other than crazy) making her one of the most complexly created media personalities of our time. It is rumored that a comeback is in the works. Please, Grace is just what this world needs.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 01:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

As some of you may know, the director of Mayor of the Sunset Strip and Man from the Elysian Fields is directing a film called Factory Girl about, you guessed it, Edie Sedgwick. That explains all of those barely-post-pubescent girls traipsing about in Ciao Manhattan! indie-t's. Cast to play Sedgwick is Jude Law paramour Sienna Miller who makes a just o.k. Edie. But Momento's Guy Pearce as Warhol appears to be an absolute tragedy. The whole thing has looked a mess from the get-go and the supreme icing on the cake was casting the irritating emo band Weezer as the legendary Velvet Underground. That's enough to make Sterling Morrison roll over in his grave for sure. Oh, and just to ensure its badness, director Hickenlooper has made it publicly clear that he has not read the Edie bio. What, is he gonna channel his inner Edie?

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 11:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Yesterday, I did the unthinkable. I attended a matinee screening (so as to not let those scientologists get all of my money) of Mission Impossible 3. The film was just what it needed to be. It was a fast burst of adrenaline. It was an around the world sweeping emotional fiasco. Our hardly fleshed out crew of ethnically diverse Impossible missionaries jump from Berlin to the Vatican to Shanghai. Phillip Seymore Hoffman was fine as the baddie, though he could have been a bit more bad. The most fun, however, was watching Tom Cruise play American man. As he has recently been compared to Michael Jackson, Cruise looks lost in the labyrinth of normalcy. 'How did I get here?' Cruise may wonder. And to that there is no easy answer, but nowhere near impossible.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 07:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

If you enjoy watching facsimile films which tear entire chunks from more lively predocessors with an uncompromisingly lifeless vigor, then An American Haunting is your movie. For anyone else who respects those things that seem wholly unimportant these days like script and plot development, sit this one out. True, the film does star horror alumns Sissy Spacek and Donald Sutherland, yet in the wrong hands, these actors might as well be mannequins. Then there would be something original to the film, rather than their stabs like "ghosty vision," which of course whirls about the room and flickers from color to black and white, creepy dead girls (which should really be done away with altogether - especially the ones whom you touch and watch decay in a matter of seconds) and moral add-ons which render the triteness which you are watching unfold insurmountable. There is no mysterious tension which can make even the worst ghost story remotely compelling. Instead you have a blatantly studio set "haunted house" with more reshot scenes than not and a contemporary tie in that shows even less energy than the ahem... spiritless period segments. This film may have singlehandedly made me see far fewer big budget Hollywood films this summer. So, in retrospect, maybe it wasn't all that bad.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 02:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Out this week in theaters we can find good old horror vets, Sissy and Donny, in An American Haunting. I'm sure that the performances will be total auto-pilot. In her most recent films, Spacek has been more an actor wearing a Sissy mask rather than that wonderful dirty pillow wielding hellion of her youth. Sutherland always does whatever the hell he wants. Seldom is this an interesting thing. The last time we saw Spacek in horror, she was telling Naomi Watts to drown her baby in Ring II. Let's hope this is that memorable (with a tad more screen time), though I'm not holding my breath.

And here we have actual footage of Tom Cruise being beamed up into L. Ron's spaceship... Err... Actually, that's a shot from M:I III. Though doesn't that look suspiciously like a spaceship. I wonder if this is going to be the most Scientolerific flick since Battlefield Earth. Oh, I need not ask questions to which I already know the answers. LA Weekly staff writer Scott Foundas just lost all credibility in his review of the film, deeming Cruise "the most graceful physical performer since Burt Lancaster." Guess I'll just have to go back to good old J. Hoberman.

Terry Zwigoff brings us yet another dose of ironic apathy with the insufferable looking Art School Confidential. Perhaps I'm not the best person to listen to in this department. It's just a film that shallowly attempts to uproot everything I spent four years studying and believing in full earnestness doesn't exactly rub me right. And, unlike most of the world, I HATED Ghost World.

And since Ang Lee's to busy watching homos mack, Farewell My Concubine director, Kaige Chen, returns to the screen with the Crouching Tiger looking The Promise which promises (sorry, couldn't resist) to be all too familiar, just by the preview (House of Flying Dragon Tiger whatever)...

And the first worst title of the year nomination goes to Hoot which leads one to wonder, 'if I become an environmentalist, do I have to wear short shorts? One Last Thing... find Cynthia Nixon trying to find life after Sex and the City by manipulating viewers with this inspirational film about a terminally ill teen who wants to date a supermodel. The depth is remarkable. And finally, the Nick Cave penned Australian Western, The Proposition lands in Los Angeles theaters this week. The cast of Guy Pearce and Emily Watson seems somewhat promising if not too typical.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 11:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Anyone who has had the unfortunate displeasure of listening to the soundtrack Björk birthed for Matthew Barney's Drawing Restraint 9 might have had an understanding of what they were getting themselves into entering the theater for the 2:15 minute extravaganza. Furthermore, someone who sat through Barney's 5 part Cremaster Cycle might have known that, while proceeding through the cycle, Barney's narcissitc showmanship began to take center stage - before the alleged subject. And were one to sit down with Mr. Barney and chat, he could make sense of every moment of Drawing Restraint 9, leaving you only moments later to wonder, 'wait, that really doesn't make any sense at all.' In fact, what we have is a contemporary art world Emporer's New Clothes. His sets and periphanalia are fetishitically beautiful, of that we have not doubt, but Mr. Barney as experimental filmmaker (or, as he prefers, a narrative sculptor), leaves a tad too much to be desired.

Without becoming to personable, I went to CalArts, and though majoring in the Fine Art department, the majority of my labors were spent in the Film school. I have seen more experimental films than I care to admit to. I love them. It is truly my primary passion. There is a delivery that must come in demanding experimental works. It is the moment that hits you like a tidal wave, when suddenly you understand why you have been looking at this one thing for 30-odd minutes. You must experience it in order for this work, at least in my mind, to have value. That moment, however, does not come in Mr. Barney's film.

What then, is Drawing Restrain 9 if not an experimental film? It is a love letter from Matthew Barney and Björk to Matthew Barney and Björk. I would say, without trying to be too snyde, that is the primary purpose for this. They both narcissistically pose and move with a lathargically self-important anti-vigor. The camera, ever present in their performative inneptitude. Both have taken their self-indulgences entirely too far - and what is yeilded, however "avant-garde" people might claim, is absolutely mediocre. Avant Garde is not synonymous with bad. Watching Drawing Restraint 9, I exerienced a similar emotion as the first time I listened to Björk's last proper album(Medúlla): embarasssement. I felt embarrassed that these two potentially talented people (I have been fans of both artists' works in the past) yielded such great works of self-love. Barney (and in a lesser way, Björk as well) has created a formula where, since the work is "experimental", confused people = good art. Not always the case. There is a language to such film, one to which this barely abides.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 06:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last night I watched a funny little film called The Omega Man. Cult classic to some, unknown to others, this post-apocalyptic film starring Charlton Heston, is a big problematic boiling cauldron of race issues. Like the republican side to the Dawn of the Dead coin, Heston's Neville runs about downtown LA with automatic machine guns shooting at, what Thom Andersen aptly describes in his hilarious reproach of the representation of Los Angeles in movies, Los Angeles Plays Itself as "nomadic hippie vampires," who of course only come out at night. It's an odd film, really. Using Heston, post-Apes to convey a society distraught with communists (the hippie vampires) and reveling in his automatic rifles (quel foreshadowing). By the time Lisa, who seems to have just stepped out of the SLA, shacks up with Heston, you just stop trying to figure out the socio-economic politic of the film and just allow its wonderful mediocrity to wash over you. Enjoy with a great big glass of something or other. You will enjoy.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 10:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It is with great sadness that I report not a single new and interesting thing comes out on DVD this week, unless you consider Sarah Jessica Parker interesting. There's a potentially juicy Tennessee Williams 7 Disc Boxset due in stores, yet I think all of the titles were available individually before this release. Also, there's a new Delicatessen special edition out, if that's your thing. Mine it is not.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 06:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

For anyone who has not yet had the pleasure, might I recommend the most hedonistically sensational film of last year: Louis Leterrier's Transporter 2. I saw it on a whim last summer and was completely unprepared for the fantastic spectacle that followed. The film conveys no conventional understanding of gravity or endurance and takes a superb and infantile glee in blowing shit up. Everything is generalized - the villain is "Mediterranean," the genetic warfare plot flimsy enough to allow our hero, an insanely attractive Jason Statham, sufficient time to show off his magnificent physical prowess. And no, you do not need to see the first one. This is case where the sequel far succeeds the original. It is full-on Action and never pretends to be anything else. In a time when our children's' films are marketing ploys and our dramas are really vehicles of guilt, that Transporter 2 lays... no, throws everything on the table from its very first second is rare and respectable act of honesty. When the nurse at a clinic steps out from behind her desk, she tears open her lab coat and reveals her skimpy pink lingerie and enormous guns. From this point the action never relents. And Statham's ethical and priest-like Frank Martin is such a delectable role - choice for witty one liners - that James Bond could learn a thing or two. Though it may sound strange, I cannot think of a fun film I could recommend more. Give it a try, you will not regret it.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 12:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)