i had a rather bad day yesterday and decided some very easy and therapeutic viewing was in order. As the badness was work related (not from this job, dear reader) I wanted something very violent were many people meet their makers. I chose Predator, and I'll be damned if it wasn't the cure for what ails ya'. The film is SO insanely macho that one cannot take thier eyes off the damned thing. I mean, I know it's Schwarzenegger, but really. In a scene where they unload their ammo into the empty jungle, I couldn't help but pleasurably guffaw. And once the Predator comes in, it reminds of how much better things look when they actually exist, rather than being computer generated. I'm not saying run out and rent it, but wait for a bad day where you really feel like hitting the wall and watch this instead.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 09:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

After missing countless revival screenings and allowing sufficient dust to accumulate on the "must see" list, I finally rented The Night Of The Hunter. As a creepy killer preacher with Love and Hate tattooed on his fingers, Robert Mitchum seems frighteningly flawless. In fact, all of the performances in The Night of the Hunter are relatively seamless - even Lillian Gish! I know!

Performances aside, I think the real deal here is the positively immaculate look of the film. Every single second of the Hunter is beautifully composed. Shot on a lavish UA sound stage, every moment leaks glorious artificiality, magnificently arranged light spilling over every board and fake brook. To heighten the beautifully ersatz facade, real creatures of nature (aside from the child actors, of course) are posited among the plasticine shrubbery. Frogs croaks and foxes bark in trees so idyllic they can only be fake. It's the sort of heightened serenity which can be found in the glorious films of the fifties.

Before the melodramatics gave way to the (narratively) grander, more theatrical showmanship of the sixties, performances, particularly those depicting small town life, were wooden and what we would not call meta - self-acknowledging. Performances aided to ease the reading of the film (which unveiled itself with more austere blatancy than our tricky narratives do now). Those films were not trying to pull the wool over your eyes. They played into the fact that their morality tales were rather simple to decipher. This lead to a far greater forfeit of personal reservation. One got involved with these movies, similar to certain persuasive contemporary tactics, but in a far more passionate way.

Straying from conventional narrative structure (as the more daring works of the era did) was a more shocking thing then than it is now. And Hunter is both startlingly different and alarmingly familiar. The narrative track ruptures mid-way through as the film diverges in a very different direction than you may have initially anticipated. But, when you look past the shocking midpoint action, the formula is rather reminiscent of a typically structured film the era. The film follows a progression of a typical three act structure in an alarmingly disturbing way.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 02:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

If you're in the mood for theory cinema, you'll find just about every argument posited by the best of the eighties feminist thinkers exacted upon 20 years prior in Michael Powell's Peeping Tom. Max is a cinematographer and porn photographer who kills women with a rather ingeniously original method of employment. It is a film which delves directly into just what it is to play voyeur. It is one I highly recommend - especially the Criterion version, whose supplemental features are quite enthralling.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 05:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Ahhh Reese. Before the Legally Blondes and Sweet Home Alabama, before the Academy award, there was a delightful little nugget called Freeway. A trek over to IMDB found it the film of the day, and rightfully so. Freeway is one of those B movies chocked full of quotables. "You was gonna do sex to my dead body?" "Oh, yeah right, I shot hima whole bunch of times!" and my personal favorite, "My dick may not function but I have not lost my smile." Of course, if you have Oliver Stone rewrite the little red riding hood fable and add in supporting cast by Kiefer Sutherland, Dan Hedaya, Amanda Plummer, Brittany Murphy and Brooke Shields (channeling her inner Elizabeth Berkley) and you've got yourself a grade A B flick. If you haven't indulged, I cannot urge you enough. This film alone made me applaude her Oscar earnings.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 05:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Big Glam fan? Toni Colette whore? Wanna know where Jonathan Rhys Meyes came from? Wanna see Ewan McGRegor's dick? If you answered yes to any of these questions, and have not already indulged, might I recommend a rather convaluted glam flick Velvet Goldmine. And I actually mean that in a good way. The film is a fictitous recounting of a relationship between Iggy Pop and David Bowie. Both become so estranged in their fabricated personas that they (and the film's narrative) get lost in the grandioseness the theatricality. I've been thinking about it a lot since seeing Brothers of the Head, and for those of you who have seen it (there are a lot of haters) I suggest you give it another chance thinking about just that. What you are looking at is the performer's own self-image running amok on camera. In that way, this in one of the better rock and roll pictures ever made. It only helps that it is made by my honey, Todd Haynes, who made my all-time favorite film [Safe].

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 06:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I rented Sunday, Bloody Sunday just to watch Glenda Jackson, whom I think of as one of the few truly Great film actresses. I could watch her do anything. Her majesty just radiates from her otherwise humble countenance. The film concerns a bisexual (before the term existed) boy who flits from a relationship with Jackson's Alex and Peter Finch's Daniel. Whenever the dreaded thing known as responsibility enters his life, he exits. It is a film of its very particular time and place. Oozing all of the thematic and stylistic tropes fundamental to British cinema of the early Seventies, the film is a good one, but does not stand out like Women in Love, say. Of course, the representation of a homosexual love affair was bold and startling for its time, though now it seems sadly censored and pales in the complexity of the heterosexual relationship. Though celebrated for Finch's "audacity," Jackson is the real reason to watch the film. Her intellectual (and tortured poor little rich girl) performance is really a treat. Look out for the irredeemably sexy Jon Finch as one of Daniel's tricks. Mmmmmmm... A very interesting bit of trivia that alter the entire film's reception: Alan Bates was initially slated to play Daniel, but was to busy filming The Go-Between. In the original screenplay, Daniel was written far younger. And I must admit, this would have made a far more dynamic film.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 10:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

If you live in Los Angeles, and are not fed up with film festivals by early July, the Armand Hammer Museum, one of the city's greatest, will be having a series called The Female of the Species. The all silent selection of European films will focus on films like Piccadilly (1929), starring Anna Mae Wong. I screened that title in particular last night in order to better characterize the approach taken towards the more "exotic" members of the human race (or at least that is how these films regarded them). It is a wonderful film, sustained by Wong's magnificent screen presence. Her dance, however racistly charged it was, is a powerhouse of self-control and erotic dominance. Even ethereal beauties like Louise Brooks (whose Pandora's Box is included in the line up alongside Clara Bow's It) permeate an exotic flair, though existing in the culture which yielded them. Rounding out the evenings we find the Josephene Baker silent Siren of the Tropics, Salome and (of course) Metropolis. However fun, isn't that one getting a little old. Sorry...

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 03:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The other night, to jog my memory, I rented Darkman and I just ahve to say, there's a reason our youth is so goddamn boring these days. I'll admit, my tastes run a tad more morbid, or as some others have described me (though not without a shudder in response) "esoteric, " than the average Joe, but when I was growing up, these comic movies were much more juicy than these bland revivals. I mean, I love what Bryan Singer is doing with the whole X-Men thing, but it's not daring like Darkman or even the first couple Batman movies.

What's more, the casting directors were a little more creative in their choices. Michael Keaton and Liam Neeson could never play heroic leads now. We need our superheroes to look like Paris Hilton with a penis and a six-pack.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 05:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last night I introduced a friend to a pleasant little film called Nowhere. The film follows a handfull of angsty teens (all portrayed by vaguely recognizable actors in their late twenties) as they are slowly abducted by space aliens, brainwashed into suicide, or just fuck the night away. On an eve of a certain appocalypse - think on a personal level, as every teenagers universe is theirs and theirs alone - a figure whom everyone in Los Angeles seems to know throws one of his huge bashes which every one whose anyone will attend. The film essentially follows that day from start to its hysterically bloody finish. In truth, Nowhere is neither pleasant nor little. It is quite possibly the most sardonic film ever made, as most of the horrors that are heaped upon the film's abundant protagonists can be met with a sort of viscious laughter.

I became familiar with director Gregg Araki's work at an early age. Early enough to relate to the maudlin alienated teens that occupy his early "Teen Appocalypse Trilogy," Araki's irony was rather lost on me. Though recognizable celeb cameos induced great bouts of laughter and the crude and inventive aphorsims asked for repeated viewings (if only to repeat them later), I did not quite get the density and critical affection that Araki lavished on his teens. Teetering between ironic literalism (there is an alien who abducts, or alienates our teens) and blatant decorm (see above) the message is "it's time to die." Not a very uplifting one, but it is one which causes the hilarity that is Nowhere to be exceptionally empathetic. The characters are mortifyingly cardboard, but somehow it is better that way. This, to me, is one of the top ten movies of my teen years. It is also, however, one that only grows better with age. Many hate Araki's cinema and I do think that it is one for a certain age group at a very particular period of time, but I personally find nothing wrong with that. Keep your eyes peeled for both Ryan Phillipe and Heather Graham in early roles that cast them as just about the most unattractive characters they will ever play.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 03:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Neil Jordan has to be about the gayest heterosexual filmmaker the world has ever seen. From The Crying Game to Breakfast on Pluto, Jordan's universe is filled with trannies and homos - all refreshingly depicted with an acceptingly frank and appreciative eye. His film, Interview With the Vampire certainly shaped an odd end of my sexual psyche. In a declaration that may alienate some readers, I was but a wee 5th grade burgeoning homosexual when the film was released, and believe you me, seeing Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt not-quite-kiss was a treat to my would-be nubile mind. I bought Interview the other day in a $10 sale bin and watched it last night for the first time as an "adult" (if we can venture so far as to call myself that).

Oh, my god! Tom Cruise, wow... This has got to be one of the more comedic moments in good-old-Hollywood cinema, proper. Since most of my focus rests on a Camp sensibility, I think I can safely say that Tom Cruise had positively no idea what he was doing in that movie. The high camp figure of Lestat is played by the "actor" with such earnest candor that he reaches an entirely different level of camp, one of the unintentional variety. Brad Pitt, meanwhile takes his stab at brooding, Claire Danes style, by pouting his lips as quickly as you can say crucifix. And those pouting lips resemble all-too-frighteningly those of his current babyfarm counterpart. And let's not forget Kirstin Dunst in, what could be her only good job as an actor. At times, you actually believe she is a sixty year old woman/child, and her role in Louis' life is a (surprisingly) satisfyingly complex one. Oddly, hers is the most compelling figure of the film. Certainly not the positively laughable performance phonetically-cue-carded by Antonio Banderas who looks like he's got last year's Lagerfeld Shag boot on his head. He, more than any other actor, gays it up to the max. I suppose it was to allow his character some intrigue, but he arrives too little to late in the narrative to allow any interest other than as a Lestat comparative.

The movie at large is fun, dull atmospheric smut. So in a sense, it succeeded in replicating Anne Rice's pulp novel. Jordan's direction is clunky and quite odd, but not necessarily in a bad way. His women more frequently than not resemble Dill from The Crying Game (including Thandie Newton in a non-bodily fluid excreting role). And the apparent homosexuality of the Vampires is pretty unoriginal. Many people have written about the parallel between the two -It's in his kiss!:Vampirism as Homosexuality, Homosexuality as Vampirism from The Culture of Queers by Richard Dyer, for instance. Though, in keeping with Jordan's ouvre, they are presented in a much more respectful way than, say, the Count's son, Herbert from Fearless Vampire Killers or Pardon Me But Your Teeth Are In My Neck. Instead, you have a converse universe where there is nothing apparently wrong with the sexual bond between two male Vampires, perhaps because they are apparently evil to begin with, but the movie never becomes that black and white, thankfully. Instead, the characters are far more significant when united, than isolated. Louis is the heterosexual here, but still, the object of his desires is a 10 year old girl (perpetually, true... but still)which certainly connotes a certain air of perversity. The aesthetic of the film is still very beautiful when it's not explicitly spelling STUDIO SHOOT. Even the outdated graphic effects read more graphically juicy than these alternate universies created in post-production CGI studios of today. File this one under guilty pleasures with very few actual redeeming qualities. But, come on... we're talking about a Tom Cruise vehicle here folks. To quote Lauren Becall, "When you talk about a great actor, you're not talking about Tom Cruise."

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 07:15 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)

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)

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)

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)

I recently rewatched Dogville. Let me just say, it is a damn fine film. From the offset, Dogville presents the viewer with an environment that cannot be taken for granted. Dogville's famous soundstage makes the town a parable, but what's more, creates what is perhaps the greatest meta-cinematic construction ever presented on the silver screen. At no point in the film do you take Dogville for a real town. How could you? Likewise, the characters become types rather than characters proper. Von Trier's near perfect screenplay is taut, searing and witty (admittedly, at times, too witty). Dogville is also a Godless town in perpetual wait for the minister that they know will never arrive. Instead they have Tom, the local "philosopher," who is too busy in thought to have ever written more than two words. In the opening of the film, Tom lectures about the latent evils in Dogville - a side that the town has yet to expose. But his arguments are weak and it is, of course, he who later proves to be the one most severely displaying the perils against which he preaches. In assuredly the best performance any director will ever wring from Ms. Kidman, Grace is an ever-optimist and perhaps Von Trier's greatest achievement here is eventually convincing the viewer that the martyrical stance that Grace takes is, in itself, arrogant. By placing herself above these people, she can only labor under the whim of their self-serving intentions. In seeming selfless, she invents a paradigm in which the villagers can only find advantage in her offerings and eventually (morally) fail because of this.

Dogville is, to Grace, but a trinket in a window. A gaudy plaster figurine: glazed, idyll and patient. It is fitting then, that Grace meets her breaking point when these figures are smashed to the ground by the very town that they resemble to her.

I don't know how I missed it when I saw Dogville in theaters, but at one point, Von Trier informs the viewer precisely how the film will end. Since the film is based around Brechtian theatrical(in both spatial and formal) structures, during one of the more menial chores she is forced to do (this is only after Von Trier has near broken Grace with 2+ hours of selfless indignation), she utters a line penned by Brecht and his musical counterpart, Kurt Weil. It is remotely inconspicuous, though Von Trier makes certain to highlight it with special care in the narration. As Grace removes a soiled sheet for cleaning, she mutters the line, "Nobody Gonna Sleep Here, tonight." It takes her completely by surprise, yet the knowing viewer should recognize this from the Weil song 'Pirate Jenny.' The songs is a tale of a maid who dreams of the day her black pirate ship will come sailing in and she will kill everyone who ever did her wrong. "They pile up the bodies and I'll say, 'That'll learn ya!'"

And pile up the bodies she does, as the people of Dogville have used Grace beyond her purpose, and what's worse, by this point she has highlighted all of the towns hypocrisies - especially, in a strikingly poignant scene, making Tom realize the fault in his own convictions, they turn her in. And this is truly the turning point that makes Dogville a far superior film to anything Von Trier has released thus far. For when They ("the ship, the black freighter" now a band of thirties automobiles) arrive to take Grace away, the film embarks on a philosophical endeavor concerning the personal trappings of man. They, end up being Grace's father and his band of gangster thugs. Grace relents, for what could be worse than the township of Dogville(?), and she enters the car in which her father waits. The moment inside the car (and it is brief) is the only moment of traditional cinematic delivery that Von Trier allows the viewer, and even so, the dialogue is heavy with a purpose that transcends mere familiar conversation. Who is in fact speaking is open to interpretation. I firmly believe that here Grace is meant to represent Jesus and her father (perfectly played by James Cannes), God. They discuss man as if they were apart from him. It is their damning hand that will destroy this township in a barrage of bullets and fire. You see it coming. Von Trier makes you want it to come. When the gangsters gun down the children, Von Trier forces a nasty and redemptive smile to creep across our faces. "If there's a town the world could do without," Grace decides, "this is it."

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 09:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

On Wednesday night, I attended a revival screening of Roman Polanski's infamous film adaptation of Shakespearian MacBeth and suppose now is as good a time as any to write about it. In addition, and in keeping, the day prior I rewatched Claire Denis' rather loose adaptation of Herman Melville's Billy Budd, the film capital F Film cinefiles wet themselves over (which I found rather bland, but perhaps more because of others' wild devotion), Beau Travail (Good Work). And though you may already know my stance on capital F Films, I will open-mindedly further on my opinion of the film below. But first, MacBeth.

First allow me to state that I am no expert when it comes to Shakespearian adaptation. In my (perhaps youthful) opinion, most "classical" adaptations of his works are clumsy, cardboard and awkward. Having been thoroughly unimpressed by some of the works that are considered the greatest Shakespearian adaptations, it is startling (and proof of Polanski's masterful directorial capabilities) that he creates a world where all of the period garb and iambic pentameter come off casually, naturally even. Though one of the juiciest roles ever written falls rather flat on Francesca Annis' rendition of Lady Macbeth, Polanksi's uncompromising vision of this violent and tormented world is as exhilarating and compelling as it is excruciating. The scene that follows the credit sequence finds a body lying face down on the murky shoreline. Blood pools in a puddle. A man tugs on the body's foot. One might assume he is attempting to find fellow fighters who have survived this catastrophe. Yet our perception of this world is solidly established as the man whom we have presumed is dead rears his head back to be met with the other man's mace, which he beats into the wounded man's back repeatedly, leaving a crater of mangled flesh and protruding bone.

This is our introduction to our eponymous protagonist's world. Watching the film, I found myself yearning for a great volume to be published interpreting the film. I felt only capable of penetrating a thin layer of the film's shell. This was my second viewing of the film, and still, subtleties abound, I found myself barely understanding much of the great flourishes beyond the most intrinsic plot points. It is an immense film in all respects. The dialogue, so wonderfully shifting between voice-over and spoken word, flows poetically and unpretentiously - which, come on, is a feat in Shakespearian adaptation. Ultimately, the film proves most effective because its flawless visual stylizations. It is a rare gem (all the more so on the big screen), so consistent in its representation of this grisly yet enchantingly beautiful world that when one leaves the theater, they are surprised by the (slightly more mundane) world outside.

My rewatching of Denis' film coincides with the release of her new film, L'Intrus (The Intruder), a review of which you will be able to find here on March 21st. Unlike MacBeth, Beau Travail is almost purely a visual film. Intending it to serve more as a visual poem, Denis primarily concerns herself with only the expository details of her adaptive source. It is circumstantial. One gleans a greater sense of conflict from the Legionaires interactions with the native people of the French occupied Djibouti(of Denis' contruct) than between Galoup and Sentain (here the Captain Vere and Billy Budd characters, respectively of Mellvilel's). In fact, the main impeuts of their conflict in Denis' world stems from a more homosocial form of vanity. While Galoup plays flaneur in both the African village and through the streets of Paris (where one most typically may play flaneur) he emits an ostracized glare which takes more menacing tones when affixed on the eroticized mug of Sentain.

Though it may sound slightly conservative of me, I'm not sure whether Denis is the figure deserving of all the credit she receives for the visual potency of her films. Without Agnes Godard, who has served as cinematographer for Denis since her 1990 television short Cinema, de notre temps: Jacques Rivette - Le veilleur and has been employed as cinematographer for a handful of remarkable directors (Wim Wenders, Agnes Varda, Andre Techine and Sebastien Lifshitz to name a few), I am not too certain the films of Denis would glow and resonate in the same rich way that they do with Godard in tote. The visuals are what defines Beau Travail. In tableaus that echo the work of James Benning, Godard captures compelling moments from the most banal settings between Djibouti and Paris (though I find it hard pressed to find a boring setting in the beautiful city of Paris). The first time I watched the film(or at least attempted to, abandoning it halfway through), I found it visually sumptuous, yet substantially slight. Upon second viewing, I found this, in a very roundabout way, is a strength to the film, functioning in a very similar way as Denis' Trouble Every Day . And I'll be damned if the last scene of the film is not one of the better scenes I have seen in a good long while. Set to Corona's hopelessly dated, yet somehow transcendent "The Rhythm of the Night," in a strange, unexpected way, it folds the film in on itself in a very complicated way and speaks far better than any words could. Ultimately, Beau Travail is a film I want not to like, yet prevents me from doing so because of the isolated moments which catch me off guard with their sumptuous images and understated complexity. I suppose would recommend it, but not as fervently as I would Polanski's MacBeth.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 01:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Few have probably heard of Val Lewton, prolific producer of the RKO "horror" pictures of the 40's. Warner, it seems, would very much like to do away with his seeming anonymity by distributing the "Val Lewton Collection," last year - a box set of five DVD's with 9 feature films. I got the set a while back(being a HUGE fan of his production of Tourneur's Cat People - whose '82 remake is also one of my favorite films- and I Walked With A Zombie), but have only watched the doco (which is wonderfully informative, by the way). Last night, I watched his 1943 film, The 7th Victim. It is a wonderfully gothic noir. Perhaps part of Lewton's anonymity can be attributed to the fact that he didn't make horror films, proper. No, Lewton's films were fantastically moody noirs who promised much more sensational horror than they ever truly delivered. Instead, the horror of his films lie in the mind. The 7th Victim follows Mary Gibson as she searches for her missing sister, Jaqueline. The film eventually pits Jaqueline against the group of Satanists that she joined only to abandon months later.

Jaqueline is the real jewel, here, with her more-severe-than-Betty Page bangs and her complacency towards life itself. She keeps a room with a noose and a chair beneathe it merely to appreciate life. It is in her scenes (far too few and far between) where the film shines. As she runs through the chiascuro alleyways of New York, we realize why so many film snobs fetishize noir. These moments are just as fabulous as those set pieces in the German Expressionist films of the 20's like The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari or the comedically anti-simetic Der Golem. Near the end, there is a completely odd moment of meta-dialogue concerning death that is positively hauntingly compelling and not to be missed. The dying next door neighbor discusses what death is with the suicidal Jaqueline. The outcome of the conversation on both ends is fantastic, cinematically, for what it shows and what it merely alludes to. The boxset is going for something ridiculously low, like 34.99 or something, and boy is it worth it. Even for I Walked With A Zombie alone, which is a somnambulistic masterpiece. How many times have you heard that?

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 12:02 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)