Weird, original and enticing, but very misguided. 2/4

Rubber is about a sentient tire named Robert that rolls around the highways of the American Southwest, becomes infatuated with a young woman, and blows peoples’ heads off via telekinesis.  Naturally, when word of this film hit the Internet early last year, people were understandably perplexed and excited; it was the right side of bizarre.

So it would surprise people that the saga of Robert the Telekinetic Tire serves as its own B-story.  Rubber revolves around an exercise in the absurd; a kind of deconstruction between audience and filmmaking.  Sometimes it’s funny, but more often than not it’s unnecessary and gets in the way of what could have been a very fun film.

As a result, Rubber is part quirky horror comedy, and part absurdist art film.  If one were to edit together the homicidal psychic tire parts, it would make for a great short film, the one people paid the price of admission to see in the first place.  Unfortunately, writer/director Quentin Dupieux seems more concerned with making an undergraduate philosophical-artistic statement than tell a story that he forsakes the best bits for its worst.

The film opens with the town sheriff (Stephen Spinella) addressing an audience- both a group of binocular-armed bystanders and us- about the reason behind any aspect of a film:  Why is E.T’s skin brown?  Why do the two main characters in Love Story fall in love?  The answer: no reason, which is the driving force behind everything in Rubber.

As far as the scenes involving Robert, “no reason” works.  The lack of origin or explication works in Rubber’s favor; we don’t need a reason for why a tire suddenly comes to life, nor do we need to know what his motives are in the first place.  After all, pitting a laughable villain that defies all notions of reason and reality against the atypical constraints and conventions of your average horror film would make for proper deconstruction, and would satisfy the curiosity of those intrigued by the films trailer.

Unfortunately, the “no reason” philosophy behind Rubber is its own downfall.  Rather than build a story out of his own idea of a homicidal tire, Dupieux renders Rubber a pseudo-postmodern deconstructionist statement that has little to do with its rubber protagonist.  I suppose Dupieux did this for “no reason,” but “no reason” is not the same as “no point,” and if the latter is the backbone of a movie, then there is no reason for it to even exist.                                  

Most of Rubber involves some kind of meta-commentary on filmmaking and film watching.  There are people watching Robert from a distance, providing stray observations and snarky commentary, and the sheriff goes about his job as though he were on set, acting and reacting as though none of what is going on is real, and that it is all a show.  Near the beginning of the film, it is appropriately odd and it works, but as the ruse continues, it takes up most of the film’s space, and it quickly wears out its welcome.

I haven’t the faintest idea what Dupieux is trying to say or do with Rubber.  He is not all too concerned with telling a story- at least, not the story of Robert, the reason people attended the film in the first place.  Instead, Dupieux seems to be experimenting, but in doing so, he has totally missed the point of filmmaking, storytelling, and deconstructionism.  The problem with most self-proclaimed post-modernists is that they misunderstand that deconstructionism is about: deconstructing something in attempt to discover a new way to understand whatever it is you’re looking at.  Dupieux, however, is just deconstructing for the sake of leaving something in pieces and calling it art.  Despite what some modern artists may think think, leaving something in shambles isn’t art, it’s just a pile.

Manohla Dargis of the New York Times wrote, “By embracing irrationality as his operating principle (or at least by pretending to), Mr. Dupieux lets himself off the narrative hook.”  I disagree.  Relying on superficial post-modernism does not- nor should it- get you out of providing a narrative; it’s just lazy writing.  What’s unfortunate about Rubber is that it had a lot of potential to be a legitimately clever, post-modern genre film, and when Rubber focuses on its initial premise, it is well worth watching.

Note: When he is not making films, Quentin Dupieux is a French DJ who goes by the name “Mr. Oizo.”  I’m not sure what most would make of this, but it seems relevant nonetheless.

Utterly Charming. A True Delight. 4/4.

Since his cinematic move to Europe, Woody Allen has continued experimenting with a variety of styles and genres, ranging from mysteries to romance to morality tales, most of which were of a much darker tone than what one would expect from the famed filmmaker.  In Midnight in Paris, Allen breaks away from this trend and delivers one of his most charming, optimistic films of his career.

Midnight in Paris finds successful screenwriter and struggling novelist Gil (Owen Wilson) on holiday in Paris with his high maintenance fiancé Inez (Rachel McAdams), her stuffy parents (Kurt Fuller and Mimi Kennedy) and intellectual friends Paul and Carol (Michael Sheen and Nina Arianda).  Although Inez and her circle are virtually uninterested in anything-save for Paul’s pompous lectures on everything from wine to fine art- Gil is enamored with the Parisian lifestyle and yearns to relocate there to work on his novel.

One night while drunkenly walking around Paris, Gil hops into an old fashioned taxi that somehow takes him to the Roaring Twenties where he comes across F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, and countless other prominent artistic figures of that era.  Gil periodically visits this Golden Age to escape his own vapid time period to socialize with the artistic elite, get advice on his novel, and gains some insight on his own life and time.

Owen Wilson does a great job in film, and manages channel Woody Allen’s persona while retaining his own.  There are physical ticks and neurotic inflections in Gil that are classic Allen, and it is obvious that he would have played the part himself had the film been made thirty years ago.  At first glance, Wilson seems like an unlikely pick for this kind of character due to his laid-back attitude in his past films, but the actor has always had a nervous energy inside of him that really makes  him perfect for the film.  Along with this blithe neurosis, Wilson is just so likeable, and he gives the film most of its charm.

Of course, it is Gil’s (and Allen’s) ideal perception of the Roaring Twenties that is truly magical.  Allen paints this dimension like a Modernist Brigadoon, where everyone is charming and intelligent, where the Cole Porter songs and gin never stops, yet Allen keeps it from being too soapy and retains the era’s intelligence and class.

Gil’s paradise would be nothing for him- or us- if it were not for those who inhabited it; every character is exactly who you would want them to be.  Kathy Bates is wonderful as the direct, sensible Gertrude Stein that acts as a voice of reason, and Tom Hiddleston plays F. Scott Fitzgerald as smooth, yet sincere and very cool.  But it is Corey Stoll who plays Ernest “Poppa” Hemingway that steals the show as the godfather of all that is masculine.  Stoll nails Hemingway’s cadence and rhythm, and when he speaks of charging elephants and bullfighting and courage and grace under pressure, it feels as though the real Hemingway is speaking directly to you.

In the beginning voice over of Manhattan, Allen mentions a “decay of contemporary culture,” and in Midnight in Paris, Allen seems to have created his own little escape from that decay; the idealized, rose-tinted recreation of the past is enticing, not just to Gil, but the audience as well.  Living in an era where Stephanie Meyer is a bestselling author, Lady Gaga is heralded as a musical genius, and people seek intelligence solely to be pedantic and portentous, it is an delight to see truly artistic, insightful individuals who seek enlightenment and truth while engaging in charming, friendly conversations while simply enjoying life.

Many will criticize Allen for getting a little too carried away with his depictions of life and fantasy. In his real life, Gil surrounds himself with self-absorbed, awful people, and it sometimes becomes inconceivable that Gil would surround himself with them.  What is more unbelievable is that this crowd would ever invite him into their circle in the first place.

As for the film’s golden era, the Twenties were by no means a picnic; fraught with anxiety, hopelessness and a total loss of identity, the decade was called “The Lost Generation” for a reason.  However, that is precisely the point; we tend to forget the previous generations’ troubles and yearn for the pasts’ definitive wonders to escape our own uncertain present and future.

Hardcore Woody Allen fans may scoff at the director’s newfound sense of optimism, but after years of neurosis, stress, unhappy endings, and a never-ending fear of cultural entropy, maybe a stroll through the best of Paris is what he, and the rest of us, needs.   

Smart, engaging, funny, thoughtful, and doesn't collapse under its own weight. 4 out of 4.

There is a scene early on in Jesus of Montreal in which one of the characters performs a voiceover to a video depicting the Big Bang, and the inevitable end of the universe.  The presentation is both scientific and philosophical, and all in all, quite moving.  After he is done, the voice over artist turns to the sound technician and says, “Leaves a lot unanswered,” a question that not only addresses the cosmology at hand, but the nature of the human experience betwixt the beginning and the end.  In many ways, the scene sums up the film: curious, introspective, and reverent towards scientific explanations and religious experiences.

Religion has always been a controversial topic, and most films that challenge religion always stir up condemnation from the most faithful of the flock.  Ironically, the most protested films (Last Temptation of Christ, Dogma, Life of Brian) do not ridicule or demean faith, but dogma, interpretation and religious establishment.  Like those who came before and after him, writer and director Denys Arcand challenges the authority of the powers-that-be, but eschews smug cynicism for a receptiveness to faith in something more abstract than convention or doctrine would allow.

In an attempt to boost church attendance, Father Leclerc (Giles Pelletier) contacts respected underground actor Daniel (Lothaire Bluteau) to direct and star as Jesus in a modernized passion play at a Montreal basilica.  Daniel recruits four old actor friends to perform the play with him, and bases the play around historical accounts, theology and philosophy rather than staging a literal, and rather dry, reenactment straight from the Bible.

We get to see Daniel’s take on the Passion in its entirety about forty minutes into the film.  At one point in the play, it is stated that, “[Jesus’] miracles became more popular than his sermons,” which lies at the heart of the play, as well as the film.  The production denies the supernatural elements of Jesus’ life – including the virgin birth, Jesus’ miracles and the physical resurrection- and asserts that there is very little known about the actual life of Jesus; “disciples,” the actors say “embellish and lie.”  Instead, the play focuses on relaying the tenants of Jesus’ message: chief among them, “Seek your own salvation,” and “love one another.”

The play is a big hit with the public, who all seem genuinely moved by this new grasp on post-modern spirituality.  Church officials, on the other hand, are livid by what they deem as a blasphemous, atheistic rendering of the Passion, and having their authority questioned by a lowly troupe of actors does not help matters either.  Various members of the media take an interest in the performance as well, but are more motivated by the popularity the play generates and not what it has to say.

A modern, French-Canadian Jesus if I ever saw one

In a case of life imitating art, the film itself is something of a modern-day Passion play, with Daniel playing Christ on and off stage.  Daniel’s life also parallel’s Jesus’ life off stage: he butts heads with authority (the Church), resists temptations from nefarious forces (talent agents), and even drives out money collectors from a place of worship (in this case, advertising execs out of a theater).  Arcand skillfully retrofits the life of Jesus into a modern tale without being too obvious, and     Bluteau is perfect at exuding a calm, tranquil demeanor, and there is something very real and genuine in his actions and words, which is, perhaps, the most important element of the film; if Daniel is to be the real thing, he better make for a convincing Christ.

The film was, for obvious reasons, controversial in its day, and could still be considered so in this day of age.  Fundamentalist religious forces are still at work today, as are fundamentalist anti-theist movements, drawing battle lines, and clinging to warped concepts of deities (see: God and reason), leaving the rest of us to marvel (in confusion) in a polarized polemic between two groups who, frankly, resemble one another more than not.

As a student of history and a lapsed Catholic, Arcand has an intertwining view faith and reason, God and the universe, the natural and supernatural that is often glossed over by the media- crazy and rage make for the most entertaining stories- but has been around for centuries, if not even longer.  Arcand doubts the intentions of religious authority and remains skeptical over the supernatural, magic parts of the Bible, but there is an underlying respect, and even an acceptance, of some kind of humanistic spirituality.  There are no deux ex machinas or burning bushes in Jesus of Montreal, but the ideas, the sensations, the essence of what Daniel and his actors discover, and later go on to represent, are presented with a sense of wonder and transcendence, as if they have tapped into some kind of ground of being.

After the voiceover artist refers to the Big Bang presentation of being vague, the sound technician responds, “Yeah, on though it’s valid today, in five years it may change,” reflecting Arcand’s own gospel of hope, doubt, growth and faith.  Jesus of Montreal embodies these qualities, and does so by exploring religion in a very clever, unorthodox way that avoids being smug in its skepticism, or sanctimonious in its soul-searching.  On the one hand, it is a modern re-telling of Jesus, but in Montreal and in the Nineties, but on the other, it asks questions and makes revelations on religious thought that are profound and modern, all while providing a very smart, entertaining film that anyone can appreciate and respect.

With a film like this, why even try? Unrateable.

Birdemic: Shock and Terror has become something of a modern day legend over the last two years.  As a recent submission into the pantheon of so-bad-its-rad films like The Room and Troll 2, Birdemic has made its way through the minds of movie geeks everywhere by way of bizarre online trailers and compilations.  Earlier this year, Birdemic was released on DVD and Blu-ray to packs of curious nerds who could finally answer the question: How bad is Birdemic?

Yes, Birdemic is terrible, but is it the right kind of terrible?  Bad films come in all shapes and sizes, and for as many as there are out there ((don’t)see: Sucker Punch), it takes a very particular brand of bad to be fully enjoyed in spite of- and because of- itself.  Birdemic is baffling and bizarre enough to fit those criteria, and although it is not quite bad/good enough to take on The Room, it is fit enough for the MST3K silhouette in all of us.

Marketed as a “romantic thriller,” Birdemic takes place in a small, coastal town in Northern California where software salesman Rod (Alan Bagh) reunites with Nathalie (Whitney Moore), an old high school classmate and apparent model (Nathalie shoots her spreads at a non-descript Rite Aid-esque location; I’m not sure what to make of that).  Just as Rod’s career and relationship with Nathalie reaches the next level, birds begin to mercilessly attack the city for no perceivable reason.

The bird effects have already become the stuff of YouTube legend, and for good reason: they are unbelievably awful.  All the birds are computer generated and look like screensaver icons from the pre-i days of Apple.  However, the birds’ appearance pales in comparison to the way they move.  Virtually every movement is impossible; they rotate a full 360 degrees, dart across the screen like computer cursors, and some of the birds seem to be set at fixed points of the picture, so when the camera moves in any way, certain birds move along with the camera, staying in the place in relation to the camera lens.  Best of all though: they explode.  No, really, the birds fly into buildings and blow up, like nature’s own kamikaze pilots.

Some may believe Birdemic to be a one trick pony, that the awkward birds are all the film has going for it, but the birds only serve as the film’s hook.  The characters and non-bird related subplots provide just as much laughter and befuddlement, particularly the environmental message that shows up at various points in the film.  Early in the film, a few characters are discussing the benefits of buying a Prius after seeing An Inconvenient Truth.  Later, the main characters come across a scientist standing in a field, and then a character known as “Tree hugger,” who both blame mankind’s treatment of the planet as the reason behind the birds’ behavior.

The acting does not help the poor dialogue, ludicrous story or the “Go Green!” plea in the film.  The acting is about as wooden as wood can get, and each character delivers their lines as though they are reading them for the first time; everything sounds stiff, stilted and entirely disconnected from the events of the film.  Appropriately enough, the sound periodically drops throughout the whole of the film, which adds to the characters’ disconnection from the plot, as well as the audiences’ idiosyncratic experience towards the film as a whole.

There is a scene that is slowly becoming popular, and was even shown in an episode of The Soup a few months back that sums up the films’ disassociation with itself: the “boardroom scene.”  In it, Rod and his co-workers are assembled and told that they succeeded in making “a part of a billion dollars,” a term so deliberately vague that it may prove that Birdemic’s auteur James Nguyen doesn’t know what words or syntax are.  This announcement is followed by two minutes of non-stop, self-congratulatory applause accompanied by a continuous pan around the room.  The vacant, smiling faces of the actors and disjointed editing provide such an off-kilter stamp on the scene that it will make one ask, “Seriously though, we’re watching real movie, right?”

Watching Birdemic is similar to watching Manos: The Hands of Fate for the first time: people will not believe what they are seeing and openly question whether or not the movie is real, or some kind of post-modern, avant garde art experiment that is meant to blow peoples’ minds.  I don’t give Nguyen that much credit, but it is something of an accidental marvel that a film so nonsensical and bizarre came together in the first place and found an audience who love a good roast.  Birdemic is no Room, but it is too bizarre to pass up.  Rent it and call some friends; you’ve got movie sign.

Creative and ambitious, but not as engaging as it should-or could-be. 2 1/2 out of 4

The best thing about the “Watch It Now” feature on Netflix is the immediate availability of countless kinds of films.  Anyone can casually surf through the Netflix catalog and find themselves watching anything from a Kurosawa film to any one of Troma’s foul-but-fun exploitation pictures.  Granted, half of the fun of cinephilia is happening on some obscure film by accident, whether it be through catching it on a cable station at one in the morning or rummaging through your local video store, but anything that gets people exposed to films slightly to the side of the mainstream is a good thing.

Which brings us to Lo, an independent film that received little exposure outside of a few film festivals.  Lo is one of many films that sports a tiny budget that relies on word-of-mouth, something made easy through Netflix.  Lo will no doubt find an audience: it possesses a style that is as unique as it is interesting, and at its core there is something about the film that is very touching.  However, there are developmental issues concerning Lo’s story and characters that make for an incomplete experience.

When April (Sarrah Lassz) is snatched from her bed by a demon in the middle of the night, her loyal, but dopey boyfriend Justin (Ward Roberts) summons the demon Lo (Jeremiah Birkett) to return her.  While the two argue over her return, Lo re-creates moments in Justin and April’s relationship, adding his own cynical commentary which reveals, quite possibly, that there may have been more to April than met Justin’s eye.

Lo looks like a well produced black box theater performance, which is an unusual approach for a film, but it gives Lo a very singular presence.  The whole film takes place in an empty black room, and the flashbacks take place on what looks like a small stage just off to the side; there are even stagehands handling props and loosely interacting with the restaged memories.  Some may find this design amateurish, but the minimalist approach is handled with a creativity that is oddly charming, and fits the whole underworld concept quite nicely.  After all, what better way to represent oblivion than the absence of anything visual?  And the flashback side stage?  What better way to demonstrate a condescending view of the earthly lives of mere mortals?

There is, however, something of a conflict of interest in the film: Lo seems more interested in its own playful view of Hell and its inhabitants than it is in the world of the living, which would not be so bad if the two were not co-dependent on the other.  The raison d’etre (French for “reason of existence.”  I felt like being a bit snooty and clever today) of the film is Justin’s desperate attempt to rescue the woman he loves, but we only see three brief moments in their relationship.  Without getting to know April or getting to see much of the relationship, it is impossible to sympathize with Justin or identify with his desperation; we root for him only because we know he is the protagonist.

It doesn’t help matters that those portraying the human characters do very little to bring their characters to life.  There is a moment of true sincerity involving Lassz, and although it is effective, it only lasts a moment, and the film is going to   need a little more than that to convey any level of tragedy concerning love and damnation.  Ward Roberts, for example, overacts his way through the film, making his already-unappealing, one-dimensional character very annoying.  Since he spends the whole of the film inside his “protection circle,” Roberts over compensates for his lack of physical movement with big, exaggerated facial expressions, not unlike a less-than-exceptional theater major.

Those who inhabit the dark, however, rescue the film from becoming entirely flat and uninteresting.  For one, the makeup and costume design of the demons are surprisingly good; Lo looks like an abominable cross between man and ape, and Jeez (Devin Berry) has a face like a stegosaurus and wears a Nazi uniform with the appropriate camp and sinister bravado to boot. Birkett manages to deliver a surprisingly convincing performance and steals the show; there is a genuine feeling of sincerity within his cynicism that makes one actually question Lo’s motives and purpose.  Observing demons as tragic, fallen reflections of humanity may not be wholly unexpected, but Birkett does a pretty impressive job conveying that very sentiment.

Lo would have made a great off-Broadway stage play given its minimalist, DIY setting and great use of make-up, and these attributes translate very well on film.  Writer/director Travis Betz is clearly as resourceful as he is creative; an imperative quality for an independent filmmaker if ever there was one.  Although Betz is in touch with his demonic characters, he loses sight of his human elements of the film, which should act as foils for the less-than-human subjects.  Without a basis for life, the tragedy and meaning of loss has none.  

Yes, you will be unprepared... about how terrible this movie is. No stars- see anything else.

sucker punch (suk’r puh-nch) v.  1. A blow or assault made without warning.  2. A harmful act that comes as a surprise and without provocation.  3. A bitch move.

Oddly enough, this aptly describes the experience of watching Sucker Punch.  Who would have thought that the film’s title was more of a summation of the how one was going to feel over the course of 109 minutes?

Of course, criticizing big-budgeted films is easy.  These film are often mostly- if not entirely- visual with little going in terms of story or character, but many can still be fun to watch, be it with an open appreciation for the ridiculous or the simple pleasure of turning your mind off and having a good time (often times, it is both).  Others are simply bad, be it because of stiff acting, stale dialogue, flaccid story or just too many action sequences that render the film boring and repetitive.  But every so often, there comes a film whose poor qualities are encapsulated by a puzzling high opinion of itself that places it in the ranks of Transformers 2 and The Last Airbender as being truly terrible films.

Few expected Zack Snyder’s Sucker Punch to be anything other than another one of his cinematic graphic novels projected on the big screen.  Snyder does very well with taking comic book panels and putting them up on screen, but his lack of everything else has become more and more evident with every film he makes.

Although all of Snyder’s previous films have been adapted from other mediums, Sucker Punch is his first original film; “original” as in he came up with the story on his own and co-wrote the script with Steve Shibuya.  For the reason, Sucker Punch is the culmination of everything Snyder has been working towards, and because the director is no longer anchored by source material, it highlights all his strengths and weaknesses.  Unfortunately, the weaknesses take over, and Snyder’s strengths crumble without any pre-drawn pictures on which to rely.

After surviving an attempted sexual assault from her stepfather, Baby Doll (Emily Browning) is sent to a mental hospital, which she imagines to be a Forties era burlesque parlor.  When she dances, Baby Doll then enters another hyper daydream in which she and her fellow patients/dancers battle various armies and villains to retrieve objects that will set them free back in the real world.

Lord, where do I even begin?  For one, The Man of Steel is going to be terrible. 

Several people will attack the film for ripping off Inception, but that would be unfair; levels of reality have always been around in films, be it in dreams (see: The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari) or in the digital domain (see: Tron).  What people should attack is how poorly Sucker Punch handles its use of dream levels, amongst many, many other things.

If a film is going to involve dream levels, it is imperative that the film keeps a firm grip on reality.  Granted, dreams have the benefit of being fantasy, but like any story or plot, events and actions have to be connected to one another; for as complicated as Inception got, the structure of the various dreams were linear and well connected with one another.  Sucker Punch is not all that concerned with its structure, or how its various dream levels and actions all synch up on the other end of the looking glass; cool things happen for the sake of being cool things, and they all connect for no other reason than “because.”

The plot of the film revolves around Baby Doll finding five objects that will get her and her friends out of the mental hospital/strip club.  The girls retrieve these objects when Baby Doll (I hate that name, and I hate having to say it repeatedly) dances, whose supposedly ethereal movements entrance her male onlookers.  Of course, we never see Baby Doll dance because she goes into another dream world in which her and the ole’ gang do battle against various big baddies and thus earn the object at hand.  Of course, these fantasy battles are irrelevant and superfluous; her friends are just taking things while no one is looking.  Actually, that sums up the film rather well: every time the film becomes uninteresting, the movie wanders off into a flashier, but still boring daydream.

Of course, in an action-fantasy film, every one is more concerned with the presentation, the fantasy, the “cool stuff,” and not all that concerned with how everything fits together.  Unfortunately, the dreams themselves are all hiding to nothing, as all the visual spectacle- the stuff Snyder should be good at- is an amalgamation of dozens of other stories and styles we have seen before, not to mention done better too.

The world of Sucker Punch offers little true imagination or wonder, and Baby Doll’s disconnected dream worlds are little more than cut-and-pasted collages.  The various worlds in the film look like live action anime or anachronistic film noir, but neither are provided a unique spin by Snyder.  The various missions carried out in these worlds feature robot minions that look just like those in I, Robot, trench warfare that looks like Call of Duty gameplay, airplane chases that look straight out of Heavy Metal and Mordor from the Lord of the Rings trilogy.  All in all, the backdrop for the action in the film is about as interchangeable and predictable as first person shooter video game maps, except way less fun.

This is Browning's "range." Enjoy.

The acting, if not the use of the film’s characters, is about as stale as one can get.  Emily Browning has one face through the film- a sad, pained pout- and the whole gang regurgitates heist/prison escape group talk without an ounce of real gusto.  Each of the girls go far below and beyond archetypes or one dimensional filler roles; they are just background.  Their true function, of course, is to look sexy and engage in the action, but even that rendered dull and boring.  Mostly, the girls just strut toward battle or perform open-legged spins in slow motion, thus giving us more booty short-wrapped money shots and less of anything else.

With so much nothing and pilfering from other, better films, it may seem unusual that the sweet, sweet cherry resting on top of this sundae of suck is the soundtrack.  The music that accompanies the action are awful cover songs or, maybe even worse, remixes.  Yes, even the music is unimaginative, unoriginal and poorly executed, which- I suppose- is appropriate given the film at hand.  Songs from the Smiths, the Beatles, Bjork, Eurythmics and the Pixies are turned into moody, overly produced trance pieces with ethereal, breathy vocals to boot.  As if watching this atrocity was not enough, Sucker Punch takes great songs and makes them all sound like the Evanescence tracks off the Daredevil soundtrack.

Although the Razzies are not going to be around for another year, it seems as though their front-runner has already made its way into theaters everywhere.  Sucker Punch fancies itself as the next great fantasy epic, but instead it just throws a generation’s worth of pop culture to the wall and sees if anything will stick.  Instead of enjoying yourself, you find yourself watching vapid, pop-portentous screenshots too self-involved with itself to offer an experience.  All in all, Sucker Punch is a bitch move.

The following quote applies to every frame of this film: "What you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul. "

It may not be a traditional monster movie, but that is its greatest attribute. "Monsters" is thoughtful, human and beautiful: 3.5/4

Monsters is something of a marvel in filmmaking and genre.  Filmmaker Gareth Edwards shot the film with a shoestring budget and a cinema verite approach, which bleeds into the film’s overall style of subtly over spectacle.  Subtly may be something of a blasphemous attribute in regards to the monster move genre, but then again, Monsters greatest strength lies in its very human story.

Monster movies, it seems, are making a comeback; specifically alien invasion-monster movies.  Sometimes these threats from on high come in the form of beasts, other times they are organized battalions hell-bent on Earth’s destruction.  Whatever the breed of the extra-terrestrial foe, this new wave of films, from Cloverfield to the upcoming Battle: Los Angeles, are preoccupied with a sense of realism in an attempt to blur, or at least twist the lines between fiction and fact for the sake of engrossing, awe-inspiring fantasy.

At the beginning of the film we are told that a space probe carrying proof of alien life crashed in Mexico, and giant creatures began appearing in the forests and, occasionally, trampling about in the cities.  The U.S. military responded by building a massive wall across the U.S./Mexico border and routinely launch various attacks on what they call,  “ the infected zone.”

Six years later, photojournalist Andrew (Scoot McNairy) is ordered to track down his boss’ daughter Samantha (Whitney Able), and get her from Costa Rica to the U.S.- not an easy task, as the U.S. military is halting all travel through Mexico in order to better contain the creatures.  The two then embark on foot through the infected zone, evade contact with the creatures, and try to reach the border.

When coming up with the story, Gareth Edwards found himself more interested in a world after an invasion, where the presence of monsters was “considered completely normal.”  In Monsters, the creatures are indeed tolerated and accepted as a reality in living in the region; one of the locals even remarks, “If you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.”  Although the giant, luminous, octopus-looking creatures are hardly passive, they are not much different in behavior from other wild animals.  As far as the locals are concerned, they act much like the residents of areas in which earthquakes, hurricanes or tornadoes are common; they just deal with it.

Such an attitude towards monsters makes for an unusual monster movie, but then again, Monsters is not a monster movie in the traditional sense.  Truth be told, Monsters is more of a road movie than anything else; literally, of course, because of the journey at hand, but the film’s structure and style is also reminiscent of the genre.  The film makes use of the space of the Mexican wilderness, and the characters develop through minimal, natural dialogue (most of which was improvised) and reveal themselves through quiet actions.  Edwards’ focus on the serenity of nature amidst chaos- from man and beast alike- gives the film a stark beauty, and McNairy and Able’s chemistry provide a tender humanity that proves crucial to the film.

The lingering shots of nature are a sharp contrast to those that feature the monsters; Edwards uses fast cuts and darkness that keeps the creatures largely unseen, not unlike Jaws.  Granted, such restraint concerning the monster effects alongside the reverential treatment of nature adds to Monsters’ genre idiosyncrasies, but these things are attributed to the film’s small budget as much as they are the filmmaker’s artistic choices.  However, like the best of low budget cinema, Edwards’ resourcefulness supersedes the possible limitations of Monsters’ small budget and provides a unique spin on a genre riddled with tried and true conventions.

The misstep Monsters makes is a flickering political subtext or undertone that concerns immigration and U.S. militarization.  The problem is, these issues do virtually nothing for the story, nor do they offer any real political commentary; they are just there in the background.  It is possible that too many people assumed some kind of political comment upon the film’s initial release given the recent trend of monster movies today (see: District 9), but upon seeing the U.S. border in the film – which resembles a new, industrial Great Wall- it feels too much like a foreboding nod to a relevant political argument that cannot be ignored.

Monsters is an impressive film; it takes what could have been a big budgeted popcorn film and went in a very different direction for a fraction of most monster movies today.  Some may not enjoy Monsters because of what it is, or even for what it is not, but frankly, there is a plethora of monster films featuring metropolitan destruction and people running away in every which direction.  It is good to see that someone has taken the smaller, human-centric approach to a genre that demands more, more, more, and still managed to deliver a film about monsters.

Dazzling and Thrilling. 3 1/2 out of 4.

The 1980’s was a time when style superseded substance; music, fashion, television and film all seemed more concerned about the way they looked- which is does not mean they had nothing to say.  Granted, while some mediums of pop culture in this era were superficial, others used visuals to tell the story, but most were a little of both, and unabashedly so.

The “cinema du look” movement in France was a response to the French New Wave, in which filmmakers like Jean-Jacques Beineix, Luc Besson and Leos Carax favored experimenting with visual spectacle rather than with a film’s narrative.  The result was the creative use of primary colors, lighting and mise en scene to create a world that spoke for itself.  Amongst the first cinema du look films was Beineix’s Diva, which was made at the beginning of the decade and set the bar for the rest of the movement.

Diva begins with Jules (Frederic Andrei), a young delivery boy, attending an opera concert starring Cynthia Dawkins (Wilhelmenia Wiggins Fernandez), a diva who refuses to be recorded.  Jules manages to record the concert, but not for the sake of profit; an avid fan of opera, Jules simply wants to listen and experience the music on his own accord.  When Jules unknowingly receives a tape revealing the identity of a sex and drugs trafficker, Jules finds himself pursued by cops, thugs, and a pair of mysterious Taiwanese gentlemen.  Assuming this pursuit is a result of his illegal recording, Jules hides away in the back alleys and subways of Paris, comes across a pair of quirky fellow art lovers, and forms a touching relationship with his diva.

When one hears a terms like “style over substance,” or “spectacle over narrative,” most probably imagine a style of filmmaking akin to Michael Bay or Zack Snyder, whose allegiance to visuals over content manifests themselves as explosions and graphic novel recreations.  After watching a film like Diva one will realize that there is a considerable difference between spectacle over narrative, and spectacle over content.

Diva is an intensely beautiful film; each and every frame looks like a work of Romantic art, full of life, expression and vibrant colors.  So much of the film- the clothes, the vehicles, the buildings- is covered in primary colors.  The opening scene appropriately sets the color palette for the whole of the film, features Jules riding a yellow scooter, and wearing a red helmet and blue coat.  Furthermore, nearly every scene is lit in a way that makes these colors glow at all times.  Beineix’s use of color for the sake of spectacle is bold and unapologetic, but it is in no way sloppy or frivolous.

Beineix’s use of architecture is just as bold; virtually every setting in the film looks as though it could be an art deco exhibit.  Cinema du look often focused on sensitive, isolated youths who found their place in the underground, and Beineix’s romantic, new wave vision of the Parisian underground facilitates this overall tone perfectly.  Although the film’s underground look may appear a little too pop from time to time, it still manages to be undeniably enchanting.

Fortunately, Diva’s story does not suffer for the sake of spectacle, which may appear at odds for cinema du look’s “style over substance” philosophy.  While the film’s aesthetic beauty is the main attraction, Diva manages to display a multi-faceted and surprisingly thrilling story that justifies Beineix’s artistic preoccupations.  Granted, the transition between the first few acts are a bit abrupt, but they surprisingly come together just in time for the climax.  Beineix also does a great job casting the right actors for their respective roles; Fernandez was a real opera singer and sang her own songs in the film, and Andrei is perfect as the sweet, wide-eyed protagonist who just wants to listen to his favorite diva.  Yet it is Richard Bohringer who steals the show as the quietly eccentric Mr. Gorodish, who at times is a little too quirky (in one scene he is cooking breakfast wearing a snorkeling mask.  Just ‘cause.), but proves to be an intriguing man of action in the later half of the film.

At one point of Diva, the titular character discusses her approach to the music industry, saying, “Business should adapt to art, not the other way around.”  It is rare for a film with such reliance on the visual to also incorporate a real story.  Beneath Diva’s exterior lies a clear statement about the nature of art, and yet, though it does come close to becoming a bit silly now and then, it manages to have enough control over itself to avoid being too pretentious or involved (in other words, French).  Diva takes the Aesthetic philosophy of  “art for art’s sake” to heart by avoiding statements or preaching or politics; it is, simply, and engaging work of beauty.

Though it lacks some hard-hitting, Bronson-approved violence, it is oddly thought provoking. 3 out of 4

Charles Bronson and director Michael Winner are most famous for their work on the Death Wish series, which set the tone for shoot ‘em up revenge movies for years to come.  The Mechanic, in which Bronson plays a hit man for a criminal organization, may carry similar bang-bang expectations, but many will be surprised that the film is a bit slower and more clever than anything the two did in Death Wish.

Arthur Bishop (Bronson) is a hit man who designs his hits to look like commonplace accidents, much like a contract-killing MacGyver.  After an old family friend is killed, the man’s son Steve (Jon-Michael Vincent) asks Bishop to take him under his wing.

Most of the “training” we see in the film involves lectures on planning, organization, and personal philosophy instead of extreme target practice, which appropriately fits the tone of the film.  Much of what Bishop does is research, observation and careful planning, which makes for a pretty lame action movie.  Then again, The Mechanic is not an action movie; at least, not the kind we’re used to.  Films in the Seventies tended to be character driven while the action filled in the gaps, not the other way around.

For example, there is virtually no dialogue for the first fifteen minutes of The Mechanic; we just watch Bishop go through his routine of watching a mark, setting up the mark’s apartment with a simple, DIY explosive, and waiting for the right time to set it off.  Much like Jean-Pierre Melville’s La Samourai, The Mechanic tells you everything you need to know about the film without saying a word.  In a way, The Mechanic is asking us to do what Bishop does: observe, interpret and leave when it is over.

There is something oddly philosophical about the film, and the film touches on some pretty deep ideas that seem at odds with the “Charles Bronson-is-a-hit man” setup preceding the film.  A man of few words, Bishop mostly looks at his “reports” in his well furbished home, listens to classical music and looks at art pieces scattered around his home.  There is a scene in which Bishop looks through a shop window containing elegant furniture with a faint smile on his lips, then as he walks away, the camera focuses on the outside world: dirty, dark and dreary, with a couple of kids fighting on the streets.  There is a real “outsider looking in” element to story, and Bronson always looks distant and out of place no matter his setting or attire.

The same can be said about Steve, who recognizes a similar mindset within Bishop.  Steve is something of a rich, spoiled brat, yet he throws big, rambunctious parties seemingly out of habit rather than real interest, and mostly watches the Seventies-style hedonism from afar.  “I live in my mind,” he says to Bishop,” and so do you.”  Just as the two men seem a fitting pair in their mutual detachment from mainstream society, the job seems equally fitting for the same reasons.

Oddly enough, or maybe appropriately enough, this hip existentialism is best exhibited in scenes in which nothing is said.  The ever-laconic Bronson successfully manages to say everything about himself with a look or a stance, and when he does speak, he does so with sincerity and quiet conviction.  Vincent does the most talking between the two, and is, as a rich kid in his early twenties, is a little too cocky for his own good.  A typical, and entirely reasonable archetype, but there are times when Vincent is a bit too stiff.  When acting alongside a man who can do everything by seemingly doing nothing, his acting hiccups becomes very noticeable.

For the die-hard Bronson fans, or for good old-fashioned action film fans, there is no reason not to see the film; it is not all talk and watching stuff.  Like its patient protagonist, the film is all about the build up, but when it comes time for action, the film delivers some impressive chase sequences.  The film’s big climax features a very thrilling car chase around a narrow, winding road in which Bishop exhibits some of his quick thinking and creativity, with explosive results.

The term, “mechanic,” describes the film and its characters quite well, really.  A mechanic observes a complex mechanism from a (relative) distance, singles out a flaw, fixes it, and ultimately knows how each and every little part works with the others to fulfill its greater function.  The Mechanic is far more meditative than some may like, but that is the film’s strongest attribute, and the film’s preoccupation on social despondency over ass kicking is impressive, intriguing, and better executed than on would expect.

Dark, infectious, and one hell of a ride. One of the year's best. Deal with it. 4/4

Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan is something of a hallucinogenic fairy tale about madness, transformation, and the ballet.  Being an Aronofsky film, however, the film is less sweet and fluffy, and more akin to the Brothers Grimm style: dark, creepy, and grotesque.

On the surface, Black Swan looks like a return to form for Aronofsky; the film features the reckless camera work of Pi, the expressionistic anxiety of Requiem for a Dream, and the ambiguous reality of The Fountain.  Yet the film also features the psychological trials and tribulations, albeit in a very different direction, of an athlete/performer similar to The Wrestler.  In this sense, Black Swan is not so much a return to anything for Aronofsky, but a culmination of the director’s work up to this point.

Black Swan follows ballerina Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman), who is chosen to play the Swan Princess in Swan Lake.  However, the ballets’ director (Vincent Cassel) decides that he wants Nina to not only portray the pristine White Swan, but also the role of the Black Swan, the formers more seductive, swan fatale look alike.

Although Nina is a phenomenal dancer with impeccable technique, she is as pure as the driven snow, and the role of the Black Swan requires a raw sensuality our virginal ballerina lacks.  Naturally, Nina needs to release her inner vamp, and in doing so, taps into a primal darkness that has been cooped up for far too long which triggers a number of disturbing transformations, both mental and physical.

Black Swan is no doubt Aronofsky’s most expressionistic film to date. Aronofsky trades in objectivity with a hyper-awareness for paranoia, anxiety and reckless self-discovery, which isn’t to say Aronofsky abandons reality entirely.  Much of the tension of Black Swan is enveloped by its portrayal of the ballet world, and Aronofsky goes to great measures to truly bring that world to life.

The film often looks more like a documentary than a slick Hollywood film; the grainy film and handheld camera techniques make the viewing experience more tangible and engaging.  There are several scenes that take place during dance rehearsals, but instead of sitting back and watching the dancers practice, the camera dances with the characters with enough vigor to make filmgoers feel little dizzy and out of breathe.  Clint Mansell’s score, which contains arrangements of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, permeates virtually every scene, and makes it almost impossible not to be obsessed with the upcoming performance.  Thus, we, not unlike the dancers, are waiting anxiously for opening.

Of course, it is the physical transformations in the film that are the most wild examples of expressionism, not to mention the thing that generated the most buzz prior to the film’s release.  These transformations, however, are not to be taken literally, for they only represent Nina’s inner metamorphosis, but whether or not these transformations are “real” is beside the point; they are frightening to watch, and effectively warp the film’s sense of realism without disrupting the ultimate narrative.    

The credit for these nightmarish changes does not lie entirely with the director; Natalie Portman gives one of the most involving, fearless performances of her career.  Portman surrenders herself entirely to the role physically, emotionally, and even sexually.  The world of Black Swan presented to us belongs to Nina, and Portman manages to, both, carry the film while surrender herself as its victim at the same time.  Furthermore, Portman portrays her character’s inner transformation with such great subtlety that the external changes serve the internal ones, and not the other way around.

Just as Black Swan relies on Nina’s own internal troubles, there are several external forces that appear in the film as supporting archetypical characters.  Although these characters have predetermined functions, it would be foolish to dismiss them as flat or uninteresting.  Mila Kunis plays a rival dancer who embodies the very raw, uninhibited sexuality that Nina lacks and needs to discover, and Kunis shows us yet again that she is far more than “the spoiled teen from “That Seventies Show.””

Vincent Cassel plays the proverbial sleazy mentor, which manifests itself here as Nina’s director.  This is the kind of role we’ve seen several times before, and Cassel seems to be the go-to “sleazy European” character in other films, yet he exhibits such a powerful presence that he goes above and beyond serving a function.

The most disturbing, shudder-inducing role in the film belongs to Barbara Hershey, who plays Nina’s overbearing, never-was ex-ballerina of a mother.  Although this isn’t the first time we have seen a horrid stage mother, Hershey plays her with a subtlety that nearly rivals Portman.  Every action and abuse her character exhibits is passive, yet it is the kind of passive that masks a greater kind of crazy and desperate interdependence.

As of late, Black Swan has become one of the most debated films since Inception; people either love it or are extremely annoyed by the film and its success.  Several people have brushed the film off as a campy B-movie; I read something that referred to it as “Showgirls for people who read The New Yorker.”  A clever, pithy zinger, yes (one that belongs in The New Yorker), but Showgirls, it ain’t.

The B-movie moniker makes sense, although the film hardly possesses the tongue-in-cheek humor inherent to camp.  Black Swan, however, is something of a genre film that features archetypical characters, clichés, and expected plot points; one could even label it a “horror-farce” if they wanted to sound vaguely condescending. The film is also unmistakably exploitative in its aesthetic style, in its emotional range, its shock value, and its treatment of the lead character.

So maybe Black Swan is a B-movie, but my question is this: does it make any difference?  Are A-pictures superior in quality to Bs?  Not particularly.  And why is it the Internet film geeks that are crying foul, citing its B-movie tendencies?  These are usually the same people that criticize the mainstream for ignoring the legitimacy of such films in the first place. Its only crime as a ‘B’, I suppose, is that it has received well-deserved critical acclaim in its own time, which ruins the fun of liking a film for the sake of being hip and ironic, rather than for the sake of film itself.

Be it a ‘B’, an ‘A’, or something in between, Black Swan is a phenomenal film.  There is something so vivid and mesmeric about the film, and these sensations linger on in the psyche long after the lights flicker back on in the auditorium.  A film so resonate is not the result of anything ironic or superficial; its damn fine filmmaking.