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.

Ambitious, but unfocused. 2.5 out of 4 stars.

How does one even begin to describe the living conundrum that was William S. Burroughs?   Writer, artist, cat lover, homosexual, junkie, gun enthusiast, godfather of punk rock, yet he never really fit into those molds either.  William S. Buroughs: A Man Within attempts to answer these questions, and although it offers an insight into who Burroughs was, it focuses too much time on the legend and less on the man himself.

When it comes to biographical documentaries, or even biopics, for that matter, films will often pay attention to the legacy of their subjects rather than the subjects themselves.  Although the legacy is important to capture within films like these, it should also remain implicit within the film.  The legend of the man or woman in question is something most people probably know already, especially those attending the film.  Thus, these films tend to tell us what we know (what he/she was), but not what we would like to discover (who was this icon?).          

Documentarian Yony Leyser is, no doubt, a huge admirer of Burroughs, and for better and for worse, it shows.  A Man Within covers virtually every facet of Burroughs’ long and fascinating life, and explores just how much influence this man had over everything: poetry, prose, art, music, film, culture, society, life.  Yet by documenting his effect on all these things, the film barely scratches the surface of Burroughs, who is far more interesting than anything he ever influenced.

Which isn’t to say we learn nothing of Burroughs.  Those who have only read Naked Lunch will be entertained by the insight into his personal life, and how they affected his work.  One of the most interesting things about Burroughs was his love-hate relationship with his own drug use; it isn’t news to discover that Burroughs was a heavy drug user, but we also learn that Burroughs had no illusions about the nature of what he was putting into his body: junk.

Burroughs’ homosexuality is of particular interest in the film and is closely interwoven into everything about Burroughs.  Raised in a Midwestern Middle class environment in the earlier part of the Twentieth Century, Burroughs’ somewhat begrudging acceptance of his sexuality highlights his sense of ambivalence towards everything else around him.  This chapter of the film also highlights Burroughs’ aloof attitude towards his surroundings; an odd quality for a man who appeared at the center (or maybe just off-center) of so many cultural movements during his lifetime.

There are a slew of individuals interviewed for the film; some of them offer an insight to Burroughs, others provide very little beyond merely appealing to his legend.  Film director John Waters, of all people, is by far the most engaging interviewee in the film, and goes into great detail in describing Burroughs and his impact on society.  Actor Peter Weller (who portrayed Burroughs alter-ego in the film Naked Lunch) and Burroughs’ ex-boyfriend Marcus Ewert each have a few anecdotes about their time with Burroughs, and in doing so, offer a rare glimpse of Burroughs as a human being.

There are several interviewees, on the other hand, that the film could have done without, and appear to have been thrown in for the sake of showing off how eclectic Burroughs’ interests and social circles were (was the interview with a snake-wrangling acquaintance of Burroughs really necessary to the film?).  There are also several punk rock musicians who are featured in the film, and provide two of the films’ greatest weaknesses.  Although Burroughs served as some kind of guiding force for the punk movement, the documentary forgets that Burroughs is its subject, not punk rock.  The second, and maybe the more infuriating of the two, is how most of the musicians’ interviewed are a little too self-involved, and spend more time telling stories about themselves with Burroughs in them, instead of the other way around.  Patti Smith is the chief offender in this respect, who at one point, credits herself as giving Burroughs peace of mind concerning a dark period of his life via one of her spoken word performances.

However, in trying to fit in everything about Burroughs’ life into one movie, they rush through some of its pivotal moments, including how he accidentally killed his second wife in a William Tell-gone-wrong scenario, and the writing of Naked Lunch.  There are also a few videos of Burroughs with fellow Beat poet Allen Ginsberg that are fascinating; we could have seen two old Beats wax spontaneous poetic.  Unfortunately, Leyser tends to let others speak for Burroughs instead.

William S. Burroughs: A Man Within is an ambitious documentary which tries its hardest to cover everything about a very complicated man.  In a way, the film succeeds; they do manage to run through the life of Burroughs.  The problem is, why would anyone want to run through the life and ideas of a man as fascinating as William S. Burroughs; cliff note coverage seldom does anything or anyone justice.  If the film had focused its gaze on a particular time in Burroughs’ life or studied a common theme in his work, we might have actually gotten to see the man within the myth.

One of the most natural and engaging documentaries I've seen. 3.5 out of 4

It is interesting that Catfish be released soon after The Social Network, as both films present some insightful portrayals of the Facebook generation.  While Social Network traced Facebook’s less-than humble beginnings, Catfish captures a real piece of the culture that followed soon after.

Given the film’s subject matter, it’s appropriate that Catfish is a documentary; Facebook, Google and YouTube are so prevalent in today’s culture that, when making a film about the internet and society, real life can speak for itself without the aid of a script.

When New York photographer Nev Schulman receives a painting of one of his published photographs from Abby, a young artist from Michigan, Nev begins a Facebook friendship with her and her family.  Nev’s brother Ariel, along with their friend Henry, decide to film Nev’s interactions with this family to see just how close two groups of people can get without physically seeing them.

Things go better than expected as Nev firmly establishes himself as new member of the family; he even starts a longdistance relationship with Meagan, Abby’s half-sister, that begins to get pretty serious.  However, it later becomes apparent that Megan, Abby and the rest of the family are not what they seem.

Catfish’s marketing campaign revolves around its final act, suggesting that something particularly shocking or grisly will be revealed.  Given that Catfish is a documentary and was not in the news prior to its release, I think its safe to assume that most people won’t expect what they would probably like to see: axe wielding murderers, family-oriented cannibalism and gimp-butlers run amuck in the Michigan country.  Without giving too much away, the ending isn’t so much a shocking change in direction, but a fitting conclusion that expands the nature of the film in a way that is plausible, but still unbelievable.

What lies at the center of Catfish doesn’t depend on a twist ending or a Bluetooth-endowed serial killer, but a real study of social connections within social networks.  How close can people really get at such distances?  Granted, Facebook displays the details of an individual’s likes and dislikes, favorite this and that’s, political and religious views, and, of course, the almighty relationship status.  Although social networking sites promote the more superficial elements of one’s identity, most people seem to forget that it’s the way in which these things converge, the context of such identifying pleasantries that makes a person.  Without that, it’s quite impossible to truly get to know someone, assuming that what they’ve put down is even true in the first place.

The direction by Ariel Schulman and Henry Joost never looses focus on the influence of the Internet, and often incorporates it in the film as if it were another character or setting.  The camera often watches the computer and lets Facebook pages tell their own story, and we often feel as though we are at are own desks, checking our profiles, chatting with friends and Googling whatever comes to mind.  Few films have used the face of the Internet in such a manner, and it seems so appropriate that a film about the Internet relies on the Internet to tell some of it’s own story.

One of the real delights of Catfish is how the documentary was started on a whim; none of the men behind the camera, nor the one in front of it knew where this story was going to go.  The directors have no real agenda or no specific narrative; it’s all up to Nev and his digitally surrogate family.  Not only does the story unfold naturally, but the relationship between Ariel, Henry and Nev does not follow the traditional or professional etiquette between filmmaker and subject.  Rather, the film simply portrays three friends fascinated by a peculiar event, all of whom are curious to see where it will go; two of them just thought to get it on tape for the fun of it.  The chemistry between the three young men grants the film a natural realism that is particularly inviting, and keeps a film revolving around Facebook firmly rooted in the real world with real people.

As far as we can tell, we are at the apex of the Facebook & Co. culture, and it’s about time someone starts questioning what the culture is and what it means.  A tad pretentious and philosophical, yes, but that is where Catfish succeeds so well.  Instead of preaching from a soapbox made of tarnished modems, Catfish follows an ordinary, everyday individual who lies, like so many of us, in the heart of that culture, and effortlessly juxtaposes the nature and meaning of social connections on both sides of a screen.

Let’s get this straight.  This is not really “the facebook movie.”  When I say that, what I mean is that despite its name, it’s not really about facebook at all.  To its great benefit, this film is about people, specifically a small number of characters, their friendship, and the way it was affected by greed, pride, and betrayal.  It takes the backdrop of an important event in recent history and uses it to feature universal human truths and emotions  in a way that every audience member should be able to relate to, not just the people of the “facebook generation” for which I unfortunately must count myself a part of.  facebook’s effect on the world and the way we communicate is only dealt with tangentially, as in moments when characters declare that “facebook me” became a common phrase across the Harvard campus.

Whether or not it’s an accurate portrayal (it isn’t), the depiction of Mark Zuckerberg, primary creator of facebook, is a fascinating one.  As portrayed by Jesse Eisenberg, he is the kind of anti-social self-centered genius that is pretty much incapable of change, let alone seeing the need or anything from another person’s perspective.  Eisenberg plays him with both a menacing inner turmoil and a sad loneliness that both interchanges from moment to moment and yet exists simultaneously.  Andrew Garfield, as Mark’s one true friend Eduardo Savarin, places his third intriguing performance in a row for me.  I was very impressed with him in Never Let Me Go, and was happy to see him capable of playing an American with few accent speed bumps (especially

since he’ll soon be Spider-Man).  His character was sympathetic and even-keeled, but managed to bring a unique sense of rage to the scenes that needed it and disappointed betrayal to the scenes taking place in the deposition.  Justin Timberlake steals the show in every scene he’s in, and rightly so since that’s exactly what his character does.  They needed a dynamic superstar to play the man who, for the audience, is the most well known and public figure of the bunch.  The fact that Timberlake’s Sean Parker must play serpent to Zuckerberg’s Eve also means he had to be charming and convincing as well, which Timberlake does marvelously, while still subtly revealing his original geekiness in a few key scenes through clever acting and an inhaler.

Aaron Sorkin is as awesome as ever when it comes to the script here.  Considering this movie takes place essentially entirely in conversation, he keeps the scenes fresh by having fascinating dialogue.  Some of the lines, particularly barbs between characters in the depositions themselves are hil

arious and memorable.  Dialogue-wise the introductory scene is one of my favorites in quite a while, it’s entertaining while revealing Zuckerberg’s motives and, more importantly, his inability to see the irony with which he is currently filling his life with, and will soon embody his life’s masterwork.  Throughout the entire script Sorkin just manages to sculpt phrase and diction in a way that sounds beautiful and compelling, if somewhat unrealistic.

Similarly, David Fincher manages to keep a film about a bunch of guys on computers visually compelling.  The creation of FaceMash, intercut with a wild party at one of the final clubs, is particularly fun.  On top of that, it’s one of the most realistic and best used examples of actual computer software I’ve ever seen.  The scene is done in a way that is both above your head in terms of the programming while being completely understandable and giving you insight into what the process of creating something might actually be like, including its obstacles.  While it may be an almost unnecessary diversion from the film, I think the most virtuoisic scene is the boat race featuring tilt-shift focus and fantastic editing.  Cut to a Trent Reznor arranged version of In the Hall of the Mountain King, it replicates metaphorically what is happening to the characters throughout their story, and particularly in the scene that follows it.  While there are a few Fincheresque camera tricks in the movie (seamless portrayal of twins by a single person, a bottle breaking inches from the camera lens, and camera that manages to dolly through a pillar), he mostly focuses on story and character and keeps things simple but visually diverse enough to keep the scenes of dialogue moving.

While I can’t say that it was my favorite film of the year, The Social Network is certainly one of the best, and it should be seen by all.  Zuckerberg creates a world in which everyone can become as brave as they want through the mask of anonymity, as the Shakespearean characters of As You Like It and many other plays, and in it, he’s able to crown himself king.  But in order to do so he must commit similarly Shakesperean acts of betrayal.  It truly is Julius Caesar for the online generation.

As sharp and perfectly executed as they come. 4/4.

Tom DiCillo’s Living in Oblivion is a labor love about a labor love.  Making a film, especially an independent film, isn’t easy.  With all the various problems that collide with one another on set, it’s a miracle anything ever gets finished.  It’s no wonder that everyone in the film industry is borderline, if not certifiably insane.

Living in Oblivion focuses on a small, independent film crew shooting three scenes in a single day.  In an interesting twist, two of these scenes turn out to be dreams from two different crew members, and although the use of dreams may seem like a pretentious or frivolous plot device, it works, as both dreams are very realistic.  The “real” scene, oddly enough, involves the shooting of a dream sequence that is bizarre in a typical cinematic way.

The first sequence is dreamt by director Nick Reve (Steve Buscemi), who tries to shoot a simple, intimate mother/daughter conversation.  Unfortunately, everything, from an intrusive boom mic to bad milk, gets in the way of finishing the scene.  The scene (within the scene) is shot in color, while all the action behind the scenes is shot in a gritty black white, cleverly toying with the perception of real and cinematic reality.  The symbolism is obvious, but appropriate to the rags-to-rags misfit spirit of indie filmmaking.  Buscemi is perfect as the grungy, average-guy director understandably frustrated and agitated at the difficulties of capturing a single scene, and his meltdown at the end of the sequence is earnest, and even heartbreaking.

The second dream is dreamt by actress Nicole (Catherine Keener), who is known only for a “shower scene in that Richard Gere movie.”  This time the sequence is in color, while the scene, a romantic reveal, is shot on set is in black and white.  Again, a scene simple enough to shoot goes awry, this time by egotistical actor Chad Palomino (James LeGros), who stops every scene with a new idea of his own.  Keener is good as a desperate actress climbing her way to the top of the Hollywood food chain, but LeGros steals the show.  He’s a spoof of the movie star gaining street cred via twisted, small-budget films, most involving him as a rapist whose victims fall in love with him.  His fake, big-shot persona amidst the modest set is hilarious, and his tense back-and-forth with cinematographer Wolf (Dermot Mulroney) involving an eye-patch is a highlight.

Breaking away from the tried and true dream formula, the final sequence takes place in “reality”, yet is almost kookier than any of the previous scenes.  Shooting a dream sequence very reminiscent of Twin Peaks (red room and a dwarf), the scene is interrupted by Nicole’s flat performance, Reve’s Alzheimer-ridden mother showing up unexpectedly, and the resistance of the scene’s token dwarf Tito (Peter Dinklage).  Dinklage is perfect as an actor who is, clearly, tired of getting cast in roles that cater only to his size, and calls out the horse-beaten-to-death cliché of dwarves being thrown into dreams to make it zany.  One can’t help but think that this scene is directed towards David Lynch, who frequently uses dwarf actor Michael J. Anderson in several of his movies to give it that extra bit of surrealism.

Focusing on filmmaking itself, Living in Oblivion places the spotlight on the crew, and the use of an ensemble cast of little-known actors is a well-orchestrated one.  Each crew member has their own quirks and one-liners that remind you that many people are behind a film, and each makes their own contribution to it, whether or not its seen in the final cut.  The collage of personalities fill in the gaps between the focal points of the film, adds to the chaos surrounding a movie set in the most entertaining of fashions, and pays homage to those who receive no recognition for their efforts on a film.

In many ways, Living in Oblivion is an independent film made by, about and for independent filmmakers.  Making a film is no easy task.  Scratch that, its painfully difficult; taking into account the colliding egos, differences of vision, hunger for control and the sheer number of autonomous people, it’s a miracle films are made at all.  Oblivion revels in how even the smallest things, from bad milk to a digital watch, can ruin an entire day’s worth of work.

Like the best of indie films, Living in Oblivion is personal, and like the best of films, it’s got a great cast, talented direction and a tight script.  For the life of me, I cannot find one thing wrong with this film.  If there is one thing wrong with Living in Oblivion, it’s that it ends on a screwball coincidence that seems to be possible only in a dream, yet given the film’s affinity for dreams, it’s oddly appropriate.  Plus, if the little things aren’t as responsible for success as they are derailments, many films may never have been made.

Midnight Run is not an obscure movie, but its starting to get old enough that most audiences may not have heard of it.  And yet, there’s beginning to be some interest in a sequel to the film in the past few months.  Because I enjoy Charles Grodin in everything I’ve seen him in (you may know him from Beethoven, Dave, or So I Married an Axe Murderer), and it’s hard to miss with DeNiro, I decided to check it out.  The plot is very simple, it’s a road buddy movie in which DeNiro plays Jack Walsh, a bounty hunter hired to track down Charles Grodin’s white collar criminal and bring him across the country.  Shennanigans ensue.  Not only is the setup elegantly simple, but the film does a fantastic job of creating big stakes and lots of conflict.  After acquiring Grodin, DeNiro’s character has not one, not two, not three, but four different groups trying to track him down and get Grodin for their own very different desires and needs.  Complex character motivations from both DeNiro and Grodin’s characters really push them against each other nicely and create interesting dynamics alongside the different groups who are after them.

But the real charm of this film is the chemistry between the two leads.  The dynamic between the hard-ass Robert DeNiro and the overly well balanced and put-together Charles Grodin is just, to put it simply, entertaining.  Robert DeNiro does his job comedically but I think it’s Charles Grodin that really makes this pairing shine.  He usually is relegated to more supportive roles, but here he has a whole movie with which to pester his straight man.  And which really is the straight man?  Charles Grodin normally takes that role but here he has all the good lines.  There’s something about his ability with facial expressions that can get laughs on that alone, they’re not silly or over the top, but they manage to express a world of disapproval with just his eyes and a few wrinkles in his face.  A scene in which he imitates a government official is a particular highlight as he brings his stern sense of comedy forth.

This is a chase movie in every sense of the word and they find a lot to do.  At 130 minutes I was worried that the jig would wear out its welcome a little early, but, aside from the usual bits of ADD on my part (it seems to be getting bad of late) I had no problem sitting down and taking in the full duration of the film.  There’s plenty of twists and turns (not shocking, but logical and dynamic) to keep the plot going and it comes to a relatively climactic conclusion that keeps the focus on the characters.  It should be said that this is more than just a comedy, it’s also a well executed thriller as well.  Props also go to the supporting players, particularly Joe Pantoliano, who I always enjoy seeing, and Dennis Farina, who curses funnier than, well, anyone.

Those just looking for a fun entertaining night of movie watching tend to go straight for the new release wall, thinking that watching older films can be a chore.  That’s not the case even remotely with this film, I had a really good time watching it and anyone who appreciates a good comedy with some great acting and good character chemistry will too.  Check it out if you can find it.

A bit disjointed now and then, but absolutely fascinating and well done. 3/4

“Writing,” William Lee (Peter Weller) says, “is a dangerous thing.”  I imagine he says this because writing is an act of introspection, and if you’re anything like Lee, what lies beneath is a surrealistic, Beat nightmare that is as fascinating as it is insatiably weird.

Naked Lunch isn’t so much a literal adaptation of William S. Burroughs’ novel as it is an interpretation of how he wrote it.  Often said to be an unfilmable novel, writer/director David Cronenberg decided that the best approach for filming a collection of disjointed, surreal vignettes was to focus on the man behind them, blending real events from Burroughs’ life with the nightmarish dreamscape depicted in many of his works.

Working as an exterminator in post-WWII New York, William Lee, the alter ego-of-sorts of Burroughs, spends most of his time getting high off of bug repellant with his wife (Judy Davis), and his friends Hank and Martin (Nicholas Campbell and Michael Zelniker), both of which are cleverly modeled after Jack Keruoac and Allen Ginsberg.

When a William Tell re-enactment results in Lee shooting his wife in the head, Lee begins to experience bizarre hallucinations of talking beetles who tell him to go to the Interzone (which resembles Tanjeer) to investigate the distribution of drugs harvested from various insects.  His reports while abroad, which turn out to be the novel, have little to do with his mission, which is an appropriate concept concerning Burroughs’ novel and Cronenberg’s film; both narratives have nothing and everything to do with whatever’s going on.

For this reason, Naked Lunch does and doesn’t work.  On the one hand, it can be difficult to get an idea of what’s going on, and the film’s surreal storyline tends to steer the plot into a few dead ends.  There are several instances where the narrative abruptly changes in an attempt to represent Lee’s descent into madness.  Although Naked Lunch is disjointed in nature, some of the transitions between reality and fantasy are so jarring that the audience may spend more time figuring out what they missed, and less time on the film at hand.

On the other hand, Cronenberg’s vision of the inner workings of Burroughs’ mind is fascinating.  Achieving success as the master of body horror, Cronenberg manages to experiment a bit with Naked Lunch by weaving his old tricks involving grotesque manifestations of the sub-concsious into a near-autobiographical account of an important part of the Beat movement.  Amidst creatures resembling sex organs, talking roach/typewriter hybrids and horrifying human transformations, there is also a prominent Fifties aesthetic, a great bebop score by Howard Shore, and subtle Beat sesnsibilities that compliment the film’s surrealism.              

The film also offers a number of strong performances, particularly from Peter Weller, who remains stone faced and aloof amidst the raging madness off his own powder-infested mind.  His descent into madness is a subtle one, yet quite noticeable; his performances of two passages from Burroughs’ novel are perfectly delivered in a haunting monotone.  This dichotomy between Lee’s stoic personality and his twisted sub-conciousness grounds the film, and Weller holds his own as the ego to Cronenberg’s id.

Several character actors revolve around Weller’s sleeping awake protagonist, embodying a few creepy quirks that give Cronenberg’s setting a little more depth.  Ian Holm and Julian Sands, in particular, play two residents of the Interzone and both exhibit a civilized exterior with an eerie aura that becomes more and more realized as the film progresses.  Roy Scheider makes one hell of an impression (despite only showing up at the beginning and end of the film) as the good Doctor Benway, who uses his practice as a front for peddling the ultra dangerous “black meat” powder.  Scheider’s appearance at the end of the film is appropriately out there and fantastic, and his natural charm brings a maniacal bonhomie to the character.

Naked Lunch is not for everyone; as the Kerouac-inspired character says of Lee, “He has a grip on a unique reality principle.”  The same can be said, for better or worse, about the film.  Some may find the film to disorienting to make any sense out of, and Beat purists may take offense to Cronenberg’s creative liberties.  Yet, that same affinity to chaos over order is what defines Burroughs, if not the whole of the Beat movement.  If anything, Naked Lunch may not be so much an adaptation of Burroughs’ novel as it is his mind.

For those unaware, The Descent is the 2005 horror film out of England written and directed by Neil Marshall.  It features what is essentially an all-female, all-British cast of adrenaline junkies who go spelunking in an uncharted set of caverns who find, to cop a cliché, more than they bargained for.  It’s a simple set-up and the plot stays simple throughout.  The leanness of the script is part of what makes it work so well.  It uses classic horror expediency to introduce its characters, using just a few lines of dialogue to really tell you exactly what each character is about before any of the action begins.  Instead of complex plotting it relies more on our central fears to execute its scenes of horror.  The scariest scenes rely on claustrophobia, fear of heights, or fear of the dark.  And one of the most effective screenwriting tactics, putting the characters in a place from the very beginning where they are truly trapped and there’s no way out.

These may seem like obvious tactics for a horror film, but the execution here is so excellent.  While certainly there’s a lot of geographical ground to cover, the script does not feel unlike the very common “entire episode trapped in an elevator, phone booth, apartment” type plot.  The movie takes place almost entirely in a cave.  And even though it’s a complex cave, that’s still all it is.  And yet, the screenwriters find plenty for the characters to do, and for them to be afraid of.  As with all isolating horror films (such as The Thing and The Mist), more horror is derived from the way humans can turn against each other or fail to cooperate properly than from the outside forces.  This is what can make horror truly interesting, a focus on the characters and their interactions, or lack thereof.  Splitting up the characters in the story has some interesting effects all its own.

The setting provides some really intriguing cinematographic opportunities.  Because there’s no sunlight in the caves, all the lights have to be motivated practically, either from flashlights or headlights or lanterns.  This allows the cinematographer to really paint the frame with light in a way that’s always intriguing and well composed.  The film also has a really interesting cast of almost a monochrome red, which is a welcome relief from the constant monochrome blue or the slightly less popular but simultaneously more irritating monochrome yellow.  The color scheme gives the film energy and frankly a violent feel that it might otherwise lack from the enclosed space.  Creative blocking of scenes as well as the use of various liquids also helps give it a really great atmosphere.

The Descent is a simple, well executed horror film that simply does its job and provides some great action.  It does complex things with its screenwriting and with its themes that many other horror films don’t manage, and it doesn’t shy away from much of anything.  Basically it’s a really good thrill ride for anyone with the strength of heart to endure it.  I highly recommend it if you like this style of film.

Pixar does it AGAIN. 4/4

Just when I think I’ve outgrown Pixar films, they go and release a film like Toy Story 3.

The best cartoons are the ones that are made for kids, yet have something for the adults to enjoy, whether it’s a few well-disguised jokes that go past the kids’ heads, fascinating animation, or just good old-fashioned nostalgia.  It’s in this way that Pixar is the sneakiest of film companies: they don’t make cartoons, they make real films.  They just happen to be animated.

Kids love Pixar movies.  The animation is state-of-the-art, there are a few good lines that they enjoy, and stories are laid out easy enough where children can follow along with ease.  However, Pixar films tend to contain a lot that their apparent demographic will miss entirely.

Toy Story 3 opens with a great train robbery in the midst of being foiled by heroic sheriff Woody (Tom Hanks) that quickly descends into anachronistic delight.  Following the playtime fantasy, we are quickly re-introduced to the old gang, including recent high school graduate Andy, who has outgrown his beloved toys and is preparing to go off to college.  Fearing the threat of being thrown out, the gang deals with issues of age and abandonment, and decide to get themselves “adopted” by a nearby daycare facility, run by old plushy bear Uncle Lotso (Ned Beatty).

Having yet to deal with age and change, kids will recognize the conflict in the plot, but fail to recognize its depth; adults will not have that luxury.  Toy Story 3 perfectly captures everything about the pains of watching your children growing up.

Parents in the audience will no doubt feel an uncomfortable foreshadowing concerning their own children’s entrance into college and adulthood, and the toys stand in for those who feel neglected of abandoned by their own children.  Most of us never really abandon our parents in the most grave of definitions, but our children, like us before them, never stay “Daddy’s Little Girl,” or “Mommy’s Baby Boy” forever.  In fact, once we hit our teens, it’s the first title we’re glad to leave behind us.  Not to mention that there is nothing more heart wrenching for a parent than the thought of their child suddenly running off to college to become whoever they’re meant to be.  But, there is little else for a parent to do, other than remain behind on standby for whatever reason brings one’s child back to the nest, a sentiment embodied by the ever loyal Woody.  Always the patriarch of the group, it is appropriate that Woody plays the stand-in for parents: old and underappreciated, but dedicated to always be there.

The changes people (and toys) go through while growing up is at the heart of virtually every scene in Toy Story 3.  Buzz (Tim Allen), Jessie (Joan Cusack), and the rest of the gang are faced with the question, “Well, where do we go from here?” a question that haunts those of us who suddenly realize that our childhood is now something behind us.  As Andy prepares to leave his home behind for an unwritten tomorrow, the toys also leave their home for a place rife with uncertainty.  In a way, we’ve all felt that kind of fear against new horizons, always hounded by that question, “Where do I go?  Am I in the right place?”  Pixar, of course, displays this sentiment perfectly.

More so than the previous Toy Story films, Toy Story 3 indulges in the dark side of age and abandonment.  With some coming to grips with some very real fears and others being entirely changed by them, the film refuses to sugarcoat the effects of being left behind by loved ones.  If any other film had dealt with the anger and depression of loss by telling the story of a toy left behind, I can’t imagine taking it too seriously, let alone be effected by it, yet Toy Story 3 conveys some pretty tangible emotions with an impressive amount of honesty and thought behind it.

Deeper themes aside, Pixar shows that it has its eye on the changing times and trends of today’s youth.  The Apple invasion and presence of iEverything cleverly makes itself into several parts of the film, which makes for a clever gimmick, but also shows us just how much time has gone between now and the other Toy Story films.  The realization that iPods, let alone their expected place in our culture, are barely a decade old makes you feel your age.

The storytelling in the film is nothing less than perfect.  The film’s plot flows effortlessly, and the filmmakers know just when to make what reference in the story.  The second half of the film delights in showing of the resourcefulness of the toys’ interaction in the real world, and invokes the memory of some of our favorite prison escape films, from The Great Escape to Escape from Alcatraz.  The cast of new characters are highly enjoyable as well, particularly the inclusion of Barbie (Jodi Benson), who’s just as you’d expect, and a scene stealing Ken (Michael Keaton, always a pleasure), who’s obsession with clothes will have adults in stitches.

Toy Story 3 secures itself firmly as one of Pixar’s finest films, which is especially impressive given it’s the third of a series.  Never stale or recycled for a moment, it captures that universal spark that touched the imagination of every child and adult alike.  It is nothing short of amazing that an animated film about walking and talking toys can so profoundly make us laugh, make us cry, make us reflect, and leave us feeling young and vulnerable again.