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.

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. "

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.

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.

Understated, tender and resonate. 3 1/2 out of 4 Stars

Never Let Me Go is not the first film about cloning and organ harvesting, yet it’s the first film to do so seriously, and in the subtlest of forms.  In fact, the film is less about cloning and more about the human condition, which makes it truly original and effective.

The film takes place in an alternate timeline, in which cloning has been discovered in the Fifties, and in the Sixties, these clones have been used as involuntary organ donors.  As a result, a number of mankind’s worst diseases are very treatable, and human beings live well into their hundreds.

It should be noted that the term “clone” is never uttered in the film.  Not once.  This is done, for one, so that the film avoids falling into schlocky Clonus Horror-territory, but also because the film is not about cloning, nor is it really even about clones; it’s about just what makes us human to begin with.

The core of the film lies between the friendship and subsequent love triangle between Kathy (Carey Mulligan), Tommy (Andrew Garfield) and Ruth (Keira Knightley) through three different time periods; first, as children in a “special” boarding school in the Seventies, then as teenagers in the Eighties, then finally as adults in the mid-Nineties.  Although friendships interrupted by love interests tends to be more of a hacky cliché in films, the relationships between the three principle characters exhibits a depth and maturity that drives the film.

There is a gray gloom that is ever-present throughout the film; at times it appears as though Never Let Me Go was shot through a very light, yet equally noticeable layer of fog.  Obviously, such cinematography provides a very gloomy visual effect, but it accompanies the film’s general setting, which resembles England’s idyllic early twentieth century countryside.  It is only the sight of ID bracelet’s and hospital technology that reminds you that it several decades further than you would initially suspect.

This anachronistic aesthetic is absolutely imperative to the film because it consistently, yet tacitly reminds you that these people live apart from the rest of the world; out of time and out of touch from any kind of world that holds a future that does not end on an operation table.

Director Mark Romanek (One Hour Photo) and screenwriter Alex Garland (28 Weeks Later and Sunshine) go well out of their way to downplay the science-fiction elements of Never Let Me Go.  This approach coincides with the original novel, written by Kazaou Ishiguro, which was not a sci-fi novel, but a haunting love story with questions concerning what it means to be human that was set against the backdrop of a science fiction concept.

The dogged humanity of these characters must be attributed to the lead actors, as they each possess a sincerity that brings their characters to life.  Knightley does a wonderful job as the spiteful, almost mean-spirited Ruth who somehow manages to remain sympathetic, even when she’s at her worst.  Mulligan brings an understated, yet powerful maturity, not unlike her role in An Education, to the tragic, introspective Kathy, who also narrates the film.

Andrew Garfield, who also stars in this year’s The Social Network, portrays the film’s most human character.  On top of providing a youthful vitality and a real passion that goes against his social norm, there is a desperation to the character that yearns for a life, an identity and a love that renders him the most heartbreaking and heartwarming character in the film.

There is an ethical, and maybe even a moral question that permeates throughout the Never Let Me Go: Are these characters human?  Yet, we aren’t beaten over the head with this question, nor are we bombarded by clearly stated answers.  No, the film takes its time, and reveals to us a very human story, rather than one that concerns itself too much with questions and conundrums and resolutions presented in a neat little package.  Instead, Never Let Me Go simply tells the story of three people who experience life, love and loss just like the rest of us and wonder, perhaps even more than the rest of us, what it all means in the end.

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.

Light-hearted fun, but not much else. 2.5 out of 4

“Micmacs” is a French word similar to “knick-knacks”, as in “a little of this, a little of that.”  In many ways, this describes Jean Pierre Jeunet’s latest film pretty well, as its made up of charming little ideas, yet doesn’t add up to anything all-too substantial.

Micmacs opens with Basil’s father killed by a French-made land mine in the Middle East in 1979.  Thirty years later, Basil (Dany Boon) is caught in the crossfire of between a criminal and the authorities, and is accidentally shot in the head.  He survives, but after his recovery Basil finds he is without a job, without a home, and still has the bullet lodged in his brain.

After a few months of living on the street, Basil is adopted by a family of misfits who salvage junk for a living, and exist in an oddball kind of harmony.  After discovering the two arms dealers inherently responsible for his father’s death and his own bullet, Basil and his makeshift family decide to pit the rival companies against each other.

A major element, perhaps the element of Micmacs is its dedication to Rube Goldberg-like machines, and it’s reliance on your everyday junk drawer treasures.  Like the wire hanger creations of the family’s resident handyman-artiste Tiny Pete (Michel Cremades), Micmacs is the assembly of many a great things long-since forgotten by the public.

This clockwork aesthetic is tailor-made for a director like Jeunet, whose attention to visual detail has enabled him to create masterpieces like City of Lost Children and Amelie.  Similar to the occupation of his characters, Jeunet too relies on the knick-knacks of cinematic history to supplement his vision.

Like many actors who have worked with Jeunet in the past, the stars of Micmacs each have a very unusual look about them, as if they were made in a factory somewhere in France with the sole purpose of starring in a Jeunet film.  The actorsin Micmacs are armed with very distinct facial features that enable them to speak more with their faces than with words.  As a result, the film sometimes plays out more like a silent film as all character development and interaction relies on over-exaggerated expressions and movements, which, frankly, wears a little thin from time to time.

Reverance to silent films aside, the film is still recognizably “Jeunet”, particularly in his trademark use of color and mise en scene.  Whereas his previous films have been more serious in tone, Micmacs is his most light, whimsical film to date.  In many ways, Micmacs looks like a product of fun.  And yet, therein lies Micmac’s greatest flaw: playtime hardly makes for great work.  Sure, the film looks fanciful and fantastic, but there is a prominent “who cares?” sentiment that lies beneath the surface of the filmgoer’s mind while watching the film.

The film has been referred to as a satire on the arms race, yet this mild political statement only appears as a mere undertone at the beginning and end of the film.  Of course, no one should blame Jeunet for not making a political movie, but the film’s opening scenes rely greatly on the widespread repercussions of violence, war and death.  Unfortunately, this sentiment disappears amidst the aesthetic clutter of Jeunet’s great, but possibly over-excited imagination.

Despite the cast of unusual characters, none of them succeed in really coming alive on screen.  When Basil’s new family is introduced, they each bear a unique, singular quirk, from super-matriarch Mama Chow (Yolande Moreau) to superfluous proverb spouting Remington (Omar Sy).  Unfortunately, these same quirks are revealed to be the only thing going for these characters, diminishing them to entertaining, but flat caricatures.  Only Jeunet-regular Dominique Pinon succeeds (somewhat) in bringing a little something extra to his character as the family’s resident human cannonball.

Micmacs plays out like the Rube Goldberg machines it features so often; lots of little things here and there are used to create darling shows that are as delightful as they are forgettable.  The film is by no means bad, but a masterpiece it is not.  At it’s best, Micmacs is undeniably charming, and at its worst, unremarkably so.  Nonetheless, it is still fun to watch.