Neil Jordan's Irish Fairytale: Ondine

Colin Farrell, Ireland's prodigal son, and little known Polish actress Alicja Bachleda perform cinematic miracles in Neil Jordan's latest film. Jordan, who is one of Ireland's most prolific auteur's, writes and directs this modern day fairytale of a Cork County fisherman who scoops a drowned woman in his net.
Darkly poetic and hauntingly tender, Ondine lulls the viewer into believing odd occurrences are more than just random strangeness floating up from the chilly black waters, but a manifestation of magical properties come to enlighten and inspire.  In typical Jordan style, a dulled tonality matches the sentiment of a small drink and gossip-riddled coastal town in rural Ireland where Syracuse, or Circus as he is called by everyone (played by Farrell), is the only sober drunk.  Though conversations with his only "sobriety buddy", who is Stephen Rea playing the parish priest, and drama with his ex, Circus does his best to rake in a living from the sea and prove himself worthy of his young daughters affections.  His routine is softly interrupted when a beautiful women is found amongst the fishes in his trollers small net.  With her she brings excitement, wonder, trouble, love and redemption.  Though the film as a whole is wonderful, special praise must be given to Colin Farrell's performance for his tender sweet and introverted interpretation.               

History According to Spielberg: Amistad

Steven Spielberg, master of the sensational blockbuster, directed the 1997 film Amistad, a fictionalized version of a pre-Civil War event which saw the release of illegally obtained slaves.  This group of African men found themselves in America only after a shipboard revolt allowed them an attempt to steer the ship back to Sierra Leone, and eventually through several court trails were returned home to Africa
I wanted to title this post: How Spielberg Ruins Great Films, A Case Study, but then I thought better of it, after all, aren't we all supposed to love Spielberg? Is it not true that everything he touches turns to cinematic molasses (sticky, tasty and filling)?  Spielberg certainly owns the formula for wildly popular cinema, but when art, and in this case film, is made to be highly appealing invariably that special magical something gets lost in translation. 
Thus is the case with Amistad.  A tragic misfire from casting to soundtrack, but still a power packed double knockout of a story non the less, with brilliant cinematography and Spielberg's signature use of informative light sources, Amistad becomes a bit of an art critical enigma.
Was it Sir Anthony Hopkins befuddled performance as John Quincy Adams, or Matthew McHottie Hottie (Matthew McConaughey) and his type cast role playing the same eccentrically wacky fish-out-of-water character as the slave groups lawyer, or could it have been the ridiculous Spanish accent that a young Anna Paquin spat out like ninja throwing stars aimed for the eardrums, in her performance as the Spanish Queen Isabella...which one of these was the irritating straw that broke the film critics will to like the film? As much as it pains me, unfortunately is was none of these flaws that broke my spirits as I watched what could have been a brilliant piece of important film making...no, instead, it was the over the top, crescendo heavy soundtrack that ebbed and queued, and crashed and flowered for every single momentary emotional rivet and divide present within the 155 minute film. No wonder it was nominated for 4 Academy Awards...they love it when a film allows an audience to slip comfortably in and out of passively viewing a politically relevant piece of fluffy history.  The gloriously triumphant conclusion far out-weighs the tragedy, as is customary in a Hollywood blockbuster, even if it is based truth...a re-representation of an actual incendiary event which led in time to the bloody American Civil War.

Amistad saving grace, in my opinion, was the performance given by Djimon Hounsou.  A performance as powerful as a lions roar, gritty, emotional, angry, Hounsou paced across the screen the very embodiment of injustice, of suffering, of human perseverance and hope. He was astonishingly magnificent - the perfect tragic hero, just as he was in the films Blood Diamond and In America. But surprise, surprise - no Oscar nomination for this performance.  The Academy instead honored Hopkins and John Williams for his score.

The Greatest

I had no intention of writing about this movie, but the composition, performances and editing were exquisite to say the least.  Beginning with the sexy introduction, where two young lovers madly invite each other into an emotional coil  unleashed upon one another after a period of implied suppression, a quick and unexpected act of violence ends the life of 18 year old Bennett.  And that's just the first 3 minutes of the film.  Unfolding then is a story of grief and love.  Bennett's tragic death sends his parents (provocatively played by Susan Sarandon and Peirce Brosnan) into a tailspin of grief manifesting within the home in various ways from denial to obsession.  The performances by the British new kid on the block Carey Mulligan and old reliables Sarandon and Brosnan are outstanding: thought-provoking, honest, sweet, and wrenching.  As nuanced and affective as the performances, is the cinematography and direction.  Stunningly understated, yet highly photographic, this film has a careful tone, fully aware of its own medium.  When a film is created with the knowledge that everything inside the frame is artifice (sometimes filmmakers forget this and a film becomes boring from an over kill of realism), a sense of the extraordinary emerges.  An example of this occurs with in the title sequence:  The family has just attended the funeral of their 18 son and brother, Bennett.  The camera angle is a low medium frame taken at the back seat of the limo as it transports the family away from the grave site.  The composition includes Brosnan (the Dad) in the center of the seat, leaning forward, absently wringing his hands and appearing slightly uncomfortable.  Sarandon (the Mom) is to the left of Brosnan and is sunken into the black leather seat gazing wearily out the window, which is a wash of green leafy color as a bright and sunny day glides past.  The couples remaining child, Ryan (Johnny Simmons), is to Brosnan's right and is also staring out the window, though decidedly far less haggard appearing than his mother.  They ride in silence, and this lasts for quite sometime, until the shot is broken by the words "The Greatest",  slyly interjected in a humble font at the bottom of the screen.  Though this may not sound like much to get excited about, it is this composition, in its simplicity and humility, which foreshadows the remainder of the film.  Within this delicate frame exists the nuances of each of these central characters, subtly displayed and enveloped within the drama that each with soon participate in, a microcosm, a metaphor, a 3 word summary for the rest of the story.  

The Good Guy

Why is this film worth writing about? Well, read on and I'll be more than happy to explain, only briefly...because it wasn't that great. What an introduction, eh?
Anywho, The Good Guy is narrated by a young, hansom Wall Street trader who wants to tell us a story about how he lost the woman of his dreams.  Surrounded by Gordon Gekko types, this gentleman is presented to us as a nice guy who stands up for his friends, vouches for the underdog and cherishes his girlfriend; the Wall Street veneer is only a means to make the money needed to really do something great with his life. And that is where we are all wrong.  He has told us that's who he is and shown us only the parts of his life that back that claim.
I honestly cant tell you anything else or I will ruin the film.  If you are like me and continuously searching for an intelligent girly movie to sink into after a long day, this might be as good as it gets without becoming political, hence the need to honor this film for its departure from the formula.
Generally in these romantic "Chick-flicks" we can trust that the narrator is truthfully telling their side of the story.  The Good Guy subverts this assumption and uses it later to present the real thesis of the film: who is the good guy, and are people ever really who they seem to be? Maybe that sounds a bit cynical, but its a fairly common experience to create an ideal fantasy in a new relationship, and The Good Guy plays with this phenomena.  Direction, acting, cinematography were all average, but the script, concept and execution were surprisingly fresh.

Easy Riders, Raging Bulls

Recommended reading to anyone curious about the inner workings of the rebel 70's in Hollywood. Beginning with the highly influential 1967 Bonnie & Clyde, Easy Riders Raging Bulls relentlessly exposes the processes, dramas and ambitions behind one of the greatest movements in cinema history.  Well researched and smartly written, this book will change the way you think about the American film industry.

Remember Me: Where Romance and 9/11 Awkwardly Merge

  First, let me plug and simultaneously defend myself here.  I am an expert in Post-9/11 Cinema. I also have a penchant for debunking the Rom-Com mythology as a sort of new wave feminist - half my interest in these silly films is zoomed in on escapism while the other half likes to keep a running critical dialog of the formulaic and insultingly unintelligent yarns unfolding on my screen.  That being said, at this stage in my development as a film scholar, I generally avoid watching anything with 9/11 themes (one can only take so much), and smart, well produced Romantic Comedies have become very few and far between, rendering my viewing experience more work, than pleasure. And I hate that. I became a film scholar for one very good reason (or at least I thought it was a good reason 2 degrees and a gabillion dollars in student loans ago), and that reason is: I love cinema, and I have generally been a lead by the heart and foolish kind of person.  I love nearly everything about the art of film, from the mundane to the subliminal, from the culturally relevant to the exquisitely propagandised elements both overt and covert.  I love the artifice almost as much as I love the way in which a great film can wholly transport me directly inside a completely different world.  Now, as a theory scholar and cultural critic, it is my charge to deconstruct those created worlds, much like someone who takes apart an electronic gadget, figures out how it works, and then puts it all back together as it was.  Passive viewing has become unacceptable, and frankly, I miss it sometimes.  The voices of the great theorists Andre Bazin, Robin Wood and team Bordwell - Thompson enter into my viewing sanctuary and give me no peace inside these worlds...only chatter and commands.  Those who cannot do, teach.  And is that not what a critic really aspires to be? Someone who can eloquently unmask a series of illusions in order to expose an immutable truth?  The student then may decide the shape and size of that truth, but remains changed simply due to the exposure itself, embracing rather than running from questions as they arise.  That's what happened to me anyway, watching re-broadcast tapes of the "live" footage of September 11th, 2001 in downtown New York City and pondering a question my theory professor had so boldly presented to me - what is meant here by the word "live"...the questions and my answers sounded and resonated more like philosophy that film studies.  And there inlays the beauty of this field - all humanity is linked by these enmeshed strands of conventional wisdom, group think and our human condition, ever yearning to feel a part of something greater, like a feeling of being all alone in a crowded room.

When I departed for the local Blockbuster yesterday afternoon, I already knew I was going to pick up "Remember Me", which was just released to DVD and stars the teen-throb of the moment Robert Pattinson.  Ha, Ha, Ha...no...I know what your thinking and you are wrong. I am not, nor will I ever be, an R-Pat fan, but I was curious as to why the film did so poorly at the box-office considering the tremendous draw of Robbie P's busted, yet strangely attractive, pale Brit face.
The cover art of the DVD told me several things:
1.  This is a cheesy romance, heavily reliant upon the good looks of its male lead.
2.  It doesn't work out well in the end.
3.  Its has an overt 9/11 theme, but then again, I can sniff out a 9/11 film a mile away.  How did I know?  NYC cityscape on the back fold and the film set in 2001. Why would any film be set in 2001 in NYC and not have something to say about the falling of the Twin Towers? 
But to merge a Twenty-something college romance coming of age family drama with a post 9/11 event conflict, is wonky to begin with.  It would require an absolutely superb creative team to pull off a film like that properly.  I already knew:
4. Anything with Rob Pats in it could not possibly have met the challenge.
But these were only first impressions, I hadn't even watched it yet.

Robert Pattinsons performance was awkward and self conscious, like a kid who used to be fat and is now the James Dean fantasy of every woman he meets. Unsure of how to wield this new found power over the sexes, Pattinson's wincingly modest hold over acting destroys all efforts at maintaining the imaginary "4th wall", or suspension of disbelief.  But the narrative blunders forward despite the best efforts of the young actors to make it sickeningly melodramatic.  The viewer is introduced to two dysfunctional families, both rendered this way because of tragic losses, a murdered mother and a brother lost to suicide.  The "meet cute" between boy and girl is, of course, a wussy revenge/bet plot which ends up becoming a true love with a secret scenario.  Either way, the two have bonded over a misunderstood world view shaped by their experiences of grief.

By the end of the film the seemingly trivial conflicts have been righted and everything appears to be on the up and up for both families and for the young lovers.  "I love you", he says to her before heading out to a meeting with his father at his downtown office.  A beautiful blue sky September morning in downtown New York. He takes the elevator up to the 89th Floor...and then we see the date.  September 11, 2001.  He waits for his father to arrive, taking in the glorious view of the city below.  Cut to the streets: people running, people gathering around television screens, people emerging on the roof tops eyes transfixed on some imaginary point on the horizon, mouths agape.  We know already how this story has ended....and how it began.  The film ends with a montage of images symbolic of the passage of time and the continuation of a city, a family, of life after a tragedy.

The two genres, romance and apocalyptic drama, come together in Remember Me in an attempt to draw attention to one of several moralistic themes. Whether you choose to hear "take nothing for granted" louder than "live everyday as your last" is entirely up to you.  What I found unique about this film is the manner in which the terrorist attack is surprisingly unveiled.  At first this plot device doesn't seem to fit at all.  Upon further reflection, I realized that the element of shock was the dominant feeling amongst Americans on 9/11 and this film was literally attempting to recreate the way 9/11 happened for all of us. Did we as citizens of the United States, as inhabitants of the great cities of New York and Washington, DC ever imagine a world where airplanes could crash into our most prideful ideologies and topple them like dandelions to the wind? 

From a strictly film as art point of view, Remember Me is tragic cinema - it could have been magnificent, but instead it weasels by on its intentions.       

I Paid to Watch a 2 Hour Commercial: Sex & the City 2

...and I am still kicking myself for not demanding a refund of my ticket price.

SEX AND THE CITY #1:

Sex and the City, the HBO drama that lasted 6 beloved seasons, should have made some great cinema. The first film wasn't too bad.  It opened to huge crowds, many of whom got themselves all tarted up, purchasing new dresses and shoes hoping to impress all the other Carrie wanna-be's.  The first film was wildly successful from a Hollywood perspective. It made very serious money. It appeared to satisfy a lusty audience, and provided innumerable opportunities to cross market a wide array of products...aaannnnndddddd the story wasn't too obnoxious. While the first film strayed from the typically streamlined domesticated New York Goddess vision of feminism, it was still the show we knew and loved.  Hot topics were address such as infidelity, materialism and a woman's responsibility to care for herself - not rely entirely on a marriage in order to be settled.  There were great Carrie moments and yes, lots and lots of clothes.  It wasn't the television show...but it wasn't NOT the television show either. 

Sex and the City 2:

May I speak frankly? Trash. All the worst elements of the entertainment industry in the United States. No substance other than its own hype. Nothing in this film wasn't a cross-marketed commercial ploy, from the resort in Abu Dabi, to the ring Mr. Big gives Carrie at the end (I was tempted just then to write the phrase Spoiler Alert...because I told you she got a ring...OOoooOOOOoo...what a thrilling plot twist that is!).  In an attempt to be culturally relevant, appear poignant and astute on current topics, Sex and the City 2 flippantly criticizes, belittles, and proffers a searing judgment of A) the Middle East as a whole, B) Muslims and C) Middle Eastern / Muslim Women.  After watching this film, I can't see how anyone could have imagined that the Middle East (and its people) would look worse when compared to these 4 aging, has-been, materialistic, out-of-control, New York bitches. 

My hope for the future of the Sex and the City franchise: Stop it. Right now. Just Stop. Its was good while it lasted, but it went one too far.