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.     

The Pirate Radio Boat that Used to Rock

Before I moved back to the United States from Dublin, a friend and I went to see the new Richard Curtis film titled The Boat that Rocked.  Now, Richard Curtis is generally understood to be the best British Romantic Comedy writer/producer/director, and is particularly brilliant at cross marketing his films by incorporating into his stories an "across the pond" connection a.k.a. highlighting the "special relationship" between the cultures of the United States and Great Britain.  Just look at Notting Hill and Love Actually...both inarguably British films, but heavy on the canned-ham sentiment that American audiences goggle up, plus there are always American characters and American actors playing those characters.  It should come as no surprise to anyone that production studios and film distributors are mainly in the film business to make money. Artistic integrity and the theories of "art for arts sake" are generally low on the totem pole.  But when we have a cross-cultural blend-film like The Boat that Rocked, it becomes blazingly apparent where British and US distributors differ.

 I loved The Boat that Rocked. It was just what I needed at the end of a long, stressful and drearily rainy week in Ireland.  My friend and I howled with laughter, we danced in our seats, and we chattered like hungry Gibbons afterward with reflections of praise.  Therefore, when the film was re-distributed here in the United States under the title Pirate Radio, I recommended it to friends, my parents, strangers, people at work, basically anyone who would listen.  This past weekend, I wanted a little break from screening think-piece films so I rented Pirate Radio.  About an hour in to the film I realized that something wasn't right - then it hit me - the film had been re-edited down from a lengthy (but awesome) 2.5 hours to a reasonable (yet hurried and more serious) 2 hours.  The basic dilemma here is the assumption that American audiences are less likely to see a 2.5 hour film than they are to see a 2 hour film.  You may have noticed already that most films time in at about 1.5 hours long.  This is because marketing and revenue strategists working for the production studios and distribution houses know that the longer the film, the fewer the screenings a theater will be able to offer thus reducing box-office takes and lowering the projected profits for any given film.  I have also read that it is widely understood amongst said studios that an audience only has an attention span of approximately 1.5 hours.  How insulting - not that it matters - because you can easily guess which of these two factors is the really motivator for setting limits on a films running time.  Its is a real shame. I will quote for you this statement found on IMDB.com: 
"US distributor, Universal have chosen to re-title the film as "Pirate Radio" and release it under Focus Features in US territories. This new version will be edited for length by director Richard Curtis after some European reviewers cited its 135 minute running time as a factor in its diminished success."
According to MovieMojo.com the films budget was $50M US and as of Oct, 2009 the film had only grossed $36M US.  Perhaps the studios should have focused on marketing and advertising rather than trimming a brilliant film. 

This re-editing of The Boat that Rocked / Pirate Radio essentially ruined the film.  Some of the most hilarious scenes have vanished.  The tone of the film become less about happy-go-lucky frivolity and more talkie-talkie drama.  The Boat that Rocked / Pirate Radio is a perfect example of how when U.S. distributors get their mitts on a great yet board-line film (and by that I mean challenging to market) they just make a mess of what they intended to "fix".  If you want to see this film, please find the UK 2.5 hours version THE BOAT THAT ROCKED...cuz it does :)

Breakfast at Tiffany's - Pure Food Poisioning

I don't know how many people, and by people I do mean both men and women, have said to me that the 1961 Audrey Hepburn film Breakfast at Tiffany's is their favorite film. Whatever the number, believe me, it has been many.  As an exercise in keeping myself knowledgeable of the canonical body of film "classics", I decided to finally watch this film, after all, how could so many people say they love this film and it have nothing interesting to say?  I would agree, this film contains a chatter-boxy diatribe of overtly didactic messages...too bad they are all inherently negative.  Racist... Sexist... Obnoxious... Forced...  These are the words that floated through my mind.  It must have been refreshing back in 1961 to find a film heroin such as Holly Golightly: wispy, free-spirited, independent, fashionable - but with a semi-relatable girl-next-door quality; a far cry from the conservative/matronly vs. vixen/temptress roles reserved for women in the B&W era. However, the script is limited to what was culturally acceptable subject matter in the early 60'.  Holly Golightly is obviously a prostitute, or at least she is a well paid escort.  The stage name, which she assigned to herself after making a break from the country to the city, reeks of a bygone era of cutesy-poo stripperdom.  As a character, it is apparent that Holly is supposed to pass for an actress of some sort, with an agent who comes to the rescue on more than one occasion, but whom should probably be interpreted as more pimp than agent.  I don't deny that Audrey Hepburn is a beautiful woman, and embodies the waifish aesthetics popularized by the French New Wave, but the role, her Holly character, is so obnoxious I almost couldn't watch it.  In the end, I would imagine that the moral of the story is to follow your heart, not your pocketbook, but even that is a bit of a shame.  Holly needed to be saved by Paul, aka Fred, and brought around to her senses, a sort of daddy-come-and-clean-up-my-mess narrative.  These damsels in distress / gentleman savior narratives are as old as cinema, but Breakfast at Tiffany's is merciless.  Rather than approaching Holly as a confused and complicated woman, Holly is made to be an insufferable child who happens to be pretty and can flaunt her sex-appeal to attract a suitable man, Paul, who will help her to see the error of her gold-digging ways. 
Mickey Rooney plays the Chinese neighbor from upstairs.  Within the first several minutes of the film, we are bludgeoned by despicable, racist representations of minority culture, beginning with the basic fact that a white actor has been made-up to play a Chinese man with stereotypically exaggerated features, ending with the slapstick stupidity with which the character interacts with his environment. Disgusting. That alone would lose my vote completely for "favorite film". It leaves me to wonder why anyone would call Breakfast at Tiffany's a classic.  I found it to be nearly unwatchable.         
   

Moments that Melt You: Philadelphia, la Mamma Morta

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3b0p9mTJOJI

If you don't know what I'm talking about when I say "the opera scene from Philadelphia", please click the You Tube link presented above and spend 5 minutes with cinematic greatness. I have heard it said that this scene solidified the Oscar win for Tom Hanks.  It certainly is a masterful performance as well as an example of genuine cinematic artistry.  Minimal and pure, all elements of this scene contain poignant meaning and emotion.  The lighting, the angle of the camera, the close-ups of Hanks face as he becomes the embodiment of Maria Callas vocal suffering, the manifestation of the miraculous emotive quality of the music, and the curious cuts back to Denzel Washington as he finds himself immersed within his clients grief and lust for life. When the film was released in 1993, I was 14 and no more interested in Opera or cinematic artifice as I was in eating liver for dinner. I wanted to be entertained, not asked to think about mortality and the impact of art and music on the vibrations of the transcendent soul.  This scene helped me to fall in love with art, fall in love with music and fall in love with the cinema.  Such moments are rare enough in life, but reflect the human need for artistic self-expression and acceptance of the awesome nature of the mysteries of connectedness.

De Niro in Everybody's Fine

 The primary reason that I wanted to mention the film Everybody's Fine on this, my blog dedicated to the art and culture of film viewing, film-making and film-digesting, is because Robert De Niro is a beast of an actor - a true artist, through and through. As De Niro continues to mature in both his craft and his body, his work has morphed into a marinated, reflective, even pensively honest and age appropriate collage of surprising roles.
When I think De Niro, I think Raging Bull, Taxi Driver, The Godfather, Deer Hunter and his slickly terrifying portrayal of Al Capone in The Untouchables. What a kick-ass, but most certainly type-cast, repertoire of filmic baddies, thanks in large to one of America's most prolific auteurs, Martin Scorsese. But, when it comes to hard, urban, and skuzzy masculinity, De Niro is the king - or so it is that many would agree. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, yes, and time waits for no man (how many clichés can I work into one sentence?). I had to wonder after cringing through Meet the Parents and the sequel Meet the Fockers (soon to be outdone by the third Focker film now in post-production), when De Niro had ever so sneakily crossed over into the grandfather role. With humility and respect, De Niro has indulged a light-hearted sensibility in recent years, case in the point: The Fockers. De Niro did participate in Righteous Kill in 2008, a serious film about veteran NYC detectives tracking a killer along side a younger team, a role conducive to a hyper-masculinated performance, but tempered with the inevitable acknowledgement of the actors aging.
Everybody's Fine is a neat little dysfunctional family narrative intertwined with grieving and familiar transitions. De Niro plays Frank Goode, a retired father of 4 and recent widower who spent a lifetime coating telephone cable with PVC and is now suffering from the ill effects of prolonged exposure in his lungs. All he wants is to have his children around the dinner table once more, just like when their mother was alive, but when they all call at the last minute to cancel; Frank grabs his suitcase, defying doctor’s orders, and sets out to meet with each of them, from New York City to Las Vegas. As he journeys from son to daughter to son to daughter, the truth of the family disorder becomes relatibly apparent: no one knows how to talk to Dad now that Mom is gone. Did Dad push too hard for greatness instead of accepting his children as they are? Was Dad too involved in the denial of conflict to see the human toil rising within his family nest? With precision subtlety filmmaker Kirk Jones begins to reveal the real culprit: communication. Like so many American families growing up in the Television age, this family never learned how to communicate effectively, and rather than deal with it, fell into the seductive allure of "everything’s fine, no problems here, and everybody’s fine". A strong motif illustrating this divide is the telephone wire itself, appearing again and again in various forms throughout the film, ending in an immensely powerful representation of the family bond. Franks job was to make communication possible for millions of strangers and yet in his own home a storm of insecurities was brewing. When Frank follows the telephone wires across the county in a bid to reunite his family, he in turn reopens an opportunity to enquire into the realities of his children’s lives.
The overall tone of the film is subdued: muted playfulness, muted sorrow, muted joy and a stinging sense of overall melancholy. Kirk Jones, writer and director, used long shots down sparse hallways, tight framing on travel scenes, and the sound of conversations over telephone wires to aide in this tonality of loneliness and redemption.
De Niro's performance is heartfelt, tragic, delicate and, above all, honest. His character knows he is being kept in the dark by his children, he knows his body is failing, and he knows this might be his last chance to resurrect, or reenact, the perfect blissful memories of family time together. A brave role for any actor, and certainly a nod to De Niro's versatility, sensitivity and willingness to embrace his career at a pivotal moment, is in order. Bravo.

Drew, you go on and Whip It, grrrl

Roller Derby? No thanks. But wait! Drew Barrymore directorial debut AND Juliette Lewis is in it?? Hang on. Ask me again.


Whip It, despite the fact that the film follows a traditional narrative formula as a typical 'coming of age' dram-edy, manages to tow the Hollywood line but with an unlady-like crispiness. Rural Texas debutant pageants just just don't float Bliss's boat, so she becomes Babe Ruthless, queen of the 'whip' at the Austin roller derby, despite being underage, lying to her parentals and eventually alienating her nearest and dearest. It all works out nice and neat and clean in the end, but not before getting in a few riot grrrrl jibby-jabs.
Despite being formulaic, Whip It is certainly a story I haven't heard before. Roller Derby in Texas would not have been enough to get me excited. What impressed me was the honesty of some of the narrative choices, and the feminist-for-a-new-era quality of several plot points. For example, a film of this kind, centering on a female lead, generally comes to a well rounded, feel-good climax by some sicko interpretation of classic Disney narratives. Prince Charming enters the scene and somehow everything works out fine and dandy, all of her wishes become reality, and angst bleeds away into candy-crap fulfillment. Either that or dem' other bitches sabotage our heroine to a degree of greater suffering, which she and her Prince then overcome together (how nice). Whip It, however, is having none of that watered-down over-indulged fairytale Prince shit. While Bliss does have a love interest, its not the approval of this man who saves the day. In fact he provides an opportunity for her to say "I'm better than this. Get lost ya' loser". And instead of being a story of female rivalry in which one bitch devourers another, it becomes a caustic little female bonding film. There does exist a rivalry between squeaky Ellen Page and the seriously bad-ass Juiliette Lewis, aka Iron Maven, but as Iron says "I don't wanna beat you with rumors, I wanna beat you on the track with ma' skates".
Drew Barrymore has made a worthwhile Indy-rock n roller-Derby film. But, unlike Indy's that go all the way down the feelin'-bad-just-like-real-life-do scale, the brilliant screenplay leaves ample room for feelin' nice and cheery when the credits roll.

50 Dead Men Walking

Intro: I loved this film. And not just because my very dear friend Kris Edlund is in it. She totally rocked, by the way, and yes, I have already asked her for all the juiciness on Jim Sturgess, who is "an absolute sweetheart". You could tell by looking at him that this would be true. Anyway, I digress. After having lived in Ireland for 3 years, 50 Dead Men Walking filled in many of the gaps in my "outsider" knowledge of Northern Irish history. It was well made, well told, and of course, very well cast.

50 Dead Men Walking, staring the beautiful and talented Jim Sturgess, unravels the story of Martin, an IRA Volunteer turned British Army informant during the ongoing "troubles" of late 1980's Belfast.

Right from go the audience knows this double-lifestyle is not going to work out well for Martin. Borrowing from the flashback narrative structure of several other famous Irish fight-the-system films such as The General and Veronica Guerin, Martin is bloodied in a hail of bullets during the first 2 mins of the film. We are transported back through time, after a fade to black, to the police state known as Belfast during the troubles. Martin, an industrious young lad is recruited by the British for his street survival instincts and access to the community at large. He quickly becomes a trusted volunteer of the Irish Republican Army before he is double crossed by MI-5 and must leave his girlfriend and small child behind to believe he has been killed in IRA retribution.
Sounds like a rusty old recycled action/thriller plot, and in many ways it is...but what makes this different and intriguing, is that its all true. A highly disturbing yet matter-of-fact portrayal of life inside the communities of Belfast during a time of suppression, oppression, revolution and counter-revolution, 50 Dead Men Walking weaves a gloriously gritty and simultaneously warm story of love and survival, heroism and betrayal. Ben Kingsley, who plays the British agent who recruits and advises Martin, is brilliant as the haggard and war weary Londoner.
I want to say, Jim Sturgess is the next big thing. I have now seen him play a Liverpool lad in Across the Universe, an American in 21, and a Northern Irishmen with a perfect Belfast accent. He is an amazing actor and I fully expect to see him pursue many more challenging roles.
For all of its violence, and despite the fact that the filmmakers ruined the ending by placing it at the beginning, 50 Dead Men Walking is film worth seeing, especially if you have any interest in Irish History, or you are in love with Jim Sturgess!