Gone Girl (2014) David Fincher…

In Brief: Gone Girl fails as storytelling, allegory, and feminist agit-prop and it feels like it takes many, many hours just to do so. It’s only barbed message is that David Fincher can actually do worse than Panic Room. *

source: theatrical showing

Sometimes I feel like a terrible curmudgeon. It’s true. People rant and rave about films they think are just the absolute best – The Shawshank Redemption, Pulp Fiction, The Dark Knight etc. – and I think, “those films are okay…mostly.” I experience a lot of disconnect from populist audiences but I’m generally not too out of step with things. For example, if everyone loves David Fincher’s latest, then I’ll probably enjoy it too, despite buttressing my praise with a few extra caveats. He’s usually a solid bet for slick entertainment. But oh boy, did I hate Gone Girl.

On its opening weekend, the film is rocking an 8.7/10 on the IMDb and an 87% approval rating on film-critic aggregator, Rotten Tomatoes. Now sure, Rotten Tomatoes is a site that reminds me that 99% of film critics seem to literally know nothing about film (and sure, for the few who read this, I’m probably no better, but at least I’m not financially recompensed for being a mouth-breathing illiterate), but the point remains: people love this film. They love David Fincher. He’s so exacting! He’s so precise! He’s so clever! And funnily enough, earlier this week, having never heard him speak about anything before, I caught a radio interview with Fincher and he did sound quite thoughtful, careful, and intelligent about his approach to this project. All of which only makes the final product all the more baffling.

“So an Irishman, an Englishman, and a Scotsman walk into a bar…”

I’ll gladly acknowledge that Zodiac, the best of Fincher I’ve yet seen, is a very good film, albeit with porn-y, slow-mo murder sequences that were in really poor taste. It’s efficient and entertaining, and condenses an interesting story into an easily digested product. That’s where Fincher excels. He makes solid entertainment with little artistic thrust. I doubt I’ll ever learn anything from one of his films. Even Fight Club came a little too late for me and I was already through the most pronounced of my teenage nihilism and existential angst. Looking back, it’s pretty shallow anyway, though often funny. His work is all surface and plot mechanics. He is incapable of pushing beneath to reveal what might be hidden. And to that end, Gone Girl a perhaps an inevitable failure, because it specifically seeks to enumerate two planes: the visible surface, and a swirling darker underbelly, unseen but inhabited by all.

Nick and Amy Dunne (Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike, respectively) seem to be the dream couple- affluent, well educated, loving, and successful. Yet one day, when Nick returns to the house, he can’t find Amy anywhere. A table is overturned, broken, and a telltale spot in the kitchen suggests blood was spilled. But there’s no body and no clear sign of a struggle. What is present is a slowly unfolding motive, as it turns out that affairs between Nick and Amy weren’t as golden as would first appear. Soon Nick is on the defensive, the prime suspect in a murder investigation that is attracting national media attention. Press conferences are called, rewards are offered, television interviews are scheduled, and the game is afoot- its goal to mold public perception and deflect insinuations of guilt.

Was she hiding in the bath all this time? SPOILERS!!!

The plot of Gone Girl is ostensibly interesting, and suggests many paths we might explore. Alas the final result is a poorly driven shopping-cart filled with second-hand merchandise and disappointment. David Fincher has always struggled with depicting ‘regular people.’ Granted, no one shows up to his films expecting well-rounded characters. He doesn’t do that. He never has. He doesn’t understand the quotidian. Even that which might seem banal- say, a newspaper artist doing after-hours research on a murder suspect, will grow into an epoch-spanning tale of obsession, à la Zodiac. So while the Dunnes of Gone Girl aren’t exactly average, their situation should at least cover ‘regular people’ feelings. After all, rich, white folk aren’t actually aliens, unless They Live was right all along.

Gone? Like, for example, say, 2 1/2 hours of my life?

Giving the benefit of the doubt, many key early scenes are recreations based on entries in Amy’s diary and, as such, are designed to highlight their own intrinsic subjectivity. Amy’s recollections feel an awful lot like wallowing in a Lifetime Movie, but we can presume that’s intentional. The issue becomes more troubling when the hollow dialogue and the players’ nervous, fidgeting bird movements sidle on over into elements that are ostensibly free from subjectivity too. Nick is placed centre-stage as the audience’s sympathetic guide but his “objective” plight is no more convincing. While we are welcomed to question whether or not he is a reliable authority, and we later learn he has much weighing on his mind, his discussions with the police, family, and the public all emit an irritating blitheness- the work of a scriptwriter trying to will a mystery into existence rather than leading us through one already in progress. With nothing vaguely human to set the foundations of the film, the storyline, which is frankly outlandish, whisks itself off into outer-space.

“I did not hit her. I did not!”

As is expected the production values here are high, with a typically impressive visual schema laid out in super-cinematic, ‘Scope’ widescreen courtesy of Fincher’s regularl cinematographer, Jeff Cronenworth. The colours are muted, typically set in blues and greys, exemplifying supposed domesticity. This, in turn, is offset against the lurid brights of the TV gossip-mongers as they throw their accusations. We get another score from Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross that is tonally appropriate but feels a little humdrum, all things considered. That being said, if I had to keep anything from the film it would be the soundtrack, as the rest is far more compromised. Major dramatic events are accompanied by hammer-blow throbs of cacophony, the bleating score pushing into over-drive to try and convince us that events might be interesting, intense, or even the tiniest bit surprising. Such unintended goofiness gels well with Fincher’s portentous count of Amy’s absence, using titles that begin with, ‘5 Days,’ before, after a few seconds, ‘Gone’ appears to finish the sentiment. It is a film that is adeptly produced but devoid of any character but its own mistakes.

In terms of the cast, Affleck acquits himself well, reminding us that half the jokes about his bad acting are behind the times or based on selective memory. Sure he’s been really bad in some really bad films, but here he proves he can step up his game in a turkey too. I’ll offer a vague ‘spoiler warning’ here before anyone ventures onto the next paragraph. Subsequent chatter requires acknowledging something that is revealed about halfway into the film. So while I find it difficult to imagine that anyone could find it surprising, although I know I’m wrong because I watched this in a sold-out theatre and people clearly were, and though the film’s end destination does not hinge on what I will reveal, if you want to see the film totally fresh, aside from knowing that I hated it, then go no further. This account is already hideously long anyway.

Rosamund Pike’s dandruff…also gone.

Rosamund Pike has the tougher task, trying to invest reality in a character that was pulled out of some ‘girlfriend from hell’ sketch. It’s difficult to tell how well she succeeds because judging her performance is a little like judging Anthony Hopkins in The Silence of the Lambs. His work was totally over-the-top but the film supported it brilliantly, unveiling him like some Universal Studios monster of yore. Gone Girl doesn’t realise that it is, in essence, a high-camp car crash, so Pike is afforded no such support for her similarly arch role. The rest of the cast fall into the background, laden with either uni-dimensional characters (i.e. Neil Patrick Harris and Tyler Perry) or roles that serve only to mechanically further the plot (i.e. cop duo, Kim Dickens and Patrick Fugit, the former’s good work being especially wasted).

What is more troubling than the film’s aching dullness is that it is ostensibly permeated by a rich vein of casual misogyny. To his detriment, Fincher’s later films generally only play at one speed, super serious, but, of course, there are jokes in Gone Girl. They’re just almost entirely based on flippant, sexist banter. Nick’s family never really liked Amy because she’s talented, spoiled, and wealthy. When we find out that she’s actually is an unhinged, psychopathic reincarnation of MacGyver, their hatred is obviously justified. She’s a manipulative succubus and silver-spooned ice-queen that drove her poor, laid-back husband to the brink and, as the premier emissary of female mores in the film, she is also a grander character assassination of all capable women. There are other women in the script, but they’re underwritten and working class- more relaxed and on Nick’s level. They wouldn’t try and get him to wear a tie and they don’t have no fancy book-learnings. Depressingly, the women in the audience laughed along to weak jibes about how stuck-up, prissy, white women are all manipulative, treacherous bitches who need to get what’s coming to them.

“My paycheck for starring in this clunker was this big!”

Now we might reject that Amy is a thinly-veiled accusation against all women of means by latching onto the suggestion that her scheme is a desperate attempt to re-assert her importance in a failing marriage. I really don’t think so but, if only to offer the film a shot at a less ideologically reprehensible theme, I’ll give it a shot. Gillian Flynn, the author of the original novel and the screenplay, clearly has her eye on this kind of discourse. A few passages of Amy’s dialogue do suggest that once upon a time, she tried to be a “good woman”, but as the pressures of life mounted and Nick drifted away from her, she realised that, despite her best efforts, her true lot as a ‘domesticated woman’, even one of means, would reduce her to the pathetic unless she took drastic action.

So perhaps the unquestioned, casual misogyny leveled against her elsewhere in the film exonerates her destructive mischievousness and she is, in fact, the hero of the piece? I’d be lapsing into the fondly poetic to claim that Flynn or Fincher’s work genuinely supports such a wickedly satirical conclusion even while it would be funny to imagine that the audience I sat with were being unknowingly indicted with each giggle they proffered. The substance isn’t there though, and I can’t help but be reminded that artists who have boldly made such inferences, Rainer Werner Fassbinder springs first to mind, could never deliver such a doddering, self-serious bore. Fassbinder’s The Marriage of Maria Braun, a vastly more nuanced work of feminist cinema, sets out in poverty-stricken WW2-era Germany, with the protagonist starving and turning to prostitution to make ends meet and it offers more laughs than Gone Girl.

Rather, the film’s conclusion suggests that, with the public eye looking on, unhappy, selfish people will actively reinforce their unhappiness, setting in place cycles of casual domestic brutality that will repeat forever more. A terribly dark conclusion…except that both parties are flipsides of a counterfeit coin.

Dad Movies – Optimism Vaccine…

The good folks over at Optimism Vaccine asked if I’d like to contribute to their feature on Dad Movies. So feel free to take a look-see by clicking here.

 

Thirty Days of Fright (plus one) – Halloween Recommendations: Part 1…

 

 

So October is upon us and with it, Halloween and pumpkin-spice lattes and the inevitable uproar on Twitter when someone decides it’s hilarious to dress up in such a manner as to make light of the riots in Ferguson, Missouri or the Ebola epidemic or whatever. Separate of all that, at this time of the year people often like to indulge in a spooky movie or thirty-one. So, for the season that’s in it, here’s a few recommendations based on my having watched them at one point and then typing all of this…

Dust Devil (1992) Richard Stanley

Suffice it to say that Richard Stanley’s career probably hasn’t panned out the way he’d have liked. And unfortunately it’s not because he’s bad at what he does. He’s kept busy of course, with documentaries, short films, and music media, but from promising origins in the late 80s, today he only has two completed features to his name: Hardware and Dust Devil. Luckily, they’ve both taken on cult status although both remain invariably under-seen. Since Hardware has at least managed a reference in the US incarnation of The Office (gangling nerd, Gabe suggests it as a date movie) I’m going to pick Dust Devil for this list.

 

It was cut by the Brothers Weinstein upon its US release and its UK publisher went bust during production which left Stanley in a bit of a bind. Luckily, with some politicking, he was able to assemble a ‘Final Cut’ which has since made it to DVD. That’s the version to get, although my introduction was the shorter Weinstein edition and I could recognise the quality on display. The film, set in Namibia, concerns an evil spirit made flesh, who wanders the desert in human form, seeking victims. Each person the spirit can ritualistically murder propels him closer to escape back to the spirit realm yet as it has been made flesh, so it can succumb to the weaknesses of flesh. What’s impressive here is Stanley’s sense of scale and drama. What could easily be a hackneyed gory monster flick instead strives to unite African legend, western genre flick, tragic romance, and the tumultuous politics of the region into one unified whole. It’s a tall order but Dust Devil invariably succeeds.

The film’s unusual structure is at times a little jarring, combining extensive voiceover with sweeping African vistas etc., but once you lock step with it, it feels like some kind of old soul, imploring you to heed its warnings. Comparisons to Clive Barker’s Hellraiser are apt. Both films offer a sense of grand romance that is battered by the petty hostilities of our banal world. The Dust Devil preys on its victims because they are bereft of hope and set for suicide anyway. It toys with them, offering them caresses before justifying its final actions as merciful release. A cull practically invited by these souls too delicate for the harsh African sands. A genuine and unusual sense of location, a developed narrative, and a particularly nuanced sense of desperation mark Dust Devil out as a superior horror flick.

Brain Damage (1988) Frank Henenlotter

Although I’m a fan of his, it’s almost a shame that David Cronenberg sits so unassailably atop the throne as the, ‘king of body horror.’ I’ll agree, his place is deserved, but his reputation sometimes seems to crowd out other similar, and excellent work. Exhibit A: Frank Henenlotter. He brings a rip-roaring sense of comedy to the often overtly icky trappings of the movement and remains a criminally underrated talent within the usually quite forgiving annals of schlocky genre cinema. Perhaps part of the issue is that Henenlotter’s films revel in schlock but also come with an alarming amount of intellect. Nowhere is this more apparent than in Brain Damage.

Strangely enough, you’d think ‘responsible’ authorities would love this film, given its fairly strident anti-drug message, but apparently when your film also contains a curiously carnivorous blowjob, they can’t see the forest for the trees. By Henenlotter’s own account, that fellatio scene resulted in his crew walking off set in protest. Which might seem like a big deal but he had practice when a different crew did the same thing during the shooting of his debut, Basket Case. I guess if Cronenberg has ‘king of body horror’ sewn up then Henenlotter can always grab, ‘sultan of really uncomfortable sex scenes.’

Setting aside the shock though, Henenlotter’s tale of a young man held in sway by a charismatic, chemical-spewing parasite is full of imagination and wild visuals- all fabulously realised on a meager budget. While unashamedly lewd, Henenlotter keeps an eye on grander dramatic designs. So if the aforementioned Basket Case managed a romantic tragedy in league with King Kong on a $35K budget, then Brain Damage pushes even further, offering us an enticing and entertaining depiction of drug addiction, under the guise of creature-feature, that soon descends into grubby, defiled awfulness. What could be more telling of the film’s success than that aside from cuts requested on the basis of grotesque violence, upon its initial release the film was also trimmed by its own financiers because some bits were just deemed, ‘too depressing.’ Brain Damage is an unusually socially constructive message, dressed up in a package that might actually appeal to demographics everyone worries about losing to drugs. So it makes sense that the film was mutilated and abandoned by its original distributors. Luckily, thanks to VHS, it later built up a fanbase. If you’ve not seen it, you’re in for a treat.

Martin (1976) George A. Romero

Ask anyone and they’ll tell you, George Romero is the king of zombie flicks- which is true, really. Unfortunately that title has tended to cloud some of his other achievements. Granted, it’s also helped diminish hard feelings for some of his grander missteps too. While I’ll make no qualms about citing Romero’s Day of the Dead as my go-to ‘best zombie movie evar!’ I reckon Romero’s two most interesting films are entirely bereft of the walking dead. Those films being: his ode to low-budget filmmaking dressed up in a tale of motorcycle-riding, jousting knights, Knightriders; and his sole vampire film, Martin, which Romero also claims as his favourite of his own films. We’ll focus on the latter here, since Knightriders isn’t a horror film at all, although a young Tom Savini’s sexual swagger may be unsuitable for the faint of heart.

At the heart of the film is a young man (John Amplas) who is quite convinced that he’s a vampire. The audience though may be excused their uncertainty since he roams the streets and suburbs of Pittsburgh quite freely during the day. He also lacks fangs, instead opting for sedatives and razor blades to free his victims of their blood, while he dresses up their deaths as suicides to keep the law off his tail. It would seem more obvious that this young man is in fact a victim of mental illness, perpetuated by his granduncle Cuda, who talks daily of a family curse that brought Nosferatu into the family line. Muddying affairs are Martin’s visions, which blend details from the present and past to suggest either nightmare or genuine recollection.

Above all else, Romero’s film is a rather sad account of distrust between generations and the weight of familial strife. Whether Martin is indeed a vampire or not is up for discussion, but the film remains one of the most intelligent, inventive, and interesting texts ever assembled on the subject. Which makes it all the more depressing that I’ve encountered many avowed Romero fans that have never seen or even heard of Martin.

A Blade in the Dark (1983) Lamberto Bava

Make no mistake, Lamberto Bava’s best film is Demons, a cacophonous, delirious, veritable meta-textual zombie soup caught on film. It’s hilarious and brilliant and fabulously entertaining. Still, a lot of people get to that film and look no further, so I’m going to push past that one for now. Lamberto is in the unfortunate position of having an awful lot of shadows looming around his career. His father, Mario Bava, is one of Italian cinema’s giants- a man who practically invented both the Italian sub-genre of super-stylised, gory mystery now known as ‘giallo’ and the modern slasher film proper. Meanwhile Bava worked in league with Dario Argento, the man who legitimized and mastered the ‘giallo’ and who remains, to this day, one of the biggest names in cult cinema. So while Lamberto was perfectly poised to learn from the very best, he was also set a near impossible task in trying to really delineate himself from them- and he never really did.

That doesn’t mean there are no rewards in his cinema though. In fact, anything but. Certainly Bava the younger was getting started when the Italian film scene was unfortunately falling apart, which unsurprisingly dented a promising career, but he still managed a few corkers. The aforementioned Demons remains the highpoint, produced and co-scripted by Argento, but there’s also A Blade in the Dark. Sure, Argento brought giallo screeching into the 80s one year earlier, with his riotous, synth-infused bloodbath, Tenebre but with that transition realised, Bava’s film is arguably even more fun. It’s a veritable magician’s trick-bag of giallo gimmicks and trademarks, all expertly manipulated and unfolded. We have Freudian analyses, gory deaths, exposed female flesh, red herrings by dozen, light glinting off blades, and, of course, a protagonist in a creative profession (musician) whose preferred medium is roped into the mayhem.

To that end A Blade in the Dark might not be anything new for the seasoned giallo fan, but it’s a pretty wonderful recapitulation of the movement’s mechanisms and highpoints. Granted, seasoned giallo fans have likely already watched it but luckily, if you’re entirely new to the genre, by the same token it works rather well as an introduction too. Just be sure to check your disbelief at the door.

Faust – Eine deutsche Volkssage (1926) F.W. Murnau

F.W. Murnau is, without question, one of the most important film directors within the medium’s history. Aside from the dream-like web of Nosferatu, which remains a quintessential vampire film, which I’m not going to talk about because it’s far more widely seen, his work in Der Letzte Mann (aka. The Last Laugh) fully evoked his concept of the ‘unchained’ camera and the notion, now quite humdrum, that camera movement and perspective could generate meaning in tandem with the events actually being filmed. Certainly, he didn’t quite ‘invent’ this notion, as it manifested almost unconsciously through cinema from an early stage, but he championed and elaborated on it, providing stunning examples throughout his all too short career (he died in a car accident). If you have any doubt, watch some silent films made prior to Der Letzte Mann and then enjoy Murnau’s film. It’s like being punched in the gut by awesome.

But Murnau was no one-trick pony and for all the amazing choreography of Der Letzte Mann he still found room for more magic. It was thanks to that film that he’d soon move from his native Germany to Hollywood, securing an unheard of contract from William Fox to produce a film with no limits on budget or topic. Yes, Fox was so wowed by the film that he pretty much wrote Murnau a blank cheque. So he made Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans, which is generally regarded as one of the greatest works of cinema, silent or otherwise. But between those two films he had another project, an adaptation of the ancient tale made famous by his countryman, Goethe- that of Faust. To give you an idea of how splendiferous his film is, just bear in mind that it was basically the most elaborate film ever made in Germany to that point, and German silent cinema is not exactly remembered for a lack of elaborateness. Only Lang’s Metropolis, released the next year could really match it and that was a project of such gargantuan scope it nearly bankrupted what was, at the time, one of the biggest and most powerful film studios in the world.

Granted, for all its grandeur, Faust may not be quite the cinematic landmark that Der Letzte Mann or Sunrise is, but it’s still incredible stuff. With some of the most talented artisans in the world, and with no less an actor than Emil Jannings playing the tricky Mephisto, Murnau went to town crafting a blockbuster extravaganza using every trick in the Cinema Book. The end result reminds us that even in 1926, the Cinema Book apparently boasted a shitload of tricks. Puppets, multiple film exposures, trick photography, and good old-fashioned elaborate set design combine to create a swirling tale of a man’s struggle to choose between good and evil. It’s only testament to the remarkable peaks of Murnau’s career that Faust got relegated to ‘lesser’ status by many film fans. There are few films out there that so fully and fabulously evoke the monstrous and malevolent. If you’ve not seen it before, you owe it to yourself.

Ugetsu monogatari (1953) Kenji Mizoguchi

For the casual cinema-goer, it’s easy to imagine that Japanese horror cinema began in earnest in the late 1990s with Hideo Nakata’s Ringu. That certainly opened the world up to a refreshing vein of supernatural cinema but it’s little surprise that Nakata’s shocker was perched upon the shoulders of giants. Although a gentle antecedent, the great director Kenji Mizoguchi’s masterpiece, Ugetsu monogatari remains one of the most remarkable ghost stories in the annals of cinema. Granted, this isn’t really a film that sets out to scare anyone, it’s resolutely more drama than horror, yet the universality of its story, and the film’s pitch-perfect direction, build an eerie power.

The story concerns a potter who, in times of war, sees the promise of great profit by selling his wares to competing militaries. The possibility of so much money, enough to lift him and his family out of subsistence-living, inevitably makes him lose sight of that which he truly holds dear, his wife and son, and he is visited by tragedy. Led by a stellar cast of classic Japanese actors, including Masayuki Mori and the ever amazing Machiko Kyô, what impresses even more is Mizoguchi’s exceptional direction, particularly his use of sequence shots- long, complex takes playing out without a single edit. Within an uninterrupted frame the corporeal and spirit worlds intermingle seamlessly, vying for the protagonist’s senses. It is often so delicate one might feel an intruder into someone else’s dream.

The film’s closing shot, a technically simple lift of the camera that, in the context of the vista it opens, communicates vast realms of information and more vitally, of hope, remains one of the greatest moments in all of cinema. Couple that with the film’s unusually feminine edge (albeit a mainstay of Mizoguchi who, while not exactly a feminist, found his greatest success in tales of tragic heroines) and Ugetsu is surely one of the loveliest ghost stories ever told.

Enemy (2013) Denis Villeneuve…

In Brief: Denis Villeneuve’s abstract film gives us double the Gyllenhaal but only about half the intrigue ***

source: Amazon Prime streaming

For me, there’s a certain humour at the core of Denis Villeneuve’s enigmatic 2013 mystery, Enemy. It’s a film that begs for multiple viewings, to either decode its most deeply held inferences or to simply bask in its dreamy, paranoid otherness, yet I doubt I’ll ever bother take that second ride if only because the urine-inflected visuals are quite hideous to look at. I still have no idea how this trend caught on but it’s most unfortunate (The Immigrant is another example). Now, you could claim such a complaint is petty, despite images being kind of a big deal in cinema, but given the film’s oneiric veneer, it’s a pretty big hit. One only amplified when you consider the lush material provided by the directors to whom Enemy is undoubtedly indebted: David Lynch and Alfred Hitchcock etc. These men have minds like traps too, but even the consciously sterile palette of Cronenberg’s Dead Ringers was visually enticing.

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, replica man…

Moving onto the meat of the film, it’s really not bad, albeit a little drab. The main issue is that the concept of the doppelganger is such a heavily employed trope that there’s nothing in Enemy that feels fresh or invigorating. Associate professor Adam (Jake Gyllenhaal) spends his days giving lectures on politics (or totalitarianism, at least) and alternately sexually satisfying or not satisfying his girlfriend (Mélanie Laurent). He seems disconnected, aloof, and dissatisfied with his life- one both comfortable but lacking adventure. Taking a movie recommendation from an acquaintance, Adam notices that one of the actors looks exactly like him. He tracks down this actor, Anthony (also Gyllenhaal), and his heavily pregnant wife, Helen (Sarah Gadon). Eventually the two men meet and can confirm that they are physically identical, down to their scars, but otherwise entirely unrelated. Paranoia heightens until Anthony, more sexually predacious than his college-fellow double, decides he has rights to a night with Adam’s girl.

I made a film,
I made a film for you,
And all the stuff you do,
And it was all yellow.

Based on only cursory research, it sounds like the film’s source material, Portuguese author José Saramago’s novel, The Double, is a more promising product, although that may simply be the benefit of the doubt talking. The novel suggests more dark humour, of which this film is largely devoid. This is a shame since humour is rarely an impediment in art. In any case, Enemy is one of those movies that moves in broad enough circles, spackling its scenes with enough loaded imagery, that meaning and ultimately, impact, can be readily generated should someone feel the push to go rummaging. Personally, I don’t feel the pull, in no small part due to the film’s hideous chromatic choice- a detail that was likely intended to suggest malady in this world but which instead leads me to analogies soused in piss.

Spider, spider, burning bright, in the forest of the, wait, that’s not it

Broken glass? Spider web? Do you care?

It also doesn’t help that the repeating motif of spiders and their webs is tremendously uninteresting to begin with. Such a central image, and Villeneuve chose it, it is not in the original novel, suggests he is openly courting conspiracy-theorist-types, people who will take any threads offered and weave them into “content” no matter how far they may have to leap from the original source. The result is that there is no image or scene in Enemy that surprises. When things take a turn for the abstract, it’s a safe, banal turn. Unless you wish to make a feminist tract out of the marrying of women with spiders, but that would again be doing Villeneuve’s job for him.

Maman, just killed a man…

Demonstrating just how broadly the film spreads its material, consider Slate contributor, Forrest Wickman, who decided to take the film’s more fanciful imagery at face value and interpret the piece as political analogy. It’s an interesting perspective but it rings hollow to me, not least of all because it’s quite selective and insular and denigrates the role of the two women in the text- even as I might admit they didn’t have a huge amount to do in the first place. I did watch Siegel’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers only a week ago though. Is this a pattern? Should I be scared? No, probably not. The political in this film is negligible and of dubious rigor. His piece is predicated on a few lines of dialogue. Albeit lines that are repeated as the monotony of Adam’s life invokes a doubling of his daily travails that is in turn broken by the emergence of a genuine doppelganger. I’m more inclined to agree with Gyllenhaal’s own interpretation of the film, as an examination of male sexual neuroses. Adam has a comfortable life and looks set to settle down. Anthony is married, with a child on the way, but has a history of infidelity. He even frequents some kind of nightmarish sex club that may or may not be real. Two different paths open for two different visions of masculinity.

Based on his lecture notes, it’s possible Gyllenhaal’s character just forgot he had two separate lives

Whatever route you might take in decoding Enemy, my issue is that it doesn’t seem enticing enough to reconstruct in the first place. Gaudy visuals aside, its slow-building sense of dread and intrigue is offset by the countless footfalls of other artists before it. As a portrait of masculine head-games it’s adequate, it at least broaches the subject of commitment and intimacy, but it’s far too open-plan to elicit insight. Villeneuve is adept enough at loading the deck but seems more pleased with the idea of the puzzle than it having any actual purpose. To that end Enemy seems an unfortunate opposite to the likes of David Lynch, whose hazy mazes contain such nuance and texture that even before you realise what’s going on, you are aware that something deeply upsetting is trying to push through.

Isabella Rossellini, donning yellow, rather than blue velvet

Although I know I’ve mostly denigrated it, Enemy doesn’t deserve complete dismissal. It at least requests you engage your brain even if it can’t quite deliver once you do. If nothing else, Gyllenhaal ably carries and distinguishes two roles, helping confirm him as one of the more interesting actors in contemporary Hollywood. Also, depending on where you are in your life, there’s always the possibility that Enemy’s tropes, however borrowed they may be, will still mesh well and generate a personal effect. After all, if it works who’s to say what’s better and what’s worse? Well, for the purposes of this blog, I am. So while I don’t think I wasted my time watching the film, it’s difficult to get excited about second-string stock.

How to become an expert at Silent Cinema…

Film school has become quite a hassle these days. First off, you have to pay for it, and then you probably have to attend stuff or something. I don’t really know, I never went to film school, but I’ve met a few people who have and they inspired this article. So if you don’t have the money to go to film-school, or you just want a refresher in how to do film, then I’m here to help. Today I’m going to walk you through, ‘How to become an expert in silent cinema.’

In this image, the cameraman has accidentally left his finger on the lens

Silent cinema is important because it’s old. Ask any film student and they’ll tell you that they love silent cinema. In fact, it’s one of their favourite things. They’re drawn to its oldness, its silence, and its age. You see, back then directors really had to hone their craft to find their art because it would take many, many more years before cinema matured to the point where it could tackle real issues like: chainsaw-wielding maniacs; quasi-incestuous referencing of other films; and what actresses look like with no clothes on. It’s hard to believe, but as any film student can tell you, people nowadays don’t really appreciate that once upon a time, people showed up to watch silent films like they were regular films, because that was the best they had.

Due to inflation, silent films feel a lot longer now than they did when originally released

Still, in these modern, rapid-fire crazy days, it’s difficult to find time to sit through silent films. Seriously, some of them are literally hours long. That might have been acceptable back in the 1920s, when people sought arduous tasks to stave off their inevitable death to typhoid, but nowadays we have to more carefully ration our time between so many tasks. And after all, when you pay for a cellphone data plan, you really should use it as much as possible.

Metropolis was shot on location in Berlin. The city never really recovered from wartime bombing.

So here’s an easy step-by-step guide to quickly honing your critical skills and becoming a silent cinema aficionado…

So where to start? First things first, watch German director, Fritz Lang’s epic 1927 “masterpiece”, Metropolis. Be warned, it’s nearly three hours long, no one says a word, and everyone just flaps their arms around like morons, but silent cinema isn’t a topic like economics or spotting doctored US birth certificates- you can’t just claim to be an expert without putting in some time first. Bring your cellphone with you. It’s okay to look away from the screen for long periods. It’s a general rule of cinema that if no one is saying anything, then nothing important is happening. Also remember that since silent cinema has no sound, it can easily be watched in fast-forward because the “actors” don’t start sounding like chipmunks. But don’t be a total philistine about it, slow down to regular speed for the bits with explosions, even though they’re pretty lame by modern standards. Also look out for points of female nudity. Sure, it’s kinda weird since she could be your great-grandmother, but this is “art” we’re talking about, so pay attention.

Key words: Metropolis; Silent Cinema; Nudity

Little known fact: Metropolis also paved the way for Showgirls

In the film, you cannot hear this stupid drum thing

If you happen to be watching the film with others, remember that it is entirely acceptable to talk during silent cinema. Since there’s no speaking, normal film rules – such as keeping talking to a minimum except where loudly declaring, “Oh, one of my favourite bits is coming up soon!” – can’t reasonably be expected to apply. Since you have to ‘read’ silent films, via inter-titles, foreign film rules apply here. So feel free to keep a running commentary of events, talk about how people ‘back then’ would be amazed by this sort of thing, and about how, while the film certainly isn’t much to look at now, the trained eye can spy a lot of little ideas that were later realised in normal film.

Key words: Normal Film; Foreign Film; Commentary

The dumb expressions of ‘Expressionism’

So, with the hard work of sitting through the film out of the way, it’s time to start reaping the rewards. Firstly, you need to learn the basics about how to describe silent cinema. Luckily, Metropolis is representative of all silent cinema. You just watched the best. Although you shouldn’t state it so bluntly, everyone was basically just trying to make Metropolis but Fritz Lang got there first. One notable exception is Charlie Chaplin. He fell on his ass a lot. He inspired Walt Disney to invent cartoons, which are cool, but we’re on a grander journey here. When describing silent cinema the most important term to use is ‘expressionism.’ This is a descriptor of how silent cinema is kind of like real cinema. It’s called ‘expressionism’ because, since they couldn’t talk, the actors had to make big, stupid expressions just to keep the audience from leaving. It may look pretty dumb now but remember, back then lots of people had polio so they were used to people moving all weird. You might even say that silent cinema and polio go hand in hand.

Key words: Cartoons; Expressionism; Polio

This scene uses expressionism to signify that something is happening up high and to the left of the cameraman

Chin up, oppressed under-classes

As mentioned previously, silent cinema is a sub-genre of foreign film. Due to a lack of amenities and technical know-how, old films and non-English-speaking films aren’t really capable of properly fleshing out their product to fit into recognised genres like: Action Movies; Thrillers; Romantic Comedies; Yet Another Fucking Comic Book Adaptation; Franchise Reboots; or Films That Won Tom Hanks an Oscar. That’s not being unfair to them of course. They do some really good work considering their unfortunate circumstances. Some foreign films have even stumbled on methods that real directors later used to make great films. For example, although Bladerunner is arguably the most original film ever*, it can’t help that it was made after Metropolis which means some bits overlap a little. Consider, for example, the chins of Metropolis’ Gustav Fröhlich and Bladerunner’s Rutger Hauer.

Key words: Bladerunner; Genre; Chins

*If you scoffed loudly here, thinking, “Has this moron never even seen Dark City!?” then, great work. I could probably learn some things from you.

In early films you will often find editing blunders like this, where they accidentally put a load of weird shit in the same frame

A really important point is that Metropolis is a German film and as such, is about Hitler. World War 2 lasted from 1939 to 1945 and divided German history into three separate blocks of time: Before World War 2; Actual World War 2; and David Hasselhoff. Everything from ‘Before World War 2’ provides hints about why World War 2 happened. This is called foreshadowing and good films use it a lot to predict the future. Demonstrating how we’re building a case here, we might say that Metropolis is an expression(ism) of World War 2. This is super-important. Write it down!

Key words: German; World War 2; Foreshadowing; World War 2; WW2; World War 2

Triumph of the Wall

All possibly Nazis, maybe

I think the Nazis built one of these. They probably did. Yeah, I heard that somewhere. They totally built one of these.

Extending our analysis, the Nazis hated Jews. So it’s wise to posit, as a college professor of mine once did, that the ugly guy who built the robot is a stereotypically Jewish caricature because the clearly five-pointed star adorning the wall of his laboratory very nearly almost has as many points as a Star of David, albeit not quite specifically actually as many points as a Star of David. The Nazis also didn’t like black people and Metropolis was made in black-and-white. That is foreshadowing and shadows are also black. Again, this is really important, write it down! Such inferences show the depth of the film, and your depth of thought in reaction to the film. Still, what’s paramount is that you remember it’s not just what’s on the screen that’s important to win conversations, we also must bear in mind that film was a product of its time. Setting up this kind of scholarly perspective is important because, without it, you run the risk of accidentally sounding like you’re close-minded.

Key words: Nazis; Star of David; Really Important!

Behold, the Star of Five-to-Possibly-Six Points

Caligari’s Cabinet was deceptively spacious but very poorly constructed

Advanced Lesson: Okay, let’s push even further ahead. This is pretty advanced, so you might want to watch the film again if you have a chance. Just set it at 8x speed or so, that’s slow enough. Every so often you’ll encounter someone else who has actually seen Metropolis. They are out there. So what can you do to get the upper-hand when talking about film in front of them? Try the following sentence…

“While Metropolis clearly represents the apogee of the Silent Cinema art-form and consequently, of Expressionism as a film grammar rendered fully manifest, its visual thesis is unmistakably indebted to the pervasive chiaroscuro of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, released seven years earlier.”

Learn this sentence and wield it responsibly. This is a last resort. It simply translates to this: Fritz Lang, who directed Metropolis, ripped off someone else but made it better. So he’s like Quentin Tarantino’s granddad. And don’t worry, ‘chiaroscuro’ doesn’t mean anything. It’s total gibberish. If that line doesn’t silence any dissent then don’t worry. You’re an educated person, after all. Simply mumble the name, Siegfried Kracauer (Sig-Freed Crack-Hoor), before calmly excusing yourself.

Key words: Bullshit

Yes, I do know a lot about silent cinema. You’re absolutely correct

So there you have it. You are now fully equipped to dominate at discussions about silent films.

Room in Rome (2010) Julio Medem…

In Brief: Two gorgeous women spend an entire film nude in a hotel room, interspersing their soul-searching dialogue with regular bouts of lesbian sex. Perfect Sunday viewing, right? Alas no, Room in Rome is erotica with the Ed Wood lens firmly in place. *

source: Netflix

Welcome to Room in Rome. The cinematography is stately and steeped in shadows. The set-dressing is similarly lush, replete with folds of luxurious bed linen. The walls are adorned in fine art. The hotel room boasts the almost preposterous opulence of an old art gallery. The women’s naked bodies too are flawless, and a hint more mature than those Hollywood sleazily endorses. They stand vulnerable in each other’s presence: strangers separated by their cultures and experiences yet bonded inextricably by their femininity and sexuality. The stage is set for grand inquisitions into the human soul. Except there’s one problem: director Julio Medem’s film has not a whiff of substance to support these sumptuous ingredients.

A brief, experimental shot with the ‘clothes on’ filter

This is an impressive feat when you consider that this film is based on another, Matías Bize’s En la cama. The twist being that the heterosexual one-night stand here becomes a lesbian encounter. So essentially, despite having an already made product to shamelessly crib from, Medem still can’t land a single element right. Instead he rushes to establish every stereotype people tend to trot out about European art cinema- particularly people who’ve not actually seen any such films (see the paragraph above). And yet it plows on- its self-conscious style and ponderous shot compositions reducing the film to inadvertent parody.

History watches. Waits. Falls asleep.

Our two actresses, Elena Anaya and Natasha Yarovenko, both acquit themselves well. Still, while plenty of film critics out there seem unable to separate extensive nudity from ‘brave performances’, what impresses more than these women daring to place their faces near to one another’s crotch is that they can utter the film’s desperately hollow dialogue while keeping a straight face. Perhaps it helps that they each speak to each other primarily in English, a second language to both. “History is watching us,” one of them declares as they pose awkwardly in yet another frame that’s supposed to evoke the vast cultural heritage of the Mediterranean. That’s surely only because History can’t find the ‘off’ button on the remote.

As the women talk they peel away their own guards, revealing more of their pasts and their true identities, having originally seduced one another under false names. The problem is that their tales are neither credible nor interesting. Each peeled layer of intrigue, each vulnerable, freshly exposed psychic wound is an absolute bore- a random event just lumped into a script that seems more interested in the curtains than the travails of women. At one point Yarovenko’s character discusses how she ‘became a woman’ at the hands (and presumably some other parts) of her father. This leads into a bout of grope-y soft-core sex. She later reveals that this was not the case, she merely gained masturbation material watching her twin sister ‘become a woman’ with their father. This is pretty dark stuff, and viable for all kinds of exploration, but Medem just skates around on the surface, making sure to repeatedly employ the phrase, ‘become a woman’- each instance a hammer-blow to my bullshit-o-meter. After a while, accomplishing absolutely nothing, the women move on to the next poorly measured topic and replicate their success.

It’s all erotic until your arm goes to sleep

A thought that occurred to me while my mind wandered amidst the tedium, is that affairs here might have been at least slightly rescued had the actresses engaged in actual sex. That would at least have conjured up something fundamentally carnal, something inherently earthy and human. Instead we’re treated to endless shots of bare, writhing mid-riffs, awkwardly jutting hips, and legs either closed or crossed in poses of discomfort, rendering both models as beached objects d’art within the director’s horribly cloistered shaggy-dog story. In some films we might commend a director for taking sexually explicit subject matter and avoiding the crassly pornographic. With its clumsily staged faux-sex, Rome in Rome could use a leg-up just to qualify as pornographic.

Throughout I was reminded of Woody Allen’s Love and Death, a fantastic spoof of ‘high art’ sensibilities- most notably, from a film perspective, the work of Ingmar Bergman. The same sense of misplaced weighting is evident here except that Medem believes he is Bergman. For a while it’s quite funny but the film’s unceasing tedium, its lack of depth or any genuine emotion, eventually wears the viewer down. There are no people in this film, only two beautiful bodies rubbing against one another. Sometimes they speak and that only pushes the audience’s sympathy ever further away. And then, as if to dare us to push through the monotony, when the women aren’t fondling each other, a significant chunk of Medem’s film is devoted to, of all things, internet map searches. A curious juxtaposition to be sure and one that serves the characters little and the film even less. After all, during these sequences it’s inevitable that we recall how the internet can readily yield copious amounts of more forthright lesbian frothing, with the participants having fun to boot.

“Shit, I think I’m still in this film.”

And then there’s the music. The credits boast original music by Jocelyn Pook but the nauseatingly twee songs that resurface again and again, like bouts of stomach flu, all seem to have been written and performed by someone else. Their continual resurgence, mindless and ineffectual, recall Godard’s aural antics on Le mépris but again, there’s not a hint of subversion here. Medem seems to really believe this is working. This is curious as I’ve heard some positive things about his earlier films, primarily Sex and Lucia, which gained a larger English-language audience than most foreign-language films. Of course, perhaps having the word ‘sex’ in the title and the beautiful Elena Anaya in the lead helped. Yet from almost the first frame, this looks like the accomplished work of a man who flunked every course in film school.

“Let us never speak of this to anyone.”

Room in Rome is the sort of film one might imagine stereotypical US college freshmen watching before spending the night humming and hawing over the very different nature of ‘Europeans’ – a homogeneous entity, of course – while also marvelling at their own open-mindedness for having watched such a daring film. Of course nude women are not at all daring and if Europeans were actually this annoying I’d have no wish to move back to the continent. Room in Rome is only a work of art in so much as its abject failure recalls grand tragedy. And they could probably have filled a whole other room with the emotional baggage the director ineffectually tries to sort through.

Night Moves (1975) Arthur Penn…

In Brief: With all due respect to Kelly Reichardt’s latest, there will only ever be one Night Moves– this brilliant, fractious, mosaic of existential crisis that encapsulates both man and nation. ****

source: Netflix

“I watched a Rohmer film once. It was kinda like watching paint dry.”

So says Night Moves‘ protagonist Harry Moseby (Gene Hackman). His derision is hardly meant to be taken seriously. After all, the new American cinema of the 70s, buoyed by the likes of Coppola, Scorsese, and De Palma, made no secret of its European influences. Although less often recalled than those other directors, Arthur Penn was a major figure of the time too, having just a few years earlier helped to take the censorious Hays Production Code out back and riddle it with bullets, so to speak. His 1967 incarnation of Bonnie and Clyde, a film set during The Great Depression but unmistakably invoking contemporary America, would play a critical role in expanding Hollywood’s allowed themes and visual vocabulary.

Perhaps it’s easiest to just say that Hackman’s character has no time for the airy pretenses of the Nouvelle Vague. He’s a straight-shooter and a born detective, at least since his football career faltered. Sleuthing is all he can be proud of now, even as it precipitates his downfall. It grants him neither happiness nor contentment, as his wife strays with another man, but it is in his blood. Its process affords him a lens through which to structure his world. Unfortunately this lens brings only the ‘how’ of others’ actions into focus. The underlying ‘why’ remains ever elusive. He is tasked with tracking a sexually-liberated teenage run-away (an almost unrecognisably young Melanie Griffith) and so he is compelled to ponder the clues, even as the truth he unearths leaves no one better off. Such weary fatalism invites ready comparison to Polanski’s Chinatown. They are both dyed in the wool neo-noir and were produced near-contemporaneously. They feel like siblings, overlapping to affirm their pedigree but bearing enough differences to establish their independence.

Some things are best left consigned to the shadows. If the film’s finale tips violently into convenient tragedy, fatally tying together so many disparate characters, it works perfectly as poetry and allegory. Night Moves doesn’t so much expose a crime, or series thereof, so much as track a group of drifters as they slip helplessly over the edge of the Earth. The inference is one carried throughout the counter-cultural movement. In the wake of Vietnam and Watergate, a nation realised it was listing, caught in an extended lament between longing for the simple, “good-old” days and recognising that the future was wide open and unclaimed, a prospect simultaneously electrifying and terrifying.

We conclude with a boat, miles from civilisation, churning the endless waters as it spins in circles, away from the control of its sole inhabitant. Night Moves draws its title from a chess scenario, where a win is possible in three moves by sacrificing the queen and leaving the knights to close in. This possibility was, once upon a time, missed by a player, a decision Moseby assumes must have haunted him for the rest of his days. He will miss his own checkmate in time, but the unravelling started long before that. Although not talked about much these days, indeed perhaps most often recalled for its tongue-in-cheek barb against Rohmer, Night Moves remains a vital product of 70s American cinema. The lack of critical plaudits serves only to highlight its quiet desperation.

Vicious Lips (1986) Albert Pyun…

In Brief: A nugget of unfiltered, low-budget, 80s-permed, synth-pop extravagance. So pop it in your glass pipe and light it up. ***

source: Netflix (not currently available)

How do you solve a problem like Albert Pyun?

We’ll always be together, however far it seeeeeeems. We’ll always be together, together in radioactive dreammsssssss

I usually can’t help but mock his films, yet every time I find one, I am inescapably drawn to watch it. And even as I laugh, I know he is distinguished from the hordes of low-budget schlock-hounds we might consider his peers. The joke’s on me, really. He does his thing and I tag along every time. I might poke fun, but I’m the sidekick. And he’s accumulated many more over the years, in various dark, unwashed corners of cult cinema. Because we must consider this: even if he’s made a hundred bad films, hardly any of them are bad in the same way. And a select few are bad in ways no one had ever previously envisioned. 

His work has varied wildly in budget, quality, and genre, but it all comfortably evades clear classification as, ‘good’. Certainly, the Jean-Claude Van Damme vehicle, Cyborg deserves more cult appeal considering it is Pyun making a rock opera, sans music, after the producers obviously told him, “No Mr. Pyun, you are not allowed to make this a rock opera”. But while that’s an interesting thought, and a noble rebellion on paper, if you don’t consider that going into the film, it’s just odd and uncomfortable: like it was shot on itchy film stock. Such antics sum up Pyun as an artistic force. He is a man who proclaims each project was a grand vision that was improperly nurtured by uncaring, external forces. But with every rule comes an exception. And for Albert Pyun, that would be Vicious Lips.

What is Vicious Lips? It’s basically a risqué, live-action, sublimation of Jem and the Holograms. Plot is secondary and here details and event are mixed-and-matched to arrive at a format that might be best described as ‘functionally abstract.’ That is, given how thin the core material is –mostly neon and hair-spray – chopping it up and packaging it as a synth-pop fantasia is actually a pretty good idea that helps both energise matters and repel questions concerning certain narrative deficiencies- questions that likely could not find good answers anyway. But really, none of that matters because, despite its small budget, Vicious Lips is just a rock-and-roll ride through 80s space.

One of these hair-styles in not like the others…

Meanwhile, at a meeting of ’80s Anonymous’

Set in the distant future, the all-girl band Vicious Lips have lost their lead vocalist, Ace Lucas. This is a problem because they’ve just been given the chance of a lifetime: to perform at an inter-galactic pop music festival that can make or break careers. So they have to do two things- 1) find a new vocalist and 2) traverse the galaxy to try and make it to their set on time. Luckily a new singer is quickly acquired from a school talent show, and, with a stolen spaceship, they’re on their way. Unfortunately they get hit by an asteroid, crash-land, and subsequently discover that a vicious mass-murderer was imprisoned in the ship they stole and the impact has set him free. How are the girls ever going to tease their hair just right amidst all this calamity?

And meanwhile, in the dystopia-room…

Remember kids, if you must smoke, don’t inhale

If all that sounds mad-cap and gloriously unhinged well, it is, but not quite in the way you might expect. With such a small budget the film doesn’t have a lot of room for changing sets or indulging in wild spectacle leading to hefty doses of improvisation and with that, the most 80s-est, New York-iest far-flung future you could ask for. The quality of the more outlandish special effects gain additional clout when set within other scenes that re-arrange objects in the same room to create new backdrops. What really counts here is atmosphere and visuals. If Pyun is short on amazing things to film, then he can at least keep things interesting by filming the ordinary in an amazing way. Through ambitious lighting and framing, and judicious use of smoke machines, every set holds the overriding aesthetic steady- culminating in a bombastic amateurishness that suggests, in another cut of the film Rushmore, that Max Fisher might have staged his own rendition of Bladerunner. Add the most garish 80s fashion that time tried to forget and a healthy dose of infuriatingly up-beat power-pop and whatever’s left of the film’s ingredients hardly seem relevant.

Click here to discover this one weird trick to aid in desert survival

Dropping the bass

Reflections of 80s pop excess

To try and expand on the film’s storyline, it would seem a psychological trip through the new vocalist’s young mind as she tries to find her identity as a performer. Meanwhile she must resist the previous vocalist’s personality cult while also contending with various degrees of resistance from the rest of the group. Or perhaps there was no previous lead singer and she merely reels from the psychic disconnect of artistic reinvention or revelation. Or whatever, really. Concrete interpretation feels at odds with the overall aesthetic of the project which, under Pyun’s (possibly competent?) guidance, remains ethereal and impervious to concrete interpretation. What emerges above all else is a real feeling of excitement, adventure, and countless possibilities that fly in the face of a shoe-string budget. As the singer cuts loose so the film flies, intoxicating us with its absurd picture of artistic release.

Turn around, bright-eyes.

Roving bands of mutated 50s greasers threaten the very future of synth-pop

In the future there shall be showers of neon.

So obviously, this appears to be the closest Pyun ever got to delivering on his own boisterous initial sketches. Although with plenty more of his films yet to see, perhaps he’s succeeded elsewhere. If so, it certainly wasn’t with Steven Seagal in Ticker or the cyborg martial arts opus Heatseeker. Here, the results are a genuine and pleasant surprise. It likely helped that this was only his fourth feature and he was aided by a booming direct-to-video market that afforded an artistic rogue like himself a little more elbow room. And did I mention that Vicious Lips boasts a three-breasted hooker that pre-dates Total Recall? That’s the sort of thing that can swing a BC/AD-style divide in the historical record. So as the 28^th year of the Three-Boobed Mutant Hooker draws to a close, Pyun’s film still holds sway.

Almost makes me wish I had three hands. And a hair-clippers. And a paper bag.

An American Carol (2008) David Zucker…

In Brief: In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulu waits dreaming…for Obamacare! *

source: Digital Copy

I wrote this up a number of years back but, since the US is gearing up for, “War Against Amorphous Ideology Part III: The Revenge of the Night of the Curse of the Living Return” it’s very usefully been rendered prescient again. Of course the war against such evils could probably be fought on the home-front first by ensuring that no one ever has to sit through a copy of this film ever again but, with free speech unfortunately comes post-Airplane David Zucker.

So here is a list of some things I learned by watching this movie…

• Michael Moore doesn’t bathe! Take that Michael Moore! Zing!
• Documentaries are fascist propaganda tools and are NOT a legitimate platform for communication! Take that documentary film-makers that dare question America! You want proof that documentaries aren’t useful? They don’t make a lot of money. Q.E.D. bitches!
• Leslie Nielsen is American.
• America is basically entirely awesome and if you question that then you’re an asshole.
• Terrorists hate America cause that’s just what they do. They have no reasons and there’s no justification for even the slightest grievance over America’s actions in the Middle East.
• Did I mention that America is totally awesome? It totally is.
• England was a pussy surrender monkey in World War 2 and shame on them. Rah rah rah, America!
• Liberty is a good thing and it means whatever the US government says it means. Thusly, all decisions made to preserve liberty should be agreed to without question.
• The war in Iraq = the American civil war.
• Jimmy Carter is a surrendering scumbag!

Unwashed hippies- Hollywood-style

• Colleges = liberal brainwashing clubs and you shouldn’t send your kids to them. Oh, and the 1968 protests were the work of liberal scum too. Damn liberals. Grrrr!
• Rosie O’Donnell is a bitch. And you know how you can be sure she and Michael Moore are wrong? They’re fat!
• Anyone who questions the necessity for war is a coward.
• Oh yeah, gays are evil too. Quite a number of references to that held within this film’s slim 82 minute runtime.
• “Privacy rights cannot interfere with survival rights.” Oh, and survival rights are asserted by the US government and cannot and should not be questioned. What, have you got something to hide?
• There’s nothing quite as dashing as a man in an (American) army uniform. So if you’re a puny pacifist then your girlfriend will leave you for a real man. God bless America!
• Straw Man arguments are effective and convincing. On that note, condemning any American government action is actually an abuse of free speech…which ONLY Americans have to begin with!
• ‘Trace’ is apparently a legitimate first-name for a person?
• If you question America’s righteousness you are disappointing your family.
• Most terrorists actually love America and just want to be a part of it because it’s so awesome but their mean old bosses force them to blow themselves up anyway.
• And apparently John F. Kennedy was a hero for peace? Actually, even by Michael Moore’s, ahem, sorry, Malone’s standards, that was the one point where the film was slightly less than totally credible.

Tossed salads and scrambled political rhetoric

So, where does this leave the film? Well, if it was kinda funny it might save it a little but that didn’t work out either. When it’s not erecting contradictory straw man arguments and branding gays and Muslims as intrinsically evil then it’s parading out third-rate slapstick in an attempt to make the rest of the film seem less horrendously petty. This is the political equivalent of a child throwing a temper-tantrum in the frozen food aisle. Ironically, it almost makes Michael Moore’s oeuvre look fair and balanced. That’s another amazing truth uncovered. The more you know!

Terrorists R teh Dumbz, yo!

Not to overstate the point but the sheer immaturity and emptiness of rhetoric here marks this out as a film that really should shame the US. Hell, if I happened to actually support the US government’s policies vis-à-vis Al-Qaeda I’d still be offended by this film since it’s chosen viewpoint is so insane it strives to make everyone else guilty by association. There’s only two kinds of people in this world, Republicans that are always right and Liberals that are always wrong. And if you don’t agree with our definitions, you ain’t a Republican. Did I mention that Hitler was a liberal? He must have been ’cause he weren’t no Republican.

And to add insult to injury….pop country! Low blow, man. Low blow.

Easy Riding to an easy paycheck

So is there anything positive? Well, I wasn’t revolted by Dennis Hopper’s cameo in the midst of a zombie/ACLU attack. Mainly because it reminded me, and was obviously meant to remind me of, Land of the Dead. A film I actually like and a film that offers a much more nuanced and intelligent account of post 9/11 America too. Not that that’d be hard. I’m pretty sure the late Osama Bin Laden could paint a more convincingly positive picture of the US than this, even if it were painted with the blood of infidels.

The Neighbour’s Wife and Mine (1931) Heinosuke Gosha…

In Brief: Japan’s first full-sound film isn’t quite as good as it sounds. Or maybe it’s exactly that good. Hmmm **

source: Hulu+

There’s really only one issue with Heinosuke Gosha’s genteel domestic comedy, and that’s with the film’s star- who is foregrounded and considered so remarkable that the rest of the cast is never really asked to pick up the slack. So who is this problematic star? Well it’s ‘Sound Technology.’ With this film, Gosha produced the first full-sound film in Japanese cinema. Sound took a while to catch on in Japan, longer than in the US and Europe where it dominated quickly once the technology saturated the market. Unlike in those regions, in Japan there were certain traditions that offered interesting spins on silent cinema as an art-form, such as vocal accompaniment in the form of the country’s traditional Noh theatre. This dulled the rush to sound, and silent films were still being produced in Japan into the mid-thirties when they’d all but died off in other territories.

Because tonight we’re gonna party like it’s nineteen-thirty-nine!

As anyone who has watched early sound cinema can attest, the technology wasn’t exactly the immediate breath of fresh air one might think it would be. Certainly it enhanced cinema’s potential as an art-form, but upon its original arrival it slowed down and limited film-making possibilities due to the necessity for new, extremely clunky equipment. Silent cinema had just about reached its creative apogee, with the likes of F.W. Murnau and Jean Epstein creating remarkably powerful, layered works of drama through shot composition, optical effects, and camera movement alone. The introduction of sound came as quite a backwards step as suddenly compositions became more ordinary, camera movements were simplified or stopped entirely, and actors had to tone down their efforts to instead focus on ensuring that their dialogue was properly captured by the various microphones stowed about the set.

I’ve got to admit, this whole conversing thing is pretty darn nifty

Into that fray enters Gosha’s comedy, an incredibly slight piece clocking in at little over an hour in length. It follows an easily distracted playwright, played by Atsushi Watanabe (he would become a semi-regular face in Akira Kurosawa’s cinema), who struggles to complete a play before a deadline hits. He moves himself, his wife, and their two young daughters out to a remote, picturesque cottage to help him with this task but of course things don’t go as he planned. Why? Because of sound, of course! Rowdy cats, unruly children, and a practicing jazz band next door all weigh in, creating a less than perfect setting for putting pen to paper.

You remember how to whistle, don’t you?

Okay, you obviously do. Please stop.

Just like the original talkie, The Jazz Singer, every fibre of the project’s being is devoted towards highlighting how we can now hear as well as see the unfolding events. The film opens with an altercation between the playwright and a painter, the latter annoyed by the former’s absent-minded whistling. The jazz band is no random occurrence either, but a major product placement. In fact they get credited before any of the actors and they have one full music number pretty much to themselves. All this invariably leaves the film feeling flabby and directionless despite the film’s brief runtime. It feels more like experiment than an actual feature.

To that end, the film haphazardly concludes with almost no resolution to the primary story. It’s almost like they just ran out of record and just shut the whole thing off. None of this could really rest with Gosha. There’s hardly any material to work with and it was uncharted territory. The very presence of sound is enough to validate the exercise which features a series of jokes that amount to someone prodding you in the ribs throughout and saying, “Did you hear that?!” Perhaps there’s more wordplay or clever dialogue that subtitles can’t quite capture. We might hope so since the project offers a specific credit separate from script and story for, ‘jokes.’ 

The Neighbour’s Wife and Mine is certainly no imposition. It carries a gentle lilt that, if nothing else, allows it to present itself as a slice-of-life vision of 1930s Japan. It helps in this respect that Gosha was known, as were a number of his contemporaries, for preferring to shoot on location- a trait that was less preferred in American and European cinema at the time. Nonetheless, standing as an important milestone in Japanese cinema, The Neighbour’s Wife and Mine can’t help but feel more like history than artistic endeavour. Especially when you consider, although such a direct comparison is unfair, that in the same year Fritz Lang’s M would stretch the dimensions of sound and hark forward to its full artistic potential. For fans of Japanese cinema, this is certainly a technical landmark, but it’s surrounded by magnificent silent films that held a far greater narrative and emotive depth. But of course, you have to start somewhere…