JMartin-2 Reviews

Thug Life in D.C. (1998)

Shouting, but not saying anything

[6 November 2001]

Once again, Levin and Pinkerson set their sights on the injustices of "the system" (particularly the U.S. prison juggernaut), and once again, they remain oblivious to anything of value that might be gleaned from such an examination, behaving like nothing so much as a couple of street preachers railing against the abuses of "The Man," but ultimately rejecting the possibility of social progress (and their responsibility as critics) through their failure to communicate or even explore what steps can be taken to end them.

Now, don't get me wrong -- I have no problem with filmmakers taking an "objective," non-critical stance towards important social issues. But Levin and Parkinson have taken that stance towards the same issues for so long now that they should at least have some vague inklings on how to fix them. Alas, with "Thug Life in D.C.," it has become obvious that, despite all their filmmaking experience, they have yet to learn anything about the conditions they document, beyond the kind of simplistic analysis you would expect to find among members of a high-school debate team (i.e., maybe we wouldn't have so many criminals if there were more economic equality in our society -- gosh, thanks a lot).

The time has long since passed for Levin and Parkinson to stop warming up and step up to the plate, to end the tired, indignant head-shaking that one can detect in almost every frame of their films to date. Based on "Thug Life in D.C.," though, they're content to remain bench-warmers, unwilling to look any deeper beneath the surface -- especially ironic, when one considers that wasted potential is one of the ostensible themes of this particular film.

Von Trier's 100 øjne (2000)

Dull and unenlightening -- what happened?!

[4/10 · 1 October 2001]

Lars von Trier is not simply one of the most consistently interesting filmmakers working today -- he is also a supremely gifted con artist with a penchant for pulling the public's collective leg and constantly building up his own "legend." As such, it's difficult, if not impossible, to know when to take him seriously, and thus any serious attempt to figure him out is ultimately doomed to failure. Therefore, a documentary about von Trier and his work is best approached as pure entertainment rather than a revealing glimpse into the "filmmakers' art" or the "creative process" or whatever. Here, though, another factor comes into play: unlike the previous docs on von Trier (such as Stig Björkman's "Tranceformer: A Portrait of Lars von Trier" and Jesper Jargil's "The Humiliated"), "Von Trier's 100 Eyes" -- about the making of his latest film, "Dancer in the Dark" -- is produced by Zentropa, von Trier's own production company, which (in Scandinavia at least) is well-known for its tendency toward exaggeration and outright fabrication in matters of publicity. In other words, this film should be approached not simply with a grain of salt, but preferably a whole bag.

First things first: for (ostensibly) legal reasons, Björk herself has a negligible part in this doc, limited almost entirely to clips from the finished product. The entire enterprise seems mostly pointless as a consequence, and the one scene in which she does appear (a cutaway view of the set, with von Trier directing her in the harrowing murder scene while filming the action through a hole in the wall) is so utterly fascinating that you want to see more, but sorry, that's all you'll get, buddy. And with the lead actress out of the picture, there is precious little footage of von Trier actually interacting with his actors, save some goofy, between-takes clowning with Catherine Deneuve and a couple of other members of the supporting cast. For the most part, though, once von Trier's camera goes on, Forbert's goes off, and so anyone interested in seeing how von Trier works with his actors might as well skip this and track down a copy of "The Humiliated" instead.

The remainder of the piece is scarcely more informative than the ten-minute promotional pieces included on the U.S. "Dancer" DVD, dealing with the original inspiration (a Danish fairy tale called "Golden Heart"), the choreography, and of course the much-vaunted 100 cameras, with plenty of pretentious moments in between where Lars reads lyrics from the film's songs in a droning, emotionless voice while a split-screen shows the view from various angles. Things finally pick up a bit near the end, after Björk has (supposedly) disappeared after (supposedly) stalking angrily off the set while (supposedly) tearing up her wardrobe with her teeth (!). Von Trier is shown considering whether or not to give up altogether (not very convincingly, I might add), and somebody creates some odd-looking Björk masks, with the intention of putting them on a body double and finishing the rest of the film that way. The whole thing is so absurd and credibility-straining that even the most gullible viewers will probably sense that something is awry, and sure enough, just when things are looking their most hopeless, Björk suddenly and mysteriously reappears on the set, filming is completed, and flash-forward a bit to Lars and Björk collecting their awards at Cannes. Everyone lives happily ever after, the end, etc. etc. Cinéma vérité this ain't.

Forgive my cynicism, but if anyone connected with this documentary thought they were making a "serious" film, it doesn't show. This is basically an hour-long promotional piece for Lars von Trier and the film he happened to be working on at the time. We learn nothing about von Trier, nothing about "Dancer in the Dark," and nothing about the process of making a film, and as if that weren't bad enough, this isn't even a particularly entertaining film. A boring documentary about good ol' zany Lars? It's like they weren't even trying. Go with "Tranceformer" or "The Humiliated" instead, or better yet, just watch "Dancer in the Dark" again.

Amélie (2001)

A bad sign for French cinema

[3/10 · 29 August 2001]

I've heard numerous people go on about how "Amelie" represents a "revival of French cinema." If this is true, then the future of French film looks a lot dimmer than even the most pessimistic Francophile could have guessed.

Like "Delicatessen" and "The City of Lost Children," "Amelie" is a stunningly made film, with wonderful music and some awe-inspiring visuals. But this is supposed to be a narrative-driven film, and the film falls flat here.

The plot could basically be described as Jane Austen's "Emma" meets Dreyer's "Gertrud" meets a theme park ride, as a succession of episodes follows Amelie's search for true love, in the process helping others in their own quests, blah blah blah. If this doesn't sound like enough to maintain a 130-minute film, you're right, and even though the actors try their best, the movie runs out of tricks after just half-an-hour and plods along for the remainder in an entirely predictable pattern you've seen a million times in hackneyed Hollywood romances.

This pedestrian storyline takes place against a complete fantasy world with absolutely no resemblance to the "real" world, but unlike "Delicatessen" and "The City of Lost Children," Jeunet tries to ground it somehow in reality, setting it in both a specific location (the Montmarte district of Paris) and at a specific time (1997, around the same time as Princess Di's death, which in Jeunet's Disneyfied Montmarte is the only world event of any significance). This renders the entire "fairy tale" approach (complete with wistful narrator) moot -- "once upon a time" has no meaning when the storyteller goes to such lengths to place his tale in an actual place and time.

So why the colorful, gussied-up, theme-park aesthetic that dominates the film? It appears that Jeunet simply does so for the purposes of nostalgia, to harken back to the "gay Paree" image that in all likelihood never existed and certainly doesn't today. Whereas the real Montmarte is heavily populated by impoverished immigrants, Jeunet's is as white as a Republican Party convention, and the one token minority character, an Arab, is as French as de Gaulle. Sanitation problems don't exist in this Montmarte, nor for that matter do fast-food restaurants, chain stores, or any other symbols of modern society. Even the beggars are happy and content. Intentionally or not, there is something quite reactionary about the world view Jeunet presents us with, and the occasional pseudo-documentary flourish doesn't change one jot the fact that nothing in the film is "real."

Jeunet has dismissed this criticism, saying that his film is not about the social problems of today but about the struggles and triumphs of "the little guy." How can you not like that? But in the real world, "the little guys" are impoverished, overwhelmingly non-white workers living in abject squalor, more concerned with where their next meal is coming from than with finding "true love." These people don't exist for Jeunet, so his smarmy claim of sticking up for those who can't stick up for themselves is a self-serving fraud.

To sum up, "Ameile" is a visually gorgeous film with some fine performances, all of which are negated by the insipid and unoriginal purposes they're used for. If Jeunet had the guts to take the premise and set it in something at least approximating the real world, this would've been an interesting stylistic experiment, along the lines of Godard's "neo-realist musical" "A Woman Is a Woman." But Jeunet (who despises both the directors of the nouvelle vague and the neo-realist movement) seems to have prostrated himself before commerical success, and in the process produced a work little better than the mega-budget, star-driven garbage pumped out on a routine basis by Hollywood. French cinema can do better than this.

Amerika (1987)

Big, bloated, empty-headed mess

[21 June 2000]

I was too young to have viewed this movie when it originally aired, but my parents taped it and for some reason kept it around for thirteen years. I finally decided to give it a whirl, thinking it would be an adaptation of the Franz Kafka story (I know, I know.....). This was my first mistake.

My second mistake was actually watching the thing at all. At 870 minutes, this makes the 10-hour "The 10th Kingdom" seem like a short subject by comparison, yet the whole thing could have easily been pared down by half without compromising the storyline. Why? Simple: the plot is pathetic. You would think that by 1987 people would have realized the Soviet Union was NEVER going to take over the U.S., but I guess someone forgot to tell writer-director Donald Wrye, since he insists on rehashing the tired old "communist subversion" schtick that went out -- and deservedly so -- in the mid-60s. The dialogue is corny and hackneyed and seems to begin repeating itself at the halfway mark, while the direction is uninspired (although pretty much average by TV movie standards). Sam Neill manages to maintain his dignity in this midst of all this nonsense, but everyone else comes out looking as silly as the film itself.

By itself, "Amerika" is harmless piffle that, if nothing else, would make a good double bill with "Dr. Strangelove," which so effectively manages to ridicule and ultimately destroy the reactionary plot. But the ideology behind the story, and the reactions it has inspired among some of my fellow IMDb reviewers, is completely idiotic, almost frightening. The series' ultimate and highly questionable message is that we should remain ever vigilant against the communist threat, and that it will take any guise need be to bring down our society from within -- latter-day McCarthyism if I ever heard it. Thank goodness this 870-pound turkey is scarcely remembered today.

Titus Andronicus (1999)

What the @#%! is this?...

[9 April 2000]

OK, let's get something out of the way: this is a very faithful adaptation of Shakespeare's play. The only problem is, that's not a good thing. "Titus Andronicus" is, to my mind, Shakespeare's second-worst play, surpassed in awfulness only by "King John." The plot is ludicrous, the characters almost completely two-dimensional (especially the Moor Aaron, who is far more troubling from a racial standpoint than Shylock ever was), the dialogue perfunctory and awkward.

To be sure, Shakespeare on his worst day is better than the very best work of most other writers, but with so many superior Shakespeare plays to pick from, anyone who chooses to do an adaptation of "Titus" had better bring something interesting to the table. Julie Taymor's more widely-seen adaptation followed in the footsteps of Ingmar Bergman's stage production of "Hamlet" with its fusion of different time periods, in this case ancient Rome and contemporary Western civilization, to make a point about the anesthetization of violence in modern society.

But because this version is far more faithful to the text, it doesn't have any such aspirations; Shakespeare wrote the play simply because it was what the public wanted. Thus, this "Titus" is completely shallow, and to top it off, it's not even good from an aesthetic viewpoint. The film was obviously made on a limited budget, which shows in practically every frame: the costumes and sets are some of the worst I've seen since "Man of La Mancha," the acting is terrible (the dialogue would be better served by street mimes), and the gore effects -- which, if done right, could've made this at least mildly amusing -- Low-budget Bard isn't automatically bad -- see Welles' daring interpretation of "Othello" -- but the filmmakers here blow it at every opportunity. Naturally, this movie is destined to become a cult favorite, but definitely not for its quality.

Richard III (1995)

An unfairly maligned interpretation

[8 April 2000]

From the very first Shakespeare film (a silent version of "King John," of all things), filmmakers have sought to impose their own unique visions on Shakespeare; in the case of "King John," it was fairly simple (a scene of John signing the Magna Carta, which isn't in Shakespeare's play). Ever since, Shakespeare adaptations have faced the difficulty of remaining true to the greatest writer in the history of the English language while bringing something new to the table; filmed plays, after all, belong on PBS, not in the cinema.

Luckily, the minds behind this adaptation of "Richard III" is more than up to the challenge. To be fair, putting the movie in an alternate 1930's Fascist England doesn't serve the sort of lofty purpose that, say, Orson Welles' 1930s updating of "Julius Caesar" (intended to condemn the Fascist governments in Europe at that time) did. What it does do is allow the filmmakers to have a lot of fun. It's not necessarily more accessible -- the Byzantine intrigues and occasionally confusing plot can't be tempered by simply moving the setting ahead 500 years -- but it's definitely more entertaining. There's just something inherently amusing about Richard sneaking off for a pee after the "winter of our discontent" speech (still rambling on as he, ahem, drains the main), or giving the "my kingdom for a horse!" bit while trying to get his Jeep out of the mud.

To be sure, the Fascist England shown in the film isn't very convicing -- from OUR historical hindsight -- but this isn't our world, this is a world fashioned from the imagination that just happens to look like our own, just as Shakespeare's were. You can't criticize "King Lear" for its faux-historical setting any more than you can criticize this film for the same reason.

The complaint registered by a previous commentator -- more or less, "if you're going to move Shakespeare to a new period, you need to be true to that period" -- is utter bollocks, really. After all, it is inherently "untrue" to have people running around speaking Elizabethan dialogue in the 1700s, 1800s, 1900s, etc., so if you try to remain "true," you end up stripping away the dialogue -- the very essence of Shakespeare. I agree with the even more controversial Shakesperean theatre director Peter Sellars in that words are not what makes Shakespeare great, but rather his characters and ideas. But Shakespeare communicated those through his words, and if you change them, it's not Shakespeare anymore. The same commentator pointed to Branagh's more faithful interpretations as a counterweight to this film, yet Branagh's "Hamlet" is not only set in the 18th century but in a country that looks nothing like 1700s Denmark, even though the characters refer to it as such.

The complaints about McKellen's "hamminess" are equally unfounded. What are they using as their basis of comparision? Olivier? Olivier's Richard makes McKellen's look positively restrained by comparision. Richard is egotistical, bombastic, and prone to spouting lines like "thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine." I have little doubt in my mind that Skakespeare did not intend Richard to be played "straight" -- indeed, if Shakespeare had any concept of what we call "camp," he was probably thinking of it when he wrote the play. From this point of view, the "silly" little touches like the Al Jolson song at the end and even the newsreel of Richard's coronation fit in perfectly.

As with most Shakespeare films, the plot has been streamlined -- nearly all of the characters are here, but scenes and speeches have been truncated and removed, but despite what some have said, these aren't fatal to the plot or the characters. Richard's seduction of Anne does seem to occur to quickly, but it's not a completely successful one, seeing how she lapses into drug addiction later in the film. Besides, Richard's evil has nothing to do with the fact that his "inability to experience romantic love." Richard isn't a psychological portrait like Hamlet, he's a ruthless bastard, a piece of Tudor propaganda. When people praise "Richard III" (the play), it's not for its character depth.

I notice I've focused more on answering the film's detractors instead of dilineating its merits; in a way, I guess this expresses how much I like it. The cinematography, direction, and acting are all top-notch. The sets are perfect, once you realize that this is NOT historical England -- the power plant subbing for the Tower is more imposing than the real thing could ever be, and the factory ruins that serve as Bosworth Field are certainly more interested than a bunch of tanks and Jeeps roaming around the open countryside. Shakespeare purists will, of course, hate it, but then they hate anyone who dares to put anything more than a cosmetic spin on the Bard, be it Welles' "Voodoo 'Macbeth'" or Brook's stage production of "Titus Andronicus." For everyone else, read the play, then see the movie -- it'll help increase your appreciation of both.

The Lovers on the Bridge (1991)

A magnificent failure

[22 March 2000]

Oddly enough, "Les Amants du Pont-Neuf" reminded me of Francis Ford Coppola's own romantic extravaganza, "One From the Heart." Think about it: both were directed by cinematic wunderkinds; both went way over budget and had troubled productions; and both were, at their hearts, rather simple love stories that their directors inflated, rather perversely, into massive technical undertakings.

On that level, at least, "Les Amants..." works. The movie is filled with striking images -- the fireworks display as seen from Pont-Neuf, the flaming posters lining the walls of the Metro, and so on. It is not at all inaccurate to call this one of the most stunningly photographed films of all time.

But whereas the movie succeeds as a grand visual spectacle, it disappoints just about everywhere else. The relationship between Alex (Denis Levant) and Michele (Juliette Binoche, who manages to be as radiant as ever in spite of her role as a fairly grungy homeless painter) occasionally results in some moments of pure emotional power, which are promptly deflated with one of Alex's bizarre, unexplained transformations into a possessive, selfish, nearly sociopathic jerk. (His dreadfully unconvincing hyena-laugh doesn't help much.) Since the romance between these two characters is the crux of the film, this inconsistency mortally wounds the film. Maybe Carax was trying to convey a sense of the "amour fou" French romances are famous for; if so, he failed.

Even worse, though, are the myriad subplots that Carax introduces but doesn't do anything with. The old man (Klaus-Michael Gruber) with whom Alex hangs around with serves no purpose other than to give Michele the key to an art museum, yet he has the film's only significant supporting role. And it becomes clear later in the film that Michele (who is rapidly losing her sight) is, in fact, on the run from her past, but we learn next to nothing of it -- who, exactly, is "Marion"? Why does Michele (apparently) shoot her ex-boyfriend, Julien? These aren't just anal-retentive questions -- these are major plot points that would have helped tremendously in developing Michele. But Carax doesn't care; he was either in too much of a hurry to get the script done (not at all unlikely -- see the "Trivia" section), or didn't regard the story as anything more than a clothesline to hang his visuals on.

There are two other major irritations. First is the way the plot falls back on the "miracle-working ophthalmologist." You know that device: that's the one were the hero/heroine is/is going blind but can have his/her sight saved by visiting some lone eye surgeon who has developed a miraculous cure for their affliction. Not only does this trivialize Michele's torment, but it also robs the film of what could have been an even more poignant ending -- surely I'm not the only one who thinks the portrait-painting scene would've been more touching if Michele had done it blindly.

That brings me to the second sore spot: the ending. Michele ominously tells Alex she has to leave; Alex flies into a rage and pushes her into the Seine, following her in. When they rise to the surface, though, Michele is laughing as though Alex's little tantrum had never happened, as though she doesn't care that he would rather see her drown than risk losing her. (We're never told, by the way, why Michele had to leave.) They then board a garbage barge together, and the film suddenly turns into an homage to Vigo's "L'Atlante" that is so blatant that the only way it could've been more obvious was if Vigo had received co-directing credit. Since nothing else in the film suggests "L'Atlante," this unexpected reference comes across as just more evidence of sloppy writing, that Carax couldn't be bothered to think of a decent ending and just threw together the unsatisfying (but beautifully shot -- go figure) climax we're stuck with.

Don't get me wrong -- this is NOT a bad film. But it IS a tremendous disappointment, even for me, who has never exactly been a fan of Carax's work. Foreign film buffs should still see it -- maybe you'll have better luck focusing on the sights and sounds and blocking out the meandering screenplay.

The F-Zone (1997)

One of the most vapid movies I've ever seen

[1/10 · 29 December 1999]

The kind of movie only a right-wing militia member could love, "The F-Zone" posits the ridiculous theory that the IRS is illegal and federal income taxes can only be collected in "Federal Zones" like Washington, D.C. The flimsy basis for this is that the constitutional amendment creating the IRS and the federal income tax wasn't ratified by all 50 states. By this logic, of course, the entire Constitution should be thrown out the window. The filmmakers probably knew this and so didn't spend much time in the film actually presenting and discussing their case; instead, they give us lots of footage of federal agents acting under IRS orders beating up old ladies and arresting day-care bus drivers for tax evasion. It then delves into absurd conspiracy theories that would make Oliver Stone crack up. As a political tract, the film carries as much weight as "The Turner Diaries;" as a thriller, it's even less entertaining than dreck like "Shadow Conspiracy," if that's even possible. Avoid at all costs, unless one of your "heroes" just so happens to be named Tim McVeigh.

Der ewige Jude (1940)

The most vile piece of cinematic garbage ever made

[17 November 1999]

We watched this film in history class as an example of Nazi racial ideology. The fact that they were somehow able to stretch Hitler's braindead axiom -- summed up in his speech at the film's close, where he prophesizes the destruction of the European Jews -- to an hour-plus-long-film is amazing. There is not a single truth to be found here; even the film's explanation of the migration of Jews into Europe (something a first-year anthropology student can figure out) is distorted, while pseudo-scientific figures are used in an attempt to justify the obviously unjustifiable. Many parts would be hilarious, in a sort of camp, paranoid, "Reefer Madness"-type way, if not for the fact that the German people swallowed this garbage hook, line and sinker and stood by idly while their leaders carried out the genocide of millions of innocents. Many snippets are almost deliciously ironic in retrospect -- for example, the bit attacking Einstein's Jewish "pseudo-science" (a peculiar allegation, seeing how desperate the Nazis were to recruit his aid) and another slamming the Jewish actor Peter Lorre and his film "M" (Lorre was Hitler's favorite actor, and "M" his favorite film). From a cinematic perspective, the film is dull and hackneyed, even by 1940 "documentary" standards. It should be said that the movie is darkly fascinating (in the same sense as, say, a bad car wreck), but the only legitimate reason for its existence is to illustrate the evil yet idiotic nature of Nazism.

Heaven's Gate (1980)

A less-than-heavenly experience

[25 September 1999]

Now that I've got that terrible joke out of the way, on with the review. Michael Cimino always fit the description of the pretentious, egotistical pseudo-auteur to a 'T,' and "Heaven's Gate" confirms that more than any of his other films. Cimino basically takes a real historical incident and grafts a neo-Marxist framework on it to create your typical "Greedy Industrialists vs. Hard-Working Western Folk" story that was done with more depth and ingenuity in Altman's "McCabe and Mrs. Miller." I've got no problem with leftist pontificating -- Godard's films are among my favorites -- but Cimino more or less saves it for the end and occupies the remaining three or so hours with what is more or less your traditional, antiquated love triangle, with loads of nudity, a graphic rape scene, and tons of gore which were seemingly included simply to ramp up the film's commercial potential (which isn't too far from the truth). Other, less significant problems serve to bring this lumbering oxcart further down into the mire, such as the scenes at Harvard, which are pathetic not only because Kristofferson is desperately trying to look like a man in his young 20s (looking even less convincing than Diana Ross as Dorothy in "The Wiz") but because it was filmed at Oxford, which has never had so much as one jot of resemblance to Harvard. I feel kind of sorry for Cimino; I still think the guy had some untapped talent that was never realized thanks to this film's critical and commercial savaging. But ultimately, I simply can't side with the "revisionist" critics who claim this movie is one of those hugely underrated masterpieces.

All's Well (1972)

Deeply flawed but nonetheless important

[6/10 · 17 September 1999]

After his four-year, self-imposed Maoist/nihilist "exile," Godard made a temporary -- albeit slight -- overture toward conventional commercial (or "bourgeois," as Godard called it) cinema by combining a leftist political essay with a dissection of human interaction. Alas, the film fails on both these levels; as a study of the male-female relationship, it is nowhere near "Contempt" and "Masculin-Feminin"; as a pure Maoist political tract, it is shallow and mind-numingly boring compared to "Le Gai Savior" and "Vladimir and Rosa." Nevertheless, "Tout va bien" is nonetheless important within Godard's extraordinary body of work, for it marked the beginning of the seven-year process in which his films would gradually shed their ultra-leftist leanings and move towards more universal, humanistic themes, a process that would ultimately cumulate in the excellent "Every Man For Himself." Even true Godard aficionados will be as bored as everyone else, but they should nonetheless go out of their way to secure a copy.