Esteemed neocon pundit David Brooks, the NY Times op-ed's newest hire, today blasts Bush Hating, even quoting Jonanthan Chait's column at length to support his idea of virulent Anti-Bushism as the most pernicious kind of liberal self-delusion. Nice try, except Brooks completely missed the point of Chait's column. (See Chait's rebuttal here.) Chait's piece, more than anything, is an honest attempt at self-analysis. The starting point is: "why do I harbor these emotions, and are they justified?" You may disagree with Chait's conclusions, but it's hard to argue that honest self-analysis isn't a good thing -- at least intellectually (politically, liberals' tendency toward self-analysis and self-criticism is one reason why they tend to cannibalize one another). Isn't self-analysis -- or at least reflection -- what Brooks is demanding from liberals? Too bad self-analysis has become a foreign activity for right-wingers, where intellectual honesty has been in very short supply. But a whole cottage industry has sprung up to identify and mock right-wing hypocrisy -- an easy exercise, that -- so let's leave that one alone.
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Friday, September 19, 2003
Bush Hating 101
Maybe a year ago, I finally confronted my demons. I admitted to myself that, yes, I *hate* President Bush and his cronies and all that they stand for. Mind you, it wasn't an easy emotion to acknowledge. As something of a secular humanist, I fervently want to believe that "everyone has his reasons." And as something of an intellectual elitist, the notion of politics being driven primarily by emotion is, well, frankly embarrassing. (That's, y'know, for those unwashed masses whom the Svengalis manipulate like puppets.) Lastly, as a political moderate who reads the Economist and mused about voting for McCain over Gore, it's not just extreme partisanship that's boiling my blood. I don't reflexively hate Republicans. Heck, I even kinda liked 41.
But just hearing 43 speak would raise my temperature 10 degrees. His clipped cadence, pausing after each line on the teleprompter, his Manichaean rhetoric, his budgetary sleight-of-hands -- it got to the point where as soon he appears on TV, I'd immediately change the channel, a reflex I normally reserve for such monsters as Ja Rule, Al Bundy, Fran Drescher, and Rush Limbaugh. At some point, I concluded what's most noxious about this administration -- why these guys enrage me so -- isn't that they're evil. Except for Dick Cheney, they're probably (mostly) well-intentioned and sincere (that's the liberal humanist talking). What's most offensive is these guys have no grounding in reality. Like the Soviets, or any number of insanely deluded regimes, these guys ignore facts -- science, economic data, history -- in favor of some fantasy world that they've bought into with a religious fervor. They don't give a shit about the real world that I'm living in, and that's just fucked up.
That angle wasn't touched on by Jonathan Chait in his otherwise invaluable and extremely timely ode to Bush hatred. Chait does an enviable job of articulating why it's legitimate, even logical, to be contemptuous of a man who had the audacity and arrogance to govern as a far-right ideologue after losing the popular vote and campaigning as a "uniter". He also discusses what I've alway thought was the central divide in American politics: culture. Bush is like a liberal elitist nightmare straight out of central casting, an ignoramus chickenhawk fratboy posing as a cowboy, just as ambitious, smarter-than-thou, pot-smoking, womanizing "moral relativist" Clinton is almost a cliched right-wing bogeyman. To the other side, each demonized president represents the apogee of toolitude, what we despise about others (and what that says about what we love about ourselves). It's John Wayne v. Monty Clift. Whichever side you identify with says something about who you are and who you aren't. Too much ink has already been spilled over the culture war, but Chait also tries, without much success, to distinguish Bush hating as far more legitimate than Clinton-hating. To be fair, it's a hard intellectual dance, one I've never truly worked out to any degree of satisfaction.
One key distinction is the aforementioned phobia of facts by the present Administration. I've detected that many Bush haters -- many of my political-engaged friends and all the raging lib columnists and pundits among them -- are driven batty most often when Dubya or his spokeman ignores a widely known or widely supported fact and continues to insist, for example, that no more troops are needed in Iraq, that taxes were cut for "everyone", or that global warming is some wacko fantasy. My favorite line on Bush, that he's not so-much an imperialist as an anti-empiricist, encapsulates his administration's wholesale contempt for knowledge, fact-gathering, data, and any expert advice that dissents from the party line. Clinton was nothing if not a pragmatist and empiricist. His penchant for reciting an exhausting litany of stats in his rambling State of the Union addresses speaks to this. By contrast, Dubya and his cronies intone about vague principles and, when confronted, do little more than to pass off fantasy scenarios ("the tax cuts will grow the economy and shrink the deficit"; "the Iraqi people will welcome Americans as liberators"). Bush's rhetoric reveals the pseudo-religious, black-and-white moral stance that this adminstration and most right-wingers take, a stance that's increasingly proving to be a menace to our country and the world. What's been a tonic to us Bush haters is his rapidly declining poll numbers. We keep telling ourselves (as Clinton has been telling to Democrats as well) that the middle-of-the-road voters will turn on Bush if and when they finally learn what Bush is doing. Of course, if Dubya continues on this course and gets reelected anyway, you'll do well to pick up some stock in Pfizer and Eli Lilly. I know I'll need some.
But just hearing 43 speak would raise my temperature 10 degrees. His clipped cadence, pausing after each line on the teleprompter, his Manichaean rhetoric, his budgetary sleight-of-hands -- it got to the point where as soon he appears on TV, I'd immediately change the channel, a reflex I normally reserve for such monsters as Ja Rule, Al Bundy, Fran Drescher, and Rush Limbaugh. At some point, I concluded what's most noxious about this administration -- why these guys enrage me so -- isn't that they're evil. Except for Dick Cheney, they're probably (mostly) well-intentioned and sincere (that's the liberal humanist talking). What's most offensive is these guys have no grounding in reality. Like the Soviets, or any number of insanely deluded regimes, these guys ignore facts -- science, economic data, history -- in favor of some fantasy world that they've bought into with a religious fervor. They don't give a shit about the real world that I'm living in, and that's just fucked up.
That angle wasn't touched on by Jonathan Chait in his otherwise invaluable and extremely timely ode to Bush hatred. Chait does an enviable job of articulating why it's legitimate, even logical, to be contemptuous of a man who had the audacity and arrogance to govern as a far-right ideologue after losing the popular vote and campaigning as a "uniter". He also discusses what I've alway thought was the central divide in American politics: culture. Bush is like a liberal elitist nightmare straight out of central casting, an ignoramus chickenhawk fratboy posing as a cowboy, just as ambitious, smarter-than-thou, pot-smoking, womanizing "moral relativist" Clinton is almost a cliched right-wing bogeyman. To the other side, each demonized president represents the apogee of toolitude, what we despise about others (and what that says about what we love about ourselves). It's John Wayne v. Monty Clift. Whichever side you identify with says something about who you are and who you aren't. Too much ink has already been spilled over the culture war, but Chait also tries, without much success, to distinguish Bush hating as far more legitimate than Clinton-hating. To be fair, it's a hard intellectual dance, one I've never truly worked out to any degree of satisfaction.
One key distinction is the aforementioned phobia of facts by the present Administration. I've detected that many Bush haters -- many of my political-engaged friends and all the raging lib columnists and pundits among them -- are driven batty most often when Dubya or his spokeman ignores a widely known or widely supported fact and continues to insist, for example, that no more troops are needed in Iraq, that taxes were cut for "everyone", or that global warming is some wacko fantasy. My favorite line on Bush, that he's not so-much an imperialist as an anti-empiricist, encapsulates his administration's wholesale contempt for knowledge, fact-gathering, data, and any expert advice that dissents from the party line. Clinton was nothing if not a pragmatist and empiricist. His penchant for reciting an exhausting litany of stats in his rambling State of the Union addresses speaks to this. By contrast, Dubya and his cronies intone about vague principles and, when confronted, do little more than to pass off fantasy scenarios ("the tax cuts will grow the economy and shrink the deficit"; "the Iraqi people will welcome Americans as liberators"). Bush's rhetoric reveals the pseudo-religious, black-and-white moral stance that this adminstration and most right-wingers take, a stance that's increasingly proving to be a menace to our country and the world. What's been a tonic to us Bush haters is his rapidly declining poll numbers. We keep telling ourselves (as Clinton has been telling to Democrats as well) that the middle-of-the-road voters will turn on Bush if and when they finally learn what Bush is doing. Of course, if Dubya continues on this course and gets reelected anyway, you'll do well to pick up some stock in Pfizer and Eli Lilly. I know I'll need some.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
TIFF Wrap-up (Revised)
Sat Sep 13
Undead (Evil Aussie Twins) C
Good: Flying zombie fish. Bad: "Quirky" refugees from The Price of Milk who end up not having their brains eaten by zombies like I fervently hoped they would. Awful: Stupid aliens and assorted cinematic incompetence. Colin Geddes really should have just revived the awesome Wild Zero if he was looking for a proper sendoff to the venerable Uptown theater.
PTU (To) B-/C+
As the first Milky Way film (and in all likelihood only the second HK action pic) to screen at the prestigious NYFF, expectations were high going in. Best to lower them considerably. One of those "task that must be completed in a short duration" movies, much-hyped action auteur Johnnie To inexplicably abandons the urgency necessary to this genre and focuses, ever so deliberately, on the police procedural and cool lighting (To made the Handsome Boy Modeling School "gangster" pic The Mission). Except it's nothing that we haven't seen in a hundred corrupt police dramas. A kickass opening and closing plus terrific use of props, especially cellphones, but not enough, especially when his outfit has put out much better shit.
Zatoichi (Kitano) B+/B
[More to come.]
Small Town (Ceylan) w/o
10 minute long shot of a guy walking up a hill cued to an inarticulate diatribe against rural living. An endless scene with alternating close-ups of actors reciting the minutes of a 1983 Santa Monica City Council meeting. There comes a point when shoe-shopping along Yonge Street sounded much more appealing than slogging through this tiresome first feature.
Dallas 362 (Caan) B+
One thing's certain: this modest, familiar tale -- basically it's Good Will Hunting meets Mean Streets -- is in for a second wave of movie nerd backlash after the big boys fell hard for it. (The backlash is already on, in fact.) It's not hard to see why. There's nothing profound or revolutionary or "challenging" here, nothing that stretches boundaries or goes off in bizarre directions. Caan is not the second coming of the Andersons (Wes or PT).
All there is here are smartly directed scenes that invariably undercuts the cliches inherent in the set-up, dialogue sharp enough to be laugh-out-loud funny, but naturalistic enough to be believable, fat-free cutting, and terrific ensemble performances -- the kind of thing that used to be called "good, smart filmmaking." Occasionally stumbles (if we start a letter campaign now, perhaps never again shall The Smashing Pumpkins' "Today" be used as source music for a montage sequence), but it's as accomplished an AmerIndie I've seen since You Can Count On Me. Yeah, you read that right: Sonny Corleone's son made one of the best movies of the festival. Stop scoffing, Stults.
Fri Sep 12
Nine Souls (Toyoda) C+
All over the place, but mostly watchable when it isn't trying to be a zany New Zealand comedy. Or when it isn't trying to be All About Lily Chou-Chou. You get the idea. Why didn't I get a ticket for Purple Butterfly instead, which sounded so fucking awesome?
The Merry Widow (von Stroheim, 1925) A-
Ignore that crack-ho V-Mort: The guy who played the villain was totally awesome.
Distant (Ceylan) B+/B
Beautifully observed, smartly judged film, of the sort you almost take for granted until you realize how rarely they turn up. Caveat: checked out for fifteen minutes (due to sheer exhaustion and poor viewing conditions) so take it for what it's worth.
Thu Sep 11
Gozu (Miike) B-
Remember the climax of Dead or Alive? The whopper of a finale here almost tops Miike's finest moment and really bumped up this wildly uneven Alice in Wonderland-cum-Yakuza flick. And yeah, it's way more fucked up than that description makes it sound.
The Five Obstructions (von Trier & Leth) A-/B+
Liked this cordial deathmatch between men of opposite temperaments quite a bit better after a good night's sleep. What I loathed about von Trier's Dancer in the Dark -- essentially, I resented his meta-gambit of manically trying to jerk your heartstrings while forcing you to see him doing it -- works well here, as von Trier's sadistic, control freak meta-pranksterism is laid out bare, and without the cover and artifice of the overwrought melodrama. As a smarter man than I suggested, Dancer feels like it's about a sadist (von Trier) and his victim (Selma). Here's a movie about a sadist and his sparring partner. The dignified, sympathetic Jorgen Leth makes a terrific foil: Lars wants to forcilbly shape every molecule of his material; Jorgen seeks to just observe and record the right moments. Lars imposes absurd rules; Jorgen dances his way around them. Punch/counter-punch. Moviemaking is simply the instrument of battle between the two wills, the act of filmmaking itself energizing and (possibly) cathartic for one, the impish rulemaking and power trips delighting the other.
My TIFFing pals largely concentrated on other aspects of the film, many of which were fascinating but undercooked (the intervention angle too clever by half to be intelligible and the thesis that "rules can be liberating" is seriously undercut by film's positive assessment of the Figgisian Obstruction 3). Don't listen to those guys. My take on this is way better.
Guest Room, etc. (Halim, etc.)
My pal Skander Halim shows that that he can put his incomparable wit and unassailable good taste in comedies to teriffic use by crafting an incredibly appealing short called THE GUEST ROOM. He takes a sitcom scenario -- a grad student takes up a guest room in a family residence and catches the attention of both the mother and the daughter -- and creates a funny and poignant portrait of a family yearning for connection. Halim displays a deft touch with actors, who undoubtedly relish the opportunity to spit out Halim's biting lines. More stunning is Halim's incisive depiction of teenage emotional confusion. I've yet to see a better film that captures that confusion teenage girls undergo in dealing with their budding sexuality. Halim must've tolled some heavy research hours since he has never expressed much interest (at least to me) in this topic previously. Perhaps it takes a detached observer like Halim to really nail the confusion and temptation of teen sexuality.
Les Sentiments (Lvovsky) B/B-
Romantic comedy with a Greek chorus (think Mighty Aphrodite) makes great use of Jean-Pierre Bacri's classically Gallic pout. Much of it frothy and enjoyable, but takes a tonal lurch into botchy-wotchy land in the third act (turning into The Woman Next Door). (The poor bullpen of this fest lineup (movies floundering from the 7th inning on) is proving to be a worrisome trend.)
Goodbye Dragon Inn (Tsai) B-
A minor nostalgia piece that pretty much happens in real time; takes Tsai's ardent minimalism to the limit, or perhaps past it, veering into self-parody at times. It's full of ten hour takes of a gimping woman silently shuffling through an empty corridor. But Tsai's always rainy Taipei, with its forbidding greens and blues and its attendant malaise, is, in a strange way, an inviting world to lose yourself in. Helps that Tsai's really pretty funny, the physical jokes now depend almost entirely on the preceeding stillness for their effect. And it ends beautifully. But please, let's try something new next time, eh, Tsai-fly?
Wed Sep 10
Des Plumes dans la tete (Some Frog) C+
Starts off like The Seventh Continent, presenting a series of cryptic yet evocative imagery. Then it becomes a very poor man's Under the Sand.
Histoire de Julien et Marie (Rivette) B+/B
Good then okay then boring then good then totally awesome then what the fuck Rivette.
In the Cut (Campion) B
Remember how awesome it was when Jane Campion took Henry James and imbued his novel with her own concerns (especially how a woman can find a good man) and a strong female subjective viewpoint? No Nicole Kidman here, unfortunately, and Meg's "brave" performance is both laudable and uneven, but Ruffalo once again channels Brando to terrific effect (this time looking just like the man in Viva Zapata!)) and Campion does her thing in the context of a sub-Seven type crappy erotic thriller. In other words, the genre stuff sucks eggs (and Campion's touch is, as is often the case, two touches too heavy), but as a supple, erotically-charged fairy tale about a woman's fear of male malevolence (in its many forms) and male abandonment, it's pretty compelling. (The bad genre stuff often has a thematic purpose. For example: Red herrings = the avarice of men in their many manifestations.)
Bad Timing: A Sensual Obsession (Roeg, 1980) B+
Roeg's sometimes too arty for his own good, but I always enjoy cautionary tales about some obsessive guy trying to fully possess an elusive woman (perhaps because that theme confirms my smug satisfaction about my own very adamant non-possessiveness in relationships). Art Garfunkel: the most unlikely SkineMax leading man ever.
Twentynine Palms (Dumont) B-/C+
Formally accomplished and pretty engrossing road movie, and with actual characters for a change (though early on I'd pegged them for either sexual archetypes or national allegories, or perhaps both). Then it blindsides you with an aluminum bat and turns into another Bruno zoology exhibit. It's clear Dumont's not interested in human beings as such; he's much more curious about the genus (or perhaps the phylum) to which we belong. Pretty fucked up shit, but still doesn't deserve all the hate thrown at it by the seething, stirred-up audience.
Tue Sep 9
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and...Spring (Kim) B+/B
Premised on the concept of samsara, this simple, surpassingly lovely Korean parable really captures the vital spirit and elegant simplicity of Buddhism like no other film I've ever seen. So what if it happens to be "cute" as well?
Brown Bunny (Gallo) B+
So it's narcissistic and self-indulgent vanity project...but we're talking about Vincent Gallo here. Didn't anyone see Buffalo '66? And besides all that, there's also a Hellmanesque a beautifully monochromatic look and magnificent framing (especially of faces). Felt just like a mournful drive to visit the grave of a deceased loved one. Post screening Q & A a riot. The skinny: Vincent Gallo does not like Buffalo. Or Roger Ebert. Or reporters. Or his crew.
Les Triplettes de Bellville (Some French Animator) B/B-
Imaginative, cute and well-designed French cartoon but lacks the foundation and thus the emotional resonance that makes Miyazaki's flights of fancy so rich. Would've worked better as a 40 minute piece.
Undead (Evil Aussie Twins) C
Good: Flying zombie fish. Bad: "Quirky" refugees from The Price of Milk who end up not having their brains eaten by zombies like I fervently hoped they would. Awful: Stupid aliens and assorted cinematic incompetence. Colin Geddes really should have just revived the awesome Wild Zero if he was looking for a proper sendoff to the venerable Uptown theater.
PTU (To) B-/C+
As the first Milky Way film (and in all likelihood only the second HK action pic) to screen at the prestigious NYFF, expectations were high going in. Best to lower them considerably. One of those "task that must be completed in a short duration" movies, much-hyped action auteur Johnnie To inexplicably abandons the urgency necessary to this genre and focuses, ever so deliberately, on the police procedural and cool lighting (To made the Handsome Boy Modeling School "gangster" pic The Mission). Except it's nothing that we haven't seen in a hundred corrupt police dramas. A kickass opening and closing plus terrific use of props, especially cellphones, but not enough, especially when his outfit has put out much better shit.
Zatoichi (Kitano) B+/B
[More to come.]
Small Town (Ceylan) w/o
10 minute long shot of a guy walking up a hill cued to an inarticulate diatribe against rural living. An endless scene with alternating close-ups of actors reciting the minutes of a 1983 Santa Monica City Council meeting. There comes a point when shoe-shopping along Yonge Street sounded much more appealing than slogging through this tiresome first feature.
Dallas 362 (Caan) B+
One thing's certain: this modest, familiar tale -- basically it's Good Will Hunting meets Mean Streets -- is in for a second wave of movie nerd backlash after the big boys fell hard for it. (The backlash is already on, in fact.) It's not hard to see why. There's nothing profound or revolutionary or "challenging" here, nothing that stretches boundaries or goes off in bizarre directions. Caan is not the second coming of the Andersons (Wes or PT).
All there is here are smartly directed scenes that invariably undercuts the cliches inherent in the set-up, dialogue sharp enough to be laugh-out-loud funny, but naturalistic enough to be believable, fat-free cutting, and terrific ensemble performances -- the kind of thing that used to be called "good, smart filmmaking." Occasionally stumbles (if we start a letter campaign now, perhaps never again shall The Smashing Pumpkins' "Today" be used as source music for a montage sequence), but it's as accomplished an AmerIndie I've seen since You Can Count On Me. Yeah, you read that right: Sonny Corleone's son made one of the best movies of the festival. Stop scoffing, Stults.
Fri Sep 12
Nine Souls (Toyoda) C+
All over the place, but mostly watchable when it isn't trying to be a zany New Zealand comedy. Or when it isn't trying to be All About Lily Chou-Chou. You get the idea. Why didn't I get a ticket for Purple Butterfly instead, which sounded so fucking awesome?
The Merry Widow (von Stroheim, 1925) A-
Ignore that crack-ho V-Mort: The guy who played the villain was totally awesome.
Distant (Ceylan) B+/B
Beautifully observed, smartly judged film, of the sort you almost take for granted until you realize how rarely they turn up. Caveat: checked out for fifteen minutes (due to sheer exhaustion and poor viewing conditions) so take it for what it's worth.
Thu Sep 11
Gozu (Miike) B-
Remember the climax of Dead or Alive? The whopper of a finale here almost tops Miike's finest moment and really bumped up this wildly uneven Alice in Wonderland-cum-Yakuza flick. And yeah, it's way more fucked up than that description makes it sound.
The Five Obstructions (von Trier & Leth) A-/B+
Liked this cordial deathmatch between men of opposite temperaments quite a bit better after a good night's sleep. What I loathed about von Trier's Dancer in the Dark -- essentially, I resented his meta-gambit of manically trying to jerk your heartstrings while forcing you to see him doing it -- works well here, as von Trier's sadistic, control freak meta-pranksterism is laid out bare, and without the cover and artifice of the overwrought melodrama. As a smarter man than I suggested, Dancer feels like it's about a sadist (von Trier) and his victim (Selma). Here's a movie about a sadist and his sparring partner. The dignified, sympathetic Jorgen Leth makes a terrific foil: Lars wants to forcilbly shape every molecule of his material; Jorgen seeks to just observe and record the right moments. Lars imposes absurd rules; Jorgen dances his way around them. Punch/counter-punch. Moviemaking is simply the instrument of battle between the two wills, the act of filmmaking itself energizing and (possibly) cathartic for one, the impish rulemaking and power trips delighting the other.
My TIFFing pals largely concentrated on other aspects of the film, many of which were fascinating but undercooked (the intervention angle too clever by half to be intelligible and the thesis that "rules can be liberating" is seriously undercut by film's positive assessment of the Figgisian Obstruction 3). Don't listen to those guys. My take on this is way better.
Guest Room, etc. (Halim, etc.)
My pal Skander Halim shows that that he can put his incomparable wit and unassailable good taste in comedies to teriffic use by crafting an incredibly appealing short called THE GUEST ROOM. He takes a sitcom scenario -- a grad student takes up a guest room in a family residence and catches the attention of both the mother and the daughter -- and creates a funny and poignant portrait of a family yearning for connection. Halim displays a deft touch with actors, who undoubtedly relish the opportunity to spit out Halim's biting lines. More stunning is Halim's incisive depiction of teenage emotional confusion. I've yet to see a better film that captures that confusion teenage girls undergo in dealing with their budding sexuality. Halim must've tolled some heavy research hours since he has never expressed much interest (at least to me) in this topic previously. Perhaps it takes a detached observer like Halim to really nail the confusion and temptation of teen sexuality.
Les Sentiments (Lvovsky) B/B-
Romantic comedy with a Greek chorus (think Mighty Aphrodite) makes great use of Jean-Pierre Bacri's classically Gallic pout. Much of it frothy and enjoyable, but takes a tonal lurch into botchy-wotchy land in the third act (turning into The Woman Next Door). (The poor bullpen of this fest lineup (movies floundering from the 7th inning on) is proving to be a worrisome trend.)
Goodbye Dragon Inn (Tsai) B-
A minor nostalgia piece that pretty much happens in real time; takes Tsai's ardent minimalism to the limit, or perhaps past it, veering into self-parody at times. It's full of ten hour takes of a gimping woman silently shuffling through an empty corridor. But Tsai's always rainy Taipei, with its forbidding greens and blues and its attendant malaise, is, in a strange way, an inviting world to lose yourself in. Helps that Tsai's really pretty funny, the physical jokes now depend almost entirely on the preceeding stillness for their effect. And it ends beautifully. But please, let's try something new next time, eh, Tsai-fly?
Wed Sep 10
Des Plumes dans la tete (Some Frog) C+
Starts off like The Seventh Continent, presenting a series of cryptic yet evocative imagery. Then it becomes a very poor man's Under the Sand.
Histoire de Julien et Marie (Rivette) B+/B
Good then okay then boring then good then totally awesome then what the fuck Rivette.
In the Cut (Campion) B
Remember how awesome it was when Jane Campion took Henry James and imbued his novel with her own concerns (especially how a woman can find a good man) and a strong female subjective viewpoint? No Nicole Kidman here, unfortunately, and Meg's "brave" performance is both laudable and uneven, but Ruffalo once again channels Brando to terrific effect (this time looking just like the man in Viva Zapata!)) and Campion does her thing in the context of a sub-Seven type crappy erotic thriller. In other words, the genre stuff sucks eggs (and Campion's touch is, as is often the case, two touches too heavy), but as a supple, erotically-charged fairy tale about a woman's fear of male malevolence (in its many forms) and male abandonment, it's pretty compelling. (The bad genre stuff often has a thematic purpose. For example: Red herrings = the avarice of men in their many manifestations.)
Bad Timing: A Sensual Obsession (Roeg, 1980) B+
Roeg's sometimes too arty for his own good, but I always enjoy cautionary tales about some obsessive guy trying to fully possess an elusive woman (perhaps because that theme confirms my smug satisfaction about my own very adamant non-possessiveness in relationships). Art Garfunkel: the most unlikely SkineMax leading man ever.
Twentynine Palms (Dumont) B-/C+
Formally accomplished and pretty engrossing road movie, and with actual characters for a change (though early on I'd pegged them for either sexual archetypes or national allegories, or perhaps both). Then it blindsides you with an aluminum bat and turns into another Bruno zoology exhibit. It's clear Dumont's not interested in human beings as such; he's much more curious about the genus (or perhaps the phylum) to which we belong. Pretty fucked up shit, but still doesn't deserve all the hate thrown at it by the seething, stirred-up audience.
Tue Sep 9
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and...Spring (Kim) B+/B
Premised on the concept of samsara, this simple, surpassingly lovely Korean parable really captures the vital spirit and elegant simplicity of Buddhism like no other film I've ever seen. So what if it happens to be "cute" as well?
Brown Bunny (Gallo) B+
So it's narcissistic and self-indulgent vanity project...but we're talking about Vincent Gallo here. Didn't anyone see Buffalo '66? And besides all that, there's also a Hellmanesque a beautifully monochromatic look and magnificent framing (especially of faces). Felt just like a mournful drive to visit the grave of a deceased loved one. Post screening Q & A a riot. The skinny: Vincent Gallo does not like Buffalo. Or Roger Ebert. Or reporters. Or his crew.
Les Triplettes de Bellville (Some French Animator) B/B-
Imaginative, cute and well-designed French cartoon but lacks the foundation and thus the emotional resonance that makes Miyazaki's flights of fancy so rich. Would've worked better as a 40 minute piece.
Monday, September 01, 2003
Friday Night (Denis, 2002) A+
Back in the summer 2000, I saw Jacques Demy's The Young Girls of Rochefort at the Roxie in San Francisco. When the movie finished, the experience was so overwhelming that I darted out of the theater, my loyal companion in tow, in a desperate effort to avoid hearing any dumbasses dissing the sublime picture I'd just seen. I failed. Later in 2000, I tried a different tact, preferring to drown out the second-hand noise with my own babbling after the North American premiere of In the Mood for Love. Again, no such luck.
It's not that I'm intolerant of differing opinions on movies in general. But my responses to these two particular movies especially were so intensely personal that I felt the need to create a spatial sanctuary to preserve my rapturous experience. Leave the "Best Movie" debates for someone else. The movie experiences I cherish most aren't necessarily the "greatest movies", but ones that feel like they're made just for me. Those movies are like that girl you fall for, the one whose charms you're especially susceptible to (but whose best qualities are not immediately obviously to others). You're defiantly and staunchly protective of her, perhaps defending her a little too zealously when friends express doubts, forgetting that it doesn't really matter what anyone else thinks sometimes. You're the one in love, and they're not.
That's a rather longwinded preamble to a review of a movie, Claire Denis' Friday Night, about which I have almost nothing of substance to say. Oh, I suppose I could say that this is the most sensuous thing I've ever seen. Denis' film is essentially about the sights and sounds of Paris -- the way the rooftops of old Paris look at dusk, the neon shop signs that cuts through the darkness, the coffee shops and downtrodden hotels, and the faces of the passer-bys. It's a film takes delight in observing, but not with a steely stare, but in impressionistic sketches. The amazing Agnes Godard, as she did in Denis' Trouble Every Day, shoots the flesh like David Lean shot the desert: she renders the body beautiful not by prettifying or flattering, but through abstraction. By choosing the exact tight shots of these middle-aged backs and editing those shots together just so, this simple one night encounter between two normal-looking actors appeared on the screen to be the most beautiful lovemaking in the world. Often too opaque for rigorous storytelling and extended character studies, Denis' elliptical, tactile, and highly cinematic style is perfectly suited for a minimalist tone poem, where she can capture those little moments of insight (do not plant a hickie on a hitched woman) and take pleasure in evoking plangent moods through music and images without having to worry about structure or coherence. And I suppose something should be said about the sheer *poetry* of the filmmaking -- the perfect blend of offhanded lyricism and smartly composed shots -- on display here. Perhaps the best description (and compliment) I can give to Friday Night is that it's an entire movie in the style and mood of the glorious "Gary meets Celeste" seduction scene in Out of Sight.
But the gibberish I just wrote is woefully inadequate. Like nearly all of my favorite works, what's most precious about Friday Night can't be put in words (that's why it's a movie), because it's not primarily about ideas. It does what movies do best: convey a specific feeling and mood in a particular place and time. In Paris on a Friday night of the transporation workers' strike, Laure and Jean, lonely and horny, meet and fuck. With a story to fill about a ten minute sketch, Denis composed one of the most beautiful and seductive movies I'd ever laid eyes on.
When I saw Friday Night, the middle-aged Beverly Hills audience was palpably restless. I knew that, like Young Girls and In the Mood, this plotless, nearly silent tone poem -- no matter how beautiful and cinematic -- isn't for everyone. So I tried to bum rush out of the the theater, but once again I failed to avoid hearing tired complaints about "long traffic scenes" and how it's "so slow!" and other such nonsense. For a moment I was simmering with anger at these "Philistines". But after I got in my car and the Tindersticks' somber strings from the soundtrack to Trouble Every Day washed over me, I realized: hey, I fell hard for what I just saw and I don't much care what anyone else thinks.
It's not that I'm intolerant of differing opinions on movies in general. But my responses to these two particular movies especially were so intensely personal that I felt the need to create a spatial sanctuary to preserve my rapturous experience. Leave the "Best Movie" debates for someone else. The movie experiences I cherish most aren't necessarily the "greatest movies", but ones that feel like they're made just for me. Those movies are like that girl you fall for, the one whose charms you're especially susceptible to (but whose best qualities are not immediately obviously to others). You're defiantly and staunchly protective of her, perhaps defending her a little too zealously when friends express doubts, forgetting that it doesn't really matter what anyone else thinks sometimes. You're the one in love, and they're not.
That's a rather longwinded preamble to a review of a movie, Claire Denis' Friday Night, about which I have almost nothing of substance to say. Oh, I suppose I could say that this is the most sensuous thing I've ever seen. Denis' film is essentially about the sights and sounds of Paris -- the way the rooftops of old Paris look at dusk, the neon shop signs that cuts through the darkness, the coffee shops and downtrodden hotels, and the faces of the passer-bys. It's a film takes delight in observing, but not with a steely stare, but in impressionistic sketches. The amazing Agnes Godard, as she did in Denis' Trouble Every Day, shoots the flesh like David Lean shot the desert: she renders the body beautiful not by prettifying or flattering, but through abstraction. By choosing the exact tight shots of these middle-aged backs and editing those shots together just so, this simple one night encounter between two normal-looking actors appeared on the screen to be the most beautiful lovemaking in the world. Often too opaque for rigorous storytelling and extended character studies, Denis' elliptical, tactile, and highly cinematic style is perfectly suited for a minimalist tone poem, where she can capture those little moments of insight (do not plant a hickie on a hitched woman) and take pleasure in evoking plangent moods through music and images without having to worry about structure or coherence. And I suppose something should be said about the sheer *poetry* of the filmmaking -- the perfect blend of offhanded lyricism and smartly composed shots -- on display here. Perhaps the best description (and compliment) I can give to Friday Night is that it's an entire movie in the style and mood of the glorious "Gary meets Celeste" seduction scene in Out of Sight.
But the gibberish I just wrote is woefully inadequate. Like nearly all of my favorite works, what's most precious about Friday Night can't be put in words (that's why it's a movie), because it's not primarily about ideas. It does what movies do best: convey a specific feeling and mood in a particular place and time. In Paris on a Friday night of the transporation workers' strike, Laure and Jean, lonely and horny, meet and fuck. With a story to fill about a ten minute sketch, Denis composed one of the most beautiful and seductive movies I'd ever laid eyes on.
When I saw Friday Night, the middle-aged Beverly Hills audience was palpably restless. I knew that, like Young Girls and In the Mood, this plotless, nearly silent tone poem -- no matter how beautiful and cinematic -- isn't for everyone. So I tried to bum rush out of the the theater, but once again I failed to avoid hearing tired complaints about "long traffic scenes" and how it's "so slow!" and other such nonsense. For a moment I was simmering with anger at these "Philistines". But after I got in my car and the Tindersticks' somber strings from the soundtrack to Trouble Every Day washed over me, I realized: hey, I fell hard for what I just saw and I don't much care what anyone else thinks.
Friday, August 29, 2003
Meet Me in St. Louis (Minnelli, 1944) B/B- Midnight (Leisen, 1939) A-/B+ Pillow Talk (Gordon, 1959) C
Meet Me in St. Louis has some great moments -- the Halloween sequence, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas", Tootie attacking the snowman, a beautiful zoom in to the ball -- so I can see why it's considered a canonical musical. But it's also a sappy celebration of cornball Americana that fills the frame with fussy pastels that seemed to come straight out of a Fragonard painting. Gimme The Band Wagon any day of the week.
Now Midnight I can get behind. The unflappable Claudette Colbert stars as a superhumanly poised Cinderella-type who finds her way into a lavish salon-party thrown by Mary Astor and the mugging John Barrymore. A rather predictable impersonation farce follows, but what distinguishes this underrated screwball comedy is the sparkling aristocratic wit, penned by the remarkable Brackett/Wilder team, and Mitchell Leisen's smooth direction of a terrific cast (including a hilarious Queer Eye turn by the forgotten Rex O'Malley). Is it realistic that a "normal" girl can just waltz into the elegant world of the Parisian aristocracy and trade Wildean zingers with rich layabouts without breaking a sweat? Does it matter when that girl is played with such knowing, playful sophistication by the graceful Miss Colbert?
But how did we get from Colbert to Doris Day as a popular romantic comedy lead? (Answer: Charm, wit, and sass are optional for big female stars by the late Fifties.) In the fluffy romantic comedy Pillow Talk, Day violates the first and second rules of the genre: (1) the audience needs to find the romantic leads attractive, or absent that, (2) we must at least be convinced that the romantic leads would find each other appealing. Bearing my rules in mind, imagine your pal's pinched-up Orange County soccer mom having sex. Not exactly palatable, right? Well, that's what it's like to see Day as the object of Rock Hudson's amourous advances. With Colbert, you always feel like she's in on the joke with you. With Day, you get the feeling that she'll purse her lips and reprimand you once you tell her what the joke is. Day's sexless persona sinks this intermittenly amusing but confused romantic trifle, which is far more interesting when it's viewed as the template for Down with Love, and perhaps for its summation of Eisenhowerian zeitgeist (in the way that Pretty Woman is a summation of the Reagan Era). And as a coup de grace, the rococo set design is downright repellent, ironic considering that Day's supposed to be a top interior designer
Now Midnight I can get behind. The unflappable Claudette Colbert stars as a superhumanly poised Cinderella-type who finds her way into a lavish salon-party thrown by Mary Astor and the mugging John Barrymore. A rather predictable impersonation farce follows, but what distinguishes this underrated screwball comedy is the sparkling aristocratic wit, penned by the remarkable Brackett/Wilder team, and Mitchell Leisen's smooth direction of a terrific cast (including a hilarious Queer Eye turn by the forgotten Rex O'Malley). Is it realistic that a "normal" girl can just waltz into the elegant world of the Parisian aristocracy and trade Wildean zingers with rich layabouts without breaking a sweat? Does it matter when that girl is played with such knowing, playful sophistication by the graceful Miss Colbert?
But how did we get from Colbert to Doris Day as a popular romantic comedy lead? (Answer: Charm, wit, and sass are optional for big female stars by the late Fifties.) In the fluffy romantic comedy Pillow Talk, Day violates the first and second rules of the genre: (1) the audience needs to find the romantic leads attractive, or absent that, (2) we must at least be convinced that the romantic leads would find each other appealing. Bearing my rules in mind, imagine your pal's pinched-up Orange County soccer mom having sex. Not exactly palatable, right? Well, that's what it's like to see Day as the object of Rock Hudson's amourous advances. With Colbert, you always feel like she's in on the joke with you. With Day, you get the feeling that she'll purse her lips and reprimand you once you tell her what the joke is. Day's sexless persona sinks this intermittenly amusing but confused romantic trifle, which is far more interesting when it's viewed as the template for Down with Love, and perhaps for its summation of Eisenhowerian zeitgeist (in the way that Pretty Woman is a summation of the Reagan Era). And as a coup de grace, the rococo set design is downright repellent, ironic considering that Day's supposed to be a top interior designer
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Belle and Sebastian @ Greek Theater, LA Aug 23 2003
A dream collaboration between the bookish chanteuse Belle and Sebastian Bach (formerly of Skid Row), this pairing, surprisingly, does not result in power ballads with a Disneyesque twist, but in arch, rather precious Twee Pop. I own the superduo's If You're Feeling Sinister, an album stuffed with whimsical wit but also a rather fey sensibility that's always kept me from totally succumbing to the their charms. Live, their sound is richer, fuller, and dare I say...more muscular (that's what a five piece string section does for you). If you overlook Sebastian's acerbic prancing Scotsman shtick and Belle's mishaps with the Atkins Diet, their brand of highly melodic, Velvets/Byrds/Pet Sounds-tinged folk pop can be quite seductive. I even think I prefer the live "Like Dylan in the movies" and "Judy and the Dream of Horses" to the recorded versions. Still too fey and insistently pretty for me to fully embrace, but I can understand why they are the most popular band in the survey of my own friendsters.
B & S's drummer spinned at the Derby after the concert, mixing Euro hip-hop and a bit of dancehall. My eyes were directed elsewhere, as it were.
Sadly, perpetual lateness syndrome caused my group to miss the opener, buzz band and Unit-fave Bright Eyes. Too bad.
Scrabbel @ Spaceland, LA Aug 22, 2003
Scrabbel, fronted by Aislers Set member Ben Lee, traffics in dreamy, melancholic pop that, like B & S, is given body by a fine string section. A Bay Area band that often plays APAture events, Scrabbel's fine mellow listening on a Friday night. Cool people to hang with as well, these guys.
Soviet @ Spaceland, LA Aug 24, 2003
As befits a crowd that looks like extras in a Spandau Ballet video, Soviet is pure 80s retro, combining the straight-ahead synth sound of Depeche Mode with the hooks of Disintegration-era Cure and a vocalist who appears to be impersonating the lead singer of Simple Minds (god knows why). I couldn't discern a single post-Nirvana element in their sound, which means your mileage varies depending on how much you dig 80s New Wave to begin with. Me, not so much (yes -- Smiths, New Order, Cure; no -- pretty much everyone else; absolutely loathe Erasure). Fun, but eminently disposable.
The clattering retro punk band Babyland followed, a helpful antidote to the testosterone-draining music I've been privy to the last three nights. Only stayed for three or four songs (and, to honor Asian stereotypes, I was playing Galaga next to the bar half that time), but the big event is I introduced myself to Friendster celeb Tila Tequila, whom I saw at this show. A nice, wholesome girl to take home to Mom, that Tila.
B & S's drummer spinned at the Derby after the concert, mixing Euro hip-hop and a bit of dancehall. My eyes were directed elsewhere, as it were.
Sadly, perpetual lateness syndrome caused my group to miss the opener, buzz band and Unit-fave Bright Eyes. Too bad.
Scrabbel @ Spaceland, LA Aug 22, 2003
Scrabbel, fronted by Aislers Set member Ben Lee, traffics in dreamy, melancholic pop that, like B & S, is given body by a fine string section. A Bay Area band that often plays APAture events, Scrabbel's fine mellow listening on a Friday night. Cool people to hang with as well, these guys.
Soviet @ Spaceland, LA Aug 24, 2003
As befits a crowd that looks like extras in a Spandau Ballet video, Soviet is pure 80s retro, combining the straight-ahead synth sound of Depeche Mode with the hooks of Disintegration-era Cure and a vocalist who appears to be impersonating the lead singer of Simple Minds (god knows why). I couldn't discern a single post-Nirvana element in their sound, which means your mileage varies depending on how much you dig 80s New Wave to begin with. Me, not so much (yes -- Smiths, New Order, Cure; no -- pretty much everyone else; absolutely loathe Erasure). Fun, but eminently disposable.
The clattering retro punk band Babyland followed, a helpful antidote to the testosterone-draining music I've been privy to the last three nights. Only stayed for three or four songs (and, to honor Asian stereotypes, I was playing Galaga next to the bar half that time), but the big event is I introduced myself to Friendster celeb Tila Tequila, whom I saw at this show. A nice, wholesome girl to take home to Mom, that Tila.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
The Great Dem Hope?
Whether it's the symptom of the media's relentless emphasis on the horse race instead of policy or just another product of our postmodern age, a chunk of the electorate views "electability" as a candidate's most important attribute. (How so very "meta"...) But it's even dawning on some hardcore progressives that ideological purity is far less important than fielding a guy who can beat this maniac who's fucking shit up every which way. Good motto: win first, get politically sanctimonious later. (And given what's happened the last three years, can someone please shut Ralph "no difference between the two parties" Nader's trap? Thank you.)
Nobody whets the appetite of Democratic pragmatists like Gen. Wesley Clark, who may be close to announcing a run for the presidency. Clark, former Supreme NATO Comander, seemingly has the biography and presence that the other announced candidates lack. He's the New Democrat's wet dream: a respected general who led a successful military operation, graduated at the top of his class at West Point, and a forceful and charismatic commentator for CNN during Gulf War II, Clark could singlehandedly neutralize the Dems' achilles' heel -- voters' lack of confidence on national security issues. Here's a guy with the stature to challenge Dubya on security matters, Iraq, the War on Terrorism, etc. and make the criticisms stick.
Being a moderate pragmatist, I can't help but like Clark. He's charismatic and articulate, and at this point, looks to be the strongest Democratic contender in the general election (if he enters the race). But we have no clue how he'd respond to the rigors of campaigning, the inevitable media assault, nor do we know where he stands on most domestic issues. Early money says he'll chart a Clintonian course: taking controversial social issues "off the table" by taking moderate stances while winking to pertinent interest groups (as the Dem candidate will need to do with this year's hot-button Dem-loser issue, gay marriages) and pursuing responsible fiscal policies by minding the budget deficit. He'll fill the Clinton/New Dem vacuum left open by the stalled campaigns of the callow Edwards (who actually has some great things to say) and the unelectable Lieberman (who has nothing of value to say). For pragmatists, the hope is that if Clark pursues a political moderate path, the man won't be saddled with the "too liberal" onus that will give voters a reason to vote against the Democratic candidate, unlike one Howard Dean. The catch-22 is that if he does go this route, with that late start, the General won't excite that activist base that can push his candidacy past South Carolina on the primary calendar.
Prediction: Clark jumps in, grabs loads of media attention (as all the mainstream media outlets will be rooting for a close election), but couldn't excite the Bush-hating base and becomes the "smart choice" for VP on the Dean ticket.
Nobody whets the appetite of Democratic pragmatists like Gen. Wesley Clark, who may be close to announcing a run for the presidency. Clark, former Supreme NATO Comander, seemingly has the biography and presence that the other announced candidates lack. He's the New Democrat's wet dream: a respected general who led a successful military operation, graduated at the top of his class at West Point, and a forceful and charismatic commentator for CNN during Gulf War II, Clark could singlehandedly neutralize the Dems' achilles' heel -- voters' lack of confidence on national security issues. Here's a guy with the stature to challenge Dubya on security matters, Iraq, the War on Terrorism, etc. and make the criticisms stick.
Being a moderate pragmatist, I can't help but like Clark. He's charismatic and articulate, and at this point, looks to be the strongest Democratic contender in the general election (if he enters the race). But we have no clue how he'd respond to the rigors of campaigning, the inevitable media assault, nor do we know where he stands on most domestic issues. Early money says he'll chart a Clintonian course: taking controversial social issues "off the table" by taking moderate stances while winking to pertinent interest groups (as the Dem candidate will need to do with this year's hot-button Dem-loser issue, gay marriages) and pursuing responsible fiscal policies by minding the budget deficit. He'll fill the Clinton/New Dem vacuum left open by the stalled campaigns of the callow Edwards (who actually has some great things to say) and the unelectable Lieberman (who has nothing of value to say). For pragmatists, the hope is that if Clark pursues a political moderate path, the man won't be saddled with the "too liberal" onus that will give voters a reason to vote against the Democratic candidate, unlike one Howard Dean. The catch-22 is that if he does go this route, with that late start, the General won't excite that activist base that can push his candidacy past South Carolina on the primary calendar.
Prediction: Clark jumps in, grabs loads of media attention (as all the mainstream media outlets will be rooting for a close election), but couldn't excite the Bush-hating base and becomes the "smart choice" for VP on the Dean ticket.
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