Pop Culture, High and Low, Past and Present. One Day at a Time.
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Friday, April 23, 2004
Video: In the Cut (2003)
Once I would rush out to see whatever movie had the hoi polloi in an uproar. Then I realized that most of these films are exercises in provocation that seldom live up to the hype. So now I usually catch ‘em on video. Come back in six months and watch me get het up about THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST and DOGVILLE long after everyone else has forgotten them. I’m running one scandal behind.
Jane Campion’s erotic thriller is based on Susanna Moore’s novel. As a thriller, it’s a disaster. Campion can’t be bothered with basics like conveying the passage of time, so we never know how many hours or days have passed between scenes. Teacher Meg Ryan has sex with detective Mark Ruffalo while trying to make up her mind about whether he’s the killer he claims to be pursuing, and that’s the extent of the suspense. When Joe Eszterhas cranked out screenplays with that set-up nobody mistook them for art, and occasionally they were good, sleazy fun. Not here. Campion’s one of those directors who uses the thriller form because its flexibility allows her to plumb other issues. But she doesn’t follow the form’s rules. I doubt she even took the trouble to learn them.
You’re left, then, with the eroticism, and here the movie fails, too. There are eight million stories in the nearly naked city but Campion focuses on a hermetically-sealed group of five people, all of whom need serious face time with a therapist. The movie has an instinctive feel for New York: the oppressive summer heat, the ever-present scrim of ugliness punctuated by unlikely beauty. Campion, abetted by cinematographer Dion Beebe, crafts a marvelous look. Out of focus shots framed as if we’re peering at something we’re not supposed to see, arty flashbacks galore. But technique can’t fill in the blanks. Campion has worked out exactly how to say something before figuring out what she wants to say.
In just a few years, Mark Ruffalo has gone from obscurity to being the best thing about whatever movie he’s in. Fans of TOUGH CROWD WITH COLIN QUINN are in for a shock when they see regular Patrice O’Neal. Meg Ryan undeservedly took a lot of heat for her performance. The character of Frannie is never more than a vehicle to explore half-formed notions about sexual awakening. Nicole Kidman, who was to play the role and is credited here as producer, would have been a better choice. She has an uncanny ability to play directorial fantasias, giving human dimension to parts that are emblematic (as in EYES WIDE SHUT or MOULIN ROUGE). Ryan is a more grounded actress (you have to be in romantic comedy), and it’s in trying to fix Frannie in reality that she stumbles. Mumbling poetry in the subway, behaving inappropriately with her students; Ryan tries to weave these disparate threads together and only comes up with enough rope to hang herself. It doesn’t help that she employs the voice she used in another, far better movie, JOE VERSUS THE VOLCANO.
As for the much-ballyhooed nude scenes, all I could think was: that’s one well-toned public school teacher. Celebrities in the buff are like the concept cars at an auto show; they look like the heaps you’re used to, but it’s obvious that a lot more time and money has gone into them.
Music: Music Choice
A partial list of albums featured on my cable company’s “Light Classical” station:
Play Bach!; Build Your Baby’s Brain 5; Music For My Little Friends; Night Moods, Piano Dreams; Encore!; Werke Fur Gitarre; Build Your Baby’s Brain 3; Mad About Guitars; Railway Train Music, Volume 2.
Scott’s epic thriller THE SHIP KILLER should have been turned into a movie ages ago; I’m afraid the chances of that happening now, in light of its subject matter, are slim. THE TURNING is about a religious cult’s takeover of a dying upstate New York town, and it reads like the best novel Stephen King never wrote. Great atmosphere, chilling ending, all written with a precision and concision that many contemporary best-selling authors could learn from.
But that’s not why I bring it up.
There are ads in the book. Actual cardboard inserts bound in along with the pages. One of them is for Kent Golden Light cigarettes, your low-tar choice. I’d forgotten that this used to be a common publishing practice. And I think it’s high time it was brought back. As a way of keeping costs down, it’s preferable to the new trend of authors striking product placement deals. If you don’t want to know about your low-tar options, you can simply turn the page.
Do they still make Kent Golden Lights? Brands never seem to disappear any more. Rosemarie was shocked to see Nicolas Cage buying fistfuls of Tareytons in MATCHSTICK MEN. She’d thought they’d gone out of business around the time her mother stopped smoking.
TV: Penn & Teller
The full title of this Showtime series is PENN & TELLER: BULLSHIT! It’s not in bold type because some of you might be reading this at work. Don’t say I never did anything for you.
The Vegas magicians debunk various subjects in 30 minutes or less. They tend to cast a wide net; in the episode focusing on safety, they tackled 9/11 paranoia, mad cow disease, school violence, cell phone anxiety and the futility of using paper toilet seat covers. I guess they have no fear of running out of material.
The best quality of the show is its sheer orneriness. With every media outlet treating alleged experts with kid gloves, it’s refreshing to watch them held up to ridicule. Raw footage shows relationship guru John Gray forcing his tortured Mars/Venus analogy into every single sentence, and catches THE RULES co-author Sherrie Schneider dispensing wisdom to clients over the phone (“Just pretend he’s dead”). Everything is scrupulously researched, then presented with a torrent of profanity.
Something this entertaining should be better known. I think I know why it’s not. The boys are libertarians with a profound hatred of junk science and a belief in nothing other than showmanship. They refuse to be pegged at either end of the political spectrum. They’ve gone after creationists and PETA, draconian drug laws and the environmental movement. Put another way, they’ve used both Ted Nugent and the ACLU as the voice of reason. That pretty much guarantees you a cult audience.
Music Video: Britney Spears, ‘Everytime’
Britney drowns in the bathtub and is reborn as a baby. I think. The sequence of events is a little murky. It turns out to have been a dream anyway. Stephen Dorff plays the abusive boyfriend who gives their room a Johnny Depp makeover. Sadly, I can’t tell if this marks a step up or a step down from his appearance in COLD CREEK MANOR.
Ostensibly directed by Quentin Tarantino. Cue the self-congratulatory jokes and cartoonish violence. The ending was weirdly unsettling: Tarantino clapping by himself onstage, surrounded by a dead audience. (Not that I’m reading anything into that.) In the midst of the mayhem, there was a striking cutaway to a camera placed behind Jimmy’s desk, revealing the enormous monitor that dominates his view of the audience. It was a shot I’d never seen before, one that both lays bare the mechanics of a talk show and points out how staid the format is. Maybe they should bring QT back. As always, you can count on the old pros to deliver the goods:
Jimmy: So what are you working on now?
Steven Wright: I’m making a documentary about Ken Burns.
Music: ‘We Built This City,’ Starship (1985)
Blender magazine has crowned this the worst song ever recorded. I don’t know where to begin picking that decision apart. There are far worthier candidates in their 10 worst list (‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy,’ Eddie Murphy’s legendary ‘Party All The Time’), which doesn’t even tap the Michael Bolton discography. Besides, a DARPA project recently proved scientifically that the worst song ever recorded is ‘Shiny Shiny’ by Hayzee Fantayzee. I don’t even think ‘City’ is the worst song recorded by Starship. That would be ‘Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now’ from the movie MANNEQUIN.
TV Commercial: California Tourism (Find Yourself Here)
This ad campaign has been brought back with new shots of Governor Schwarzenegger and his wife. I still say they should have gone with my slogan:
Dames. Good word. And the right one for this excellent book. Muller profiles six actresses best known for their work in film noir: Coleen Gray, Jane Greer, Evelyn Keyes, Ann Savage, Audrey Totter and, be still my beating heart, Marie Windsor. The first half of the book focuses on the actresses during their heyday. Later, Muller catches up with them in fin de siècle Hollywood and reveals how their lives turned out.
A line from the book had personal resonance for me. “But the rules of Hollywood casting ... were maddeningly simple: woman + dark hair + too tall = villain.” My relationship with Rosemarie suddenly makes a great deal more sense.
DAMES is loaded with gossip on the likes of Howard Hughes and Oscar Levant, and it celebrates the brutal ingenuity of filmmakers like Edgar G. Ulmer. Mainly, it’s a chronicle of the remarkable journeys taken by these women. Jane Greer plays the mother of her character in a remake of OUT OF THE PAST; Coleen Gray goes from the criminally bleak NIGHTMARE ALLEY to the prison ministry of Watergate’s own Charles Colson. Ann Savage spends thirty years working in anonymity as a legal secretary, only to regain a kind of stardom when her incendiary performance in Ulmer’s DETOUR is rediscovered. She and Muller now make frequent appearances around the country, screening a pristine print of the film. It’s a genuine happy ending in a genre not known for them.
One theme running through the book is that the actresses often regretted being typecast in low-budget crime dramas. I can see their point. But I also can’t help thinking of the legions of talented actresses since who didn’t have the careers they deserved and would have flourished under such restraints. Marie Windsor worried that the 1952 version of THE NARROW MARGIN would be forgotten when it was remade, but as Muller observes, “there won’t be a golden anniversary screening of the second NARROW MARGIN in 2040.” I wonder which one Anne Archer wishes she had starred in.
TV: Hollywood Squares
I can’t watch this show. I have too many fond memories of the old version, which taught me all I know about smarm. One of my prized possessions is a copy of Peter Marshall’s book BACKSTAGE WITH THE ORIGINAL HOLLYWOOD SQUARE, complete with CD of zingers from the show. (What I learned from the book: Peter Marshall only took the hosting gig to screw Dan Rowan of LAUGH-IN fame out of a job. And the bottom center square, where boring celebrities were placed, was known as the Carol Lynley box.)
But I watch the opening every week just to see who’s on. The show has either the most diverse demographic in television or a team of schizophrenic bookers; it’s the only place you can catch both Master P and Hal Linden. Also, the celebrities are encouraged to dance over the theme song.
Man, can O.J. Simpson prosecutor Marcia Clark cut a rug. (Former California gubernatorial candidate Arianna Huffington, by comparison, opts for a stately Eleanor Roosevelt nod.) You lose the biggest and most public case of your career, and years later you’re invited to flail around to set musician techno. Further proof that F. Scott Fitzgerald didn’t know what he was talking about: there are plenty of second acts in American lives.
Elsewhere in the world, evidence that the game show format is far more malleable than previously believed can be found here.
Here’s what was on in this time slot on April 18. HBO’s double bill of THE SOPRANOS and DEADWOOD. Part 1 of PRIME SUSPECT 6 on PBS. And the first episode of BBC America’s critically-acclaimed political thriller STATE OF PLAY. (All right, and VH-1’s DIVAS LIVE. Happy?) Next week you can add the premiere of the Showtime movie STEALING SINATRA, starring William H. Macy, based on the true story of a nimrod named Barry Keenan (no relation, honest) and his plan to kidnap Frank Jr.
The only shows I’m interested in watching this week, all airing at the same time. I demand to know who’s responsible for this. TiVo, I’m looking at you. Granted, most of these shows are on cable so they’ll be repeated ad infinitum. But not everything; last week I had to miss the Nick and Jessica Variety Special on ABC. When’s the last time there was a variety special on TV?
I caught bits and pieces of the shows while getting the website up and running. Bill Nighy can play anything: jaded newspaper editor in STATE OF PLAY, dissolute rock star in LOVE, ACTUALLY, grumpy lord of the undead in UNDERWORLD. Any episode of THE SOPRANOS written by Terence Winter cannot be missed. And it looks like next week on DEADWOOD people will be outside, during the day, riding horses. You know, like a western.
Movie: Kill Bill Vol. 2 (2004)
Long story short: I didn’t like it. But you should see it anyway.
Long story long: I loved Volume 1. Saw it twice on the big screen, which I hadn’t done since L.A. CONFIDENTIAL. Yes, it features sketchy characters and the barest bones of a plot, and is essentially a hodgepodge of references to other, mostly obscure movies. It’s also unassailably cool, and burns with a fierce, crazy energy that at times threatens to burst free of the frame. Tarantino, with a huge assist from cinematographer Robert Richardson, throws everything he’s ever loved about cinema into the mix. The result is a singular work that represents a new way of both making and watching movies.
Volume 1 is all about synthesis, combining existing forms to forge something unique. In Volume 2, Tarantino is content with imitation. He recreates movie moments that he loves – full-frame Sergio Leone close-ups, the shaky zoom from so many martial arts epics – without commenting on them or adding a spin of his own.
I missed the loopy structure of the first movie. This installment is almost conventional in its storytelling, which only brings its flaws to the fore. All of the fight scenes are mano a mano; there’s nothing on a par with Volume 1’s mammoth battle between the Bride and the Crazy 88’s. The dialogue, Tarantino’s strong suit, here falls flat, largely because the characters have been such badasses for so long that they’ve gotten used to the fact that people are afraid to interrupt them. Which means they tend to ramble a bit. David Carradine is game, but he’s saddled with the worst of the speeches.
Having the Bride’s quest ultimately be about her maternal instincts (the queen of the jungle reunited with her cub, as the end card puts it) seems reductive and possibly even sexist. Isn’t being shot in the head and left for dead enough motivation to get a little getback? Can’t a woman just be royally pissed in a movie without bringing motherhood into it? They wouldn't foist a kid on Robert Mitchum.
Maybe when I watch both halves as a single grind house extravaganza I’ll feel differently. I have to wonder how they’ll fit together. I’m afraid I’ll always think of Volume 1 as the legend, and Volume 2 as just the facts.
The Spring Humor Issue. The Harold Ramis profile by Tad Friend is interesting. Numerous writers and directors cite the Ramis films that changed their lives. Producer Brian Grazer says: “The ideas behind most comedies now ... are all Harold’s. He is the father of modern Hollywood comedy.” Ramis might want to question the paternity. Not that he’s to blame. At least a number of his movies are funny.
Here’s writer Dennis Klein: “Sloppiness is a key part of improv. And Harold brought that to Hollywood, rescuing comedies from their smooth, polite perfection.” First, again, this improv-based style has become the default mode for movie comedy. This is a bad thing. Second, improv is a hugely overrated arrow in the comedy quiver. Not all of it is funny, and most comics are not very good at it. And third, what’s the matter with perfection?
In the article, we track Ramis’ efforts to cast his next movie, an adaptation of the Scott Phillips novel THE ICE HARVEST. If you haven’t read it, do so now, before the movie comes out. Then do yourself a favor and read Phillips’ latest, COTTONWOOD, one of the best novels I’ve read this year. The good news is that Ramis has cast John Cusack as HARVEST’s crooked lawyer Charlie Arglist. The bad news is that Cusack wants to change the ending (which the article gives away, so be forewarned). And Ramis is inclined to agree with him.
Another article focuses on the Farrelly Brothers’ attempt to bring back the Three Stooges with ‘real’ actors in the roles. Their choice for Moe is Russell Crowe, who’s apparently considering it. Their back-up is Benicio del Toro. I guess they don’t want actors who can play angry but actually ARE angry. They even float Sean Penn’s name to play Larry.
Nowhere in the article is there a reference to the 1992 movie BRAIN DONORS, which just reinforces my belief that I’m the only person who’s ever seen it. Pat Proft, who had a hand in writing the NAKED GUN series, set out to make a modern Marx Brothers-style movie with comic Bob Nelson as Harpo, Mel Smith as Chico, and, believe it or not, John Turturro as Groucho. They even got Nancy Marchand to take over the Margaret Dumont role. Everybody gives it their all; Turturro attacks his jokes with a gusto bordering on maniacal. But the movie is an almost complete failure. (Except for Turturro’s clothes. At one point he wears a maroon pinstripe suit that I have coveted ever since.) Somebody needs to bring this movie to the Farrellys’ attention before they proceed any further.
TV: Rock’d with Gina Gershon, 4/16
If your personal assistant can’t locate a sex toy store in San Francisco, it’s time to get a new personal assistant.
Several factors made me want to revisit this movie. A recent repeat of a SIMPSONS episode where Homer sings the closing song. The new Mountain Dew ads featuring Elmer Bernstein’s music and a voiceover from Dean Wormer (John Vernon) himself. And an article in the New Yorker’s current humor issue, which I haven’t yet read, positing that Harold Ramis, through his work as a writer or director beginning with this film, codified the rules for a new school of American comedy.
My first reaction: I’d never seen this movie uncut before. All the handjob jokes? New to me. Sad, I know. But the movie was quite controversial in its day. When the Catholic Church came out against it, my parents wouldn’t even let me read the MAD magazine parody of it. My parents always had problems with the magazine anyway. (I could have said they had issues with the magazine, but I didn’t. No need to thank me.) One of my most vivid childhood memories is of walking down the hall of our building to throw my copy of MORE SNAPPY ANSWERS TO STUPID QUESTIONS into the incinerator while my mother watched from the apartment doorway. Fortunately, this moment had little effect on me.
Hang on. I need a minute.
My second reaction: I’d forgotten how influential this movie is. It contains so many lines and bits of business that have entered everyday usage (especially among guys, go figure) that looking at the film now is like unearthing the Rosetta Stone of comedy. It has even more of an impact, though, in terms of style. The movie is sarcastic and kind of lazy; not a whole lot happens. The good guys are better than the jerks (it’s giving the movie way too much credit to call them bad guys), but not by much. The main difference is that their jokes are funnier, their pranks more appealing. In essence this is the first big comedy not of manners, character or situation, but of mood. The movie’s not actually all that funny, but it’s still entertaining because you enjoy hanging out with the Deltas. Hell, you could even BE one of them. That’s what ANIMAL HOUSE is: the first hangout comedy.
It has had an outsized effect; most comedies have appropriated its hazy rhythms. Sometimes the filmmakers remember to include the pleasant buzz; I offer as Exhibit A the Broken Lizard troupe’s 2002 movie SUPER TROOPERS, which I’ve seen more times than I can count. But most of the imitators simply cop the attitude without backing it up. Witness 2003’s OLD SCHOOL, which treats its characters shabbily and can’t be bothered to cook up a plot as half-assed as the one in ANIMAL HOUSE.
I wouldn’t mind it so much if we got the occasional comedy made in some other mode, but lately they seem few and far between. There was a nice flurry in the late ‘90s with movies like ELECTION and FLIRTING WITH DISASTER, but the movement never quite got off the ground. And I’m unwilling to put any additional pressure on Charlie Kaufman.
TV: The Apprentice, 4/15
Another reality show I was sort of paying attention to. Thanks to the Internet and West Coast living, I didn’t have to watch a minute of the finale. I just logged on to the web once the live telecast ended and found out that Bill has to listen to Trump for another year. This is a prize?
An utterly demented pastiche of Old West history and popular fiction. Wild Bill Hickok, Annie Oakley and Sitting Bull head to Japan on zeppelins to put on a Wild West show. Buffalo Bill Cody is there, too, but he’s just a head in a Mason jar filled with charged pig urine. They’re intercepted by Captain Bemo, skipper of the submarine the Naughty Lass, who takes them to the Island of Dr. Momo. (I prefer Lansdale’s solution to copyright problems over the one used by the makers of the movie THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY GENTLEMEN. “How about this? He’s not The Invisible Man. He’s an invisible man.” “Great! Let’s go to lunch.”)
The book is a brief 168 pages, some of them taken up by Mark A. Nelson’s striking illustrations. It’s more of a concept than an actual novel, but still fun to read. Nobody does description like Lansdale; one of Dr. Momo’s half-man, half-monkey experiments “seemed nervous, as if ants had taken to his rectum.” And nobody does dialogue like Lansdale. Dr. Momo explaining himself: “And these friends of yours (like Charles Darwin and Samuel Morse) ... Good minds compared to yourself and the average moron, but compared to mine, their brains are doo-doo.”
It would make a hell of a movie. Except for that part where Frankenstein’s monster has sex with the Tin Man. There might be clearance issues there. And I don’t think people want to know what actually happened to Dorothy when she tried to leave Oz. I mean they really don’t.
TV: South Park, 4/14
Cartman disguised as a robot to fool Butters. A lesser effort from Matt & Trey in a season that’s been a bracing return to form. Oh, well. They can’t all be ‘The Passion of the Jew.’ I enjoyed it because it’s one of those episodes where Cartman gets what’s coming to him. He’s such an evil little kid that I think he’s the most realistic character on television. He makes Tony Soprano look like Agarn on F-TROOP.
Video: Yeah, Right! (2003)
A compilation of skateboarding footage co-directed by Spike Jonze. Spike was one of the producers of MTV’s JACKASS; there’s obviously a side of him that’s fascinated by bored kids daring each other. The video proved fun to watch. Beautifully shot, good choice in music. There’s a sequence where all of the skateboards are removed, so that these surly punks appear to be floating on air. It conveys a sense of the physical skill and the artistry demanded in skateboarding.
The locations where the kids skate are all prosaic. Loading docks, college campuses, barren municipal plazas. And somehow in these drab settings they’re able to challenge themselves. It reminded me in an odd way of the Hong Kong aesthetic in action films: this is where the fight is going to be, use what’s at hand to survive. There’s something noble about that approach to life. That said, I’m still going to curse the little bastards when they cut too close to me on the street.
I haven’t been watching this season, although technically I’ve never really watched the show. My lovely wife Rosemarie pointed out long ago that reality TV adheres to the same rules as basketball; if you watch the last three minutes, you’ll see everything you need to see. So that’s been my experience of the first two seasons of Idol. The frenzied recap at the end of Tuesday’s action, and the bogus suspense of late Wednesday. (Or Wednesday and Thursday, in the case of this week.) Nobody actually watches for the singing, do they?
I tuned in tonight because Quentin Tarantino was this week’s celebrity judge. That’s always been my favorite part of the show. The judges have no say once the final batch of contestants are picked, so trucking in one of yesterday’s luminaries is pointless. Doubly so, because they’re not bringing in names that will get people to tune in. (Neil Sedaka, anyone?) Quentin said that he wasn’t going to be a pushover like his predecessors, so I figured it was worth a look-see.
The theme of the show is movie songs. Hence, Quentin Tarantino. The first singer butchers Phil Collins’ ‘Against All Odds.’ The regular panel of judges slams the kid for picking a song that doesn’t showcase his talents. (When the kid – and I mean kid, because everybody on the show this year looks like they’re still in high school – is asked why he chose it, he said it spoke to his experience of being on the show. Um, no, it doesn’t. The title may speak to that, but the rest of the song is about a dude who’s been done wrong and is ready to go back for more.) QT tells the young man that his performance was so good it made him forget that he hates the song. The next contestant gets medieval on a Whitney Houston song and QT proceeds to out-Paula Paula. My cue to bail.
Maybe Quentin’s one of the first of the ‘it’s all good’ generation. Trio is rerunning a week of his movie picks in conjunction with the release of KILL BILL Vol. 2, and I’m stunned at how lousy they are. (I was also stunned by the fact that I’d seen several of them before. That would happen every once in a while with Mystery Science Theater 3000. “Wait, I’ve seen this.”) It makes for a marked contrast with Martin Scorsese, with whom he’s often compared. Scorsese’s a film historian, pointing out good films others have overlooked, willing to criticize the work of others. (He provided some terrific commentary in Kevin Brownlow’s recent documentary about Cecil B. DeMille on TCM, especially when comparing DeMille’s role in film history to D. W. Griffith’s.) Quentin’s a film fan. He’ll watch anything and find something to like in it. The most striking image in Peter Biskind’s generally lousy book DOWN AND DIRTY PICTURES came from a friend of Quentin’s, who described watching Quentin watch movies on TV. He said that it calmed him, acted as a pacifier, made him happy. No matter what the movie was. That kind of attitude in no way impedes him as a filmmaker – I’ve got my tickets for KILL BILL Vol. 2 already – but it makes him a lousy judge.
A couple stands in their driveway, admiring their sporty new bright red roadster. A bird appears overhead. I expect the hubby to make a diving leap for the hood to prevent undue spattering; this is how ingrained the new gross-out style of commercial humor has become. But no! The bird is a stork, and it lands on the driveway, sets down a bundle of joy, and wanders over to admire the car. The couple glance down at the squirming bundle on the concrete, then look at each other. Next thing you know, they’ve traded in their sporty new bright red roadster for an SUV. Because, as the voiceover informs us, life changes quickly, and Saturn is the only major car dealer that will allow you trade in your new vehicle within 30 days of purchase.
I find this ad creepy. Does anybody get the stork reference anymore? And doesn’t the stork work exclusively for Vlasic Pickle now anyway?
Book: Thieves’ Dozen, by Donald E. Westlake (2004)
A collection of short fiction about hapless thief John Dortmunder. (As the title implies, there are eleven stories.) I’m an unabashed fan of Westlake and of Dortmunder in particular, so it won’t come as a surprise to say that I loved the book. There’s not a dud in the bunch. “Too Many Crooks” is a personal favorite, and the final story “Fugue for Felons,” which is and isn’t a Dortmunder story (at one point Westlake thought he was going to lose the rights to the name to Hollywood, so he cooked up an alias for the character and wrote a story about him), makes for a fascinating exercise. Many of the stories contain perverse tributes to the New York City subway system, and a few are hymns to the glories of the borough of Queens, land of my birth. Plus, Westlake brings back my favorite greeting: “Harya.”
TV: Deadwood, 4/11
We have our first contender for line of the year. And there’s no profanity in it. Considering the show that it comes from, that’s a remarkable achievement.
Calamity Jane: “Wait in your room. It’ll take him a while to get the phlegm situated.”
Video: Matchstick Men (2003)
It’s great to have Nicolas Cage back acting again. Alison Lohman is going to have a long career. Ridley Scott directs with a light touch, and L.A. has never looked lovelier. Still, there’s an air of contrivance about the movie that sank it for me.
I dipped into the special features and learned that the screenwriters, Ted and Nicholas Griffin, originally stripped out the final plot twist because they didn’t want the audience to get angry with them. But without that twist, there’s no movie. The suits made the right call for once.
What struck me most about this movie was how visually beautiful it was. Tentacles descending from the sky at the apocalypse, lovers enshrouded by flame; it’s packed with arresting images.
Guillermo del Toro successfully conveys the rhythm and energy of a graphic novel, a task at which many others have failed. (The further away I get from Ang Lee’s THE HULK, the more I detest it. I actually had to get away from it while it was still unspooling in the theater.) The movie has its problems: the plot’s clunky and repetitive, Rasputin isn’t that interesting a villain, and I don’t need to see another superhero film about the tragedy of being a freak. But the Clockwork Nazi more than makes up for that.
Video: Joint Security Area (2002)
A terrific South Korean military drama. There are a few scenes in English that are awful. Try to look past them. (And make sure you have the subtitles on when the movie starts, so you don’t have to double back like I did.) A Korean-born Swiss military attorney investigates a brewing international incident involving a South Korean soldier who may or may not have been kidnapped and dragged into the demilitarized zone by North Korean forces. The closing shot is extraordinary.
Video: Dirty Pretty Things (2003)
Watched this for the second time. It got a well-deserved Oscar nomination for Steven Knight’s original screenplay. Chiwetel Ejiofor’s performance is nothing short of miraculous; he takes a character whose every action renders him a saint and makes you believe him as a man. If you want a noir universe in the here-and-now, this is it. Every character in this movie is at the whim of fate every second of the day.
I’m sure I’m alone in this, but Pelecanos’ music references get on my nerves. They tell me more about him than his characters. Whole chunks of his books read like they were written by Lester Bangs. But that’s just me, and just a minor complaint.
Pelecanos brings the historical sweep of his D.C. Quartet to bear on Derek Strange, one of the protagonists of his last cycle of novels. The book opens with a lengthy prologue in 1959 with Derek as a young man, then picks up the story in the spring of 1968. Derek is a rookie cop, Martin Luther King is days away from being assassinated, and D.C. is about to explode.
The book takes its time getting started, but there’s a reason for every detail that Pelecanos carefully layers in. The slow build-up soon gives way to masterful editing; even for Pelecanos, the book is blisteringly cinematic. His writing is simple. Sometimes it feels like he’s dotting every ‘i’: “Derek and Billy lived a few short miles apart, but the difference in their lives and prospects was striking.” Other times it reads like brutal poetry, as when a man is shot during a robbery: “He saw fire and his mother and nothing at all.”
To me, Terry Quinn was the more interesting character in the last few books. He was deeply conflicted, while Strange had his act together. (OK, he had trouble committing to one woman, but that’s not the same thing as cruising D.C. looking to be disrespected.) But I can see now that in the earlier works, Pelecanos was playing the silences of Strange’s character while here he plays the notes. Together, they form the full measure of a man.
Great. Now he’s got me making musical references, too.
Hoo-boy, does David Fincher have a lot to answer for. The credit sequence, the mood, and some of the plot mechanics for this movie were lifted wholesale from his movie SE7EN. It exists so completely in Fincher’s shadow that it should have been called EIGHT. (Or would that be EI8HT?) From what I understand, the movie has absolutely nothing to do with the Michael Pye novel it’s based on other than the serial-killer-as-hermit-crab business. Angelina Jolie plays the American special agent brought in to show the Montreal police the mistakes they haven’t thought of themselves. Kiefer Sutherland apparently knocked out all of his scenes in a long afternoon. The ending is so ludicrous that I’m tempted to recommend the movie on that basis alone. Nice to see Canadian locations playing themselves, though. And Ethan Hawke gives a strong performance. It must kill him that he’s better in big studio films like this and TRAINING DAY than he is in those shaky-cam indies that seem so dear to his heart.
