A rushed attempt to cover too many backstories in 2hr runtime, while adding black revolutionary awakening as atonement for past sins. The pleasure and poignancy of The Sopranos came from its leisurely pace and finely observed moments. Here, no pacing, no poignancy. A disappointment.
Mare of Easttown (HBO, 2021): 2.5/5
Another premium cable show in which a small-town female detective falls into a cesspool of serial murder, suicide, incest, molestation, and addiction. Unilke the relentlessly icky and awful Sharp Objects (Amy Adams) and Top of the Lake (Elizabeth Moss), this series at least offers Kate Winslet a small window of breathing room and redemption. Like Adams and Moss, Winslet will get award noms for making herself ugly and disheveled, and the additional labor of learning an obscure Pennsylvania accent might get her a win. (Yep, it did.)
Nomadland (Chloe Zao, 2020): 2/5
Underwhelming. Wants to expose very real current social problems, but opts for poetic, toothless homilies rather than pointed critique. These middle-aged white folks are just a little too accepting of their exploitation and doomed futures, which they gladly exchange for perceived freedom from commitment. Too often uses the scenic romance of the open road to gloss over the insanity, violence, and inhumanity that turn people into drifters (and eventually just homeless) in the first place. You could say the same thing about Kerouac, but at least his younger characters weren't condemned to resignation and still sought kicks and ecstatic truths along the way.
Sunset Song (Terrence Davies, 2015): 2/5
The miserable travails of a young Scottish woman on a desolate farm who must endure a brutal, abusive father and then a nice guy who enlists in WWI and becomes a brutal, abusive husband. Not much to be learned here, other than out of desperation she becomes "one with the land." The novel probably provides more interior perspective. I've yet to see a Davies film I liked.
Renoir (Gilles Bourdos, 2012): 3.5/5
Another "artist at end of life" docudrama (painter Auguste in 1915), but with the added dimension of portraying another artist near the beginning (his son, filmmaker Jean). Livened up considerably by the radiant (and often topless) Christa Theret as the artist's model who inspires (ahem) both of them.
The Comedy (Rick Alverson, 2012): 1/5
Tim Heidecker's independently wealthy character tools around Williamsburg and uses clever passive-aggressive riffs to condescend to women, immigrants, people of color, and the disabled, without retribution or humor. As such, the title is obviously a dare. Allegedly critiques the social problem of white privilege, but actually demonstrates the social problem of assholes. Probably an iconic film for self-pitying incels.
The Prestige, rw (Christopher Nolan, 2006): 3.5/5
Hugely intriguing and entertaining until it pulls one too many tricks and betrays its viewers. (Another example of bad-faith storytelling: Clouzot's Diabolique.)
Memories of Murder (Bong Joon-Ho, 2003): 2/5
Awkward mix of bumbling detectives, juvenile humor, and grisly serial killing of women, leading nowhere. As with most of Bong's films, there's some social context and commentary lurking underneath, but I've yet to see one (and I think I've seen five) that provided anything socially enlightening or artistically satisfying.
The Road to Perdition (Sam Mendes, 2002): 2.5/5
A crime story as magisterial as a beautifully embalmed corpse. Mendes would dunk Revolutionary Road into the same tub of formaldehyde a few years later. Like the neo-Spielbergian Frank Darabont, Mendes strives for "epic" and "classical" by slowing stories set in the past to a crawl, telegraphing every symbol and plot twist, and bathing it all in a soft, warm glow.
Safe, rw (Todd Haynes, 1995): 5/5
I used to think Carol White (Julianne Moore) was simply a wealthy suburban housewife with too much time on her hands. Now, after experiencing the medical establishment's ambivalence about Long Covid, I have more empathy for her struggle to be believed. The real horror, of course, is that Sartre's observation, often quoted cynically and comically, is actually true: Hell is other people.
Casa de Lava (Pedro Costa, 1994): 3/5
This gets by on the scenery alone (volcanic landscapes of Cape Verde Island). It's supposedly modeled on Tourneur's I Walked with a Zombie, which gives Costa the latitude to confound narrative expectations and make the islanders' behavior inscrutable, which I suppose is a way of telling the European exploiting classes that we'll never understand their history and suffering. But benefitting from the stardom of French actress Edith Scob by giving her a minor (or maybe major?) role as a mother on the island shows Costa having it both ways. Anyway, like the Portuguese protagonist, I was able to gather clues but no answers.
Death in Venice, rw (Luchino Visconti, 1971): 3/5
Exquisite rot. In 1913, Mann's real plague was the dissipation of Belle Epoque Europe's moribund aristocracy. The following year, militaristic types would begin a bloodletting as an antidote. It would not go well.
The Comfort of Strangers, rw (Paul Schrader, 1990): 1/5
Boring, vapid movie about boring, vapid people who happen to be rich and beautiful, which seems to be their only sin. And by this logic, only the one deemed most beautiful has to die. Seems to aspire to the operatic grandeur of Death in Venice, but settles for second-rate Hitchcock. Did this really require the services of Harold Pinter?
Old Boyfriends (Joan Tewkesbury, 1979): 2/5
Talia Shire, as per title, looks up and sleeps with three old flames: Richard Jordan (documentary filmmaker, kinda cool, kinda smartass); John Belushi (manager of formal shop and singer in a pathetic cover band--but you gotta see him belt out ZZ Top's "Tush"); and Keith Carradine (mentally ill, still lives with mother). What's missing here is a coherent and compelling reason why she'd go to all the trouble. Script by Paul & Leonard Schrader, hardly known for their insight into female psyche; Tewkesbury, an Altman acolyte, leaves it vague.
The American Friend, rw (Wim Wenders, 1977): 5/5
Astonishing color palette by Robbie Muller. Hopper makes for an unbalanced, weirdo Ripley. Bruno Ganz is every bit his equal and gives a deep, nuanced performance.
Ripley's Game (Liliana Cavani, 2002): 2/5
Malkovich is an oily, menacing Ripley, but his stooge is one-dimensional, and this quickly devolves into routine action tropes with European art cinema trappings.
Thief, rw (Michael Mann, 1981): 2/5
In his first theatrical feature, Mann shows great aptitude for photographing shiny cars on rainy streets. The rest is a series of cable-TV crime movie cliches, from the lone wolf safecracker who'll retire after his last big score to the ludicrous slo-mo killings accompanied by Tangerine Dream synthesizer cheese. Over time Mann will get bigger budgets and bigger stars, but this rot will remain at the core of everything he does.
11 Harrowhouse (Aram Avakian, 1974): 2/5
Upon Charles Grodin's passing in May 2021, several Criterion discussion board members recommended this British comic heist film as an underrated gem that both starred and was adapted by Grodin. But a cast that includes Candice Bergen, James Mason, Trevor Howard, and John Gielgud can't make up for the lazy voice-over narration that ruins the film with Grodin's shy-guy musings.
The Friends of Eddie Coyle, rw (Peter Yates, 1973): 4/5
A policier as low-key and assured as Robert Mitchum's central performance, with every frame shot on location in and around Boston.
Charley Varrick, rw (Don Siegel, 1973): 3/5
Solid, understated 70s bank robbing film, marred by a Lilo Schifrin score that sounds like an episode of "Charlie's Angels."
The Hot Rock, rw (Peter Yates, 1972): 4/5
A comic heist film that is consistently witty and tries to do nothing more than entertain, with a script by William Goldman based on a Donald Westlake novel. Redford, Segal, Liebman, and Sand are fantastic as a gang of hard-luck criminals. I saw this in the theater with a Planet of the Apes film when I was 12, and I was the only one of the group who thought The Hot Rock was better. A half-century later, I stand by this still-controversial opinion.
Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid, rw (George Roy Hill, 1969): 4/5
I still don't like how much it panders to make the leads so charming and lovable, but there's lots to like in William Goldman's quiet, wise screenplay and Conrad Hall's cinematography. And the leads are charming and lovable. I was surprised to learn how much this adheres to the true story, with one major exception: the real Butch Cassidy, when surrounded by the Bolivian army, killed Sundance and then himself--an ending only Polanski would have insisted on.
McCabe & Mrs. Miller, rw (Robert Altman, 1971): 5/5
This: "Beatty's reluctant hero and Christie's matter-of-fact five-dollar whore are nudged from bumptious farce through black comedy all the way to solitary tragedy imbedded in the communal indifference with which Altman identifies America. However, Altman neither celebrates nor scolds this communal indifference but instead accepts it as one of the conditions of existence." --Andrew Sarris, Village Voice review, July 8, 1971
The Wild Bunch, rw (Sam Peckinpah, 1969): 3.5/5
The gunfight scenes are still impressive, and it's still great to watch William Holden and Robert Ryan in late, valedictory roles. But I had forgotten the flashbacks being as embarrassingly sophomoric as those in Leone (e.g., For a Few Dollars More): sentimental, soft-focus memories of boudoir affections with pretty whores.
Midnight Cowboy, rw (John Schlesinger, 1969): 5/5
Many say it's about sex or friendship, but ultimately it's about loneliness. How many times have I sat alone in a room watching Joe Buck sit alone in a room watching TV, while that haunting harmonica theme pierces the silence? Too many to count.
Uptight (Jules Dassin, 1969): 3/5
Black revolutionary group in Cleveland, days after MLK assassination, decide to arm themselves and take it to whitey--but they're tripped up by an informer. Lots of persuasive talk about how non-violent protest only solidifies white power. Loosely based on John Ford's The Informer. Dassin returns to America after Blacklist exile in Europe and makes a revolutionary film--who knew?
Budd Boetticher: The Ranown Cycle
I watched one a day on Criterion Channel for six days, probably to their detriment, as it made me notice generic conventions more than individual strengths.
Seven Men From Now, rw (Budd Boetticher, 1956): 5/5
So little is spoken and so much is implied. A model of narrative economy, maturity, and visual splendor in 78 minutes--a perfect movie. This remains my favorite BB because it's the only one I've seen on the big screen (with BB and writer Burt Kennedy in attendance), and it has the best bad guy: Lee Marvin. After seeing it 20 years ago I knew there was a major plot twist coming somewhere, but it still surprised me.
The Tall T (Budd Boetticher, 1957): 4/5
Follows same plot as Seven Men: greenhorn couple (pretty wife, weak husband) happen upon strong silent type (Randolph Scott) who helps them fend off bad men in the desert. In the process, weak husband is eliminated and good guy walks into sunset with pretty widow. Bad guy: a surly but smart Richard Boone.
Decision at Sundown (Budd Boetticher, 1957): 3/5
Starts well, but hindered by R Scott surrounded in a town and general moralizing about importance of community doing the right thing to take down a charismatic bully masquerading as a do-gooder (likely inspired by Joe McCarthy's death that year). Here, low budget means using too many actors already overexposed on TV westerns.
Buchanan Rides Alone (Budd Boetticher, 1958): 3/5
While adhering to a length of less than 80 minutes, the back-and-forth kidnapping/ransom shenanigans start to wear thin, and the ending resorts to mining some cliches (e.g., the gunned-down man waking up to take one last shot with his pistol). Craig Stevens (TV's Peter Gunn) has complex role as seemingly honest man among the bad guys who must intervene on behalf of good guy Buchanan. To my chagrin, Randolph Scott, a magnificent physical specimen, was my age when he made this (that's right, he was born in 1898).
Ride Lonesome (Budd Boetticher, 1959): 3/5
RS as bounty hunter with a conscience, Pernell Roberts good in the complex role of colleague with criminal past trying to go straight. Wish there was more from a young James Coburn and Lee Van Cleef. But the whole thing involves too much revenge/redemption macho crap while they steal glances at bleach-blonde Karen Steele's anachronistic push-up atomic tits on the range.
Comanche Station (Budd Boetticher, 1960): 3/5
RS is another bounty hunter with a conscience and a haunted past. Claude Akins is the bad guy waiting to make his move, and he waits until the film's final minute. Thankfully, that's only the 72nd minute, but it seemed much longer.
Documentaries:
Spaceship Earth (Matt Wolf, 2020): 3/5
Doc about the Biosphere project is too in thrall with participating subjects, but has understandable empathy for a time when science and intellect were valued and put into action. Elides any discussion of sexuality among these science nerds and theatre people living together for years at a time. Messy corruption issues feel glossed over, esp. kicker in last 10 minutes when Steve Bannon arrives, characteristically, to destroy all hope in the name of Wall Street enterprise.
The Green Fog (Guy Maddin, et al, 2017): 3/5
Hour-long found-footage film of San Francisco settings. Supposedly an homage to Vertigo, but its overuse of schlock TV productions and stars (Rock Hudson, Chuck Norris, Michael Douglas), offers more tongue-in cheek amusement than poetry or insight.
Notfilm (Ross Lipman, 2015): 3/5
Fascinating doc by former UCLA archivist Lipman about the 1964 collaboration of Buster Keaton, Samuel Beckett, Boris Kaufman, and Barney Rossett on their disappointing and unwatchable experiment "Film." Too bad Lipman is long on philosophizing and wears out his welcome as the doc goes past two hours.
Ornette: Made in America, rw (Shirley Clarke, 1986): 3.5/5
Unsatisfying as biographical portrait or musical document, but does attempt to get under Coleman's skin. Funny how inadequate video is for conveying futuristic ideas about the intersections of outer space, art, and humankind. Maybe reducing the universe to binary code has leveled the playing field? Doc concludes with Ornette telling his infamous story about his wish to be castrated (he had to settle for circumcision) and then, post-concert, being greeted by a line of white Texan women who kiss, hug, and arrange meetings with him.
The Times of Harvey Milk, rw (Rob Epstein, 1982): 5/5
Still shocking, tragic, and moving. Milk is just so genuine, passionate, and articulate. I had forgotten that Dan White pulled a George Costanza: quit his supervisor job and then decided he made a mistake and wanted it back... and his boss refused, setting him off.
A Well-Spent Life (Les Blank, 1971): 4/5
Beautiful doc about country blues songster Mance Lipscomb just hangs out with him and his share-cropping family in rural West Texas and gives a full-blooded environmental portrait of the man and the roots of his blues. Blank has a great eye for vibrant B-roll to visually complement Lipscomb's nimble songs and philosophising. 44 minutes.
Festival (Murray Lerner, 1967): 3/5
Attempting to cover several Newport Folk Festivals, this falls prey to the typical music doc problem: too many clips of amazing performances, but never is a song shown in its entirety--not even when Dylan goes electric. That's why the outtakes (many full songs) available from Criterion are more satisfying.
Monterey Pop, rw (D.A. Pennebaker, 1967): 3.5/5
Pennebaker does at least feature many entire songs, and who would have guessed that after milestone performances by Redding, Joplin, and Hendrix, it was Ravi Shankar who brought down the house? Spin-off films focusing on Hendrix and Redding's entire Monterey performances are also welcome, although both stars exaggerate their showmanship to the detriment of their music.
This is a superb bit of criticism:
ReplyDeleteThe Road to Perdition: A crime story as magisterial as a beautifully embalmed corpse. Mendes would dunk Revolutionary Road into the same tub of formaldehyde a few years later. Like the neo-Spielbergian Frank Darabont, Mendes strives for "epic" and "classical" by slowing stories set in the past to a crawl, telegraphing every symbol and plot twist, and bathing it all in a soft, warm glow.