Cerebral Mastication

2010 Oscars Live Blog

2010-03-08T03:13:00.073+02:00

Welcome to the 2010 Oscars live blog. Keep hitting reload for all the latest updates. Techno, techno, techno, techno.

6:58AM – Istanbul/8:58PM – L.A.

"The Hurt Locker." Great stuff.

Laters, everyone. Thanks for reading.

6:55AM – Istanbul/8:55PM – L.A.

Kathryn Bigelow -- booya!

6:52AM – Istanbul/8:52PM – L.A.

La Streisand!

6:51AM – Istanbul/8:51PM – L.A.

Charlize Theron's dress. There. Bring on the hits!

6:49AM – Istanbul/8:49PM – L.A.

Did Sandra Bullock just acknowledge the juggernaut of an Oscar campaign her people ran for her? Awesome.

6:48AM – Istanbul/8:48PM – L.A.

What are you on about, Sean?

6:46AM – Istanbul/8:46PM – L.A.

I WANTS 2 LICK STANLEY TUCCIS SHINY HEAD.

6:43AM – Istanbul/8:43PM – L.A.

Short hair doesn't become Carey Mulligan. Neither does no hair Peter Sarsgaard.

6:37AM – Istanbul/8:37PM – L.A.

Three more to go. No real surprises, only a few mid-level ones. I really hope we get a streaker or something.

6:30AM – Istanbul/8:30PM – L.A.

Please say "The Dude Abides." Please say "The Dude Abides." Please say "The Dude Abides." Please say "The Dude Abides." Please say "The Dude Abides." Please say "The Dude Abides." Please say "The Dude Abides." Please say "The Dude Abides." Please say "The Dude Abides." Please say "The Dude Abides." Please say "The Dude Abides."

6:27AM – Istanbul/8:27PM – L.A.

The mini-tributes are better than last year's ones, though.

That close-up on Jeff Bridges' beautiful face. Possibly the best moment of the night so far. Go Jeff!

6:24AM – Istanbul/8:24PM – L.A.

Oh, great. They're doing the "mini-tributes" from last year.

6:22AM – Istanbul/8:22PM – L.A.

By the way, they just played the theme from "Amarcord" as tarantino and Almodovar came on stage to present the foreign film award. Unexpected, but welcome.

6:18AM – Istanbul/8:18PM – L.A.

Best foreign film is about to go to Die Children Von Den Corn aka "The White Ribbon."

It doesn't! It goes to "The Secret In Their Eyes!" And I had an awesome Haneke acceptance speech joke. Alas, it will never see the light of day. Like tears in the rain, etc...

6:14AM – Istanbul/8:14PM – L.A.

Get on with it. I have to go for a run before I go to work.

6:12AM – Istanbul/8:12PM – L.A.

Sitemeter Update: Lots of folks are googling "crazy woman oscar acceptance speech." For once, they don't mean Sally Field.

6:09AM – Istanbul/8:09PM – L.A.

Keanu Reeves? Oh, "Point Break." I see. You gonna jump or jerk off? Good times.

6:01AM – Istanbul/8:01PM – L.A.

Hey, wait! George Minkowski from Lost produced "The Cove?" Chaos reigns.

5:59AM – Istanbul/7:59PM – L.A.

Surprised Sam Elliott was not recognised for reprising his character The Stranger from "The Big Lebowski" in "Up In The Air."

5:55AM – Istanbul/7:55PM – L.A.

Farrah Fawcett was not featured during the "In Memoriam" segment. John Spencer was also not in the segment the year he died. The producers might have a bias against "TV actors."

5:52AM – Istanbul/7:52PM – L.A.

I am extremely happy for Michael Giacchino (even though I preferred Hans Zimmer's score for "Sherlock Holmes"). He is the next John Williams, and he is doing sterling work with his Lost score.

5:49AM – Istanbul/7:49PM – L.A.

OK, I'm sorry, I was wrong. Some dude is doing the robot to the score from "Up." If the rest of the show were like this, we'd have something.

5:48AM – Istanbul/7:48PM – L.A.

You remember the dancing Mother Theresa clip in the third "Naked Gun?" That was fun.

5:47AM – Istanbul/7:47PM – L.A.

I LIEK DANCIN. HIPPITY HOPPITY.

5:46AM – Istanbul/7:46PM – L.A.

Is it me or has Jennifer Lopez's accent gone more Latina?

Oh, goodie - no song performances in a year full of great tunes - instead, dancing! More coffee, methinks.

5:39AM – Istanbul/7:39PM – L.A.

Demi Moore is presenting the "In Memoriam" segment. Included in the clipshow is her career.

Sandra Bullock over-enunciates Mauro Fiore's name, who thanks "the visionary James Cameron for his incredible vision." Urm, LOLZ?

5:24AM – Istanbul/7:24PM – L.A.

Wow! Tobin Bell's a sound editor, too! That guy's multi-talented.

5:24AM – Istanbul/7:24PM – L.A.

I am glad they got Morgan Freeman to explain to me what a sound editor does. I hope they'll do the same for the director.

5:20AM – Istanbul/7:20PM – L.A.

Retro! They used Busta Rhymes' "Gimme Some More" to score the horror montage.

5:20AM – Istanbul/7:20PM – L.A.

I'd have found "Paranormal Activity" more frightening if there were such a thing as a demon.

5:18AM – Istanbul/7:18PM – L.A.

I LIKD PRESHUS. PEEPS THREW THINGS.

5:14AM – Istanbul/7:14PM – L.A.

The clips from "Precious: Based on a novel by a man named Lear" just make me want to revisit the incredible "Precious Moments" viral from earlier this year.

5:06AM – Istanbul/7:06PM – L.A.

Art Direction goes to Roger Dean.

5:02AM – Istanbul/7:02PM – L.A.

"You touched it, the whole world saw it." Discarded tagline for "Precious?"

4:58AM – Istanbul/6:58PM – L.A.

Go Anna Kendrick! Obviously Mo'Nique has this in the bag, but still...

4:54AM – Istanbul/6:54PM – L.A.

Roger Corman and Lauren Bacall. Miley Cyrus is thinking? Roger Who and Lauren What?

4:51AM – Istanbul/6:51PM – L.A.

There goes "Up In The Air's" consolation prize.

4:48AM – Istanbul/6:48PM – L.A.

Please, please, please "In The Loop."

Hah! They probably could not get a Malcolm Tucker clip that didn't have any swears.

4:43AM – Istanbul/6:43PM – L.A.

Not one mention of Gene Roddenberry. After all, he only created Star Trek.

4:43AM – Istanbul/6:43PM – L.A.

I LIKD STAR TREK. SHINY.

4:38AM – Istanbul/6:38PM – L.A.

The Ben Stiller bit is awesome.

Did you see Stiller at the Indies? You must.

4:38AM – Istanbul/6:38PM – L.A.

Please spare poor Jim's feelings.

4:32AM – Istanbul/6:32PM – L.A.

The crazy lady during the best documentary short acceptance speech was pretty awesome, I must say.

The New Tenants -- yay! Go, Denmark!

4:31AM – Istanbul/6:31PM – L.A.

It's really rather dull so far, no?

4:28AM – Istanbul/6:28PM – L.A.

Fuck! Carey Mulligan's ripped!

4:26AM – Istanbul/6:26PM – L.A.

The shot of Taylor Lautner and Kristen Stewart at the end of the John Hughes segment? IRONICCUTTINGBOMB!

4:20AM – Istanbul/6:20PM – L.A.

The John Hughes tribute is gorgeous.

BTW, either Molly Ringwald's wearing giant heels or Carrie Bradshaw married a pixie-man.

4:16AM – Istanbul/6:16PM – L.A.

OK. "The Hurt Locker" wins best film.

4:14AM – Istanbul/6:14PM – L.A.

Best Original Screenplay, and I am pretty sure Tarantino has this in the bag. Nostradamus, c'est moi.

4:11AM – Istanbul/6:11PM – L.A.

Oh, the writing awards. No chance, I know, but go "In The Loop."

4:07AM – Istanbul/6:07PM – L.A.

DISTRICT 9 RULEZ. ALIS MORON.

4:05AM – Istanbul/6:05PM – L.A.

"Part science fiction, part thriller." Don't tell me, "Aliens in the Attic," right.

By the way, I liked "District 9" a whole lot less than pretty much anyone on the planet. And not just because I'm a natural contrarian (which I'm not, actually).

4:00AM – Istanbul/6:00PM – L.A.

I'm happy that Ryan Bingham and T-Bone Burnett won, but I thought it was "Fallin' & Flyin'" and "Somebody Else" that were truly outstanding.

3:59AM – Istanbul/5:59PM – L.A.

"Just imagine this whole stage filled with the best cast and crew." Fine. I'm thinking "Debbie Does Dallas."

3:58AM – Istanbul/5:58PM – L.A.

"Up!" Just as I'd predicted.

3:57AM – Istanbul/5:57PM – L.A.

I'm predicting a win for "Fantastic Mr. Fox." Why not?

I never, never, NEVER enjoy these cutesy nomination clips for the best animated feature.

3:53AM – Istanbul/5:53PM – L.A.

OH HAI. IM ALIS KAT SHMI. ILL BE MAKIN OCCASHUNAL APPEARANCEZ WHEN HEZ AWAY. HEERS TEH FURST. I LIEK AVATAR. IT HAS KAT PEEPS AN SHINY THINGS. KTHXBAI.

3:47AM – Istanbul/5:47PM – L.A.

Go, Christoph. Uber-bingo, indeed.

If my sarcasm did not come through, Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin's opening skit would have worked better as a monologue (for Martin).

I did like Waltz's speech. Short, sweet, and it also had a maritime metaphor.

3:44AM – Istanbul/5:44PM – L.A.

Oh, did I see “Nine?” Nein. I thank you.

3:43AM – Istanbul/5:43PM – L.A.

“Invictus” combines two of my greatest passions: rugby and dodgy accents.

I love you Steve Martin, and your ludicrously inappropriate yet ludicrously awesome Hitler memorabilia joke. (My blog’s going to get some weird hits now)

Jim Cameron – the man embodies humility. I hope his fragile feelings don’t get hurt by the intergalactic dandelions gag.

Have a drink every time someone mentions Bigelow and Cameron used to be married.

“The motherload!” The opening monologue’s the best in years.

3:31AM – Istanbul/5:31PM – L.A.

Ooh, Neil Patrick Harris! Well played, Shankman!

Was that all the acting nominees or just the frontrunners? If it was the latter, than it’s a bit of a bummer for the others, no?

3:20AM – Istanbul/5:20PM – L.A.

Miley Cyrus AND Taylor Lautner are here? Tweedledum and Tweedledumber. Joy!

Earlier, I saw Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon, who were wonderful together in “Guess Who’s Coming to Rugby.”

The neurons in my brain are committing ritual suicide as retribution for my watching these red carpet interviews.

"Er war ein Mann der Frauen, Frauen liebten seinen Punk"

2009-09-19T15:01:00.007+02:00

Today marks the 25th anniversary of the release of Milos Forman's Amadeus. Head on over to Edward Copeland on Film to read my retrospective. "But I can't wait, at least give us a lede!" OK, then.

The tragedy of Antonio Salieri is the driving force behind Miloš Forman’s film version of Peter Shaffer’s seminal play. Here is a pious man, in complete devotion to what he believes to be a God of Grace and Mercy. Salieri has rejected almost all of life’s earthly pleasures, has offered God his undying love, “his industry, his deepest humility,” and, of course, his chastity. All he’s ever asked for in return is a soupçon of that divine Grace to manifest itself in the form of talent. God, however, has picked as a favourite not Salieri, but instead a vulgar ninny, who is not only anathema to all that Salieri believes in, but, through whom, his lack of talent is only made more explicit. God has given Salieri deranged ambition for, and an infinite love of, music, but withheld from him the elements required to realise it. This contumelious God has shared with the world a part of himself, all the while making a mockery of his faithful servant Salieri by rejecting his piety. Knowing his predilection for irony, there’s no wonder Peter Shaffer called his play not Mozart, not even Salieri, but Amadeus.

To read the rest of the article at Edward Copeland on Film, click here.

Star Trash

2009-05-21T18:39:00.005+02:00

Oh blessed be, nerds; oh happy day! Time to gambol. Star Trek is finally cool! HUZZAH! And here’s the bonus: J.J. Abrams, the director, and Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman, the writers, have found ingeniously oafish ways of crowbarring every single aspect of common Trek lore into the film. The single most moving line in the history of the entire Star Trek canon is destroyed to underline a scene that would have otherwise been quite powerful. It’s obvious the filmmakers studied Gene Roddenberry’s space saga closely, got to know it inside out, and it shows in their slavish and graceless dedication to the franchise. But, you know what they say: Knowledge is knowing tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in your fruit salad.

Click here to read the rest of the article at The House Next Door.

Arnie at CeBIT

2009-03-04T20:09:00.002+02:00

Arnold Schwarzenegger was a guest of honour at the recent Cebit Conference in Germany, where he delivered, what I assume to be, the keynote address in front of a whole bunch of business people and dignitaries, including the German Chancellor Angela Merkel. The remarks were in English at first, though he segued into German half way through, and the following clip is the last few minutes of his speech.

Schwarzenegger’s most important quality as an action star was his sense of humour. It’s great to see that he’s still got it. If you don’t speak German, that’s OK (though you really should learn how to because it’s a great language), but pay attention around the 1:40 mark. I will replace the clip with a better version should I find one.

Oscars Liveblog

2009-02-23T03:10:00.045+02:00

6:57AM – Istanbul/8:57PM – L.A.

That was terrible. Off to work.

6:55AM – Istanbul/8:55PM – L.A.

Even the poop kid is there. And the Slumdog people don't want to leave the stage.

6:52AM – Istanbul/8:52PM – L.A.

A montage of best film nominees, interspersed with moments from best film winners of yesteryear.

Steven Spielberg presents the best film Oscar to Slumdog Millionaire. Again, I am not going to wait for him to actually say it before posting.

6:47AM – Istanbul/8:47PM – L.A.

Vito Corleone, Gandhi, Gordon Gecko, Hannibal Lecter and Jack Driscoll mirror the ladies from earlier, each saluting one of the nominees. How did they agree to this drivel?

"I do know how hard I make it to appreciate me," says Sean Penn, who wins best actor for Milk. Mickey Rourke sends him a kiss from his pudgy lips. That's a big kiss.

6:35AM – Istanbul/8:35PM – L.A.

Kate Winslet is still talking.

6:32AM – Istanbul/8:32PM – L.A.

Springtime for Winslet and Germany.

A montage of best actress acceptance speeches of yesteryear, which I am sure was the same as the one from the top of the show. Shirley Maclaine, Marion Cotillard, Nicole Kidman, Halle Berry and Sophia Loren come on stage, and do the absolutely dreadful "singling out each nominee and singing their praises" bit. It was just the worst, worst idea, and I can't believe they thought it would work.

6:21AM – Istanbul/8:21PM – L.A.

Nope, there was a problem with the broadcast apparently.

Anyway, Reese Witherspoon gets on the stage, does her schtick (incredibly unfunny), and starts reading the best director pablum from the autocue. Danny Boyle wins best director, and there's really no point of watching this any longer. I will, though. I wear the chain I forged in life.

6:14AM – Istanbul/8:14PM – L.A.

Queen Latifah is miming during the death montage, or there’s no sound on the feed from L.A.

I think this one might be a local problem as it's gone to commercial now. I have to go to work in just over an hour. Pity me.

6:08AM – Istanbul/8:08PM – L.A.

Best Foreign Language Film is being presented by Liam “Yeah, I can’t believe how much Taken’s taken, either” Neeson and Freida “Homina, Homina” Pinto. The first genuine surprise of the night as Departures takes home the Oscar.

6:02AM – Istanbul/8:02PM – L.A.

Jai Ho wins. Call me Nostradamus.

Jai ho, Jai ho, it’s off to work we go. I’m terribly sorry.

5:59AM – Istanbul/7:59PM – L.A.

A movie without music is like an airplane without fuel, says Hugh Jackman, before a short medley of the Oscar nominated scores. The earlier glitches have given way to sheer dullness. Slumdog is about to win this. Yup.

Jack Nicholson, by the way?

Zac Efron, once again (for fuck’s sake), and Alicia Keys give A.R. Rahman his award, rolling their r’s ever so condescendingly.

And the best song medley, which was the cause of the only controversy in this year’s ceremony. Can’t say I disagree with the producers’ decision to keep this short.

Jai Ho wins this one. I am just going to go ahead and post before they even announce it.

5:46AM – Istanbul/7:46PM – L.A.

Eddie Murphy presents the Jean Hersholt Award to Jerry Lewis. I’ve got that one right. The great nation of France is thankful to the Academy.

A montage of Jerry Lewis films, and moments from his telethons, follow, initially set to Coldplay’s Viva La Vida, one of the truly hideous songs of last year.

Jerry Lewis’s speech is short and classy.

5:40AM – Istanbul/7:40PM – L.A.

Sitemeter Update: Enquiring minds want to know the name of the piece of music that played during the special effects montage. It was Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes. You’re welcome.

5:35AM – Istanbul/7:35PM – L.A.

A montage of money shots (not that kind, alas) from various summer blockbusters, and Rambo, as it finishes with the single worst shot in Iron Man.

Will Smith emerges from the floor to the Dark Knight theme (seriously, what world are these guys living in) to present the visual effects Oscar, which, understandably, goes to Benjamin Button. This was the one part of the film that kind of worked.

Smith stays on the stage, unable to pronounce the word astounding, and gives the sound editing award to The Dark Knight. A quick shot of Christopher Nolan smiling. Hell has indeed frozen over.

Fresh Prince just does not want to leave. Slumdog Millionaire wins the sound mixing Oscar.

"Yes, they still have me here," quips Hancock just before Slumdog wins best editing. Sweepety sweep.

5:19AM – Istanbul/7:19PM – L.A.

Smile Pinki wins best documentary short. Start getting ready for tomorrow's headlines with lots and lots of Indian puns.

5:15AM – Istanbul/7:15PM – L.A.

Heath Ledger does indeed win, and his mum, dad, and sister get on the stage to accept the award. Various shots of people looking solemn, with Adrian Brody especially teary-eyed. Sad moment.

A documentary montage follows, which reminds me how much I love Werner Herzog. And speaking of documentaries, I saw Man on Wire yesterday - pants.

Bill Maher is presenting best documentary - I think. There was a problem with the feed, but this was, for once, an issue at our end, I think. Anyway, Man on Wire is winning this, and look, it does.

5:06AM – Istanbul/7:06PM – L.A.

Christopher Walken, Kevin Kline, Cuba Gooding Jr, Alan Arkin, and Joel Grey are presenting the best supporting actor award, which is going to Heath Ledger. This bizarre way of saying how great each actor was is embarrassing. For all of us.

5:00AM – Istanbul/7:00PM – L.A.

It's snowing in Istanbul. Thought you might want to know.

4:58AM – Istanbul/6:58PM – L.A.

Hugh Jackman and Beyonce, both in top hats, are doing a musical medley. If you ever needed another reason to dislike Grease, then you should see this. Actually, better not.

Hah – they sing a few bars from One Night Only, too. Let’s not pretend to care, indeed.

Oh, god – Zac Efron, Vanessa Hudgens, Amanda Seyfried, and, you know, that guy, are also on the stage.

This terrible bit was called “The Musical Is Back.” And it was choreographed by Baz Luhrman. Both Luhrman and the musical have seen better days.

4:40AM – Istanbul/6:40PM – L.A.

The only seriously funny bit so far. Seth Rogen, James Franco and, this is just brilliant, Janusz Fricking Kaminski in a skit about all the comedies of the last year.

The three also present best live action short, and it goes to Spielzeugland, which Franco can’t pronounce, much to Rogen’s giggling delight. The film’s director says he is going to have fun with a boldhead. Grossartig, mann.

4:31AM – Istanbul/6:31PM – L.A.

Ben Stiller is ripping on Joaquin Phoenix, and his recent breakdown on Letterman. Stiller is out of shot for most of the bit, so we the reactions, but never actually see the bit. A lot of glitches this year.

It is going to be a Slumdog sweep, as it wins cintog (Anthony Dod Mantle does, but you know what I mean). I thought Benjamin Button might win this one, because everyone seems to have loved its look. Whatever. You can’t polish a turd.

4:24AM – Istanbul/6:24PM – L.A.

Amanda Seyfried and the Twilight guy have just presented a montage of the Oscars’ salute to the most emasculating moments of 2008.

It’s not a good show. Not quite a train wreck, but there’s still tim. And time.

4:24AM – Istanbul/6:24PM – L.A.

For fuck’s sake, they’re not done yet. Carrie Bradshaw and Sarah Jessica Parker are still on the stage, this time presenting best makeup. It goes to Greg Cannom for Benjamin Button.

4:20AM – Istanbul/6:20PM – L.A.

Oh, I get it – the theme for the night is the filmmaking process itself. Nothing gets past me.

Sarah Jessica Parker and one of the aforementioned Space Chimps (who messed up reading the autocue) present the art direction award – it goes to The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

They're also presenting best costume design. Just before the camera cuts to them, there is, once again, a technical glitch and you can hear Craig checking with Parker if everything isn't alright, and her, rather abruptly, saying yes.

The Duchess wins, by the way. Michael O'Connor's acceptance speech is very good.

4:14AM – Istanbul/6:14PM – L.A.

I've just checked Sitemeter, and a lot of people, and I mean A LOT of people, are googling "Open it, Steve."

4:10AM – Istanbul/6:10PM – L.A.

They’ll be doing a 2008 movie yearbook thingy this year apparently. A montage of a whole bunch of animated films including, inexplicably, Space Chimps.

Jennifer Aniston (ooh, she is the same room as Brangelina, the controversy) and Jack Black present the best animated film award, and it goes to Space Chimps.

And they're not done yet apparently - they still have to give out best animated short. Fuck - it doesn't go to Presto! La maison en petits cubes wins.

DOMO ARIGATO MR ROBOTO! AWESOME!

4:03AM – Istanbul/6:03PM – L.A.

Simon Beaufoy wins the best adapted screenplay Oscar for Slumdog Millionaire. It’s going to be a Slumdog sweep tonight.

3:58AM – Istanbul/5:58PM – L.A.

Tina Fey and Steve Martin are about to present the writing awards. And then they make a Scientology joke!

Dustin Lance Black wins for Milk.

3:50AM – Istanbul/5:50PM – L.A.

Penelope Cruz wins for Vicky Cristina Barthelona. It's not a good film, and Viola Davis should have won here, but I am happy for Cruz. She mirrors Javier Bardem from last year, and says something in Spanish. I think she just swore at Portugal.

Just before, Eva Marie Saint, Whoopi Goldberg, Angelica Huston, Goldie Hawn, and Tilda Swinton each did a bit on the five actresses nominated for their supporting work. And I threw up a little bit inside my mouth.

By the way, Philip Seymour Hoffman is looking like Norma Desmond tonight.

3:42AM – Istanbul/5:42PM – L.A.

This is glorious – they’re messing up left, right and centre.

Just before the supporting actress montage, there was a feed from the control room: “Steve, open it.” Referring to the stage curtains. Or Steve’s legs.

3:39AM – Istanbul/5:39PM – L.A.

Standing ovation for the opening number. Seriously, you're all on crack.

Funny joke about how nobody’s seen The Reader. Me included. I was supposed to see it today, but I went to bed at seven instead.

3:36AM – Istanbul/5:36PM – L.A.

Cringe-worthy opening number.

This is on a level with the infamous Rob Lowe/Follow The Hollywood Starts bit.

There is something heart warming about Hugh Jackman’s singing it’s alright to be gay. If you believe the rumours, that is.

3:32AM – Istanbul/5:32PM – L.A.

G’day mate.

I’ll give them this – the stage looks great.

3:27AM – Istanbul/5:27PM – L.A.

Go Richard Jenkins!

I hate to be noticing these things but Marisa Tomei and Anne Hathaway are both wearing white.

By the way, the trailer for Funny People is out, and it looks great. I especially love the jokes at the doctor’s office.

Anyway, get ready to hit snooze, cause it’s all about to kick off.

3:15AM – Istanbul/5:15PM – L.A.
There seems to be a problem with the stream from the red carpet. The sound is acting up (fitting, if you think about it).

Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens are doing their best to remind me why I dislike them so. The Achy Breaky Heart guy's daughter is here, too, so tonight is probably going to be a lot tweenier than usual. Spare me.

Robert Downey Jr and Mickey Rourke always look very, very uncomfortable doing these interviews. Today is no different.

3:10AM – Istanbul/5:10PM – L.A.

Oh, goody. Here we are again. Three o’clock my time. Every year I get excited for the Oscars, and every year I say to myself (I talk to myself fairly frequently) I should reconsider the wisdom of getting up at three in the morning on a Monday. Thing is, I am usually quite stoked, but this year the allure of my warm bed is particularly strong. It’s safe to say that bitching this year’s pack of movies is going to be a running theme tonight.

ANNOUNCEMENT: Oscarcast Live Blog + Final Oscar Predictions

2009-02-19T17:50:00.006+02:00

Now this is a hard one.

As has been my custom for the past two years, I will be live blogging the Oscars this Sunday. This is a big thing for me – the time difference between Istanbul and LA means I have to get up at half two in the morning (I might even get up at one this year, but don’t count on it), compose myself (not like that, you perverts), get into the right frame of my mind, and start blogging away. No mean feat, since I discard most of the posts or reviews I begin writing half-way through.

This year’s ceremony is going to be an interesting one, in that it’s the first time in my life where I couldn’t care less about any of the flicks up for best picture. It’s not been a terrible movie year for me, but it’s most certainly not been a stand-out one, like last year so obviously was. The one word that immediately pops to mind is lacklustre. I am reminded of the immortal line from This Is Spinal Tap. Describing the band, and the roles played by Nigel Tufnel and David St. Hubbins within it, Derek Smalls expounds, “They're two distinct types of visionaries, it's like fire and ice, basically. I feel my role in the band is to be somewhere in the middle of that, kind of like lukewarm water.” That’s exactly what this year’s Oscar season feels like: tepid, pedestrian, and frustratingly uncontroversial.

Anyway, here are my final Oscar predictions. See you on Sunday.

Best Picture: Slumdog Millionaire

Best Director: Gus Van Sant

Best Actor: Mickey Rourke

Best Actress: Kate Winslet

Best Supporting Actor: Heath Ledger

Best Supporting Actress: Viola Davis

Best Original Screenplay: WALL-E

Best Adapted Screenplay: Slumdog Millionaire

Best Animated Film: WALL-E

Best Foreign Language Film: Waltz With Bashir

Best Animated Short: Presto

Best Art Direction: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Best Cinematography: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Best Costume Design: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Best Documentary: Man on Wire

Best Documentary Short: The Final Inch

Best Film Editing: The Dark Knight

Best Live Action Short: Toyland

Best Makeup: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Best Score: Slumdog Millionaire

Best Song: Down to Earth (WALL-E)

Best Sound Editing: WALL-E

Best Sound Mixing: WALL-E

Best Visual Effects: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

And I predict Jerry Lewis will win the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award. Call it a hunch.

A Pinchbeck Parable

2009-02-15T22:36:00.008+02:00

Six more weeks of winter, I see...

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button tells the story of a man who is born in his eighties and ages backward. Or that’s what everyone says it does, because it’s not quite true. Benjamin Button (Brad Pitt, as well as a whole bunch of zeroes and ones) is born, like most, if not – and I’m going out on a limb here – all men, a baby. He is ailed with the infirmities of old age, but he is not born an old man. He is an old fricking baby.

I realise that this is far too literalistic a take on what’s supposed to be a parable, but, Miss, David Fincher and Eric Roth made me do it. The respective director and writer of the film have fashioned from a satirical and sui generis Fitzgerald short story such trite Oscar bait of a picture that it’s hard not to let yourself wander the depths of reality. It’s always a bad sign when your film starts with the bizarre story of a blind watchmaker, and your audience’s mind turns immediately to Richard Dawkins.

Benjamin Button is born on the last day of the First World War in New Orleans. His father is disgusted by his outwardly appearance and abandons him in front of an old people’s home run by Queenie (Taraji P. Henson, in the only performance worth a damn), who summarily decides to raise him as her own. Considering his condition, a convalescent home is a good place for Benjamin to grow up, and it is there that he meets Daisy (Cate Blanchett), the love of his life, whose grandmother lives in the nursing home. The two have an on-again/off-again relationship as the audience has an on-again/off-again relationship with sweet, sweet slumber.

Imagine how the film could have been developed in a slightly more screen-palatable way, i.e. also doing away with Fitzgerald’s original conceit of Benjamin’s being a 6 foot geezer, while keeping the unique nature of the story. Benjamin is born an old baby, but with the intelligence and knowledge of an old man, something which becomes clearer to the rest of the world as he, for examples, says his first word: instead of “daa-daa” or “goo-goo,” the tyke recites William Blake. Then the villagers burn him at the stake.

But, no, Fincher and Roth don’t just want to have their cake and eat it, they also want us to pay for it, and then go out and get them some bloody lemonade – like, pronto! The film is supposed to be a dereistic allegory on mortality, star-crossed lovers, miscommunication, well, any Issue you can think of, but it is played so straight and so literally that it’s impossible to suspend disbelief. But allegories are supposed to have a moral – they are supposed to teach us a lesson. Good luck finding one here. You do get a lump in your throat quite often, only it's not a surge of emotions, it's lunch.

The film lacks the courage of its own convictions. It is also completely bereft of whimsy. We are never treated to how the young Benjamin felt being trapped in an old man’s body – a brief shot of his looking wistfully at a couple of kids skipping rope feels like an afterthought thrown in for no good reason. In a film nearing three hours, you’d think it might be an important part of the main character’s story, but not in this film. His first sexual encounter is with a prostitute, and he hammers away into the wee hours of the night: but hang on, isn’t he supposed to be a 70-year-old man at this point? Fincher squanders another opportunity here – rather than going for a cheap laugh, it would have been much wiser, and truer to the film itself, to have Benjamin unable to perform on that first night. His mind is ready – his body is not. Think of the trauma.

Similarly, the most interesting parts of Benjamin’s tale are skipped over. We never see how a sixty-year old Benjamin, with the body of a twenty year old Brad Pitt, fares in the world. Nor do we witness the decline of his mind as his body keeps getting younger. How did he deal with this most horrid irony? We never find out. Obviously, before he writes his next movie, Roth needs to re-read Flowers for Algernon.

And, boy, everyone has wacky stories - one guy tells of the seven times he was struck by lightning, one woman eulogises about her failed attempt at crossing the English channel, old Blanchett drones on and on about a clock maker – all of which is just drivel. This sort of "wacky side stories in the middle of the narrative that serve no fucking purpose except to show off the writer's sense of self-importance" might have played ten years ago (think Magnolia - an infinitely better movie) - but we are not that cynical anymore. And we’ve also realised how shit American Beauty really was.

Benjamin also gets a piece of the extraneous story action during an interminable ten minute ramble where he relates the story of the seemingly unconnected events that led to Daisy’s being run over by a Parisian taxi driver, leading her to quit her calling, modern dance. Apart from the fact that it is completely unfathomable to even imagine Benjamin could know about all the minutiae that apparently caused the car accident, it is one of the silliest, most meaningless, sequences in the history of cinema. It’s supposed to showcase how destiny has a funny way of sneaking up on you; but instead it just comes across as pleading. If she had not forgot her coat, if he had not stopped for coffee, if I had been there… Whatever, pal. If my aunt had bollocks, beggars would ride.

From Touch of Evil to Dark City: A Grand Appreciation Of Film Noir

2009-02-11T18:51:00.003+02:00

Kevin Olson’s Hugo Stiglitz Makes Movies is one of the blogosphere’s best kept secrets. It is insightful, witty and always a pleasure to read – one of my daily stops. Well, Kevin has just published a monster of a piece on film noir as an evolving genre, and it’s an utter joy. Here is an excerpt from Neo, Cyber, and Postmodern Noir: A Look at Film Noir as an Evolving Genre :
Loneliness is at the heart of Roman Polanski’s Chinatown. At one point Detective J.J. Gittes (Jack Nicholson) is asked “Are you alone?” by a voice on the phone; “aren’t we all?” he replies. Chinatown is a film noir in the traditional sense (the nostalgic opening credit sequence reminds you of that fact) with its private eye, femme fatale, hidden truths, and shadow lands; however Polanski takes these classic noir tropes and plays with them. The shadows of alleyways and seedy locations have been replaced by stark, glossy 1940 Los Angeles business buildings -- seedlings for what would grow into the metropolis we recognize today. Polanski also removes the traditional femme fatale role from his film, as Evelyn Mulwray (Faye Dunaway) is the victim, not the seductive siren. Gittes is a private detective, but Polanski has some fun with this particular trope as he has his Tec’s nose sliced in half. Gittes even says at one point that he is a snoop, and what good is a snoop with only half a nose.

Now, head on over to Hugo Stiglitz Makes Movies to read the rest of this excellent essay.

Please, please, let this be good

2009-02-09T22:41:00.010+02:00

- Any chance I get, flatten Paul flipping Madeley.
- Good lad.

Even though I disliked Frost/Nixon, that doesn’t change the fact that The Queen was my favourite film of 2006, or that I simply cannot wait for The Special Relationship. Peter Morgan is an excellent writer, with a paradoxically great ear for real-yet-affected dialogue, and a deft touch for seamlessly bringing together the mundane with the extraordinary to create wholly fulfilling works of art. Morgan’s next film, directed by Tom Hooper, is The Damned United, an adaptation of David Peace’s best-selling novel of the same name. Here is what Wikipedia says about the book:

Told from Clough's point of view, the novel is written as his stream of consciousness as he tries and fails to impose his will on a team he inherited from his bitter rival, Don Revie, and whose players are still loyal to their old manager. Interspersed are flashbacks to his more successful days as manager of Derby County. Described by its author as "a fiction based on a fact," the novel mixes fiction, rumour and speculation with documented facts to depict Clough as a deeply flawed hero; foul mouthed, vengeful and beset with inner demons and alcoholism.

The film stars the almost always reliable (cheap Frost/Nixon dig, I know) Michael Sheen as Clough, as well as Jim Broadbent, Colm Meaney, and Timothy Spall. You can’t judge a film by its trailer, but a trailer can get you excited for a film. I am very excited for The Damned United.

Ramblings on Lost

2009-02-06T22:20:00.014+02:00

"They elected a black guy?"

Having watched the first four episodes of Lost’s fifth season, here are a few random thoughts:

- I think I might be the only person in the known universe to prefer episodes that deal primarily with the original castaways. That might have something to do with the exceptionally good actors, like Matthew Fox, Terry O’Quinn, and Josh Holloway – or, in the case of Kate-centric stories, with the fact that I am a sucker for a gorgeous face, and by golly, does Evangeline Lilly have one.

- Talking about Evangeline Lilly, was it me or did her Canadian accent sneak in during the scene in the hotel room where she tapped out Aaron’s ketchup. She can tap out my ketchup.

- I am still not exactly sure if I am happy with the way things are progressing. This time-travel schtick of a loose narrative with strands dangling in the air like Michael Bolton’s mane is all good and fine – and they seem to have an endgame in place, which will make the whole thing all the more rewarding eventually. But, still, the sense of a pervasive mystery has all but disappeared. Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse seem to be running the tightest of ships, especially when it comes to making sure everything has some sort of an explanation. In “The Little Prince,” the way they, and the writers, incorporated the batsignal from the hatch from the first season was a nice touch – especially the meta moment where the writers, vicariously through Locke, admitted that it was nothing but a cool gimmick to end the episode on at the time. Still, though, I get the sense that they are trying to explain too much. It’s as if Lindelof, Cuse and the writers realised they let way too much hanging in the second and third seasons, and now they are trying to literalise the fuck out of it. Some things should be left unexplained. What are the numbers? What’s the deal with the skeletons they found in the caves? What the hell was the black smoke? Oh, who gives a fuck! In the wise words of Mother Mary, let it be.

- Has Sun all gone all Sun-ti-Mental or is it just me? Will she try to exact revenge on Jack and Kate, and, god forbid, maybe Aaron? The scene where she was left alone with the kid was terrifying – harkening back to the former days of the show where, once again I must mention this, the mystery creeped the fuck out of you (Oh, I must say Microsoft Word's spell-check is just dying to replace “creeped” with “creped.” Yet people, like moi, still use it – go figure).

- Michael Emerson’s run in Lost should be analysed by all bit-parters/guest-actors as to how an apparently short gig can be transformed into a full-time position. The guy was signed on for a few episodes, but he was so fricking good, that the story was written around him. And now, Emerson is simply doing sterling work, rocking the house every time he’s on screen. He has become one of the core characters.

- Charlotte is Daniel’s daughter. Probably. If so…lame.

- Also rocking the house this season is Josh Holloway. He is simply brilliant. Just look at the aftermath of the scene where he witnesses Aaron’s birth – some of the best work he’s done on the show. I disagree that he was underused last season – he was merely unlucky in not being one of the six that got out. But, it just goes to show how great the initial casting was that you can leave one of your star players on the sidelines for an entire season, and yet, they bring in their A-game when it’s, once again, their moment. I’d like to think that it was Holloway’s sojourn to Turkey last summer to shoot an ice-cream commercial that brought out the best in him. I am nothing if not able to cite my country as inspiration for greatness.

- Jin’s comeback? How are they ever going to tie that in with the established mythology of the show? During the last four seasons, has Jin ever run into Rousseau? Has she ever recognised him? All questions waiting to be answered. Do I care? No, I do not. Still, it’s good to see Jin back.

- And talking about those people who believe in plans and all that shit, it was obvious from the get go in the first season that Jin was going to – SUDDENLY – turn out to be an Anglophone (which is a long word for having a telephone bought in England). Just look at the reaction shots. Anyway, I am so glad they ended up diverting from that route. Jin has turned out to be one of the most interesting characters.

- Wolverine Sayid of the past two seasons is a much better approach towards the character than the tortured torturer approach of the former seasons.

- This has nothing to do with Lost, but isn’t it funny how Heroes is so shit? It’s simply the worst show on network TV. When you find your audience preferring the delights of According to Jim to your show, you know you have messed up plenty somewhere (and it has some really likeable characters, and a few great actors, so what the heck’s going on).

- In the scene where Sawyer et al were being shot at by the other others in the other others’ canoo – am I right in thinking that the other others are the Oceanic Six making their way back?

- I still love this show, and think it even better than even Mad Men, which is my favourite show on TV right now. How is that for inverse illogic?

Eli's coming, hide your heart boy!

2009-02-06T17:34:00.008+02:00

“Die fehlende Liebe, das ist ein solcher Schmerz.”

In one of the best scenes in Werner Herzog’s excellent Nosferatu The Vampyre, Count Dracula (Klaus Kinski) slowly sneaks into the bedchamber of Isabelle Adjani’s Lucy Harker as she sits in front of a mirror combing through her hair. As the door creaks open ever so slowly, the camera’s point of view is the same as Lucy’s, looking into the mirror. Lucy feels a presence in the room, hears footsteps, sees an approaching shadow, yet she is too terrified to turn around, transfixed as she is by this otherworldly reflection (appropriately enough, this scene is a mirror homage of the one in the original Nosferatu). Suddenly, the Count appears next to Lucy, introduces himself, and Lucy confronts him for what he’d done to her husband Jonathan (by the end of the movie, he will have turned into one of the undead – I love that word). He won’t die, says the Count, before adding “It is more cruel not to be able to die.” Lucy is unimpressed, and declares the bond between her and Jonathan immortal. Dracula’s grief is all too real: “The absence of love is the most abject pain.”*

Let The Right One In is of the same ilk as Werner Herzog’s film, as well as F.W. Murnau’s original 1922 adaptation of Dracula, Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens. It understands perfectly that the vampire mythology is one of intrinsic pathos and loneliness. Some have hailed it as transcending the vampire genre, they’re wrong: it doesn’t. On the contrary, it penetrates the very heart of what it would feel like being a vampire, consumed with madness and malice; sorrow and solitude.

Directed by Tomas Alfredson, the film is written by John Ajvide Lindqvist, based on his own novel of the same name. Set in a snowy suburb of Stockholm, the film opens with the shot of a winter night – the left part of the frame is completely immersed in the shadows, and the right is slightly more illuminated, not so much by the light, as by a slow yet steady fall of snow. This is the world of Oskar (Kåre Hedebrant) – even when it isn’t totally dark, it’s still pretty grim. A 12-year-old boy on the edge of pubescence and self discovery, Oskar dreams of finally standing up the bullies at school who make his life a living misery (there is a subtle subtextual theme of school violence, which is bound to be amplified in the Hollywood version already in the works) by practicing with his switchblade against trees or standing in front of the mirror (Roger Ebert notes the prevalence of reflection, literal and metaphorical, within the movie). He has no friends at school; his parents are divorced: mum is inattentive, and dad just wants him to leave as soon as possible so he can jump his hirsute lover. One night, Oskar spots an older man called Hakan (Per Ragnar, brilliant) moving in next door, and is soon confronted on the jungle gym by a strange “girl” called Eli (Lina Leandersson), whom the man cares for (the nature of their relationship is not immediately clear, but more on that later). She looks and acts like a child, yet there is a strange detachment in her eyes, and a putrid stench that envelopes her. Oskar doesn’t take too long to realise that Eli is a vampire – they decide to “go steady,” but not before Oskar finds out that Eli is in fact a castrated boy.

On the surface of it, this is a tale of a 12-year-old vampire making friends with a mortal boy. Even though moments of horror never take a back seat, nonetheless, it would be hard to describe the film as a vampire movie in the customary sense. Gone are the angst-ridden teens of Buffy, the hedonistic rock stars of the Anne Rice novels, the horny teens of Twilight, or the bloodsucking monsters of, well, all other vampire movies. Moments of traditional vampire lore are mentioned, others revised, and new ones introduced (in a hilarious scene where I was even more proud to call myself a cat lover). We find out exactly why a vampire cannot enter a home without invitation in one of the most effective uses of special effects of the past few years (the special effects are sparse, but when they are used, they are seamless, and sort of glorious) .

But the heart of the film is the relationship between Eli and Oskar. They are both victims of child abuse, in a manner of speaking, and they are both so incredibly lonely. The young Hedebrant does an extraordinary job of conveying Oskar’s frustration in the face of being unwanted, and Leandersson’s tragic take on being a vampire would give Kinski a run for his money. One of the most effective scenes involves Oskar’s sharing some candy with Eli, only for the vampire to get terribly sick and puke it all out. Blood is not just what she craves – it is the only thing that she can crave. Whereas most other vampire films and TV shows (which, frankly, bore me to tears) can’t even come close to selling the tragedy of the situation, in this one little moment Alfredson shows perfectly the hellish existence that plagues Eli.

I must discuss the ending in order to put everything in context so please stop reading if you have yet to see the film. Now, the film ends with Oskar running away with Eli, as he taps little kisses to him from inside his coffin in Morse code, the two of them riding on a train to nowhere. Oskar will take care of Eli just like Hakan used to – eventually he will have to hunt for him, and eventually he will grow up. Was Hakan another childhood lover of Eli’s, consumed so much by his love when he grew up that he was unable to let go? It certainly feels that way when you consider an earlier scene in the film where Eli berates Hakan for coming home empty handed. Will Eli find another boy, or girl, to love? And how will Oskar cope? This was the best film of 2008.

*The League of Gentlemen also made use of this line in their Christmas special.

Here is the scene from Herzog’s Nosferatu:

The Problem with Frost/Nixon

2009-02-05T23:34:00.006+02:00

"Pull my finger."

If you ever find yourself searching for an instance of one single creative misfire derailing an entire enterprise, then look no further than the talking heads in Frost/Nixon. At first they are simply bizarre – they pop up like mushrooms at the beginning, the look of the scenes determinedly different from the rest of the movie: pale, over-lit, and detached. It’s an interesting directorial choice by Ron Howard, but a gimmick, nonetheless – a workmanlike way to differentiate what are supposed to be reflective testimonies from the men behind the scenes of the infamous Frost-Nixon television interviews of 1977 . Later, they serve to underline every single subtext of the film, and become annoying winks at the camera. I was reminded of the old He-Man cartoons, where Mekaneck would show up at the end of the episode to tell the audience the moral of the story: “This week, Richard Nixon lied to the people of Eternia that he had nothing to do with Stinkor or Kobra Khan. But truth always comes out. Good night, kids, and never talk to strangers.”

But for the initial WTF interviews, Frost/Nixon sets the stage relatively well. When the film starts, it’s already been a few years since Richard Nixon (Frank Langella, in a wonderful performance) has resigned from the presidency in total shame, and the British satirist/journalist/alleged Peter Cook plagiarist David Frost (Michael Sheen – if only it were Charlie Sheen) is in his own outback wilderness, doing his best Roger Moore impression on Australian TV. Realising that an on-air interview of the disgraced former President would make for fascinating – not to mention lucrative – television, Frost decides to contact Nixon, and, since he is unable to get financing from any television network, eventually invest his own money in the whole thing. Finally, the interview’s on (the build-up seems to last forever), and both parties go into debate camp – think Rocky IV training montage sans Brigitte Nielsen.*

By the time Frost and Nixon are facing off on camera, the whole interminable saga to get them there has been so fervid that we expect the same sort of intensity from the actual interviews themselves – which never comes. Nixon smacks Frost around until the last interview when he kinda, sorta admits wrongdoing but the moment never manages to pack that final punch to knock down not just Nixon but the audience, too. Yeah, he pussyfoots around an apology, and it’s pathetic in a way. But we are so used to disgraced politicians’ FUBAR moments on TV these days – I am writing this as Jay Leno roasts Rod “The Haircut” Blagojevich’s bizarre interview where he compares himself to Mother Theresa – that the film fails to recapture a moment that sent an entire generation of baby boomers grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Apart from the annoying talking heads (during some of which the otherwise reliable Sam Rockwell is especially grating), Ron Howard and the writer Peter Morgan make a few other questionable choices. Nixon is portrayed as a bit of a perv, the supposed ying/yang relationship between him and Frost feels reaching, as does the vicarious pleasure Tricky Dick takes in Frost's urban haute bourgeois playboy lifestyle. There is also a pivotal scene where a drunk Nixon calls Frost in the middle of the night and voids his conscience over the phone – it’s obviously fictitious, and, yes, this is a film, and, thus, a fictionalised account of real events. But it’s so crucial to the way that final, fateful, confrontation plays out that its lack of authenticity drains Nixon’s pseudo-confession of all its oomph.

Eventually, Frost/Nixon tries to juggle too many balls at once: redemption, salvation, repentance – all the while trying to be a solemn paean to the power of television in cutting through the bullshit. I liked it more when it was called Good Night, and Good Luck.

*Nice, topical pop-culture references there, you hepcat, you.

Mon Oncle Oscar

2009-02-04T18:27:00.008+02:00

Has there been a more lacklustre Oscar season in living memory? I certainly don’t recall one. This is not just the lethargy of a Hollywood that was crippled by an operose writers’ strike last year. The approaching storm of the writers’ strike affected many studios’ summer stock last year rather than their prestige pictures, and was also the reason why, for example, there was an X-Files sequel (and why we almost got a half-baked JLA movie). Coming as it does in the wake of an exceptional movie year in 2007, 2008 was always going to fell a bit lame. But there’s always an excuse (just ask Shane Hurlbut).

Contrary to popular, and rather cynical, belief that films nominated for an Oscar are all nothing but tawdry Hollywood product, the Oscars can, and usually do, showcase some of the best American films of any given year. They usually evoke excitement, even if the previous year was less than stellar. Some years are magnificent all round – last year was one, as was 1999. But this year’s Oscar nominees all seem to be lacking that oomph factor, which incites enthusiasm in even your most blasé moviegoer. I have yet to see all of them, but that should be remedied by this weekend when The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and The Reader both open locally. I am not saying that this year’s best film nominees are bad – Frost/Nixon, Milk and Slumdog Millionaire are all flawed, to varying degrees, but one would be hard-pressed to call them all egregious (mind you, Jim Emerson over at Scanners, makes a great case for the ultimate failure of Slumdog, a film he hilariously describes as “Charles Dickens, written in the style of Jackie Collins”). It’s just that, among the nominees, there is not one single film that fills me with unadulterated cinematic passion and joy (o-hoo tidings of passion and joy - passion and joy). Allow me a moment to reflect on the best film nominees of this decade so far before I do like Nostradamus and predict the winners weeks in advance (I'm awesome):

2007
No Country for Old Men (winner)
Atonement
Juno
Michael Clayton
There Will Be Blood (piss off)

A great list of films in a truly amazing year with only one bad apple among them, and even that one can be excused because it is so loud and so boisterous and so fricking quotable (not since the original Star Wars have so many pop-culture phrases emanated from one single movie). Juno was adorable, Michael Clayton was solid, Atonement was sad, and No Country for Old Men was, and is, the best film of the decade. Yes, I disliked There Will Be Blood, but at least it had a sort of feistiness and fervour going for it – an observation that cannot be extended towards this year’s bunch of anaemic nominees.

2006
The Departed (winner)
Babel (Crash 2: Crash World)
Letters from Iwo Jima
Little Miss Sunshine
The Queen (Should have been the winner)

Letters from Iwo Jima is one of the truly great Clint Eastwood films. The sheer brilliance of The Queen only grows with hindsight – that Michael Sheen was not even given a nod for his exceptional portrayal of Tony Blair must have been what compelled him to play David Frost as a clone of the former PM – at least, outside of the interview room. The Special Relationship, the final chapter in Peter Morgan’s unofficial Blair trilogy, is set for 2011, and will chronicle the close relationship between Blair and Bill Clinton between 1997 and 2000.

2005
Trash (winner)
Brokeback Mountain (Should have been the winner)
Capote
Good Night, and Good Luck
Munich (Should have been the winner)

Another excellent choice of nominees with one piece of populist tripe masquerading as art. Shame it won. And that whole central thesis about how people are so numb and that they crash into each other just have some sort of humanly contact is just the sort of screenwriter’s tripe that passes for imagery. It’s like Wes Bentley’s “so much beauty in the world, just look at this floating dishcloth” monologue. Pretentious piffle.

Both Munich and Brokeback Mountain are exceptional pieces of filmmaking, with their respective auteur at the top of his game, but if one must pick a winner, and then it would have to be Brokeback. That final shot is heartbreaking.

2004
Million Dollar Baby (winner)
The Aviator
Finding Neverland
Ray
Sideways (Should have won)

Another year that was less than stellar, but all the films were solid, nonetheless. Sideways, in particular, is a masterpiece of sorts that stands the test of time – which I really didn’t think was possible. Finding Neverland has lost some of its power over time, but it’s Hollywood sentimentality done right. Nothing wrong with it as long as it’s done right – something Roger Ebert says about Will Smith’s underrated Seven Pounds.

2003
The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (winner)
Leaving Las Tokyo
Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World
Mystic River
Seabiscuit

City of God was the best film of the year, with American Splendour, In America, and The Barbarian Invasions close behind though none was nominated – the last one did win best foreign film, mind. Of the five films above, Mystic River was a better film than Neverending Story Part III, but, you know, these things happen. Still, not a bad list – and quite an interesting one when you think that they just don’t make films like Master and Commander or Seabiscuit anymore. (The latter was a hit at the box office – good luck breaking 40 mil. Domestic with a film like that nowadays, let alone crossing the century mark)

2002
Chicago (winner)
Gangs of New York
The Hours
The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
The Pianist (should have won)

Once again – not a tremendous selection but it still contained a Scorsese dream project, and a Roman Polanski film! Enough to get any cineaste wet.

2001
A Beautiful Mind (winner)
Gosford Park (should have won)
In the Bedroom (or maybe this one should have won)
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
Moulin Rouge! (4 “bad-ass chicks” inc.)

People bitch about how A Beautiful Mind stole the award from the first Rings flick, completely dismissing the magnificence of Gosford Park, which was clearly the best film of the year. I only watched it a few weeks ago – wonderful.

2000
Gladiator (winner even though it’s bollocks)
Chocolat (chocolate bollocks)
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
Erin Brockovich
Traffic - USA Films (should have won)

There are two types of people in this world: people who realise how shitty Gladiator is, and those who will one day see the light. There is a third group, who, after almost a decade, still quote the film’s terrible tagline (“what you do in life, echoes in my pants” or whatever it is), but the rest of us do our damn hardest to ignore them. Traffic was a stellar achievement, and it should have walked away with the award.

Anyway, you see my point. This decade has seen a few wonky years, sure, but none has been so devoid of charm and passion as this year obviously is. Anyway, here is a list of all the Oscar nominees for 2009, as well as my my predictions - which are subject to change nearer the time of the actual ceremony. Come back on Oscar night for my Third Annual Academy Awards Ceremony Live Blog. I must capitalise it for it is trés importante.

Performance by an actor in a leading role
Richard Jenkins in "The Visitor" (Overture Films)
Frank Langella in "Frost/Nixon" (Universal)
Sean Penn in "Milk" (Focus Features)
Brad Pitt in "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" (Paramount and Warner Bros.)
Mickey Rourke in "The Wrestler" (Fox Searchlight)

Will win: Sean Penn
Should win: Richard Jenkins

Performance by an actor in a supporting role
Josh Brolin in "Milk" (Focus Features)
Robert Downey Jr. in "Tropic Thunder" (DreamWorks, Distributed by DreamWorks/Paramount)
Philip Seymour Hoffman in "Doubt" (Miramax)
Heath Ledger in "The Dark Knight" (Warner Bros.)
Michael Shannon in "Revolutionary Road" (DreamWorks, Distributed by Paramount Vantage)

Will win: Heath Ledger
Should win: Brad Pitt (Burn After reading)

Performance by an actress in a leading role
Anne Hathaway in "Rachel Getting Married" (Sony Pictures Classics)
Angelina Jolie in "Changeling" (Universal)
Melissa Leo in "Frozen River" (Sony Pictures Classics)
Meryl Streep in "Doubt" (Miramax)
Kate Winslet in "The Reader" (The Weinstein Company)

Will win: Kate Winslet
Should win: Anne Hathaway

Performance by an actress in a supporting role
Amy Adams in "Doubt" (Miramax)
Penélope Cruz in "Vicky Cristina Barcelona" (The Weinstein Company)
Viola Davis in "Doubt" (Miramax)
Taraji P. Henson in "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" (Paramount and Warner Bros.)
Marisa Tomei in "The Wrestler" (Fox Searchlight)

Will win: Viola Davis
Should win: Marisa Tomei

Best animated feature film of the year
"Bolt"
"Kung Fu Panda"
"WALL-E"

Will win: Wall-E
Should win: Not Wall-E.

Achievement in art direction
"Changeling" Art Direction: James J. Murakami - Set Decoration: Gary Fettis
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" Art Direction: Donald Graham Burt - Set Decoration: Victor J. Zolfo
"The Dark Knight" Art Direction: Nathan Crowley - Set Decoration: Peter Lando
"The Duchess" Art Direction: Michael Carlin - Set Decoration: Rebecca Alleway
"Revolutionary Road" Art Direction: Kristi Zea - Set Decoration: Debra Schutt

Will win: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Should win: Revolutionary Road

Achievement in cinematography
"Changeling" Tom Stern
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" Claudio Miranda
"The Dark Knight" Wally Pfister
"The Reader" Chris Menges and Roger Deakins
"Slumdog Millionaire" Anthony Dod Mantle

Will win: Chris Menges and Roger Deakins
Should win: Tom Stern (I might revise this later)

Achievement in costume design
"Australia" Catherine Martin
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" Jacqueline West
"The Duchess" Michael O'Connor
"Milk" Danny Glicker
"Revolutionary Road" Albert Wolsky

Achievement in directing
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" David Fincher
"Frost/Nixon" Ron Howard
"Milk" Gus Van Sant
"The Reader" Stephen Daldry
"Slumdog Millionaire" Danny Boyle

Will win: Oh, Danny Boyle.
Should win: Tomas Alfredson for Let The Right One In

Best documentary feature
"The Betrayal (Nerakhoon)" Ellen Kuras and Thavisouk Phrasavath
"Encounters at the End of the World" Werner Herzog and Henry Kaiser
"The Garden" Scott Hamilton Kennedy
"Man on Wire" (Magnolia Pictures) James Marsh and Simon Chinn
"Trouble the Water" (Zeitgeist Films) Tia Lessin and Carl Deal

Will win: Man on Wire
Should win: Encounters at the End of the World

Best documentary short subject
"The Conscience of Nhem En" Steven Okazaki
"The Final Inch" Irene Taylor Brodsky and Tom Grant
"Smile Pinki" Megan Mylan
"The Witness - From the Balcony of Room 306" Adam Pertofsky and Margaret Hyde

Will win: No idea.
Should win: No idea.

Achievement in film editing
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" Kirk Baxter and Angus Wall
"The Dark Knight" Lee Smith
"Frost/Nixon" Mike Hill and Dan Hanley
"Milk" Elliot Graham
"Slumdog Millionaire" (Chris Dickens

Will win: The Dark Knight
Should win: Frost/Nixon

Best foreign language film of the year
"The Baader Meinhof Complex" - Germany
"The Class" - France
"Departures" - Japan
"Revanche" - Austria
"Waltz with Bashir" – Israel

Will win: Waltz with Bashir (if it’s its night, if not then The Class)
Should win: The Edge of Heaven or Three Monkeys. (I am showing my true colours here…)

Achievement in makeup
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" Greg Cannom
"The Dark Knight" John Caglione, Jr. and Conor O'Sullivan
"Hellboy II: The Golden Army" Mike Elizalde and Thom Floutz

Will win: Benjamin Button
Should win: Probably Benjamin Button. Haven’t seen the flick yet, as I said, but from what I have seen, Cannom’s work is amazing.

Original Score
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" Alexandre Desplat
"Defiance" James Newton Howard
"Milk" Danny Elfman
"Slumdog Millionaire" A.R. Rahman
"WALL-E" Thomas Newman

Will win: Thomas Newman
Should win: Danny Elfman (with what may be his best work)

Original song
"Down to Earth" from "WALL-E" Music by Peter Gabriel and Thomas Newman Lyric by Peter Gabriel
"Jai Ho" from "Slumdog Millionaire" (Fox Searchlight) Music by A.R. Rahman Lyric by Gulzar
"O Saya" from "Slumdog Millionaire" (Fox Searchlight) Music and Lyric by A.R. Rahman and Maya Arulpragasam

Will win: Thomas Newman and The Gabriel
Should win: Jason Segel for Dracula’s Lament

Best animated short film
"La Maison en Petits Cubes" Kunio Kato
"Lavatory - Lovestory" Konstantin Bronzit
"Oktapodi" Emud Mokhberi and Thierry Marchand
"Presto" Doug Sweetland
"This Way Up" Alan Smith and Adam Foulkes

Will win: Presto
Should win: Presto

Best live action short film
"Auf der Strecke (On the Line)" Reto Caffi
"Manon on the Asphalt" Elizabeth Marre and Olivier Pont
"New Boy" Steph Green and Tamara Anghie
"The Pig" Tivi Magnusson and Dorte Høgh
"Spielzeugland (Toyland)" Jochen Alexander Freydank

Again, not a clue (not my fault - shorts, the kind you watch, are incredibly hard to find in Istanbul). But Auf der Strecke is apparently an Academy of Media Arts Cologne Production so, just because I used to live there, I will be rooting for Caffi.

Achievement in sound editing
"The Dark Knight" Richard King
"Iron Man" Frank Eulner and Christopher Boyes
"Slumdog Millionaire" Tom Sayers
"WALL-E" Ben Burtt and Matthew Wood
"Wanted" Wylie Stateman

Will win: Ben Burtt and Matthew Wood
Should win: Ben Burtt and Matthew Wood

Achievement in sound mixing
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" David Parker, Michael Semanick, Ren Klyce and Mark Weingarten
"The Dark Knight" Lora Hirschberg, Gary Rizzo and Ed Novick
"Slumdog Millionaire" Ian Tapp, Richard Pryke and Resul Pookutty
"WALL-E" Tom Myers, Michael Semanick and Ben Burtt
"Wanted" Chris Jenkins, Frank A. Montaño and Petr Forejt

Will win: Tom Myers, Michael Semanick and Ben Burtt
Should win: Anything but, you know, that film, so I’d go for WALL-E.

Achievement in visual effects
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" Eric Barba, Steve Preeg, Burt Dalton and Craig Barron
"The Dark Knight" Nick Davis, Chris Corbould, Tim Webber and Paul Franklin
"Iron Man" John Nelson, Ben Snow, Dan Sudick and Shane Mahan

Will win: Button, if he’s lucky. Batman, if he is not.
Should win: The other one.

Adapted screenplay
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" Screenplay by Eric Roth Screen story by Eric Roth and Robin Swicord
"Doubt" Written by John Patrick Shanley
"Frost/Nixon" Screenplay by Peter Morgan
"The Reader" Screenplay by David Hare
"Slumdog Millionaire" Screenplay by Simon Beaufoy

Will win: Simon Beaufoy for Jackie Dickens.
Should win: John Ajvide Lindqvist for Let The Right One In.

Original screenplay
"Frozen River" Written by Courtney Hunt
"Happy-Go-Lucky" Written by Mike Leigh
"In Bruges" Written by Martin McDonagh
"Milk" Written by Dustin Lance Black
"WALL-E" Screenplay by Andrew Stanton, Jim Reardon Original story by Andrew Stanton, Pete Docter

Will win: WALL-E or Milk (yeah, cheating, but what are you gonna do?)
Should win: Happy-Go-Lucky or In Bruges. (yeah, cheating, but what are you gonna do?)

Best motion picture of the year
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"
"Frost/Nixon"
"Milk"
"The Reader"
"Slumdog Millionaire"

Will win: Slumdog Millionaire
Should win: Let The Right One In. It was the best film of the year. By far.

He is the Dark Knight - He is professional

2009-02-04T18:20:00.007+02:00

With a tip of the hat to my friend Keith Uhlich at The House Next Door, comes the next song in the Christian Bale saga.

Devin Faraci at Chud has written an interesting piece on how Christian Bale can get out of this “Bale Out” mess. He mentions that Bale should take the Tom Cruise route, and make fun of himself. While I generally agree, it should be noted that the place where Tom Cruise found himself after jumping the sofa/shouting at Matt Lauer/channelling Xenu came in the wake of a twenty or so year career as a bona fide movie star. As Devin says, Bale is not a star, and he can’t “open” a film, though his decision to shoulder reimaginings of, not one, but two fanboy-favourites seem to belie his I-am-a-thespian-and-I-care-only-for-my-craft-general-moroseness. I just don’t think it will be as easy for him to come out of this mess. Look at Cruise – he is nowhere near the star he used to be five years ago, and that’s after the kind of damage control reserved for high-ranking politicians, not star actors, from whom the public expects a certain amount of diva behaviour. Besides, Tom Cruise has a much more likeable persona (and is an infinitely more talented actor than Bale – until the latter proves otherwise by showing us he has the ability to smile).
Anyway, the best thing for Christian Bale’s people to do right now is to get on the phone with the producers of this year’s Oscar broadcast, Bill Condon and Laurence Mark, and get him a gig as a presenter at the Oscar ceremony. He could get up to present a minor award with Kevin James, who’d then “fuck up,” to which Bale would “react,” mimicking his Bale-out performance. It would be a YouTube moment, and it would show the world that the actor can laugh at himself. Lots of LOL’s and ROFLMAO’s. Everyone’s happy.

You’re quite welcome, Christian.

Ebony and Ivory

2009-02-03T20:02:00.012+02:00

I bring you news today of the return of two particular blogosphere favourites from last year. Benjamin Lim’s White Elephant Blog-a-thon over at Lucid Screening and Odienator's Second Annual "Black History Mumf" at Big Media Vandalism.

This will be the 3rd Annual White Elephant Film Blogathon over at Ben’s blog. The rules are simple:

1) Submit the title of a movie that you want someone else to review (preferably something available via Netflix).
2) Review the movie that you get assigned and post the review on April 1st.
3) Have fun.

My assignment last year was Flash Gordon, the 1980 camp classic that is more famous for its soundtrack than anything else (with the possible exception of Brian Blessed’s gregarious turn as Prince Vultan, King of the Hawkmen: “GORDON’S ALIVE!” Indeed, Brian).
And the film I submitted, which Ferdy over at Ferdy on Films, etc. had to review was the seminal Whoopi Goldberg classic Theodore Rex, the film that so neatly captures the existential drama lying at the core of a truly Bergmanesque story involving a sassy female cop and an anthropomorphic dinosaur.
I have submitted my film for this year (not telling), and can’t wait to get my assignment.

***

Odienator’s Black History Mumf series features some of the wittiest pieces of writing on the blogosphere. Last year, I was especially taken by Odie’s review of a personal favourite:

The trio is standing outside a building on the Boulevard of Death in Queens, a building that, with the exception of an M made from arcs instead of arches, looks exactly like a McDonalds. It’s a hilarious sight gag for most people, but for Black folks it’s doubly hilarious. We’re used to knock-offs sprouting up in the ‘hood. On the corner of my brother’s block, for example, there’s a restaurant called Kantacky Fried Chicken. They sell a pail of chicken instead of a bucket. I bet in your ‘hood you can find a [fill in the blank with a place other than Kentucky] Fried Chicken. My cousin said she went someplace ghetto and they had Idaho Fried Chicken. “Their french fries were the shit,” she told me. I bet they were.

Anyway, this year’s Black History Mumf started on a different note than last year’s. But it’s still great.

Whenever my mother would tell me that I could be President if I worked hard, I would look at her as if she’d lost her mind. In our school history books, the only time the pictures had a tan were when they depicted cotton picking slaves, Sitting Bull, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr., or George Hamilton. Every single president, from the wooden teeth of George Washington to the Log Cabin Republican called Lincoln, from the heft of William Howard Taft to the lustful heart of Jimmy Carter, from Tippicanoe and Tyler to the Forgetful Jones imitation who once had Bedtime for Bonzo—every single one of those pictures looked nothing like me. If you were a woman of any shade, they didn’t look like you, either. But one thing at a time.

Click here to go to central links page at Big Media Vandalism.

Oh, and one last thing.

"He beat Joe Louis’s ass!"

Handbag!

2009-02-03T17:32:00.008+02:00

“It’s my art. You are ruining my process!”

Christian Bale doesn’t utter those particular words, but he might as well have. By now, the recording of Christian Bale’s previously reported nutsoooo moment on the set of the new Terminator film(titled Terminator 4: Seriously?) has made the rounds on the interwebs for a good day, and most have had a chance to listen to Bale’s juvenile hissy fit as he makes the case for having the worst reputation of any actor in the industry by, first, cursing, and then, at one point, seemingly trying to physically assault, the movie’s DP, Shane Hurlbut. (And what’s going on with his accent, by the way, as his vowels do the tango through America, Wales and The East End?)

TMZ, which broke the original news and posted the recording, fills in the details:

“It happened on the set after a director of photography accidentally ruined a scene by walking onto the set. Bale lost it, screaming, yelling and threatening to quit if the bosses didn't fire the dude.

Film execs sent the tape to the insurance company that insured the film in case Bale bailed.”

It should be noted that if you listen to the file, it doesn’t actually sound like Shane Hurlbut walked into the set, but, instead, like he didn’t realise the cameras were still rolling, and proceeded to do his job, unaware that he was in Bale’s eyeline.

It is crucial, during a shoot, for an actor to be able to stay in the scene, and any distraction in their eye line, might rip them out of it. That’s funny because a sudden divertissement that destroys concentration is an ailment that is particular only to superstar actors. The rest of us mere mortals are such bastions of single-minded centralisation that we never, EVER, get distracted.

And of course if we did, we, too, would do like Antonioni and BLOW UP!

This is what I do not understand. A celebrity fit making the rounds is the kind of info nugget that usually invades my conscience but for a few minutes; however, reading some of the commentary (over at the Chud boards, for example, or Nathaniel’s excellent blog The Film Experience), I have come across a group of people who are, bizarrely, apologising for Bale’s petulance. Their central thesis is that acting is his lifeline, that Bale is an intense performer, and that all is fair in the pursuit of his craft.

These would all be valid were one able to transfer them to any other vocation save acting. You wouldn’t care that chopping meat was his only lifeline if you found yourself at the other end of a butcher’s spit-filled diatribe. You wouldn’t forgive an intense baker if he rocketed insults at you like a demented chimpanzee hurls its bowel movements. And you wouldn’t tolerate a candle-stick maker if he decided to use your most colloquial orifice as a snuffer.

Another reason to defend Bale seems to be the apparent clumsiness of the DP. In the file, Bale bitches about how this is the second time that he has ventured into the great thespian’s eyeline, and, like I said, that is one of the big no-no’s that Hurlbut should know better to avoid. That’s still no excuse to act like Nathan Lane’s Albert from The Birdcage – not everything can always go according to plan. People make mistakes. We all make mistakes. In fact, one of the unintentionally hilarious moments in the tape comes halfway through when Bale yells how unprofessional this is. For once, he’s right.

One of the crucial things when it comes to enjoying a piece of art is to dissociate one’s self from the artist, and enjoy the art itself. Your Christian Bales, your Ed Nortons, your David O. Russells make that very difficult indeed.

“Oh, but he’s so stressed!” Join the club, bitch.

=======

UPDATE: /Film has just posted a very funny parody of the whole thing courtesy of jedibff.

=======

UPDATE 2: This is awesome beyond measure. Hattip to John Lichman, who helpfully points out that the track is from the producer of RuPaul's new album.

Imagining Sisyphus Happy: A Groundhog Day Retrospective

2009-02-02T21:43:00.003+02:00

For 16 years, Groundhog Day has been hailed as a meditation on self-redemption. But to pigeonhole it into one overarching theme would be an insult to the layered precision, and perfection, of Harold Ramis’s 1993 masterpiece, which ventures into the heart of darkness and despair to ultimately emerge unharmed, but not unmarked. This story of a man doomed to relive the same day over and over again is not concerned about tomorrow. A true absurdist triumph, it cares not what the destination might be, for it knows that the pursuit of meaning is itself meaningful whether or not that pursuit is eventually rewarded. Life might very well lack purpose, and it might very well be a struggle. But that doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole about it.

Click here to read the rest of the article at The House Next Door.

On yonder hill there stands a creature

2009-01-30T12:56:00.006+02:00

You may or may not know that the recently departed poet/playwright/Nobel laureate Harold Pinter wrote a characteristically blunt poem before the Iraq war. It went like this:

The big pricks are out.
They'll fuck everything in sight.
Watch your back.

During a mail conversation just after Pinter died, a friend of mine fulminated in a Pinteresque rant himself:

I’ll miss him.

When normal people get old and go batty, people ignore them and put them in a home and start spending their inheritance. If you've written 29 plays and are considered famous and one of the Hampstead "we're socialist, honest guv" set, then people continue to listen to you. Hence the "big pricks are out" etc, etc. Had any normal granddad written that, he'd be dispatched like a shot to some out of the way Colditz-on-the-Wold and we'd all be riffling around under his bed for the reddies. It reminds of a Jeeves and Wooster novel, where one of Bertie's uncles was discovered in the drawing room "sticking straws in his hair". Also, an Evelyn Waugh short story which has some old major "hanging by his braces in the orangery". I daresay there is some small window of wisdom that comes just after youthful ignorance, and just before losing your marbles but, generally: you get old, you go weird.

Such is life.

The person who came up with the above paragraph will soon be joining me in infrequently updating – or frequently not updating – the blog. He will be using a pseudonym. It is Hipparsus, which is marginally better than his original choice for a nom de plume, Benjamin Buttmunch. Hipparsus, by the way, was a student of Pythagoras who discovered the existence of irrational numbers (like Pi, or The Dark Knight’s domestic gross – SNAP). His name is more commonly spelled Hippasus, but Hipparsus is nothing if not unpredictable.

There is a chance another person might also join us in a few weeks. There’s a party in my blog, and everyone’s invited. It’s a pity party.

But back to that Pinter poem. In September 2004, The Private Eye did a send up of it in a section called “Harold Pinter’s Revised Book of English Verse.” And lucky you, dear reader, because you can find it below.

One caveat: In order to get the joke, one really should be familiar with the original poems.

Then again, one really should be familiar with the original poems anyway.

Top Ten Tunes of 2008

2009-01-15T12:11:00.005+02:00

My list of the best songs of 2008 is up at The House Next Door. Here's a teaser:

"I think it was Lester Bangs who said listening to Pink Floyd is like wrestling with shit. Him or Spiro Agnew. Whoever it was, they were right. It’s a band I tried to like for a long time—“everyone says they’re great, so they must be”—but I have finally come to the dawning realization that theirs is the type of music that should be confined to history—or the dorm rooms of frowzy, flatulent frat boys with too much money, too much time, and too much homegrown. From what I understand, the sempiternal Dark Side of the Moon is supposed to be a musical masterpiece, but I wouldn’t know, because try as I might, I have never been able to listen past “Money” lest I die of ennui. And, fine, I will be the first to admit that “Wish You Were Here” is a pretty good tune. But so was “I’ve got the key—I’ve got the secret.” I don’t see anyone waxing lyrical about the euphonious delights of Urban Cookie Collective."

Click here to read the rest of the article.

Our survey says...

2009-01-12T12:26:00.005+02:00

Every year around Oscar time, Edward Copeland organises an Oscar survey. The first one in 2006 was on the best and worst movies to have won the best film Oscar. 2007’s survey was on lead actresses, and last year’s on lead actors.

Due to personal reasons, Ed is unable to run this year’s survey, but he says that, hopefully, he will be back next year. In the meantime, Brooke Cloudbuster at The Performance Review has agreed to conduct this year’s survey, which will be on the best and worst supporting actress Oscar winners. The deadline is February 10th.

Survey. I just wanted to say survey again. Survey. Survey. Survey.

Click here for this year’s survey.

"There's a nurse on duty if you don't feel right."

2009-01-06T20:38:00.005+02:00

What’s your favourite bit from This is Spinal Tap? “This one goes to eleven” is wonderful, sure, and one of the few gags in the history of the cinema to retain its original brilliance, and oomph after nearly thirty years. Stonehenge is another one, not to mention Derek Smalls’s (Harry Shearer) comment during the post-gig group discussion – after the gigantic (or miniscule) fuck-up on stage – that they might want to restage the number the following night with different choreography. Or Smalls, again, but this time reacting to news that the record company is experimenting with the band’s new album cover: “They have monkeys opening it?”

Sure enough, those are all sublime moments from one of the greatest films of all time. Yet, what I find most delightful are the slightly less zany moments, the emotional heart of the film itself – the relationship between the bandmates. Michael McKean’s Christopher St Hubbins and Smalls at a roof party marking the end of Tap’s ill-fated American tour, and possibly their careers, babbling on about their long-abandoned dream projects (“You’re a naughty one, saucy Jack”). Or the sheer frustruation tinged with a sense of sudden loss and deep sadness as St Hubbins declares that he and Nigel Tufnell (Christopher Guest) shan’t work together ever again. Then there’s the single, most tremendous moment in the entire film as Tufnell comes to visit the band backstage before one last gig, and, after a confrontational exchange with St Hubbins, asks him to do a great show.

It is those little moments of character and emotion that resonate the most, and they have always been mainstays of Guest’s mockumentaries. Both Waiting for Guffman and Best in Show feature groups of people with questionable intellects, and Guest and his exceptional troupe of actors always approach the characters with sympathy and pathos, providing a genuine core of emotion to the enveloping farce. In A Mighty Wind, the pathos, for the first time in a Guest feature, takes centre stage, and it’s somewhat overwhelming. Roger Ebert, for example, wrote in his review, “(T)he key characters in "A Mighty Wind," especially (Eugene) Levy and (Catherine) O'Hara, take on a certain weight of complexity and realism that edges away from comedy and toward sincere soap opera.”

A Mighty Wind is, indeed, a somewhat uneven film. The parts that make it up are rather splendid, but they fail to cohere – the naïveté of the performers and folk music as a whole are too nice a target, especially the way they’re refashioned in the film. Guest approaches the people, as well as the songs, with such genuine compassion and tenderness that, by the end of the film, the satire aspect has gone right out the window. But, seeing these incredibly talented actors, with an obvious love for the project, perform at the top of their game – not just acting, but also performing the songs, including a brilliant little ditty chronicling the chronicles of a wanderer, who never quite managed to wander – I was unable not to fall in love with it. It’s my favourite of all Christopher Guest films.

The set-up owes a lot to This is Spinal Tap, Waiting for Guffman and Best in Show. The death of a folk music mogul inspires his son, Jonathan Steinbloom, underplayed to subtle perfection by Bob Balaban, to organise a memorial concert in his honour, bringing together three of the more successful bands of the oeuvre during its 1960’s heyday: The New Main Street Singers (featuring, among others, Jane Lynch and John Michael Higgins), reduced to performing their acoustic set under the pandemonium of a roller coaster with only one remaining member from the original line-up; The Folksmen (McKean, Guest and Shearer, together again), one-hit wonders, who partake in long and heavy discussions to conclude that their original look might now be considered retro, even though, in the sixties, it was nowtro; and Mitch and Mickey (Levy and O’Hara), former lovers scarred, not just by each other (and, in Mitch’s case, years of psychosis), but also their music. Pretty much everything one expects from such a set-up ends up happening, including temper tantrums, set-list problems, and one major issue with the floral arrangements in the lobby.

The film is not a laugh-riot, that’s for sure. But there are some belly laughs, mostly provided by three veteran actors from Guest’s previous mockumentaries. In his one brief scene, the late great Paul Benedict probably provides the film’s best one-liner (improvised, of course); and Fred Willard and Ed Begley Jr together steal the show, the former as a truly bizarre showbiz agent, and the latter as a Swedish TV producer with a penchant for Yiddish. And some of the songs give “Big Bottom” a run for its money (pay special attention to the last line of the eponymous tune).

Yet what we end up with doesn’t have anything further in common with Guest’s previous directorial efforts. There is an unsettling undercurrent to the leading couple from The New Main Street Singers, one of whom used to be in the, erm, adult movie industry, but is now a modern-day witch, with – this is genius – a cult based on the power of colour, and that aura of unease is always around them, but it doesn’t amount to much. The Folksmen are all too happy to be given a second chance, and one of them even undertakes a drastic change by the end of the film, one that mirrors a certain member of the real-life band Jethro Tull (I used to listen to them, and never heard the end of it from my friends at university). And Mitch and Mickey have such a sweet story, and such a beautiful song, that they leave no room for cynicism, or even true satire. That can only be a good thing.

Dennis Cozzalio's "PROFESSOR KINGSFIELD'S HAIR-RAISING, BAR-RAISING HOLIDAY MOVIE QUIZ"

2008-12-26T19:09:00.009+02:00

Dennis Cozzalio has posted his traditional Christmas quiz, and, once again, it's kinda extraordinary in its genius. Dennis has one of the best blogs on the interwebs, and, with this year's quiz, he has outdone himself. It is only in the classes of Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule University that you will be asked to choose between Ida Lupino and Mercedes McCambridge, but not before you create the main event card for the ultimate giant movie monster smackdown.

Clickity click for PROFESSOR KINGSFIELD'S HAIR-RAISING, BAR-RAISING HOLIDAY MOVIE QUIZ.

Here are my answers:

1) What was the last movie you saw theatrically? On DVD or Blu-ray?

The last movie I saw at the cinema was The Day The Earth Stood Still. There is a scene at a McDonald's where Keanu Reeves meets with James Hong, also an alien pilgrim (SPOILER!), and the two start having an interplenary tête-à-tête in Mandarin. It’s supposed to be a pivotal scene, but all I could think of was Wayne's World 2 where Mike Myers and James Hong also start conversing in Mandarin – the latter is played for laughs, the former gets them gratis. I half expected Keanu to take out a katana blade. Not that katana blade.

I finally saw Thank You For Smoking on DVD last Sunday. It’s a very entertaining film, subtle yet powerful, and, at times, incredibly funny. Aaron Eckhart carries the film – without him, the film might, just might, have floundered a bit.

Sod it. I cannot tell a lie. After Thank You For Smoking was over, I realised I had time for another film before I hit the sack. My choice? The Wedding Date, with Debra Messing (who is one of the most photogenic actresses of her generation), and, er, that guy.

You know?

Always wears a shirt?

Him, yeah!

I usually enjoy tripe, but this was tripe mixed with saccharine: an equally egregious combination as food and as metaphor.

2) Holiday movies— Do you like them naughty or nice?

I like them nice. It’s A Wonderful Life is Capra’s best film. Bell, Book and Candle. Die Hard!

And it’s not just Christmas, either. I just love holiday flicks. Groundhog Day! Trains, Planes and Automobiles!

I even enjoy Jingle All The Way. What? WHAT?

You didn’t ask, but here's my favourite sequence from an Arnie film:

3) Ida Lupino or Mercedes McCambridge?

Mercedes McCambridge. Her voice had amazing range, and was almost as distinctive as that of Orson Welles. Didn’t they have a thing?

4) Favorite actor/character from Twin Peaks

Michael Horse as Deputy Hawk. He was also in a great episode of The X-Files, too.

5) It’s been said that, rather than remaking beloved, respected films, Hollywood should concentrate more on righting the wrongs of the past and tinker more with films that didn’t work so well the first time. Pretending for a moment that movies are made in an economic vacuum, name a good candidate for a remake based on this criterion.

The Princess Bride. Here is why.

6) Favorite Spike Lee joint.

25th Hour.

It’s not the most obvious example of his oeuvre, but it’s one that has resonated with me the most over the years.

A few months ago, almost a year ago actually, I saw Jungle Fever for the first time. There is a scene where the women sit around a living room, and talk about men, society, race – but mainly men. I read that the dialogue was mostly improvised, and it turns almost musical accompanied with Stevie Wonder’s dulcet score in the background. It’s one of the greatest scenes in cinema.

7) Lawrence Tierney or Scott Brady?

Both.

I love Tierney for a lot of things, but, mostly, for his work as Cyrus Redblock and Joe, er, the Gangster (I so wanted to type Plumber), in Star Trek: TNG and Reservoir Dogs respectively.

And Scott Brady? Dude! Gremlins! Come on!

8) Are most movies too long?

No, but most questionnaires are.

Koodding.

Anyway, no. Only the bad ones outstay their welcome.

9) Favorite performance by an actor portraying a real-life politician.

Micheal Sheen as Tony Blair in The Deal and The Queen. I am so fricking psyched for The Special Relationship. And, while we are on the subject of British politicians, I also like Ian McKellen’s John Profumo in Scandal (though it’s John Hurt who steals the show, overall, in that flick).

Finally, I am also a fan of Martin Sheen’s prescient performance as Barack Obama in The West Wing.

10) Create the main event card for the ultimate giant movie monster smackdown.

I have to go along with Rob Reiner here: Kramer vs Kramer vs Godzilla.

11) Jean Peters or Sheree North?

Viva Josefa Zapata!

12) Why would you ever want or need to see a movie more than once?

It’s most definitely not true what they say. You can’t have too much of a good thing.

(If it were true, life would not exist)

13) Favorite road movie.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles.

Again, you didn’t ask, but, I’ll tell you. Favourite actor whose name starts with an M and ends with icheal McKean: Michael McKean.

14) Favorite Budd Boetticher picture.

Ride Lonesome. In fact, that’s the only one of his pictures that I’ve ever seen, I think.

15) Who is the one person, living or dead, famous or unknown, who most informed or encouraged your appreciation of movies?

My dad.

Others: Roger Ebert, Jim Emerson, Matt Seitz, and Dennis Cozzalio.

16) Favorite opening credit sequence. (Please include YouTube link if possible.)

North By Northwest.

17) Kenneth Tobey or John Agar?

John Agar.

18) Jean-Luc Godard once suggested that the more popular the movie, the less likely it was that it was a good movie. Is he right or just cranky? Cite the best evidence one way or the other.

He is being cranky. There’s a Robert Graves quote about Shakespeare: “Despite the fact that everyone says he's very good; he really is very good.”

Though, this summer, most people were wrong. The Dark Knight is bollocks.

19) Favorite Jonathan Demme movie.

The Silence of the Lambs (see above quote on Will).

20) Tatum O’Neal or Linda Blair?

Both; at the same time, thanks.

21) Favorite use of irony in a movie. (This could be an idea, moment, scene, or an entire film.)

A Mighty Wind. Harry Shearer’s character, Mark Shubb, has had a sex change and he’s talking about it to the camera, sitting next to his bandmates, Christopher Guest’s Alan Barrows and Micheal McKean’s Jerry Palter. He goes into a bizarre rant:

“It was like a great big door opening for me... Town Hall... after that concert, I realized I wanted to spend as much of the rest of my life as possible playing folk music with these gentlemen and I wanted to spend all of it as a woman. I came to a realization that I was - and am - a blonde, female folk singer trapped in the body of a bald, male folk singer and I had to LET ME OUT or I WOULD DIE.”

Jerry Palter breaks the uncomfortable silence: “When you put it that way, it's almost poetry.”

Alan Burrows, after a beat: Almost.

22) Favorite Claude Chabrol film.

Not a big fan of his work. I remember not disliking Madame Bovary.

23) The best movie of the year to which very little attention seems to have been paid.

The X-Files: I Want To Believe and Swing Vote were both considered duds – critically, and financially. They’re both excellent.

Also, Forgetting Sarah Marshall was as good, if not better, than the admittedly wonderful Pineapple Express.

24) Dennis Christopher or Robby Benson?

Dennis Christopher.

25) Favorite movie about journalism.

Broadcast News.

26) What’s the DVD commentary you’d most like to hear? Who would be on the audio track?

Orson Welles doing live commentary on his film version of Arthur C Clarke’s Childhood’s End. While drunk.

(There is a script of this project somewhere in LA – if you find it, send it over please)

27) Favorite movie directed by Clint Eastwood.

Unforgiven.

28) Paul Dooley or Kurtwood Smith?

Paul Dooley. Love him in Curb. Love him in A Mighty Wind. Love him in everything.

29) Your clairvoyant moment: Make a prediction about the Oscar season.

It’s going to be wank.

30) Your hope for the movies in 2009.

Awe.

31) What’s your top 10 of 2008? (If you have a blog and have your list posted, please feel free to leave a link to the post.)

Not finished yet, since there is so many films that have yet to open here in Turkey.

BONUS QUESTION (to be answered after December 25):

32) What was your favorite movie-related Christmas gift that you received this year?

A shot of Dolores Madeleine Haze, taken by Jim Emerson’s Blackberry, in his back porch. He calls it his Let The Right One In shot. It’s glorious.

The Thundercat's Whiskers

2008-12-23T12:05:00.009+02:00

The cardinal sin of many a recent comics or cartoon adaptation is the pomposity with which the filmmakers approach the source material. It’s not really their fault – they are only in it for the money (show me a director burning with the creative desire to make a Denver, The Last Dinosaur flick, and I’ll show you a weirdo) , and they realise how much the core group of fans have invested in the trials and tribulations of, say, a garbage truck that can metamorphose into a triceratops. Early bad buzz from otherwise rather laggard interweb folk can turn a blockbuster into a dud before it even has a chance to screen for the press (case in point: The Spirit – though Frank Miller and his EGO seem to be responsible for the brunt of that backlash). So Hollywood has been taking the sequacious nerds, and their beloved robots, knights, whatever, as seriously as they do themselves. I have written about this before, but just to recap, it’s a relatively recent trend. It started with (a kiss? No) Bryan Singer’s X-Men, and like an avalanche in tights, it picked up speed and debris along the way, culminating in the bloated juggernaut that is The Dark Knight (Aside: I recently read a comment somewhere that compared Nolan’s film to Bergman – I weep tears of blood for the youth of today). Albeit devoid of éclat, élan, and joie de vivre, three qualities that define superhero comics of yesteryear, the film massacred at the box office, and third-rate knock-off copies are already in the pipeline. Fingers crossed for a Power Pack film with the team made up, solely, of victims of child abuse!

Anyway, Devin Faraci at Chud, whose Top 15 films of 2008 piece is – as always – a brilliant read, has posted a hilarious fanmade live-action trailer for Thundercats. I, too, thought it was an excellent piece of satire, demolishing a wide variety of recent Hollywood mainstays, such as the fustian blockbuster, in one fell swoop, but reading some of the comments by the video’s creator WormyT, I have the vexatious feeling that it might have been a more serious attempt than I originally assumed.

Who cares? Trust the art, not the artist. This is priceless!

"But they'll never take..."

2008-12-15T10:21:00.008+02:00

I have a few posts planned for this week and the next. But, more importantly, I am writing a mammoth “year in review” piece for 2008, which should go live early next month (or year – it really depends on your philosophical perspective).

In the meantime, enjoy this glorious clip that will pick you right up this fine Monday morning.

The Death of Supermen

2008-11-11T16:27:00.009+02:00

I used to love comic books when I was growing up. And especially super hero comics. In Ankara during the early eighties, there simply wasn’t a wide enough variety of titles for me to choose from, which was a problem for a chubby child whose footballing talents made him the laughing stock of the local kids (it might have had something to do with my mother dressing me up as a girl until I was fourteen, but probably not).

There were a few Turkish titles making the rounds, all of them historical tomes taking place during the glory days of the Huns or the Ottomans. Most of them were reprints from the seventies, and had the feel of newspaper serials than full blown comic books. Some were pretty awesome, mind: I doubt if Spider-Man ever battled the Romans as well as an army of Chinese vampires simultaneously, but Tarkan did, and it was pretty fucking cool (Aside: Tarkan was also published in the UK at one point, and Lew Stringer has provided a scan right here).

We also had a whole bunch of European (continental) comics. Two of the most popular ones were Italian, I think, and old, too, from the late fifties/early sixties, and being reprinted again and again. Their post-war continental quaintness was offset by how dreadfully dull they both were. People here still go on about how wonderful those books are (one takes place during the American War of Independence, the other in the Wild West a century or so later) – horses for courses. Anyway, I wasn’t into them.

Nor was I into some of the more recent Italian crap like Zagor (no idea why all these characters with European origin were set in the US), or Lee Falk’s Phantom or Mandrake, both of which had healthy runs in this country (they might still be in print, but life’s too short to find out either way).

So, when I say I used to love comic books when I was growing up, what I really mean is I used to love American comics. And those bad boys were difficult to come by.

Conan The Barbarian, Spider-Man and Superman were the only three that were regularly published. My favourite was Conan, and I still think John Buscema’s and Roy Thomas’s run on The Savage Sword of Conan books during the late seventies is still one of the finest pieces of sequential art in the history of the medium. I suppose Conan is more of a pulp hero than a superhero per se, but the Marvel Comics version of the character did tilt more towards the latter. The way the stories were constructed, or characters defined, had more in common with 1970’s superhero comics than Robert E Howard’s original pulp novels (and I think fans of those books would agree).

But I was into Spider-Man and Superman almost as much as I was into Conan. They used to come out every month in black and white, pocket-sized formats, each issue containing about three or four separate stories (some of them carrying on from the previous one). But that was it. No crossovers, no eight hundred different titles to follow in order to get why Superman was fighting a plague of Martian marmosets, no sense of a larger comics universe. I look back now and realise that was a good thing, but, at the time, the lack of all that used to piss me off endlessly (and random references to, or arbitrary appearances by, other heroes were equally frustrating). By the end of the eighties, characters like The Incredible Hulk and The Silver Surfer had received their own titles, and the company that used to run them (called, imaginatively enough, Marvel Turkey) started to include one-off stories from other comics – a few X-Men stories here, a few Defenders (eh, indeed) there.

That was also around the time when original books from DC and Marvel started hitting the shelves. They were prohibitively expensive, and I managed to collect a few, but my full on immersion did not come until a few years later when we moved to Germany, and I was finally able to spend all my pocket money on crap like The Infinity Gauntlet or Quasar. By the time, I’d had my fill, and decided it was a more venerable waste of my time chasing girls and failing, instead of chasing a first edition of Superman #75 and failing, technology had finally started to catch up with what was on the pages of any given issue of the forty-seven different titles of the X-Men.

But I still have a predilection for superheroes. Especially superhero films. Thinking about The Dark Knight this summer, however, I came to the conclusion that their end is nigh. Or, at least, the end of the modern superhero genre.

Now, the modern superhero film does not have its origin in the late nineties, naturally. But, the first four Superman movies, or the first four Batman films, were still different sorts of movies from the type of comic book flicks that came in the wake of the first X-Men movie’s success. Due, mainly, to technical difficulties, or the concrete set of boundaries the studios drew between the comics and their on screen counterparts, most superheroes were treated as separate entities from the larger universe they’d inhabit within their comic books. I remember watching a Stan Lee interview in 1994 or 1995 when he was talking about how Marvel was trying to resolve the issue of rights between them and Sony, and, if successful, their director of choice would be Jim Cameron. What was interesting was the name Lee was championing for Peter Parker: none other than Arnold Schwarzenegger. Even the companies themselves treated the film incarnations of their characters as totally separate properties.

I am also not naïve enough to suggest that after X-Men, the films and the comics were completely congruous, all part of one complete whole, but the films have been, more often than not, set in a sort of reality that has much more in common with the comics than just costumes and special powers. Bryan Singer’s X-Men was an anomalous turning point when studios, and filmmakers, realised that sticking closely to established superhero lore, at least as closely as possible, did not have to turn a film inherently unprofitable by appealing to close knit cadre of nerds. If anything, the opposite was true.

Like Silver Surfer to Galactus (NERD!), Singer’s X-Men heralded the coming of the serious superhero movie, and almost all superhero flicks that came after it have stuck to that particular modus operandi, some more so than others. I have to qualify the seriousness I suppose, because I don’t just mean it in its literal sense but the way it alludes to a link with reality. This turned out to be a slippery slope for superhero films. Being grounded in a recognisable, or at least relatable, reality sent the superhero genre towards a dark place where its central, most important tenet - being fun, and having a sense of wonder - was ripped from it by market forces and a vociferous bunch of angry fanboys.

Bryan Singer’s X-Men was the first stop on the long road leading to the enervation of the superhero films. Relatability to reality was key in the way that film was formed – just like in the comics, the mutants worked as a metaphor pretty much any minority you can think of, and their prosecution was made all the less subtle by making the chief villain of the piece a Holocaust survivor. The problem here, of course, was that the benevolent intentions of such a construction was lost in the general movie going populace – or at least the crowd of kids the film was aimed at. In the mutants ongoing fight for recognition, the teens saw their daily tribulations against their parents, school, society – whatever was pissing them off that day.

And this interpretation of the film’s central theme paved the way for pretty much all other comic book films to come in the following decade. Angst, melodrama and pomposity, coupled with the tendency permeating through all blockbusters to be longer, and more excessively violent, eventually transformed the superhero film into a mish mash of half-baked ideas.

The most recent example of this was The Dark Knight, about which I write in more detail in my previous post. The obvious problem is that Batman is a terrible character to begin with. When asked why the Batman in his two films never really made mention of the childhood tragedy that befell his parents, Joel Schumacher said: “I thought he should have got over it by now.” And that is actually a more realistic approach to the character than the supposed realism of the modern Batman mythos. It also offers deeper insight. The realism championed by The Dark Knight, and many a modern superhero flick, is not so much realism but a gray, emo world of banality and bathos, all pandering to the annoying thirteen years old of this world, in age, or in mentality.

(Updated: 23/12/2008): It must be pointed out this is not purely a creative issue since movies like the dreadful Fantastic Four were financial successes despite their awfulness. It boils down to money. People will pour money into a superhero picture no matter how bad it is if it has something (or someone) that appeals to them.

A few astute readers, and Troy in the comments section, have identified this piece as a bit of a cop-out, one friend arguing that "it takes a punk ass look at things, refusing to blame the real reason these movies have gotten so dark and 'realistic.'" And they are kind of right, since most of the blame should go to comic book readers. In a typically arts-major maneuver, comic books started attempting to grasp for respectability when none was required nor expected. They suddenly became overarching "graphic novels." Some are good, like Watchmen and The Crow. Many are not, such as most of Frank Miller's work.

Hollywood, by virtue of looking at what these graphic novels depict, is playing what the people like. And it should be mentioned that only a lack of interest from paying customers will derail the superhero movie train. It's all about money. People love money. That's why they call it money.

Anyway, I can’t name a single straight superhero story since X-Men. There are only so many different ways to approach the characters in order to make them interesting, and the well seems to have been run dry. But let’s take a look at the different ways Hollywood has been approaching superhero stories. Now these “issues” are prevalent in the actual comics themselves, too, but they are never the primary reason for the stories unlike in the films:

The Superhero Movie as Coming of Age Metaphor

The dean of this illustrious school is, of course, Spider-Man. And here I suppose I have to cut the first Spider-Man movie some slack because, in the comics too, the character’s origin was as unsubtle a metaphor as they come. But the comics, as did Peter Parker, outgrew this phase.
The Spider-Man comics, the first fifteen – twenty years, had, what now appears to be, a formulaic set up, even though, at the time, it was revolutionary. The day-to-day tribulations of the eponymous hero’s alter ego were shadowed by the latter’s punch-ups with his super-powered enemies. It was a refreshing approach, but, as the character grew and developed, it got old. Thankfully, the comics moved the fuck on. The films, alas, haven’t (so far). They reached their apex with the second entry, and their nadir with the third.

As a sub-genre, like all the others I shall presently get to, this is a cul-de-sac. Creatively, it’s a vicious circle treading the same ground ad infinitum. Its sole purpose, apart from allowing me to mix metaphors like a whirling dervish moonlighting as a bartender, is to make teenagers (of all ages) feel content. There will always be a market for it. Then again, there’s always a market for crap like the Jonas Brothers, too. Market potential and quality are mutually exclusive.

The Superhero Movie as Issue Metaphor

This sub-genre also has its roots in the comics. The X-Men books, originating as they did in the mid-sixties, were all-too-obvious allegories to the civil rights movement. The films, too, used the mutant cause as a metaphorical tool to link their risible core with world affairs (as did Superman IV, but let’s ignore that for the time being).

The problem is this approach has also hit a major creative roadblock. The X-Men films or The Dark Night are thematically so amorphous that they can be construed as winks at pretty much anything the viewer wants them to be. Gay rights, War on Terror, Iraq… You name the issue, the films can be stretched to cover it. This was also the case with Apocalypto or 300, too: Postmodern and metatextual commentary so blatant, yet so insipid that any critical charge can be countered by a defensive shrug. “It’s only a movie.” Well, yes. But it is also incredibly cowardly to take a stand against an issue, and then dismiss it when the stand being made is asked to be accounted for. Superhero movies these days are all too happy to make blanket statements about this issue or the other. That’s not the problem. The problem is the lack of a cohesive core.

I am interested to see how the sequel to Iron Man is going to deal with Stark’s alcoholism, for example, without actually dealing with his alcoholism.

The Funny Superhero Movie

This approach has a few faces (like Man-a-Faces from the old He-Man cartoons). It can be a spoof, like Mystery Men (great). It can be a meta-comedy like Hancock (not). Or it can be a serious superhero movie masquerading as a comedy masquerading as a serious superhero movie like Iron Man (I loved Iron Man, by the way). I am not decrying their existence, and a funny superhero film like The Incredibles can be much better than a super-serious one. But, either way, everything that needed to be done has already been done. I am sure there will be some hilarious superhero films in the years to come just as there will be some kick-ass “serious” ones. The fact remains, however, that the approach has aged.

The Revisionist Superhero Movie:

Great example: Batman Begins.
Terrible Example: The Dark Knight.

There are of course other avenues in which a superhero film has been approached lately. The Superhero movie as an exercise in style or the superhero movie as just another blockbuster, for example (Fox has been treating its superhero properties with the same sort of disdain Hollywood used to do in the eighties).

But the genre is done. At least creatively.

Until, at least, the world is ready for a straight Superman flick. Or Watchmen ends up deconstructing the super-serious comic book movie the way the source material deconstructed superheroes.

Holy Hiatus, Batman!

2008-10-21T15:50:00.011+02:00

Hiatus is such a lovely word. Say it once, and it brings up images of ninjas and dwarfs. Or ninja dwarfs. Anyway, it’s a nice word.

And it’s as good a word as any to describe my rather long sabbatical from blogging. Given its voluntary nature, I really should not have to explain myself, but I feel like I do, and not just because I received three wonderfully written hate mails bitching about why I hadn’t updated the site. Well, it’s a fucking hobby, laydeez (they were all from laydeez – I wish I knew what a laydee is). I haven’t sketched for a while, either, even though I love it, and I don’t hear people bitching about that. And, you know, they would, if they only saw how brilliant I am at it. I am like the Michelangelo of sketching. Not the renaissance painter, you understand, but the Ninja Turtle. Oy. Again with the ninjas.

Anyway, apart from personal grounds I prefer not to get into, there were a few incidental reasons that prevented me form updating. First of all, holidays. I had a bizarre leave schedule this summer, where I had a week off at the end of each summer month (and September, actually), and I explored the delights of the Aegean littoral. And, by that, I mean I stayed at my parents’ summer house, and read an inordinate amount of books lying under the sun(I finally read Freakonomics, and I seriously don’t know what the fuss is all about; Midnight’s Children, on the other hand, is still as great as ever). I also cruised round the Greek islands (Leros is paradise). And, you know, given the choice between the beauty of the Aegean, and writing about how dreadful The Dark Knight really is… Actually, that’s not even a choice at all.[1]

Secondly, I was inundated with work this summer: it’s been incredibly busy. So busy, in fact, that I have not had the time to properly frequent my favourite haunts like Jim’s Scanners, The House Next Door, Dennis’s Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule, Nathan’s The Film Experience, Ed Copeland on Film… Well, pretty much any site you see on the list of links at the sidebar. This is as good a place as any to mention that the inimitable Roger Ebert, our fearless reader, also started a blog this summer, and I urge each and every one of you to check it out. Ebert’s blog acts as a brilliant companion piece to his main site.

Anyway, it was a pretty hectic summer. I write my pieces in my own time, and never at work (if I were a gladiator, I’d be Scrupulous). [2] But I simply haven’t had that much free time outside of the office, either, which brings me to my final reason. I usually leave work at around eight, and it used to take me a good hour, hour and a half to get home, by which time, again, the lure of a cold beer and Jay Leno far outweighed my desire to share with the world why The Ting Tings' Shut Up and Let Me Go is the best pop song of the decade so far.[3] Which is why I looked for a new place closer to work for the latter half of the summer, and finally moved into my shiny new apartment last week.

So, after almost five months, I am finally ready to unleash upon the world (and by world, I mean the three people, including me, who read this blog) my views once again. Anyone who might have stumbled upon this place by accident should know the deal by now. I write petulant, longwinded rants mostly, but not exclusively, on film and television. I say not exclusively, because the recent spate of films I saw at the cinema has not really warranted all that much discussion.[4] Still, there was one film this summer that I would like to talk about: The Dark Knight.

Or, in the words of Don Corleone, “how did things ever get so far?” Watching the DVD extras of Batman Begins, I had got the unsubtle hint that Christopher Nolan took pretty much everything in the world, from doing laundry to clipping one’s toenails, Very Seriously, but nothing could have prepared me for the haughty monstrosity that was The Dark Knight. And I love Batman Begins. I think it’s not only the best superhero origin tale (the first Superman is not an origin story), it’s probably the best superhero film ever, and definitely one of the best films this decade. To say I had high hopes for its sequel is putting it mildly.

And that’s one of the key points. The Dark Knight is not a sequel to Batman Begins. The actors are the same, sure, and, thus, the characters, but they inhabit two completely different universes. A shadowy organisation of ninjas (none of them diminutive, alas) called The League of Shadows, run by a foppish Frenchman, and intent on razing Gotham, would feel completely out of place in the latter film. The Dark Knight doesn't just have a different tone, it plays a totally different instrument.

Gotham, too, looks different between the two films. In the first one, it has a reddish orange hue; it’s claustrophobic, and, even though I don’t want to use the word, gothic. In the second film, it just looks like Chicago. I know the first film was mainly shot on a soundstage, and that a big deal was made of the second film’s use of Chicago, but still, one would expect some sort of consistency.

Batman Begins is a superhero film that pushes its boundaries to the extreme. The Dark Knight is a film that obliterates those limits in the hopes of becoming a crime noir. And that would be a laudable intention, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s still a film about a guy who dresses up as a fucking bat and fights crime. It is because of its very essence that the film is inherently unable to make that leap towards serious crime drama. Batman Begins succeeds by remaining a superhero movie, The Dark Knight flounders by trying to abandon its roots.[5] And it’s not a pleasant sight.

Also not a pleasant sight: the acting. Apart from Gary Oldman’s Police Commissioner Ned Flanders, and Michael “Maybe, it’s because I’m a Londonah; aw’ight, guv” Caine, the rest of the cast can’t decide what sort of movie they’re making. Christian Bale snarls, and growls, and helpfully shows us what constipation would sound like if it could talk. Similarly, Aaron Eckhart is just a foreshadowing tool, and the late Heath Ledger a cautionary tale to all aspiring young actors on how not to do it. In fact, the principles are not fleshed out characters defined by habitual action, but, instead, concepts. It reminded me of an acting class I took once, where we were all given an emotion, and only that emotion, to act out. Good to see Mrs Beasley carrying on the good fight in Hollywood.

I am not saying that a superhero film cannot, or should not, be serious – in fact, most superhero films swing laboriously from juvenile angst to melodrama and back that a superhero film rooted in some sort of reality is usually a welcome change (case in point Batman Begins). But The Dark Knight takes itself so seriously, that, by the time Gary Oldman was giving his nonsense speech about how Batman has to run, and they have to chase him (long speech at the end of a long movie spelling out its main theme is so The Two Towers), I found myself giggling. The Dark Knight is like David Caruso in CSI: Miami; pompous, supercilious, and utterly ridiculous.[6]

[1] Word’s Grammar Check is suggesting beauties instead of beauty. Good old Microsoft, and its lofty yet unrealistic expectations of my love life.
[2] If I were a carpenter, and you were a lady; would you marry me anyway, would you have my baby?
[3] It is, by the way.
[4] I finally saw Galaxy Quest 2: Tropic Thunder last weekend, enjoyed it very much.
[5] Also, it doesn’t deal with issues so much as just mentions them (this facet of the film was discussed this summer at Scanners, too). Saying that we don’t live in a black and white world is not particularly insightful, nor is it original. Nor does it make a movie complex.
[6] But, thankfully, not a ginger.

Indiana Jones and the Blog-a-thon Nexus

2008-05-16T09:28:00.032+02:00

The nexus was never an artifact (read: MacGuffin) that Indy was ever compelled to seek, but it should have been. Post your links at the comments section, or email them to me, and I'll put them up here. Laters skaters.

Update (28/05/08) - Thanks to everyone who took part in the blog-a-thon last week. It was a great laugh, and I received some wonderful feedback (not to mention my first ever hate-mail - yay) from people all over the world. Blog-a-thon Hotwash and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull review coming soon. Laters.

24/05/08 -

- Drake Lelane knows the score.

- The Mad Hatter reviews Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

- So does Dan.

- And Jason Bellamy.

23/05/2008 -

- Jim Emerson puts The Temple of Doom in its historical context.

- An introspective look at the films by Rob Humanick.

22/05/2008 (Enjoy the film, folks) -

- Paul C. at Screengrab lusts after The Temple of Doom.

- Bob Glickstein takes a look at musical motifs in Raiders.

- Bob, again, on all things Indy.

- Moviezzz likes to play dress-up.

- Sing along with Jason Bellamy.

- David Gaffen's masterly dissection at Edward Copeland on Film of a crucial action scene in Raiders.

- Andrew Bemis, a man after my own heart, appreciates gorgeous gore.

- Adam Ross on the SHIT box - and why not?

- Arbogast and The Search for the Lost Penis.

21/05/2008 -

- Phillip Johnston on Indiana Jones and the nature of heroism.

- Damian explores Indiana Jones's Bond heritage.

- Mystery Man on Film on the Road to Indy 4 (not really a part of the blog-a-thon, but there we go).

20/05/2008 -

- Dreamrot also loves Short Round. Two paeans to Short Round in one day: Lord, I love the internets.

- Aaron thinks Indy was no Hollywood Folly.

- Adam Ross prefers Short Round to Data, and we love him for it.

- Peet Gelderblom knows exactly what Georgie Boy likes...

- Before Indiana Jones, there was Muck Muckson and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

19/05/2008 -

- Odienator, Matt Zoller Seitz and Keith Uhlich, kinky bloggers that they are, offer their appreciations of the whip.

18/05/2008 -

- Jonathan Lapper takes a look at Raiders' concept art.

- If Joseph Campanella were Romeo, then The Temple of Doom would be his Juliet.

17/05/2008 -

- Kevin and The Last Crusade sitting in a tree...

- Andrew Wyatt questions whether Indiana is a scoundrel, or a gentleman. Or both.

- Divers and Sundry likes Karen Allen.

16/05/2008 -

- Big Mike's body is a temple of doom.

- Jonathan Lapper questions the new film's relevance, and rocks the house with his new banner.

- J.D. appreciates the quiet moments in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

- How The Temple of Doom whipped Bob Glickstein's finances into shape...

Doctor Jones, we've heard a lot about you

2008-05-15T15:27:00.003+02:00

It’s almost time. The long promised – and pimped – Indiana Jones Blog-a-Thon starts tomorrow, and will run for a week until 23rd May. I have already heard from a few people who have written some excellent pieces. If I were the punning kind, I’d say we have top men working on it. Top…Men. Whaddayaknow? I am the punning kind.

Here is how the whole thing will go:

- Put up a piece(not that piece) on your blog, and send me a link.

- Fine, I get it, you don’t want to email me for fear of catching a disease. That’s OK, too. There will be a nexus on top of the page for the week of the blog-a-thon. Add a comment to it with the link to your piece, and I’ll update the list accordingly.

- You have a life, which is why you don’t own a blog, but you wanted to write a few paragraphs on the ways Short Round is a better character than Data. Send it to me in Word format, and I’ll put it up on the main site with credit to you.

What can I say – this is all very exciting, and I am looking forward to the fun and frolics.

Important: Please note that I am in Turkey, and there is a 7-10 hours time difference with the States.

Why meme?

2008-05-12T16:54:00.005+02:00

I like memes, and not just because the word meme means breast in Turkish. Peter Nellhaus at Coffee, Coffee, and More Coffee, one of the great blogs out there, posted one recently, which piqued my interest. The rules are simple:

1) Pick up the nearest book.
2) Open to page 123.
3) Locate the fifth sentence.
4) Post the next three sentences on your blog and in so doing…
5) Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

The nearest book around me is Philip Pullman’s The Amber Spyglass, the final part of the His Dark Materials trilogy. I read it about six months ago, but it’s just been sitting here on my desk, waiting to be returned to its owner (thanks, JC – ironic that the person who lent me this atheistic fable shares his initials with Hay-zeus). I am a fan of the book’s ideas – the parallel evolution angle has been justly celebrated, and the story is a fine latter-day homage to Paradise Lost. But I find the final book lacking in drama, which is usurped, instead, by the subtext. I see what Pullman’s getting at, I appreciate the world(s) he’s created, but I just don’t feel any immediacy to the two main characters. Pullman’s affinity for dangling modifiers, and needlessly complicated imagery of the locales (his descriptions of the Citagazze seafront in the second book are all over the place) don’t help matters, either.

But enough of my yakkin’ – let’s boogie:

“So each side was aware that the other was also making its way towards the cave in the mountains. And they both knew that whoever got there first would have the advantage, but there wasn’t much in it: Lord Asriel’s gyropters were faster than the zeppelins of the Consistorial Court, but they had further to fly, and they were limited by the speed of their own zeppelin tanker.

And there was another consideration: whoever seized Lyra first would have to fight their way out against the other force.”

Steampunktastic.

And, finally, tag you very much:

Jonathan Lapper’s CinemaStyles
Dennis Cozzalio’s Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule
Kevin J Olson’s Hugo Stiglitz Makes Movies
Girish
Zach Campbell’s Elusive Lucidity

Summer Movie Preview: Part I

2008-05-02T16:18:00.002+02:00

There is a bulbous whitehead growing on the side of my nose. I noticed it this morning in the lift, and it’s been bugging me ever since. Why do bad things happen to good people? I ask myself that same question quite often during the summer months, and it’s not just because I crash and burn like the Hindenburg at every single beach party. No, it’s because, nine times out of ten, I leave a summer blockbuster feeling hollow, less fulfilled than before I went into the cinema – if such a thing is possible. One can’t blame Hollywood – it’s its nature. The fault lies not in our stars, but in ourselves – like Kevin Bacon’s Chip, I keep getting pounded on the ass by summer blockbusters, and yet I still ask for more.

There are various reasons why I keep going back to the whooping well. I need to see moving images, especially after dinner – that’s the first thing. I also like it when things explode – that’s the other. But the most important one is hope. I hope that the next film I see is better than the previous one; I hope for wonder and awe; I hope for a revelation. Watching a Hollywood blockbuster is like a stagecoach ride in the Old West. When you start, you are hoping for a pleasant trip. By the halfway point, you just hope to survive. And before I get going, I hope I got some brownie points from the more refined lovers of art frequenting this blog for working in Shakespeare, Day For Night, and Animal House in the same introduction.

I dealt with Iron Man yesterday and you can read that piece by scrolling down to the previous post. I see on Rotten Tomatoes that it got great reviews from many of the respected print critics out there, which is terribly impressive for a movie like Iron Man. As long as the film has a huge opening weekend (which it still might not – and not because of GTA 4), Paramount might greenlight a sequel before the week is out, it seems. Please, please, please call the sequel Iran Man. The possibilities are endless.

Everyone bitches about summers’ being full of sequels – everyone should shut the hell up. Sure, original product is preferable than retreats, but an offhanded dismissal of all sequels/remakes/relaunches is reductivist horseshit. That hardly any sequel is ever good, let alone as good as the original, has absolutely nothing to do with the price of fish. I don’t see people bitching about The Odyssey, The Merry Wives of Windsor, or, in fact, The New Testament (though, to be fair, even that got its fair share of detractors at the time for toning down the original’s violence).

The first sequel of the summer is Prince Caspian, the follow-up to 2005’s Narnia, and to type out the full names of both is an invitation to carpal tunnel syndrome, so you will just have to live with my arbitrary, and ever changing, epithets. I can safely say that this film holds absolutely no interest for me. As a kid, I used to be a huge fan of sword and sorcery, and mythology, and fantasy, and all that geeky crap. While children my age were kicking the ball around outside, I was in my room, reading Roy Thomas and John Buscema’s excellent run on The Savage Sword of Conan, or devouring books on Greek and Norse mythology, or just simply fantasising about worlds with knights, dragons, sorcerers, all reasons that have contributed to my somewhat shaky relationship with the fairer sex. But for a few titles here and there – uninspiring fare like Dragonslayer, or Krull, or, yikes, Willow – fantasy films were hard to come by then, and I longed for the day when what’s on screen would match at least the magnitude of what was on the pages of my favourite comics or books. It’s ironic that my interest in wizards and witches faded round the time when the technology to properly realise the worlds they’d inhabit was finally developed.

That’s not to say I won’t see it, because I probably will. The only film from last summer that I didn’t catch at the cinemas was the Fantastic Four sequel, and I still haven’t seen it (I doubt I’m missing much). If they build it, I come. Having said that, Caspian just looks dire to me. The Christ-metaphor angle has always made me rather uncomfortable with the Narnia books anyway, and in the previous film, it was amped up to eleven. Everyone is trying to recapture the magic of the Harry Potter and Rings films (no pun intended), but Narnia lacks the human elements of the former, and the grandiosity of the latter. The trailer betrays a more sizeable effects budget this time out, but it still looks lacking, and small.

Come back Monday when I take the other summer sequels to task…

They mostly come out at night... Mostly.

2008-05-02T10:25:00.008+02:00

A bunch of us have a weekly game of footy on Saturday afternoons, and even though I have been sparing the wider world the sheer awesomeness of my footballing skills of late, I still partake in the post-match sessions. The one we had a few weeks ago was particularly harsh. The next morning I woke up with the mother of all hangovers, who turned out to be a particularly unwelcome houseguest, not leaving right away, asking me to cook her breakfast – the whole shebang. Well, the only way one can banish such unpleasantness to the fiery pits of hell from whence it came, I find, is to go for a comfort run, sweat it out, have some greasy comfort food, and slouch in front of the telly, watching a comfort movie. My choice was Gremlins, which I followed with its sublime sequel. The inimitable Dennis Cozzalio has been covering the great Joe Dante for the past few weeks in a traditionally spectacular fashion, and you can see why watching just those two movies.

Dennis writes:

For this reason, not nearly so many people as should tend to understand that movies like Gremlins 2: The New Batch, Explorers, The ‘burbs and his HBO film The Second Civil War are masterpieces of design, effect, satire and social commentary that far outstrip most of the movies that august bodies tend to crown with awards. Dante's movies are firecrackers, ones you shouldn't hold in your hands for long. They snap, crackle, pop and outright supernova with the kind of exuberance that most directors half his age can’t muster. Don Mancini’s Seed of Chucky is about the only movie that can stand anywhere near Gremlins 2 as an acid-blooded, tear-the-roof-off-the-joint studio sequel that makes the very idea of a sequel its radically funny foundation, a foundation from which a virtual house of mirrors explodes and plasters the walls of the cinema with a thousand different angles on creative cannibalism.

The following clip brightened up my morning. Just hearing that theme tune again…

Summer Movie Preview Preview

2008-05-01T15:47:00.009+02:00

Yeah, yeah, I know. I haven’t updated this blog for a while. In my defense, I have been extremely busy at work. Also, I was away for a while in April, which also precluded me from sharing my wit with the world. I wish there were a definite article that started with a w, so that the last part of that sentence could be perfectly alliterative. I think Hemingway had the same problem.

First thing’s first: The Indiana Jones blog-a-thon is coming up in a few weeks, and I have heard from a fair number of people that they are looking forward to the blog-a-thon more than they are looking forward to the film itself. That’s only a slight exaggeration. The next instalment of the Indy franchise, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (aside: the Turkish translation is Indiana Jones ve Kristal Kurukafa Kralligi - ve is and in Turkish: see how unfortunate that translation is?), got off to a very shaky start. When it was first announced that Spielberg, Lucas and Ford had all agreed on a script, and they were definitely making a new film, scout’s honour, the world, or the part of it that gave a shit (read: 17 middle-aged nerds who still live with their parents, and can’t get over the fact that Starbuck is a chick in the new Battlestar Galactica – which, incidentally, is the most overrated piece of garbage on telly right now), collectively rolled its eyes as it realised that the elusive promise of a new instalment was much more fun than a rigid announcement (on the other hand, nothing can be more fun than MY rigid announcement, aye!). The buzz was fricking dire. As the months passed, and photos started to trickle from production, including an excellent one taken by Spielberg himself of Ford in his Indy get up between takes, the buzz started to build, and reached somewhat of a fever pitch just before the debut of the first trailer. Which, unfortunately, was pants, and interest started to vane once again. Right now, it’s almost back to its original abysmal level – at least among fans and the online blogging community (not to mention scoop sites). So much so that there has been some rather unsubtle damage control, which seems to have had the opposite effect. I call this the The Phantom Menace Levels of Disappointment Prevention Syndrome, or TPMLODPS for short.

All of which got me thinking about this summer’s crop of wank that’s about to be unspooled on us. Everyone seems to be chiming in with their opinions on this year’s big blockbusters, and I decided to take a bite of that shit sandwich myself and do my own summer preview – after all, this is the product we will have to live with until the awards season starts in mid-Autumn. We might as well enjoy it. And by we, I mean me, and the eight other people who live in my brain (the very people who are more excited about the blog-a-thon than Indy).

The summer movie season officially starts tomorrow with Iron Man – some have questioned if he hasn’t lost his mind, if he can’t see or isn’t blind. Apparently, nobody wants him, he just stares at the world. I hate myself. Right, got that out of the way, back to the subject at hand: Iron Man. Apparently, he’s planning his vengeance – kidding, kidding, don’t leave.

Iron Man is interesting for a number of reasons. The character might not necessarily be one of Marvel’s second-tier heroes like Ghost Rider or Daredevil (Blade is eighth-tier, by the way), but he is not necessarily in the same league as Spider-Man or The Hulk, either. I was talking to my great friend Phil the other day, and he said what most people with lives, who reside outside of the States (and quite a few in the US, too, I’d imagine), must be thinking: “Iron Who?” The character is just not that well known – which is why they seem to be selling it as “Forget about the fact that it’s based on a comic book, here is a story of a guy with a jet pack who blows shit up good.”

Which is doubly important when considering the talent that’s launching the film. I think Jon Favreau is a talented director with a keen eye for commercial fare, not to mention an enthusiastic cineaste (his Dinner for Five interview with, nay, paean to, Scorsese is overwhelming in its enthusiasm - I mean that as a compliment), but he ain’t Michael Bay or even Stephen Sommers, you know (with regards to making commercial flicks). And eclectic as it is, a cast fronted by Robert Downey, JR, and including Mrs Chris Martin (almost wrote Steve Martin), Terrence Howard, Jeff Bridges, and err, Shaun Toub, is not going to sell too many tickets on its own. But put all that together, throw it in a pot, add some broth, a potato - Baby, you've got a stew going.

The buzz has been excellent on the film for months now – and the early reviews, almost unanimous in their praise (but let’s wait for the print critics, too) seem to indicate a comic book film in line with Dick Donner’s hallowed Superman, or Raimi’s equally excellent Spider-Man 2. Which I am all for. A comic book film is supposed to be fun, first and foremost. Even Batman Begins is a fun film, slightly more edgy, but still FUN, and still a comic book film (I will deal with Batman soon enough).

Come back tomorrow for the next part of my summer preview.

V to the A etc, etc.

2008-04-09T08:56:00.004+02:00

If LOL Cats represent the zenith of human civilisation, than Star Wars gangster rap parodies are the total opposite of that magnificent achievement - dire, humourless, fratboy crap, executed with the panache of a retarded Bonobo monkey dry-humping a dead armadillo. Having said that, I thought this was quite funny - especially the Lando and Obi Wan bits:

I am away on business all next week, but I will put up a few slightly more substantive pieces(read: more than two measly paragraphs, and a crappy viral) before I go.

What?

2008-04-08T08:41:00.003+02:00

No one has a clue what the hell is going on:

Watchpeanuts

2008-04-02T09:20:00.004+02:00

Cartoonist Evan Shaner at Exploding Moose recently answered that most perplexing question, which has plagued fanboys the world over for decades. What if Charles Schultz created the Watchmen? Well, here it is, and it's brilliant:

Jumping Jack Flash

2008-04-01T10:01:00.009+02:00

“Flash, Flash I love you. But we only have fourteen hours to save the earth.”

So yells Dale Arden (Melody Anderson – nice parentin’ calling your newborn Melody) to the eponymous hero (Sam J Jones) in the 1980 campstravaganza Flash Gordon. Symphonies should be written to the banality of the line, sure, but I just love the way it sounds – it encapsulates the trite dullness of the whole enterprise by bringing it down to earth. It’s like saying “Flash, Flash, I love you. But if you don’t save the earth, I’ve got men queuing at the door mate!” The world might be on the brink of total apocalypse, but let’s get the human emotions out of the way first. The juxtaposition of the grand (intergalactic destruction) with the bizarrely regular (fourteen hours to save it) defines the film. That’s what makes it fun. But, also, once you’ve seen the film, there’s pretty much no way you want to revisit it ever again. At least sober. So, thank you, whoever submitted this to The White Elephant Blog-a-thon.

Straight out of Tolstoy, the plot follows the misadventures of Flash, Dale and their hirsute companion Dr Zarkov (played by Topol – the character is meant to be Presbyterian, I think) as they try to save the Earth from the apocalyptic intentions of the evil Ming The Merciless (Max von Sydow). Like any intergalactic dictator with a serious manicure problem, Ming is bored, y’see, and he’d like to play with things for a while. Unlike the rest of us who can think of playing with only one thing when we’re bored, Ming’s mind wanders elsewhere. It turns out, when he’s alone, and life is making him lonely Ming always goes to his Grand Vizier or whatever that Vader knock-off dude is called, who, in turn, offers his master a new planet to destroy. That planet happens to be Earth, and it is up to Flash Gordon and his two new BFF’s to stop Ming in his tracks. The rest of the movie develops in the way one might expect from an Edgar Rice Burroughs knock off – Hawkmen with wings in one scene, then a football game in the other; huge rockets attacking floating fortresses, and rudely interrupting a wedding. It’s as if the screenwriter, Lorenzo Semple, got fired up coming up with an incredible set up, only to be interrupted by his wife to take the trash out – when he came back, he’d lost all his concentration, and just let his fingers do the typing. Kind of like what I am doing right now.

But I am being purposefully glib. Which is unfair because the film is meant to be trash, a cheeky little wink at the old Flash Gordon serials. Sample Dialogue:

Prince Barin: Do you know where you are?
Flash: Up the creek.

It has no pretensions, and is closer in tone to the Pirates of the Caribbean flicks of the past few years. In fact, I am surprised they decided to remake Flash Gordon as a late summer TV show on SciFi instead of a big budget summer movie extravaganza. God knows they revisit enough tripe.

Nonetheless, there is something slightly cynical about the film, too. It opened around the same time as Popeye in the US (the inimitable Odienator reckons it opened on the same day, and that IMDB has it wrong – who am I to argue with his OdieTude), and both films tried to cash in on the crowd who had grown up with the originals, as well as their children who had been watching the reruns on the telly. Unfortunately, Flash Gordon was subpar entertainment for anyone old enough to remember the old serials, and not hip enough for the generation who had, that very summer, found out about Cool Handless Luke’s parentage. So the film failed.

Even though there are moments of pure joy – any film that has Tevye, James Bond, and Death’s Chess Partner (looking like a cross between The Wizard of Oz and Mr Miyagi) can’t be dismissed completely – eventually, it falls flat. If you can get a hold of them, watch the old serials instead. If not, there’s always Flesh Gordon.

Note: No review of the film is complete without mentioning the soundtrack by Queen, which is reason enough the band should never have foregone their “No synthesisers” rule. It has a few good tracks – Football Fight, for example, the tune that launched a thousand HR training videos in the eighties, is brilliant not just in itself but also in the context of the scene – but, on the whole, it is a mess. Kind of like the movie.

This review is part of the second annual White Elephant Blog-a-thon hosted by Ben Lim at Lucid Screening.

Update: Here is the infamous Football Fight sequence:

A Short Sabbatical

2008-03-24T12:32:00.001+02:00

I am inundated with work these days. So busy am I that I can’t even find the time to reply to friends’ emails, visit my regular blog haunts, and wax poetic about film or TV. Things should calm down soon, but until then, you should check out the sterling work at the links provided on the right. Keep well, and regular updates should be back within a week or so.

Arthur C Clarke 16 December 1917 - 19 March 2008

2008-03-19T09:16:00.007+02:00

In the postscript to one of his masterpieces, Rendezvous with Rama, I think, Sir Arthur C Clarke talks about a modern day epiphany that he and a friend of his had in early 1940. Trekking around Buckinghamshire at dusk, conversing about the future (what else), the two came across a small hill. As they cleared its crest, they were confronted by a view that would haunt both men for the rest of their lives. There, in the distance, illuminated by the dying beams of a crimson sun, and ripping through the thick evening fog like Excalibur, were giant barrage balloons. Forgetting for a moment the destructive war the blimps heralded, the two men imagined a future with spacecraft punctuating the sky, signalling to the universe that man had set aside all his differences, and was ready to take that next step.

One of my favourite authors, and arguably the greatest visionary of the 20th Century, Sir Arthur C Clarke is dead. I am at a loss for words, and I must turn to him once more. How does The Nine Billion Names of God end, again? Ah, yes:

"Overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out."

Alas.

Paradise? Lost!

2008-03-17T16:23:00.005+02:00

The current season of Lost is proving to be the best one so far. That is a major feat for any network show, but it’s an even more impressive achievement for Lost, which has struggled with long bouts of mediocrity in the past (actually, I am being nice, most of the episodes from the second season, and the first half of the third season, were flat out terrible). It’s not that the show has been providing a lot of answers to any of the original mysteries, or even the newer ones (Then again, the revelations are incidental to the show’s true purpose anyway, and coming to terms with that point makes Lost an altogether more enjoyable show). Instead, it has built on the game-changing, and excellent, third-season finale, and has developed a concise and fairly tight-narrative with a constant array of surprises and cliffhangers in almost every episode. That they have a definitive end point has obviously helped the producers tremendously – not every episode is great, but the course is set. Even during its less accomplished episodes, the show no longer feels like an interminable ramble through sci-fi and TV drama clichés. For the first time since its debut in 2005, I actually love the show.

Which is kind of surprising if you know me. I am a fan of sci-fi and mystery and all that geeky crap. When I first heard about the show in early 2005 (as I was doing my military service at the time, I had missed out on all the up-front presentations in May 2004, as well as the initial reactions when the show first debuted in September), I could barely contain my excitement. A plane crash in the South Pacific – a ragtag group of survivors on a desert island – weird shit abound: SPLENDID! Just the kind of nerdy set up that gets me all giddy inside. Yet as I sat down to watch the first episode in September 2005, a year after its US premiere, I was underwhelmed. I liked the show, but it lacked that final oomph to arrest me fully. That first season did have a few excellent episodes, such as Walkabout aka Locke’s first flashback (even though it telegraphed the final twist), Solitary aka the one where they all play golf, Numbers aka the one where a math genius helps his detective brother solve crimes with the cunning use of algebra (oh, wait…), and Exodus Part II, featuring Michael’s infamous cry of “WAAAALT,” which, to this day, reverberates in my ear drums. It wasn’t a special show or anything – definitely not the best show on network TV like most of its fans claimed it was – but it had potential to develop.

The creative indolence that would plague the show had a lot to do, however, with one element introduced in the first season: the fricking hatch. My memory of the second season is hazier than that of the first, probably because I was bored shitless throughout most of it. That whole plot about pushing the button, and Locke’s lugubrious transformation from crazy island-nutjob to desk-bound, humourless douchebag, and his subsequent man of science/man of faith nonsense-a-rama with Jack were dull to the point of anesthesia, not aided by the second most boring sub-plot in the history of the show, the survivors from the tail section. I don’t know how you can go wrong with such a fount of untapped crazy, but the producers managed it with aplomb. Even though Ben’s Faux Henry days of captivity, and Michael’s gun-totin’ return, brought the show home for a while, Lost fizzled into an incongruous heap of pointless twists and turns by the end of the second season. “We have no idea how we are going to wrap this up, so here’s a giant statue with four toes (I never understood why this is so weird – it’s like looking at Guernica and saying, ‘wow, the guy who painted this must be an alien – look at the bull; it has two eyes on the side of its head’).”

And if the sophomore slump was bad, then the first ten or so episodes of the third season were truly abysmal. The demystification of The Others (probably inevitable in the long run), which had started in the latter part of the second season, continued with the revelation that they inhabit a suburban pleasantville in the middle of the fricking island – complete with book clubs, jungle gyms, and Tesco’s (probably). This domestication was offset in the later episodes of the season by the introduction of the Hostiles, or whatever they were called, but at the time, it felt like the worst creative decision ever. But it was nothing compared to the monotonous Jack/Kate/Sawyer crappola as they remained captives of The Others, doing nothing but eating bear biscuits, and looking stinky. It was only after the show came back from its ratings-killer mid-season hiatus that things started moving. Desmond went mental and travelled through time (or did he?), Charlie found out he was going to die, some other unforgettable crap happened to other characters, and, one of my favourite moments ever, the two random castaways who were awkwardly introduced at the beginning of the season, Nikki and Lauda (I might have the names wrong), got buried alive by their friends. Looking back, it was that very moment (Billy Dee Williams was in that episode, for god’s sake – BILLY DEE, BILLY DEE, BILLY DEE, Billy Dee Klump) that marks the turning point of the show. It was probably then that Damon Lindeloff and Carlton Cuse, showrunners and uber-geeks, threw up their hands in disgust and resignation, like a pair of pentecoastal cannibals, and said: “Fuck it! Let’s set an end date, and go all out mental.” The rest of the season was fast and fun. That was the one thing that had been missing in the show: fun. And the latter half of the third season provided that with style.

And then came the third season finale, Through The Looking Glass, which was probably the show's best episode since Exodus Part II, the penultimate episode of Season 1 (the two-hour season finale was shown as two separate episodes here, as Exodus Part II and Exodus Part, wait for it, III). It was suspenseful, action packed, and, at times, rather moving. The back-to-basics feel to the episode, with all the Lostaways finally together on some – probable – fool’s errand, and finally an interesting – and pertinent – parallel-plot elevated the show above the levels of most other mainstream dramas. Not just that, but it was also unsettling in a way few shows ever dare to be.

First of all, I had always liked Charlie, and that had a lot to do with Dominic Monaghan’s pitch-perfect performance throughout his run. Even though it’s a shame he had to die, I think it was understandable from a story-point of view as there was nowhere his character could go from there. His final self-sacrifice was very moving: a testament to the character’s growth while on the island, as well as underlining the show’s overall theme of redemption/damnation.

In fact, that Yin-Yang relationship was made more obvious than ever before in the latter part of the third season as demonstrated by, for example, the developments in Locke and Sawyer’s respective characters. Locke’s inability to kill his father, or himself, or, in fact, Jack showed that he might not be the hunter/hero that the Island seemed to have molded him into. This subtle emasculation was contrasted by Sawyer’s transformation from a joker/con artist to a murderer. Whereas he was haunted by the memories of killing the man in Sydney, he did not seem to show any remorse for strangling Anthony Cooper, as attested to by his shooting Tom even after the latter had surrendered. Locke’s confrontation with Jack and Sawyer’s with Tom in the episode three finale were linked stylistically (of course), and thematically. The Others probably wanted Locke to kill his father because they wanted to see if he would be able to kill one of his own men should it ever come to it. Obviously he failed – but Sawyer would not have. Sidelined for most of the second and third seasons, Sayid, too, had a return to form as a very, very dangerous man – it was moments like these that formed a coherent whole around the episode.

The redemption/damnation motif also forms the basis of Jack’s story. I know that he is despised more than any other character (apart from Charlie, I suppose), but Jack is one of my favourites. It’s an old caveat of – good – comic book writers that it is far easier to write Wolverine than Cyclops. Similarly, Jack - an uneasy leader whose decisions usually produce ambivalent results - with all his genuine goodwill, heroism, altruism as well as his almost psychotic obsessiveness, sins-of-the-father issues, and, err, voice-control problems, is a much more complicated character than many others on the beach. His arc is the show’s arc (if I have to use the horrible “a” word) – damnation or salvation. And Matthew Fox’s performance, which, admittedly, comes and goes, was fantastic enough in the last seven or so episodes to rise to that larger challenge. So it was a combination of all these factors that made the final revelation in his flashforward that Jack was not redeemed all the more shocking.

Oh yeah – the flashforward.

I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. When, last spring, we were talking about the show on an internet board, my good friend Graydon mentioned that he would like the series finale to be a slowly-revealed flasforward that would “flash back” to how the Lostaways escaped the island. I had entertained similar convention-defying possibilities before (not like that, you filthy heathens), and, albeit slightly similar to the Voyager finale, Graydon’s idea was great. A few days afterwards, I accidentally saw an avatar on another board of Leonidas/Jack, and, remembering the leap-in-time approach of the Battlestar Galactica third season finale (this is probably the geekiest post ever), I entertained whether a similar idea would be introduced in Lost. There were also a few tell-tale signs in the episode as well. The first one was the deliberate obscuration of the date of the paper, and the identity of the person who committed suicide. Another sign was Jack’s mobile, which was a Motorola Razr, and not released until 2005 (or, maybe, 2006) – having said that, I thought it might have been just an error (it obviously wasn’t, as proven by Jin’s bulky mobile in the most recent episode). Even though Jack’s mentioning his father threw me off at first, I thought it was too obvious a red herring, and that, if confronted, the producers could just write it off as Jack’s being high as a cloud at the time. Still, I was flabbergasted when Kate walked out of the shadows. It was such a bold, and imaginative move - setting up a great avenue to explore for the three seasons ahead. The fact that Jack had not been redeemed after all they went through (a line of Jack’s at which I raised an eyebrow) was an incredibly powerful way to end the show. It was like the producers’ saying: “Right, so you want answers? Here’s one: Kate and Jack get off the island, but they end up estranged, and, even better, Jack is more fucked up than ever! Happy now, bitches?” In one single episode, the show had managed to undo most of the effects of introducing The Others as regular characters, or the hatch, or, well, all the creative missteps of the past two seasons. Unlike the end of the second season, we were left with genuine questions. Who’s in the casket? What makes Jack go nuts? Whose boat is it? How do they get off the island? Why do they have to get back?

And it was with that new-found love for the show that I found myself counting the days to the fourth season premiere. Come back tomorrow for the second part of this post, where I’ll be reviewing the latest season so far, analysing the show’s technical aspects, and considering what might be in store for the last thirty-odd episodes…

Here Hare Here

2008-03-13T16:22:00.012+02:00

Like most of my contemporaries who were just a tad too young when it first came out, I first saw Withnail and I during my second year at university. I can’t say I instantly fell in love with it. My good friend Steve had just rented it at the local video store, but my other good friend Phil (with whom Steve shared a house) and I had other ideas. We were all into film, and used to spend Tuesday and Thursday nights watching at least two films a night, accompanied by a ritual consumption of delivery pizza. Not surprisingly, the end of the year saw our combined weights’ approaching that of a hippopotamus.

Anyway, it was two against one, and Phil and I just weren’t in the mood for British comedy, which did not have its best decade in the eighties. Eventually, though, we sat through it, protesting that it was not what people had made it out to be. That half-drunk halfwits in pubs all over the land would quote (and misquote) lines from the film did not help matters either. I remember thinking about the film a lot during the next two days, and watched it again the following week. Slowly, with each viewing, I got more and more hooked. It wasn’t love at first sight, but Withnail and I is now one of my favourite films.

I have written extensively on the film on other blogs and forums over the years, but I wanted to write something to do with the film for my friend’s birthday. As Steve is in China, I decided to post a few frames from some of his favourite scenes. Ironically, Blogger is banned in China. It’s all very Withnail…

“Fork it!”

“I will never play The Dane.”

“Look at my tongue; it's wearing a yellow sock.”

“It's obsessed with its gut - it's like a rugby ball now. It will die, it will die!”

“How do we make it die?”

“Are you the farmer?”

“I shall miss you, Withnail.”

Note: Withnail and I was my contribution to Jim Emerson’s Opening Shots Project, which you can read by clicking here.

(Image Credits: Withnail and I Multimedia Archive )

No Mist Opportunities Here

2008-03-12T16:54:00.002+02:00

I first read Stephen King’s The Mist when I was 11, and remember enjoying it tremendously – re-reading it a fortnight ago, I found it slightly less fulfilling, and the film does not improve on the source material (Aside: One of the reasons I have never re-read Dean Koontz’s Lightning, which was my mostest favouritest adult book when I was 10, is for fear of discovering it is actually a pile of pants). The story is a simple one, frequently recycled in horror movies of the past half-century. There’s a massive storm, which brings, in its wake, a mist gravid with all sorts of monsters – from Lovecraftian tentacles to bizarre insectoid monstrosities that would make David Cronenberg blush. A group of townspeople are trapped in a supermarket, some of them start going mental, some don’t, and then shit hits the fan. That’s really all there is to it. Even though the horror outside of the supermarket is outmatched by the horrors within its apparent shelter, the fact remains that the main thrust of the film is horror – it ain’t social commentary, which, albeit ironic, is nonetheless incidental. In more accomplished examples of the genre such as Night of the Living Dead and Dawn of the Dead, it is subservient to each film’s main purpose, even though the more enthusiastic fan usually (and wrongly) argues otherwise.

One element I found terribly distracting about the film was writer-director Frank Darabont’s decision to use 24-like fast zooms – Joe Wright used a similar technique, to risible results, in Pride and Prejudice. Even though it’s more fitting in a contemporary drama shot with a documentary style, they, nonetheless, bugged the hell out of me in The Mist. Mind you, one can say anything that distracts one’s attention away from the cliché-ridden plot might be regarded as a good thing, but still… Just when you expect the camera to focus on a group of people, stay on them for a minute or two, you get a dizzying zoom, altered in post-production to do away with focusing problems, and your mind immediately wanders away from the action. “What the hell was that,” is the immediate reaction, which is transformed after the third instance into “Here we go again.” It would have been a better idea to keep things out of focus – characters and monsters – letting it all play out in the background. The aisles and the store windows constrict the action anyway, and a sense of visual claustrophobia could have been achieved much more elegantly with a more conventional camerawork.

There are also holes in the narrative that you could drive a fleet of trucks through, and they are apparent in both the novella and the film. After the hero, David Drayton (Thomas Jayne), and a few others, have a close confrontation in the loading dock with some obviously not-from-this-world tentacles, and lose of one of their numbers to the beast, they decide to enlist the help of Andre Braugher’s bellicose out-of-towner Brent Norton. He dismisses the idea that there are monsters out there in the mist, which, I find, is the natural position to adopt when confronted by relatively frequent weather phenomena. However, when they say they have the severed tip of one of the tentacles in the loading bay, he refuses to even go in and take a look, thinking that this is all just a big joke being played on him by the locals. It’s such an arbitrary scene – so obviously a plot device – that it, too, distracts from the actual film. I wanted to shout at the screen, “just kick him the heck out of there,” which, given the film’s tone, is obviously not the intention. Another plot-device-cum-character is the religious zealot Mrs Carmody (delightfully hammed up to the max by Marcia Gay Harden), who starts ranting and raving the minute the mist appears, and who starts gathering followers with each passing moment. There is a nice point here about people succumbing to their deepest fears in times of great crisis, but the apparent dichotomy between Drayton’s positivists and Carmody’s nutcases goes up to eleven, and this lack of subtlety drains the confrontation off its emotional resonance (and timely relevance).

Nonetheless, during its better moments, the film feels like the more competent examples of mainstream horror of the 70’s, and I was reminded of middling, yet enjoyable, fare such as Deathdream, The Other, Burnt Offerings, or even The Nanny (OK, that’s the sixties, but still). It is also unflinching in its inexorable journey towards an unusually dark and disturbing catharsis. In a bizarre way, you can see the love that went into the making of this film, similar to the kind of love Darabont must have poured into The Shawshank Redemption (overrated) and The Green Mile (underrated). It might work better as part of a Friday night DVD double-bill (unless, that is, you have a life).

No Time for Subtlety, Dr Jones

2008-03-11T09:49:00.006+02:00

The final one-sheet for this summer's eagerly anticipated Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull has been released. Anything new and official from the Indy camp is good by definition. However, as with the teaser trailer (brilliantly dissected by Ted Pigeon here), the poster lacks that old-timey quaintness, which was promised by Spielberg et al in the recent Vanity Fair spread (and was captured perfectly in the teaser one-sheet). There is way too much happening in the poster - it's very crowded.

It is understandable, if not downright essential, that the poster be dominated by Indiana Jones's giant noggin, and his equally huge fedora. The hat is a crucial part of the character's iconography, more so than the wip, and in the image, its size occupies the same amount of space as Indy's face. That might seem like stating the obvious, but it goes to show that whenever we see the character in action, our mind is taking in the same amount of information with regards to the hat as to the head. In The Last Crusade, the curious boy-scout only becomes the character we know when he puts on the hat. In all the films, the motif of the character's losing his hat, and his subsequent attempts to retrieve it, are repeated, thus solidifying the inseparability of the head and the hat.

Drew Struzan has framed the poster with the silhouette of jungle flora and Aztec(?) relics, appropriate since the film takes place in the jungles of South America. This is also a better use of Struzan’s usual penchant for constricting his posters with thick borders – his work for the Star Wars prequels featured increasingly expanding black frames. It’s a valuable, if slightly simplistic, technique – one which calls the viewer’s attention to the centre of the frame. It also has the misfortune of constricting the image, making it look too cluttered, even before the addition of other elements. Since Struzan likes to cramp in a lot of detail, one of the greatest devices of his trade also becomes one of its worst enemies (the large snake on the top right hand of the frame points directly at Shia LaBeouf’s character. If it weren’t so obvious that he plays Indiana Jones’s son, I would be inclined to suspect some sort of treachery).

The not-quite centrality of the eponymous skull is also necessary in the theatrical poster. Struzan likes to scatter the various elements of his designs somewhat haphazardly, which must be born out of his rush-hour-in-Cairo-like nature of his compositions. There have been some rumblings that the revelation of the skull’s obviously alien origin is given away too early. Well, this is an Indiana Jones film. The title says the skull is crystal. I think people would have made the connection to some sort of other worldliness, and not Damien Hirst (yes, I know his piece was made out of diamonds, but still). Besides, the skull is a MacGuffin, just like Ark of the Covenant, the Sankara Stone or The Holy Grail – its nature is incidental to its purpose. One of the things that drives me wild about genre fans (and there’s a lot that drives me wild) is their obsession with explanations – they are suckers for literalism, which the better examples of genre fiction very deftly avoid.

The remaining figures in the poster are dispersed slapdash beneath Indiana Jones’s face, with Shia LaBoeuf and Cate Blanchett's characters’ taking prominence. They are both featured with the one accessory that seems to define them in the film (this based on production photos) – LaBoeuf’s character’s motorcycle, and Blanchett’s sabre (she seems to have adopted a pose similar to the one Obi Wan did in the Attack of the Clones' theatrical poster, also by Struzan). Underneath Blanchett, we see the floating heads of Karen Allen and Ray Winstone, the latter looking like a cross between Rembrandt and Dom DeLouise. My favourite part of the poster is Indy legging it from the angry tribesmen behind him – a nice visual homage to the beginning of the first film. I just hope there aren’t too many of those, visual or otherwise, in the film.*

Compared to the other three posters, this one feels way too crowded, even though it features around the same amount of characters, or elements, as its predecessors. It’s just that the composition has made it look clunky, and amateurish; kind of like those fan posters where everything but the kitchen sink is thrown in for no other reason than the überfan’s central philosophy of “more is more.”I still can't wait for the flick, mind you.

And just a reminder: I will be hosting an Indiana Jones blog-a-thon to coincide with the release of the film in May. Come one, come all...

*OK, OK, maybe just the one:

(Photo credits: USA Today, and Indyfan.com)

It's Only a Movie, Lauren

2008-03-10T17:01:00.007+02:00

Over at The House Next Door, Lauren Wissot has a particularly abrasive review of 10,000 BC. I caught the film as part of a double bill yesterday (along with No Country For Old Men – what a combo), and it was my intention to write a few short paragraphs on how ridiculous it is. Nothing major – just a mishmash of thoughts on a particularly pointless and inconsequential little movie. Then I read Lauren’s piece, which considers the film only slightly less offensive than the Holocaust, and was compelled to delve further into the film, and the issue of critiquing such trash with self-righteous indignation.

10, 000 BC is a gewgaw, and not to be taken seriously. The film opens with a series of shots scanning a vast, snowcapped wilderness of what I assume to be the late Mesolithic(derived from the Greek word for hirsute) Period, as a disembodied, heavily-accented voice begins to tell the tale of the kid with the blue eyes, Evolet (Camilla Belle), and the other kid who loved her, D’Leh (Steven Strait), and…whatever – I wasn’t really paying any attention. As foretold by the tribe’s shaman, an old woman perceptibly called The Old Woman, the blue eyed girl will facilitate some sort of change that will lead the tribe’s people to safety. Here is another safety tip: move away from the top of the fucking mountain. Hide in caves. Do anything but live on top of a hill of rocks in the middle of fucking winter, with no water or vegetation in sight. If early humans were as stupid as these fuckers, we would have been wiped out years ago (and no, the film is not set in the ice ages, but, ostensibly at least, the last glacial period).

Anyway, the two kids grow up, they fall in love, breath heavily into each other’s faces (yikes – cavemen breath), and promise never to part. Oh boy. After a lugubrious mammoth hunt (again, if early humans were as clumsy as these fuckers, the woolly mammoth would never have been wiped out), D’Leh is anointed the chief hunter of his tribe. The glory doesn’t last for long as he gives back the ceremonial white spear confirming his status to his mentor Tic’Tic (how to make a “native” sounding name: take a word, add an arbitrary apostrophe – voila), and there is a subplot involving the former’s father, and how he abandoned his tribe, but he never actually did, but it’s all just padding to flesh out the story. On the night of the hunt as the tribe is asleep (no one keeps watch – idiots), slave traders ransack the village and kidnap Evolet, and a few others. D’leh and Tic’Toc, accompanied by fellow hunters Tinky’Winky, Dip’sy, Laa’Laa and P’o, start off on a quest to rescue their tribespeople.

10, 000 BC is an incredibly sloppy film. The effects are terrible to begin with – the first time the hunters spot the mammoths, I could almost count the 1’s and the 0’s where there was supposed to be a herd of giant beasts. There’s all sorts of unintentionally funny scenes. The Old Mother, who resembles the Ewok Chief Chirpa from Return of the Jedi, has a new interpreter in every scene, each of whom manages to decipher messages most complicated from utter gibberish:

The Old Mother: Gligligligligligligligligligliglgilgigliglgigligligli
Random Interpreter Number 1: The girl with the Fremen blue eyes will bring peace to our land.

The Old Mother: Gligligligligligligligligligliglgilgigliglgigligligli
Random Interpreter Number 2: The boy with the white spear (aye!) shall rescue his love from the clutches of the man-gods.

The Old Mother: Gligligligligligligligligligliglgilgigliglgigligligli
Random Interpreter Number 3: A commodity appears at first sight an extremely obvious, trivial thing. But its analysis brings out that it is a very strange thing, abounding in metaphysical subtleties and theological niceties.

There are also anachronisms galore from terror birds (which went extinct a million years previously) to pyramids (the first of which is thought to have been constructed about 6,000 years later) to One Tree Hill like teen-psychology. Of course, I am fully aware that looking for anthropological or paleontological accuracy in a film like this is obviously self-defeating. But it’s fun – in fact, it’s probably the only fun aspect of the movie for me. The film exists to be ridiculed, and I enjoyed basing my mockery on other unrelated interests. A cross-pollination of hobbies, if you like – not only did I get to watch a film, but I also flexed my memory of the latter parts of the Stone Age: as such one can even say the film was educational in its crapulence. The film is less La Guerre du Feu than it is One Million Years B.C.

And that is as far as I was going to go, until I ran into Lauren Wissot’s review. It seems we saw two different films because what I found utterly inconsequential and instantly forgettable (you can see how hazy my memory is of the film in the previous paragraph), she considered offensive to her tastes and her intellect. Lord, if I have to start taking offense at everything that insults my intelligence, I would need a brand new computer every time I get on the internet.

Ms Wissot begins her review by quoting Steven Strait from the film’s Press Kit, “There’s something very beautiful about how the human condition hasn’t really changed over the millennia. What makes us human beings hasn’t changed since pre-historic times – love, compassion, conscience, sympathy. You see all of these things in this film. And you can relate to that no matter what era you live in.” Utterly risible in its pseudo-existentialist philosophising, that quote is the sort of third-rate copy that actors get fed by their publicity people while promoting any film (even much better ones than this piece of shit), yet, according to Wissot, it might well be the epitome of all evil since she finds it “without a doubt the scariest thing about Roland Emmerich’s underwhelming, CGI-infused epic.” Wasting a perfect opportunity to point out how Hollywood is its own worst enemy, not to mention Emmerich’s seemingly congenital humourlessness that permeates all aspects of his films, Wissot gets up on her high horse, and sets out on her petulant rant. I am not disparaging Wissot or petulant rants – I have enjoyed her writing before, and I revel in longwinded petulance. It’s just that the film doesn’t call for it.

Wissot carries on by labeling Emmerich and the film creationist, accusing them of disregarding Darwinian evolution. There is nothing in the film that even aspires to having any allusions beyond that of what is on the screen. Calling the film creationist would be an intellectual elevation for this piece of trash. I don’t know whether Wissot used the phrase creationist for its meaning, or as some sort of an architectural fragment within the sentence, the same way she misapplies anthropomorphism to a sabre tooth later on – “it looks good within the sentence, so let’s roll with it.” In fact, she succumbs to creationist pseudo-science herself by calling the tribes on screen Neanderthals, even though they died out around 20,000 years prior to when the film is supposed to be set. Normally, it’s an easy mistake to make for a lay person. But Wissot is so fired up that her fervour demands 100% accuracy. One should really get their facts straight when one is bitching about someone who doesn’t have their facts straight.

One of the main points that Wissot makes is how the film is ridden with clichés. That is true. Yet, again, so is her review. She compares the film to a PlayStation game, she says there is hardly any characterisation (but there is plenty of habitual action, which should render expositionary characterisation invalid – even though it doesn’t), she guffaws at the sub-par CGI. I see her point, but these are nothing new. Comparing a blockbuster to a computer game, for example, is just lazy writing. The CG is bad, yes, but Wissot makes her point by saying it is so bad that the mammoths look like hairy elephants, the birds look like giant ostriches, and the sabre tooth tiger like a tiger with dental problems. Think about that for a second. And then please remember that those are the views of someone who, in her first paragraph, chastised the filmmakers for knowing nothing from Darwin.

Then comes my favourite part where Wissot has an epiphany, and states “it’s almost as if Emmerich believes that bigger and louder is better.” Hang on, hang on! Are we talking about the same Roland Emmerich who directed Universal Soldier? Stargate? Independence Day? The Patriot? The Day After Tomorrow? No. Surely not! If a reviewer is going to great lengths demolishing a target as easy as Emmerich, I expect something more substantial, and less unoriginal, than “the guy likes his explosions.”

Crap like 10,000 BC is not beyond criticism. Just because it is meant to be light-hearted genre fare doesn’t mean the film should be spared an analytical look. But is the film that offensive? According to Wissot, it is:

“As for the "angry rant" part, why shouldn't I be angry? Roland Emmerich wasted nearly two hours of my life that I won't get back. I sometimes look at film criticism as a public service. If I can keep others from wasting their time - and money - then I've done part of my job.”

Lauren Wissot. Actor. Critic. Prophet.

Fulminating against a film like 10,000 BC is like shooting fish in a barrel. It’s like tripping a dwarf. It’s like doing both those things and then, to celebrate, stealing candy from a baby. Is the film terrible? Oh, God yes! Does it call for self-righteous indignation? Only if you have nothing else to worry about in your life.

Watch out!

2008-03-07T15:10:00.002+02:00

I used to be a huge comic book nerd. Then I grew up. To this day, one of my favourite pastimes is ripping into people who consider comics a serious art-form. Sequential art, they say. Bollocks, I reply. I will write a longer diatribe on how laughable it is to lionize comic books, especially mainstream ones, at a later date.

Having said that, sometimes it’s impossible not to get lured in by a work of seminal genius (a phrase I use sparingly, unlike comic book aficionados). Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons’s Watchmen is one of the few comics (or graphic novels, if you are being pedantic) that is a complete work in itself. In fact, it is the Citizen Kane of comic books if you will, not just for the story, but for its use, nay mastery, of the comic book form – including, but not exclusive to, all its natural limitations.

Anyway, a film version, long, long in gestation, will be out exactly a year from now. 300’s Zach Snyder is at the helm, and even though that film was an abysmal piece of trash, Snyder has the visual mastery, as well as the nerdish excitability, that a project like Watcmen demands. He’s finally posted the movie versions of most of the characters from the story. Most of them look great, though I am not sure why Ozymandias is wearing George Clooney’s costume from Batman and Robin.

The Barbers of Seville

2008-03-07T14:31:00.003+02:00

I can’t watch football anymore. I mean, sure, I can; I am physically able to; my eyes don’t give when I sit down in front of the telly, or in a stadium, to immerse myself in the delights of 22 sweaty men charging after a ball. It’s just that whenever it’s a team I support, be it Fenerbahce, Turkey, Newcastle, or England (an embarrassment of riches, eh), I simply lose any sense of reality, betray all my convictions, lose all my mirth, forgo all custom of exercises. I get taken over by obsessive-compulsive idiosyncrasies, which hound me like the Furies did Orestes, and get reduced to an arbitrary combination of random ticks, routines, and chants. Double that, if you please, when what’s on the table is something that’s important. Say, qualifying for the last eight in the Champions League. Which, incidentally, is the predicament I found myself in on Tuesday Night, that glorious, beautiful, divine Tuesday Night. It was the second leg of the Knockout Phase to qualify for the quarter finals, and Fenerbahce were going in with a 3 – 2 first leg victory over Seville, UEFA Cup winners of the previous two years. For those of you who aren’t aware (and most of the readers of this blog are from the US and Canada so I feel I should explain), that’s not the greatest of results. It’s a victory, sure, but scoring two away goals would mean that a one goal lead at home would be enough to qualify for Seville. Within the first 10 minutes, they had two.

I wasn’t going to watch it. I’d stopped watching the first game after Fenerbahce’s hopelessly unlucky defender Edu tiptoed in an own goal in the first leg, only to wake up to go to work the next day, stop by at the cornershop for some gum, and discover Fenerbahce’s wonky 3 – 2 win. The thing is, the last 15 minutes of Pushing Daisies (a show I still like, but one that needs to get on with telling its weekly stories – I spent most of the hour worrying about Anna Friel’s complexion, for God’s sack) coincided with the first fifteen minutes of the game so I simply had to switch back and forth between the two. Fine. That wasn’t something I could help. To recap my reactions to those formative minutes of the game, I shall now refer back to my journal, in which I was taking notes on Pushing Daisies:

Hmmm, that wig, or wig-like hair do, on the lovely Ms Chenoweth is not that fetching – oh well – let’s see what’s going on with the game – CLICK – ooh, four minutes in and – Hell – Selcuk tackles Keita (or was it Kanoute) to concede a dangerous freekick to Seville, 25 meters from the goal. Right, not to worry. Volkan, the Fenerbahce keeper, should be ready for crap like this from their opponents – Or maybe not. Shit. We’re down one nil after Alves machetes the ball through Volkan’s fingertips and right into the goal. Great. CLICK.

I switched back to catch the remaining few minutes of Pushing Daisies, though exactly what the hell was going on, I couldn’t tell you. My ears were poised to take in the hysterical cries of victory that were sure to emanate from my neighbours. I live on the Asian side of Istanbul, close to Fenerbahce’s home ground, and it’s a positively fanatical neighbourhood. Thunderous, animalistic chants reverberate through walls whenever Fenerbahce scores a goal, which is exactly what I was anticipating. Alas, no joy – an eerie silence, and nothing else. Oh, sod it – I thought; everyone’s watching the game, I shall do, too. Ticks, tricks, warts and all…

Seville’s second goal arrived like a bolt of lightning a scant 30 seconds after I switched back to the game. A misunderstanding between Fener’s middling midfield and drowsy defense was spotted by Keita, who picked up the ball a good 30-meters from the goal, and thumped it with the drive of a thousand monster trucks towards Volkan, who gently caressed the ball into the back of the net. Fuck. I was distraught. “So this is as far as we can go,” I thought. But Fenerbahce had other ideas. The boys stuck to it, and I almost destroyed my vocal chords when, 20 minutes in, Deivid’s half volley bounced past Seville and Fener players alike to defeat the home team’s keeper. Get in! We can do this. Come on, lads. You can see how easily my opinion can sway…

For the rest of the first half, Fenerbahce had impeccable control at times – I counted 18 passes between the players before Kezman tested the Seville keeper (either just before the the Fener goal, or just after – don’t remember), and it felt to me like that most important second goal, which would have confirmed Fenerbahce’s place in the quarter-finals, was imminent. Shows you how much I know – just before half-time, it was Seville scored their third goal of the game, sending me into a lethargic acceptance of a grim fate that must now surely await my beloved team. I brushed my teeth, and got ready for bed, waiting to pounce into a depressed slumber after the fourth goal.

Oh, but wait – the second half started, but Fenerbahce had not given up. It was the industrious Alex who tested Palop first, and then Aurelio, and Ugur had a go, too. But, only fifteen or so minutes from the final whistle, Deivid scored his second goal of the match to bring the aggregate result to a draw, thus confirming extra time, which was lacking in decent football, but not in decent drama. By the time of the penalty shout out, I was a nervous wreck, unable to sit down, pacing round my living room, praying to all gods man had hitherto prayed to, and making up my own ones just for extra good luck. I can’t really recall what happened – I had my back towards the telly most of the time – but that final save by Volkan is etched forever to the back of my eyeballs, as well as his subsequent manic sprint around the pitch, chased by his jubilant team mates. Gosh – it was a sight to see.

Now this is actually not a huge thing to celebrate. Any of the other big teams in Europe, in fact the other six who have so far qualified for the quarter finals, would have been only mildly happy, already thinking of the next round. But not us. Fenerbahce have always had a chequered past in Europe, and this was a glorious victory for us to remember in years to come. I still don’t have all that much faith that we can go any further than this. If we do, that’s great. And if we don’t… Well, we’ll always have Seville.

(Photo Credit: UEFA.com)

Me-me-me-me-me-me

2008-03-04T10:07:00.004+02:00

On her always sassy and delightfully vivacious website, Sheila O’Malley recently posted a film meme. Incidentally, meme, pronounced “meh-meh”, means breast in Turkish, but that’s not important right now. Anyway, she’s invited others to have a crack at it (the meme, not the breast), so here I go. The list looks like it’s IMDB’s Top 250.

The rules are simple:
Bold movies you have watched and liked.
Turn red movies you have watched and loved.
Italicize movies you saw and didn’t like.
Leave as is movies you haven’t seen.

The Godfather (1972)
The Shawshank Redemption (1994)
The Godfather: Part II (1974)
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966)
Pulp Fiction (1994)
Schindler’s List (1993)
Star Wars: Episode V - The Empire Strikes Back (1980)
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975)
Casablanca (1942)
The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003)
Star Wars (1977)
12 Angry Men (1957)
Rear Window (1954)
No Country for Old Men (2007)
Goodfellas (1990)
Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001)
City of God (2002)
Once Upon a Time in the West (1968)
The Usual Suspects (1995)
Psycho (1960)
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
Citizen Kane (1941)
The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
North by Northwest (1959)
The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002)
Fight Club (1999)
Memento (2000)
Sunset Blvd. (1950)
Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
It’s a Wonderful Life (1946)
The Matrix (1999)
Taxi Driver (1976)
Se7en (1995)
Apocalypse Now (1979)
American Beauty (1999)
Vertigo (1958)
Amélie (2001)
The Departed (2006)
Paths of Glory (1957)
American History X (1998)
To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)
Chinatown (1974)
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
The Third Man (1949)
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Pan’s Labyrinth (2006)
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948)
Alien (1979)
The Pianist (2002)
The Shining (1980)
Double Indemnity (1944)
L.A. Confidential (1997)
Leben der Anderen, Das [The Lives of Others] (2006)
The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)
Boot, Das (1981)
The Maltese Falcon (1941)
Saving Private Ryan (1998)
Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Forrest Gump (1994)
Metropolis (1927)
Aliens (1986)
Raging Bull (1980)
Rashômon (1950)
Singin’ in the Rain (1952)
Rebecca (1940)
Hotel Rwanda (2004)
Sin City (2005)
Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)
All About Eve (1950)
Modern Times (1936)
Some Like It Hot (1959)
2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
The Seventh Seal (1957)
The Great Escape (1963)
Amadeus (1984)
On the Waterfront (1954)
Touch of Evil (1958)
The Elephant Man (1980)
The Prestige (2006)
Vita è bella, La [Life Is Beautiful] (1997)
Jaws (1975)
The Manchurian Candidate (1962)
The Sting (1973)
Strangers on a Train (1951)
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
The Apartment (1960)
City Lights (1931)
Braveheart (1995)
Cinema Paradiso (1988)
Batman Begins (2005)
The Big Sleep (1946)
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939)
Once Upon a Time in America (1984)
Blade Runner (1982)
The Great Dictator (1940)
The Wizard of Oz (1939)
Notorious (1946)
Salaire de la peur, Le [The Wages of Fear](1953)
High Noon (1952)
Star Wars: Episode VI - Return of the Jedi (1983)
Fargo (1996)
The Bourne Ultimatum (2007)
Unforgiven (1992)
Back to the Future (1985)
Ran (1985)
Oldboy (2003)
Million Dollar Baby (2004)
Cool Hand Luke (1967)
Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (2003)
Donnie Darko (2001)
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989)
The Green Mile (1999)
Annie Hall (1977)
Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949)
Gladiator (2000)
The Sixth Sense (1999)
Diaboliques, Les [The Devils] (1955)
Ben-Hur (1959)
It Happened One Night (1934)
The Deer Hunter (1978)
Life of Brian (1979)
Die Hard (1988)
The General (1927)
American Gangster (2007)
Platoon (1986)
V for Vendetta (2005)
Judgment at Nuremberg (1961)
The Graduate (1967)
The Princess Bride (1987)
Crash (2004/I)
The Wild Bunch (1969)
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)
Letters from Iwo Jima (2006)
Heat (1995)
Gandhi (1982)
Harvey (1950)
The Night of the Hunter (1955)
The African Queen (1951)
Stand by Me (1986)
Kill Bill: Vol. 2 (2004)
Witness for the Prosecution (1957)
The Big Lebowski (1998)
The Conversation (1974)
Little Miss Sunshine (2006)
Wo hu cang long [Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon ] (2000)
The Grapes of Wrath (1940)
Gone with the Wind (1939)
3:10 to Yuma (2007)
Cabinet des Dr. Caligari., Das [The Cabinet of Dr Caligari] (1920)
The Thing (1982)
Groundhog Day (1993)
The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)
Sleuth (1972)
Patton (1970)
Toy Story (1995)
Glory (1989)
Out of the Past (1947)
Twelve Monkeys (1995)
Ed Wood (1994)
Spartacus (1960)
The Terminator (1984)
In the Heat of the Night (1967)
The Philadelphia Story (1940)
The Exorcist (1973)
Frankenstein (1931)
Anatomy of a Murder (1959)
The Hustler (1961)
Toy Story 2 (1999)
The Lion King (1994)
Big Fish (2003)
Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998)
Bonnie and Clyde (1967)
Young Frankenstein (1974)
Magnolia (1999)
A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)
In Cold Blood (1967)
Rosemary’s Baby (1968)
Dial M for Murder (1954)
All Quiet on the Western Front (1930)
Roman Holiday (1953)
A Christmas Story (1983)
Casino (1995)
Manhattan (1979)
Ying xiong [Hero] (2002)
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Rope (1948)
Cinderella Man (2005)
The Searchers (1956)
Finding Neverland (2004)
Inherit the Wind (1960)
His Girl Friday (1940)
A Man for All Seasons (1966)
Arsenic and Old Lace (1944)
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962)

And speaking of memes, here is another one you might find interesting.

In 1869, Sisters Did It For Themselves...

2008-03-04T09:41:00.001+02:00

There is something transcendental, almost zen-like, in the line “In 1963, Betty Friedan wrote the best book ever.”

This is this? No, this is it.

2008-03-03T15:24:00.005+02:00

Jason Bellamy at The Cooler has started an interesting project about the phrase “This is it” in movies. Taking his cue from that most beloved of masterpieces, Titanic, he observes:

“'This is it!' is an exclamatory line found in oodles of movies. But the implementation of “This is it!” in Titanic speaks to the phrase’s ubiquity. We’ve grown so accustomed to its presence that we hardly notice it, even though the line is often meant to cue the audience. When Jack yells “This is it!” he isn’t really speaking to Rose. Instead it’s Cameron speaking to us, and what the filmmaker is actually saying is: “This is it! It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for! The doomed ship has stayed afloat for almost 3 hours, but now it sinks at last! Watch this!”

How long have screenwriters been writing this way? And why do so many movie characters utter that popular line, considering how rarely people seem to use it in real life?”

Of course, “this is it” is just one of those lines that writers use to telegraph the point home. Exposition and narration are two terrible afflictions of mainstream movies, be they verbal or visual. But Jason is not concerned, at least not yet, with an analysis of exposition in general, and the phrase in particular. Instead, he has asked his readers to try to come up with as many instances of its usage as possible. So, without further ado, here’s a list of a few movies, off the top of my head, that tell us what is what:

- Slim Pickens’s Major TJ “King” Kong in Dr Strangelove: “Well, boys, I reckon this is it: Nuclear combat toe to toe with the Ruskies.”
- Faye Dunaway’s Bonnie Parker in Bonnie and Clyde: “You know what? When we started out, I thought we was really going somewhere. This is it. We're just going, huh?
- Rick Moranis’s Louis in Ghostbusters, just after the Ghostbusters building blows up: “This is it!”
- Steve Coogan’s Tony Wilson in 24 Hour Party People: “This is it. The birth of rave culture.”
- Reginald Gardiner’s Commander Schultz in The Great Dictator: “Oh, there it goes. We're out of gas. Well, this is it then.”

And even though the circumstances are slightly different, Indiana Jones’s first line in Raiders of the Lost Ark, is also “This is it.” I have a few more but I'll let others have a pick at it. Head on over to The Cooler, and offer your submissions.

The Sunny, Delightful Adventures of Fertile Myrtle

2008-03-03T14:06:00.005+02:00

Juno opens with the eponymous heroine staring at a recliner with a curiously blank expression on her face, as her disembodied voice informs us that it started with a chair. I have seen the film twice now, and I am not sure what it is that started with a chair. It’s a fallacy – a non-sequitur at the beginning of the film. The line serves no purpose other than to sound cool and funky – like most of the film’s dialogue. It sounds less like the work of a confident storyteller than a wannabe filmmaker, frantically dropping enigmatic lines here and there in the vain hope that supererogatory equivocation might be mistaken for quirkiness and whimsy. That this was Cody’s first script makes that hypothesis all the more plausible. The ultra-recherche, nails-on-a-chalkboard dialogue permeates the film yet, after the first few minutes, I grew to tolerate and then, honest to blog, love it. Like many of its characters, it’s a terribly insecure film – but it’s so full of joy that one can’t help but grin at all the shenanigans.

I was talking to a friend of mine about Juno, who observed of the film, “it’s great, if you like your teenagers to speak like jaded 35-year-olds.” That’s true, but only on the surface. Juno McGuff is an exceptionally happy teen – happier, maybe, than she should be considering her condition. As the film begins, she is already pregnant, with help from Paulie Bleeker(Michael Cera), her long-time boyfriend-cum-best friend (no pun intended). After a heavy-handed scene where she decides against abortion, Juno confronts her parents (the wonderfully sour JK Simmons and the always-brilliant Allison Janney) with the news, and expresses her intention to give the baby up for adoption. In the Pennysaver, she spots a trendy young couple Vanessa and Mark (Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner – though not necessarily in that order), who, she believes, would be the perfect parents for the baby. The rest of the film centres on the way Juno deals with her pregnancy (well), her parents (OK), Bleeker (not so well), Vanessa (badly) and Mark (fucking hell).

Juno is a coming-of-age tale not unlike the overrated Knocked Up, in that the subtext is brought to fore by substance, namely teen pregnancy. With impeccable work from an amazing cast (Arrested Development fans should watch the way Bateman delivers his monosyllabic line once he finds out Juno is not named after the town in Alaska – and then weep for hours on the fate of their beloved show), and assured direction from Jason “Spitting image of Edgar Wright” Bateman, it deals with the issue surprisingly well, and most have ignored this aspect to berate on the dialogue. Which is not an egregious angle to carry on, since the dialogue is overbearing. One has to be in the mood for it – though what that mood might be, I couldn’t tell you. I was also slightly unnerved by the way abortion is portrayed as an inherently bad idea – it’s a rash decision, sure, the film says, but abortion is also evil. The scene where Juno decides not to go ahead with an abortion is well done, but it left a bitter aftertaste. Like the rest of the film’s many shortcomings though, it fizzles against the glorious fun that is Juno. The film, and the character.

Note: Even though most of the faux-folk soundtrack is pretty good (Barry Louis Polisar's All I Want Is You is particularly excellent), there should, nonetheless, be a moratorium on the use of Velvet Underground’s I’m Sticking With You in wacky indie comedies. And while they’re at it, they should just go ahead and destroy all existing copies, analogue and digital, of Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah.

Ratatouille: Not Good for Cats

2008-02-28T13:56:00.005+02:00

I gave Ratatouille a miss when it was on at the cinemas since all showings in Istanbul were dubbed in Turkish (as opposed to Sanskrit). Also, I don't particularly enjoy being at a movie theatre full of kids: they get into hysterics, I tell them to shut up, and then the children of the corn end up kicking my arse while their parents point and laugh.

Anyway, I finally saw the film on DVD a while back, and loved it. I have written about my extensive appreciation of the movie already, but I was going through some old photographs when I came across the one below. You see, my cat, Shmi, was watching it with me, and, for some reason, she started to get agitated at first, then terrified, and finally went completely postal. She got on top of the sofa, and began whining in that terrified cat-voice at the screen. I had to turn the film off, and watch the rest of it after she went to sleep. But before that, I simply had to take a picture of her. She's with my folks most of the year, which accounts for her Jabba-like derriere. She'll be 12 this year, even though she still thinks she's a baby. Freak.

Bite-Sized Thoughts on a Few Recent Releases

2008-02-27T11:36:00.006+02:00

- Sweeney Todd: My main qualm is that the disparate elements of the production overshadow the film itself. Tim Burton and his idiosyncratic style are bigger than the story; Johnny Depp and his hair are bigger than the character, the sets and set-ups are bigger than the songs and the (incredibly lackluster) production numbers. It's self-indulgent, stylistic onanism disguised as quirky and dark.

I am a big fan of musicals. And I can't help but wonder how one can start with such a flawless musical as Sweeney Todd, and end up with this overbaked hodge-podge of a movie.

I also don’t know why I keep seeing films by Tim Burton, whose only film I truly enjoyed (and still cherish) is Beetlejuice. Then again, put Harry Belafonte on the soundtrack, and I’ll enjoy pretty much any film.

- La Vie En Rose: It goes on bloody forever, that’s the first thing. There is no subtlety nor is there any yearning for some sort of psychological truth – instead, we are left purely with length. It’s as if sheer length would make up for the film’s inherent vacuousness. The same illness ailed Jesse James/Robert Ford, too. “Let’s make it long and tedious, and people might think we are actually saying something when, in fact, we are wanking in their faces.”

It’s also filled to the brim with third-rate melodrama – if someone isn’t crying in any given scene (most of the time that someone is Piaf), then they are either screaming, or having a nervous breakdown. The focus is not on the music or Piaf’s genius, but instead on how hard everything was for her. It’s a made-for-TV Hallmark weepie punctuated with a Gray alien in a wig miming Piaf’s songs.

That Lady Luck sat me next to an elderly couple who sang along with the alien didn’t help matters, either…

- If Match Point was Crimes and Misdemeanours without the Cliff Stern/Halley Reed subplot, then Cassandra’s Dream is Match Point without the panache. Not just the panache, but without a sense of direction, story, and actually a point. “You can’t get away with murder even if you get away with murder.” So says Morality Sheriff Woody, without a sense of irony.

Looking back at Match Point, it’s not that it was a great movie so much as a welcome return to form for Allen – but that had a lot to do with the fact that virtually all his efforts after Bullets Over Broadway (barring, maybe, Mighty Aphrodite) were pretty, pretty, PRETTY bad. Cassandra’s Dream goes right back to that cycle of mediocrity – it has none of the ironic detachment or cinematic melody of Match Point. Just a dull movie waiting to be forgotten.

The film’s one redeeming feature is Sally Hawkins, who gives an incredible performance, even though her role is an East London stereotype seen through the eyes of a New Yorker. Incidentally, she was also very good in The Painted Veil – another lugubrious piece of crap.

- Ben Affleck does a solid job in Gone Baby Gone, but he should ease up on the literalness and extend his artistic vocabulary, because otherwise he runs the risk of turning into Edward Zwick: a perfectly competent craftsman with absolutely no flair whatsoever, and an increasingly dull body of work. That said, it’s a fine achievement for a first feature. Not only does Affleck have a perfect ear for all sorts of Bostonisms, he also feels at home with that most idiosyncratic of genres: the detective movie, and he shuffles things around a bit, too. Guess all that man-love from Jimmy Kimmel must have paid off.

What’s more impressive is that the film pretty much rests on Casey Affleck’s shoulders – even though he has ample help from a few veterans (especially Ed Harris does a great job), he has to carry the story forward, and he succeeds magnificently. Which is all the more impressive since his performance in Jesse James/Robert Ford is one of last year’s worst ones.

I am still working on my There Will Be Blood review, as well as a few other pieces.

Oddzilla

2008-02-26T16:23:00.004+02:00

It takes a while for the monster to appear in Cloverfield, but that’s OK, because up until then I was at an imaginary shooting range, picking up the yuppies on screen one by one, or, when I felt like it, en masse. I know these people, I thought, as I watched the party get under way. I know them very well. In fact, I am one of them.

I saw the film in one of those cinemas where they serve beer, and had a very pleasant experience. That I was drinking while watching people drink at a party most definitely increased my involvement. It would have been even more pleasant had the amative couple behind me been less interested in their sporadic, and rather noisy, bouts of tonsil tennis, but, looking back, it most definitely added to the experience, good or bad. Like my grandmother always said, “You haven’t seen a giant monster film until you have seen it with a couple going at it behind you.” I can only hope she wasn’t being euphemistic, god rest her soul.

The film starts off with a random guy, let’s call him Yuppie Prime, as he turns on a handicam and starts to film his latest conquest while she sleeps (the audience sees everything through this camera’s perspective – as everyone and their mother know by now). Anyway, it turns out that she’s not just a random girl, but his on-again/off-again girlfriend, his one true Yuppie Love, and they eventually decide on a day-trip to Coney Island. All of a sudden, the film cuts to a month or so later, and we find out that Yuppie Prime’s friends are using the camera to film his going-away party to Japan. The film keeps cutting back and forth between the party at a Manhattan loft and the ensuing events around the city, and the day trip to Coney Island. It’s an admittedly clever conceit, especially since we all know yuppies are fucking useless when it comes to working anything electronic. I know I am.

Anyway, there’s a party, and it’s a surprise, and happy, happy, happy. As in similar ones in real life, I couldn’t tell the beautiful people at the leaving do apart – but for a few faces whom I could recognize from TV. The girl, who explodes after she’s bitten by a parasite later on in the movie, was on The Class (she was also in the awesome teen-comedy Mean Girls). One of the random friends at the party played the annoying Kirby on Frasier, and even Jason Cerbone aka Jackie Aprile Jr aka Little Lord Fuckpants from The Sopranos’ third season has a blink-and-you’ll-miss (literally, a second and a half at the most) part (he’s too small to have cameos) as a police officer. But I digress…

Yuppie Love comes to the party with a date, probably not realizing that it’s her ex’s leaving do. Awk-ward. Yuppie Prime and Yuppie Love have a row, and she leaves, and everyone gets on the roof to celebrate. Or that’s what I think happens. Then there’s a huge explosion somewhere, and the crowd rushes out to the street in panic as the head of the Statue of Liberty is hurled across from the horizon like a particularly non-aerodynamic baseball and lands right there on the street. There is a nice sequence here as the camera picks up, along with a very quick shot of one of the monster’s legs, random disembodied voices: “That was huge,” “I can’t believe it,” and, my favourite, “It’s alive!” Yuppie Prime, Yuppie Bro, his girlfriend, the exploding girl, and the Seth Rogen-lookalike operating the camera, start legging it out of the city, and just as they get to the Brooklyn Bridge, Yuppie Prime receives a phone call from Yuppie Love who says that she’s stuck under rubble in her apartment. The bridge collapses, Yuppie Bro dies, and the rest of the posse decide to go and rescue Yuppie Love. And then they all die.

There’s a lot to enjoy, especially in the earlier sequences, and the film is innovative in its own way (though not, as some say, groundbreaking – there are conventional cuts a-plenty during the party scenes, and later as the posse arrive at the rudimentary military hospice). The sense of realism is well balanced with the sheer ludicrousness of a fucking monster attacking NYC. From what I understand, the Japanese had something to do with the creature. That’s a long way to travel just to eat yuppies. Then again, yuppies travel a long way just to eat Kobe beef.

What I did find annoying was the glib allusion to the tragic events of the 9/11 attacks. The filmmakers argued during the press tour that any connection was not only incidental, but also totally unintentional. I don’t know about that. The first thing that one of the characters questions right after the first explosion is whether this isn’t another terrorist attack – and that’s perfectly fair. The images that follow – skyscrapers collapsing into piles of rubble and smoke, the ensuing clouds of dust covering the entire street, paper from collapsing buildings floating in the air, widespread panic and confusion in the streets – are all lasting memories of that horrible day. The producers should have had the courage of their convictions, and come right flat out and admitted their intentions to manipulate the audience in order to underscore the threat. This was a huge problem I had with the execrable 300 and the risible Apocalypto, too – we are not stupid, even though we might spend our hard earned cash watching stupid movies sometimes. Cloverfield is not maliciously subtextual like those two pieces of shit, but it is dishonest in its own way.

Technically speaking, the film succeeds on two levels that are somewhat intertwined. The monster is not revealed at first, even while all sorts of shit is going down, and this is obviously a lesson learned from Jaws. Once brief glimpses start to appear, we only see bits of the monster – a leg here, a tail there, its jaw agape over the camera – SHIT!. This was the same concept behind Anish Kapoor’s enormous sculpture Marsyas, which was exhibited at the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern. It was so massive that one couldn’t grasp the whole installation all at once, and had to put the image together in one’s head. Similarly with the Cloverfield monster, we put the pieces together in our minds, and essentially come up with a grander, far scarier, design than anything on screen. Only at the end of the movie, as the heroes flee the city in a helicopter, do we get a final, authoritative glance at the creature.

And it’s rubbish. It’s just a very poorly designed monster – a cross between that hybrid baby from the fourth Alien flick, that worm thing from The X-Files, and Sloth from The Goonies. I couldn’t help but question the creature’s evolutionary path. What the fuck does it need an opposable thumb for? Ahh, I see – to pick up yuppies. It all makes perfect sense now.

Note: Quentin Tarantino once mentioned an idea he had of a similar premise to the film. It would be a romantic comedy set in the Toho Universe, with regular monster reports on the telly like weather reports. “Drivers can expect long delays on the Tanba IC as Mothra’s currently going apeshit over Kyoto,” and all that…

But I Prefer My Liquids Cold...

2008-02-26T10:10:00.006+02:00

I hate those blogs where all people do is post links to YouTube clips, supplemented with internet acronyms and general hyperbole. Nonetheless, this is a film blog (more than anything), and the clip below is gold - if you will, liquid gold.

Just Ask Don Cheadle: Jimmy Kimmel is F***ing Ben Affleck

2008-02-25T13:16:00.006+02:00

Earlier this month, one of the funniest skits of the past few years was unveiled on Jimmy Kimmel Live. Sarah Silverman, Kimmel's long-time girlfriend, announced to the world that she was, indeed, fucking Matt Damon.

It turns out Kimmel had one particularly saucy skeleton in his closet, too. He's fucking Ben Affleck!

Enjoy!

Live blogging the Oscars... UPDATED

2008-02-25T03:26:00.013+02:00

My hot water bottle is leaking.

Old-fashioned or not, I like to take a hot water bottle with me to bed. Not only does it keep me warm, it also makes up for my congenital defect of keeping a companion for longer than 17 minutes. As usual, last night, just before I went to bed, I tucked it in, like it was my own little green plastic baby, totally oblivious to the fact that the screw cap had started to give. I woke up around one to find myself in a puddle of lukewarm water, and couldn’t properly get back to sleep. This is all by way of saying I am not on my top form this cold, and unusually wet, February morning…

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One thing before we start off – I am not sure how “live” this whole thing is going to be since my internet connection is acting up. There are a few wireless networks, but I don’t like latching onto other people’s internet connections without letting them know. Me and my morals… (Mind you, this one genius has called their wireless network “Battlestar Galactica RULEZ” – I bet you their password is Starbuck)

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Only a few minutes to go until the ceremony. Hey, Kristin Chenoweth! I have only seen Pushing Daisies’ pilot, but it is a very good show. Not a fan of whimsy in general but that one makes it work. A lot to do with Bryan Fuller, and also a lot to do with Chenoweth, and Anna Friel.
Regis Philbin is making everyone nervous. He is talking to the dancers now, urging them not to fuck up, because half the world is watching them. Good on you, Regis.

Nice montage of all sorts of characters and scenes – The Terminator is driving the truck that’s delivering the Oscars. Very similar to the one from last year.

I love Viggo Mortensen’s beard. It’s glorious. And talking about beards, there is Kelly whatsherface. Ooh, snap!

Dorothy Hammill’s wedgecut – Tommy Lee Jones didn’t like that joke. Cheer up baby. It’s the Oscars.

This IS great; Jon Stewart’s rocking the house.

Sorry about the stream of consciousness – I never said this was going to be any good.

“HOW WILL WE KNOW IT’S THE FUTURE?”

It’s Costume Design now. And Elizabeth: The Golden Age wins. I predicted that, so well done me. Alexandra Byrne did a great job with Hamlet, and even though I haven’t seen Liz II, I am a fan of her work – so far, so good…

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These montages have been great lately. This one now is on the 80 years of the Oscars. And I can’t believe I am going to say this but My Heart Will Go On did not jar as much. That was a brilliant montage. People bitch about montages in general, but few realise how difficult they are to get right.

Phillip Seymour Hoffman is wearing the same suit he’s worn the past two years.

Animated Feature. It’s got to be Surf’s Up. Nope, it’s Ratatouille. Awesome. That is one incredible film. Brad Bird is running on a bit, and the music starts. Just let them talk!
The ubiquitous Katherine Heigl and her fake “I’m genuine – honest” schtick. She’s presenting the Make-Up award. I predicted Norbit, but it goes to La Vie En Rose. Oh well. Je ne regrette rien. Marion Cotillard looks to be genuinely happy for the make-up guys. I couldn’t get their names – sorry.

Amy Adams is singing Happy Working Song. That was a brilliant scene with all that vermin cleaning shit up. I love, love, LOVE Amy Adams. She has a great voice on her, too. She was championed by Roger Ebert in her work for Junebug two years ago, as was Ellen Page this year for Juno. Both films have quirky women, both are, essentially, called Junebug. Spooky, eh?

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Visual Effects now. Ian McKellen was so NOT the right voice for Iorek Byrnison. This is going to Transformers, which was a surprisingly good little film.

WHA!!!???

The Golden Compass and a big CGI polar bear won. Oh, look at the geeks on the stage. My darling geeks. You shall inherit the earth.

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Sweeney Todd wins art rirection. It also wins art direction. I love the way that lady says Tim Burton.

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Supporting actor now. And another good montage on all past winners. Tommy Lee Jones winning for The Fugitive. He got on the stage that year, and said: “For everyone wondering, I am not REALLY bald.” Heh. And Cuba Gooding, Jr, and his truly great speech. I like shit like that, what can I say…

Casey Affleck, and force perspective is sandwiching him between Calista Flockhart and Cameron Diaz. Nice. But Javier Bardem is winning this.

Philip Seymour Hoffman – “...and I am never sick at sea.” That Aaron Sorkin, and his Gilbert and Sullivanisms…

“I am Siva – the God of Death.” That is a better catchphrase than the milkshake line, to be honest.

Javier Bardem wins. He speaks Spanish, and says something about Spain. El Pueblo unido jamas sera vencido, Javier. No nos moveran.

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Oscar’s salute to binoculars and periscopes. Bad dreams – an Oscar salute. This is one great show this year.

Keri Russell presents the second nominated song. It’s half four in the morning. I have to leave for work in exactly two and a half hours. It’s going to be a particularly cheery Monday.
Anyway, the song is over. Can’t say I am a fan.

Owen Wilson’s presenting best live action short. Le Mozart des Pickpockets wins. A lot of non-Americans winning this year. That’s great.

Jerry Seinfeld as the bee from that film about bees – what was it called now – is presenting the best animated short. Peter and the Wolf wins. The announcer messes Susie Templeton’s name. She calls her Jackie Chan.

Best supporting actress now, and a montage of past winners. Alan Arkin presenting. Let’s hope for a surprise. I think Amy “I ain’t got no dayceaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” Ryan is winning this. Ruby Dee, and the scene where she tells Denzel she will leave him. Fucking fantastic scene.
Tilda Swinton wins! That’s great. I loved Michael Clayton. What are you wearing, Tilda? That was a good speech, though.

----

Jessica Alba, her impressive body of work, and the technical awards.

James McAvoy and Josh Brolin presenting best adapted screenplay. The Coen Brothers are walking away with this one. Yep.

A little bit now on how the whole thing happens. I don’t want to do this again, but this is great. A friend of mine used to work for PwC. He had to do far less glamorous stuff than tallying the Oscar votes.

Kristin Chenoweth, like a hobbit with tits, sings the second song from Enchanted. She does a great job, but the song itself is not that great. I didn’t particularly like that sequence, but this production number is really good. Interesting range this year – the first song was bizarrely minimalist (getting rats to dance on cue must have been a problem), the second more conventional, and this one is rather huge.

A commercial break and I start getting ready for work. I really hope I can get to see the final award before I leave for work.

Judy Dench and Halle Berry! Heh! Seth Rogen and the Superbad kid. Best Sound Editing. Bourne Three wins. Per Hallberg – what a great name. A Swedish Jew, maybe? Best sound editing – does this go to No Country as I predicted? Nope – Bourne Three. I am getting these predictions wrong left, right, and centre…

Best Actress – Forest Whitaker to present it to Julie Christie. Please let it be her, and please let her go postal about something political… Wow! Marion Cotillard! Expect to see her in a third-rate summer blockbuster in 2009 – that Oscar opens doors… Good on her, though. That was a good movie.

---

The song from Once, which, strangely enough, you don’t want to hear again once you’ve heard it once.

Jack Nicholson presents a montage of all the best film winners of the past 80 years. The Greatest Show on Earth! Around the World in 80 Days! Ordinary People! So many greats…
Renee “Yo-Yo” Zellweger is presenting film editing. This might go to Bourne Three for a Bourne sweep, but I predicted Roderick Jaynes so I shall stand by that. Nope, it’s Bourne. Because the most amount of cuts is tantamount to great editing.

“Someone just took the lead in their Oscar pool based on a guess!” Oh Bruce, you catty so-and-so…

Nicole Kidman – she got there late. Special award for Robert Boyle.

Back from commercial, and Penelope Cruz is presenting best foreign film. I am a regular on the Four Word Film Review site, and one of my finest achievements, even if I say so myself, is my review for The Odyssey – Penelope, Cruise. Such wit, eh? Anyway, The Counterfeiters wins. And the director gives a good speech.

Patrick Dempsey presents the final song – the third one from Enchanted. John McLaughlin sings, Amy Adams and a bunch of other people dance. This was my least favourite song of the film. And the only thing I can think about right now is Monday morning traffic on the second Bosphorus bridge. Fun. Anyway, John Travolta literally waltzes in to present the award. Falling Slowly from Once wins. Even though I don’t like the song, I am glad it won purely for the novelty value. “Make art, make art.” Nice. “That guy is so arrogant.” Nicer.

I must now get ready for work. I will finish this up in a couple of hours from memory.

Please feel free to comment. Thank you for reading this ramble so far.

(Both photos I've used are from Wireimage.com, by the way)

=========================

UPDATED

I managed to see the entire show after all. I even took a photo of myself right next to the telly as Denzel announced the best film winners, but I can’t upload it to Blogger for some reason. Maybe Blogger doesn’t accept fugly. Self-deprecation, thy name is Ali.

After I stopped doing the live blog, and packed up for work, Jon Stewart comes back on stage, and brings out Marketa Irglova, who was cut off with the music. Very classy move, and very touching. William Goldman has written about this before, and I totally agree with him: Don’t cut people off when they’re giving their speeches, make the show more self-indulgent. Also, this from Goldman again, they should let us know the vote tallies. It’d be a great water-cooler topic.

Robert Elswitt then comes on to win best cinematography for There Will Be Blood. I will post my review of the film later this week, but just a taste of things to come: it’s crap. Astute as ever, me…

The In Memoriam section did not feature Ulrich Mühe, Brad Renfro or Roy Scheider, even though Renfro died before Heath Ledger, and Mühe died in July.

When it was time for original score, which went to Dario Marianelli as I’d predicted (my predictions were 41% on the money, if you’re interested), I had already decided to shave and shower so I might have missed some stuff here and there. Anyway, he won – good. Then Taxi To The Dark Side won best feature documentary, and all I could think of was how great a title Taxi to the Dark Side could have been for Revenge of the Sith. Anytime anyone mentions the dark side of anything, I can’t help but think of Palpatine in Jedi, chewing the plastic scenery, going “Everything that has transpired has done so according to MY design.” Interestingly, a lot of people know that speech by heart. At least they think they do because when they get to the end, they always say “I am afraid the battle station will be quite operational when your friends arrive.” Actually, the line goes, “I am afraid the deflector shield will be quite operational when your friends arrive.” It’s attention to detail like that that makes me such a hit with the lay-deez.

Next up was Harrison Ford, who presented the best original screenplay award to Diablo Cody. Cody might not be a lady, but she’s all woman. And backlash my backside. The room erupted into applause when Ford called her name. She ended up giving a fairly run-of-the-mill speech, punctuated with sobs. Worse things happen at sea, luv.

Then Helen Mirren came on to give the best actor award, and it was some dreadful copy she had to read. Anyway, Daniel Day-Lewis won for the loudest performance in the history of film. “I’ve abandoned my boy – I’VE ABANDONED MY CHILD!” Oh, shut up.

Finally, best director went to the Coens, whose No Country For Old Men also won best picture. Everyone lived happily ever after.

---
I went to the gym during lunch, and this blast from the past was on VH1. Enjoy, and thanks for reading my self-indulgent odyssey. Please check back later this week for all sorts of reviews, and commentary. Cheers, ta, thank you very much…

"A physics joke. Don't hear enough of those."

2008-02-21T10:23:00.002+02:00

Run guns Forrest...

2008-02-20T17:04:00.007+02:00

Charlie Wilson’s War starts with a wink at the camera by Aaron Sorkin. In a bathtub, surrounded by naked strippers, Congressman Charlie Wilson is pitched a prospective tv show described as “like Dallas, but set in DC;” and Sorkin likes the joke so much that he mentions it a few more times, and Mike Nichols indulges him. The film’s a seemingly pleasant affair, with unsettling, if not, at times, sinister undertones when one considers the current state of the world, and I liked it. It might have a lot to do with my being a great admirer of Sorkin’s The West Wing.

What I found most interesting was the way most of Sorkin’s signature rapid-fire dialogue was delivered by the more than capable actors, and framed and cut by Nichols, and his editors, John Bloom and Antonia van Drimmelen. Most of Sorkin’s director collaborators, including his business partner Thomas Schlamme, usually frame his dialogue in a two-shot as a walk-and-talk. In The West Wing (as well as in Sports Night and Studio 60), the better actors rise to the challenge and create a verbal tennis match with their repartee. In this film, however, Nichols prefers to use one-shots, and likes to cut back and forth between the characters, who never rise to Sorkin's bait, and, instead, deliver their lines in their own time and pace. It’s an apt choice for the film, and only distracting in an academic sort of way for the most devoted Sorkin aficionado, such as yours truly. Still, I can’t help but wonder whether some of the scenes, especially the first meeting of Tom Hanks’s Wilson and Philip Seymour Hoffman’s CIA agent Avrakatos couldn’t have been framed as a two-shot with a static camera, letting the dialogue tell the story without its being distracted by cuts every ten seconds or so.

Having said that, the film is entertaining. I especially enjoyed Hoffman’s acerbic secret-agent man, and Amy Adams and her gorgeous eyes, always gazing at Wilson, her boss, with a kind of longing mixed with pathos. The story itself doesn’t try to make too much of the connection between the current world events, and western involvement in the Soviets’ debacle in Afghanistan. Nonetheless, it’s impossible not to reflect on today’s world, especially near the end of the film when Ned Beatty’s evangelist congressman starts shouting “God is great” in front of a crowd of Afghanis, his support predicated on the fact that the enemy is the godless Soviet so any ally belonging to any religion is good enough. I was reminded of a scene from the last season of The Sopranos when Hesh’s daughter says that she supports the neo-con evangelists because they are great friends of Israel. “Just you wait,” replies Hesh, dryly.

Note: A lot has been made by the film's advertising campaign of how hugely instrumental Charlie Wilson was in ending the Cold War, to which my only reply would be "calm your bones, love."

Oscar Predictions

2008-02-20T15:00:00.008+02:00

2007 was a great year for cinema – and I say that without having seen No Country For Old Men, which I shall rectify later this week. From seemingly small, intimate comedies, to magnificent yet flawed modern–day American epics, audiences experienced a vast array of brilliant films from Hollywood studios and independents alike. Paradoxically, however, we only have a few days to go till the Oscar Ceremony, and there are clear front runners in most of the major categories where such an embarrassment of riches should have produced more than its fair share of strong contenders. Having said that, there’s always at least one or two major surprises in even the dullest of Oscar ceremonies, and it is with that caveat that I offer my final predictions for this year’s Academy Awards.

Best Foreign Language Film:

That Persepolis is not among the nominees is a travesty. That The Band’s Visit was turned down is another (even dialogue in English is subtitled in the film). My awareness of the films in this category is murky at best. Since my original piece on the nominations, I have managed to see The Counterfeiters, but not Katyn or 12. Unlike a few weeks ago when I thought Beaufort was a contender, this is now between Austria’s The Counterfeiters and Kazakhstan’s Mongol. The latter has had a major marketing push in the last few weeks – and even if that hasn’t given it the edge, I think whimsy works in its favour. The irony would not be lost on the voters that the former Soviet Republic of Kazakhstan’s come up with a grand-sweeping epic spectacle in the tradition of Eisenstein’s Ivan The Terrible and Alexander Nevsky only a year after all that brouhaha about Borat. My heart also tells me the film will win but that might have a lot to do with the Turkic connection I feel with the Kazakhs. The Counterfeiters is the likeliest choice but still...

Prediction: Mongol

Best Animated Feature:

Surf’s Up’s inclusion is one of the more bizarre choices in the history of Oscar nominations. Maybe penguins are the modern-day equivalent of Meryl Streep – regardless of what they’re in, they’re bound to get a nomination just by showing up. Persepolis, a fine film, is too esoteric for this category. It would have been a shoe-in in the previous one, considering this year’s lack of a clear art-house faves like last year’s Pan’s Labyrinth or The Lives of Others. This is still very much Ratatouille’s award to lose, and rightfully so. It is the first of the modern animated films that is as complex as a great live-action film, if not more so. One of last year’s best film, it deserves all the accolades it’s awarded.

Prediction: Ratatouille

Best Documentary Feature:

When the nominations were announced, I wrote “I have only seen the characteristically hyperbolic Sicko (Michael Moore is probably the only person in the world who can wax lyrical about the NHS) and the bookish No End In Sight, which should win it if only for its “don’t let the door hit you on your way out” value.” I still haven’t had a chance to see the other three films, but I stand by my original prediction. Another year, maybe last year or the next, and War/Zone, with its depiction of African children in, well, a war zone, could have tickled the voters’ liberal fancy, but this is an election year, and the last chance to jeer the outgoing chief. Let’s hope for some Errol Morris-like histrionics when they give out the award.

Prediction: No End In Sight

Achievement in Film Editing:

There’s a strange tradition that, more often than not, the film that wins this award also takes home the grand prize. Sure, such a generalization can be extended to include many other major categories, but this one seems to deserve it more so than the others. Besides, this year might very well buck that trend anyway. Into The Wild doesn’t stand a chance, but NCFOM, TWBB, and DBATB all had excellent film editing. Unappreciated by me, yet hailed by many others, Bourne Three (as three as the wind blows) also made the headlines with its on-the-surface ground breaking yet actually rather by-the-numbers editing, too. After all, we are talking about an award that once went to Black Hawk Down against Fellowship of the Ring, Memento and Moulin Rouge. So, this is between No Country and Bourne. Based on the general buzz, though:

Prediction: Roderick Jaynes aka The Coen Brothers - No Country for Old Men

Achievement in cinematography:

As I said before, another year, and Roger Deakins would have won it hands down for his work on Jesse James, but his votes will more than likely be split this time out. Having said that, this is a technical award, and you never know, voters might approach it more academically. I still think this is a three-way-split, with Janusz Kaminski as the dark horse.

Prediction: Robert Elswitt - There Will Be Blood

Best Original Song:

The three songs from Enchanted will cancel each other out – I like them all fine, but they are, nonetheless, all the same. When the nominations first came out, I thought one of them was bound to get an award, purely for the strong showing from the film, which I interpreted as a desire to award a beloved commercial flick. Once has got a lot of momentum now, though, and it’s garnered quite a bit of publicity following the shebang about its eligibility, and it might pull through. I can’t say I am a fan of the song (the last best original song winner that I really liked was Carly Simon’s Let The River Run, which is as awesome today as it was in ’88 – Dylan’s Things Have Changed is also aging well, especially in the context of the film).

Prediction: Falling Slowly - Once

Best Original Score:

Had Jonny Greenwod been nominated, he would have been the front runner. This one is between Marianelli and Giacchino (the former has the edge). Either way, it’s going to one of the paisans (there are four of them, after all).

Prediction: Michael Giacchino - Ratatouille

Best Supporting Actress:

When the nominations first came out, I wrote “She was never going to win, however hip her playing Bob Dylan might have been (the novelty value of which has since kind of run-off), but her nomination as best actress is the final nail in the coffin for anyone hoping to see the lovely Ms Blanchett with her fingers round the golden (easy now) statue.” I am not so sure anymore. Watching the film again, Blanchett’s performance is the one that truly stands out, and her best actress nomination might not affect the voters: the Good Queen Bess sequel was just not well received. Ruby Dee is the obligatory veteran, and Saoirse Ronan the obligatory young ‘un, that the people like to patronise. They both gave very strong performances however (Dee is tremedous in the scene where he tells Washington’s Lucas that she would leave him), and, in another year, either could have won, and it would have been apt. Ruby Dee’s SAG win might work in her favour, but it might also be considered enough is enough. Michael Clayton, a solid studio vehicle, won’t be completely shut out, so Tilda Swinton also has a good chance of winning. So what to do? Well, the supporting categories are usually the ones where upsets are more commonplace so...

Prediction: Amy Ryan - Gone Baby Gone

Best Supporting Actor:

I couldn’t stand Casey Affleck’s finicky, fidgety and, finally, frivolous performance, where he seems to be channeling Giovanni Ribisi and Jeremy Davies, and he is in way over his head with the rest of the actors here. Hal Holbrook and Tom Wilkinson’s people have been working the town, I hear, but I can’t see either of them going the full distance. Philip Seymour Hoffman’s performance in Charlie Wilson’s War was the true stand-out of the show, and, without having seen No Country, my choice would be him. But the Javier Bardem tornado is unstoppable. He seems to have won every single award this season. I think, of all the categories, this one is most definitely settled. He will Javier Bardem and eat it, too.

Prediction: Javier Bardem - No Country for Old Men

Best Actress in a Leading Role:

This one is sealed. I can't see Ellen Page sneaking in past the force of nature that is La Christie.

Prediction: Julie Christie

Best Actor in a Leading Role:

Unlike Juno, which came out at the right time to become a hit, face the backlash, and then go into the final lap armed with a backlash-backlash, There Will Be Blood never quite managed to shake off the “good, but not that good” reaction it received from many, who seem to have a love-hate relationship with Daniel Day-Lewis’s performance. A month ago, and this was most definitely Day-Lewis’s award. I am not so sure now, and George Clooney might sneak in. It all depends on that final viewing before voters fill out their ballots.

Prediction: Daniel Day-Lewis

(Aside: I was watching Interiors the other day, and taking some notes for a Woody Allen retrospective I am planning on for early-March, when I switched over to my weekly torture session that is House [see previous post], and found myself doodling a combination of Daniel Plainview and Mr Punch. Hence the picture above. That it bears almost no resemblance to Plainview should be considered an homage to the fact that the film also bears no resemblance to Oil!)

Best Director:

Because The Diving Bell and The Butterfly received almost no major attention, there is a part of my brain that says Julian Schnabel might win this. But then the saner part prevails, and I realise that The Coen Brothers have got this one in the bag. Not just for No Country for Old Men, but for Fargo, and Miller’s Crossing, and Barton Fink, and Blood Simple, and The Big Lebowski…

Prediction: The Coen Brothers

Best Original Screenplay:

I still stand by my original predictions when the nominations came out.

Prediction: Cody, if it’s her night. Gilroy, if it’s his.

Best Adapted Screenplay:

To say that PTA adapted the screenplay for TWBB from a novel by Upton Sinclair is to use the verb “to adapt” rather liberally. Oil! is actually the only Sinclair book that I have ever read, and the film and the book could not be more different. That’s just an observation, though, and doesn’t have that much to do with the film’s chances of nabbing this award, which is still considerable. As in the previous category, Ronald Harwood, too, might edge in a win owing to Diving Bell’s poor showing in the nominations. That said…

Prediction: The Coen Brothers

Best Picture of the Year:

Some people are talking about a Juno sneak while There Will Be Blood and No Country For Old Men duke it out. I don’t see how that is possible since the latter is already so far ahead. A surprise in this category would be HUGE. OK, I admit - almost as huge as Rocky's dodging past All The Presidents’ Men, Network and Taxi Driver to win in 1977… That thought scares a lot of people, but I liked Juno, and still haven’t seen No Country so it doesn’t irk me as much. I am sure my position will change once I finally manage to catch No Country on Thursday.

So those are my predictions. Check back on Sunday night (Monday morning in Europe) when I will be covering this year’s awards with a live blog (at three o’clock in the morning my time). If my erratic internet connection decides to go all milkshake, then it will be “live-to-tape,” and I will post it first thing on Monday morning. I can’t wait. I can only hope it’s at least half as good as the genius that was the infamous opening number of the 1989 ceremony:

House of Pants

2008-02-19T17:01:00.007+02:00

I don’t know why I do it to myself (not that – you perverts). Every week I watch it, and every week I vow never to do so again. Yet there I am, the next Monday, with a cup of tea in hand, curled under a blanket, waiting for this week’s installment of House.

There was a time I really liked the show – namely, around the first season. Looking back, that entire season is a deft series of wonderfully compact teleplays, bookended with “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” the famous chorus to which also serves to highlight the main theme of the show. It was formulaic even then, sure, but at least it had a certain panache to the way it told its stories. First of all, that’s what the show was about – the completely bizarre sets of ailments that plagued the patients (one of whom literally had the plague, I believe), and the way House and his cronies tried to solve the case. Character development was reduced to the purely Aristotelian conceit of the revelation of decision – habitual action, as they call it in the trade. The show had none of the usual vicarious indulgences for the audience in the form of inane dialogue between characters, which was no mean feat in a medium that’s usually defined by exposition. The one truly outstanding factor was Dr Gregory House, and literally everything centred around him. Now this is a fine line to tread because the central performance would have to be truly captivating for such an approach to succeed (case in point, CSI: Miami and David Caruso’s Horatio Crane, who is the antichrist), yet the producers had, in the unlikely Hugh Laurie the best man for the job (even though his accent is at times all over the place). Like Lost’s first season, House, too, had an incredible penultimate episode (Three Stories – brilliant beyond measure), and again like Lost, it suffered from a tremendous sophomore slump. But unlike that show, House has never recovered from the terrible two’s, and has instead kept on slumping. It’s somewhere around the earth’s core at the moment.

The first reason is this: the show can’t do sustained storylines. I wish the writers would face the facts and realise that, and just try to find another way to keep the show fresh. The end of the first season saw the introduction of House’s ex into the equation, and the show spent the first half of the season dealing with that. The more we found out about House, the less intriguing he became, naturally, and his acerbic wit less and less funny. The third season had the “cop-out-to-get-House” arc for the first ten or so episodes, and that, too, just dragged on ad infinitum (and ad nauseaum). And now the fourth season has House looking for new colleges, which is only marginally more interesting than the previous season’s arc. Who will he hire? Who will get fired? Who gives a shit?

If there was one thing that the second season managed to achieve (and I think there is actually only one thing), it was the organic, intrinsic development of the main characters, and their relationships with each other. The three doctors were much less intimidated by House, who, in turn, appeared far more confident in their abilities to not fuck up completely. That welcome development was summarily thrown out the window in the third season, and instead, all the characters ended up where they were at the beginning of the series. You can’t build characters and rekationships, and then just wipe the slate clean to inject the show with artificial drama.

Aside: The second season, and parts of the third season, were very much like Voltron. In the cartoon, the pilots never formed the damn robot until the very end of the episode as they got their asses kicked by the Robeast of the Week. And even then, they would be within inches of their lives before they decided to use Voltron's massive sword to cut the requisite enemy in half. It's the same in the second and third seasons. The colleges never used the lombar puncture until the last ten minutes of a particular episode, which sometimes worked, and sometimes didn't; but they used it every single week anyway. If I were them, I would lombar puncture the crap out of everyone in that hospital the moment they stepped into the building. I have no idea what a lombar puncture is (I don't particularly care).

The show has become repetitive and boring. I know my complaints are paradoxical, in that I said I preferred the episodic first season, yet now lament that the patient-of-the-week storylines are dull. But that has more to do with the show’s arcs, which always have me on the edge of my seat with ennui, and the cases, which seem to venture more and more into the downright bizarre and unbelievable. So now we have continuing storylines that no one cares about, and medical mysteries that are not really mysterious so much as ways for different guises for House to insult people. The thing is, ironic misanthropy works best when we don’t know anything about a character. Looking at House, and knowing all that we know about him, what he displays is not wit – it’s simply a ruse for more ratings.

Having said all that, come next Monday, I will be right there, in front of the telly, watching what Greg and his mates are up to. After four years, it's still a joy to watch Hugh Laurie, and, what can I say, I like Jennifer Morrison and Lisa Edelstein. They can puncture my lombar anytime.

On Frasier

2008-02-19T14:43:00.008+02:00

I am currently toiling away on two essays, one on the evolution of the characters in Frasier, and the other on arboreal imagery as catharsis in The Sopranos. And that's not counting the regular updates I'm working on (the posts on taste I promised will start appearing by the end of next week). Anyway, going through some old writings on Frasier, I ran into a few thoughts, which I thought I'd share with you.

Now, for those of you who don't know me (and I don't mean just biblically), my love for Frasier knows no bounds (what The Sopranos is for television drama, Frasier is to me for sitcoms). I feel beholden to that obsessive passion to share my thoughts with you. Some of these points are a bit too inside, and I pray you indulge me.

On Shark Jumping:

I am a Frasier apologist, and even though Season 5 onwards is pretty much downhill until Season 11, I don't think the show ever jumped the shark. Jumping the shark is not a dip in quality, which the show obviously suffered from Season 6 onwards. It is rather a culmination of all those cynical attempts the show gets suckered into in order to try and lure/entice more viewers, or retain the already existing ones. As such, I don't see, for example, Roz's pregnancy as a stunt at all: it was an interesting choice to see how this emancipated, obviously single character would deal with having a kid. It was a secondary plot line anyway; no one got out of their way to see a Frasier episode because of a more prominent Roz storyline.

There is one possible "shark jumping" moment in the show's entire run; and that is Niles sleeping with Lilith. The episode itself is well handled, funny, and has a bitter-sweet ending, but I don't like the concept behind it. However, that is one single instance, and never really affected the show (it was briefly mentioned in the episode Star Mitzvah).

On the Fat-Camp storyline:

With regards to Daphne's fat camp plot line, one can't overlook the influence of the real world on any given show. Jane Leeves was pregnant, and the producers had to find a way out of it; and they took a road less travelled. It wasn't particularly funny, but diminishing returns had already been the trend of the show by then. It was not a milestone of shark jumping by any means: rather, just another sad instance of mediocrity in an already underwhelming season (compared to the better days). The problem was that when she got back from the fat camp, she turned into pod-Daphne, and became an insufferable bitch until Season 11. That was why their chemistry looked a bit off with Niles. They had perfect chemistry again in Season 11 once writers with at least a modicum of clue into the character started writing Daphne.

Frasier's Relationship with Martin:

In the rather underwhelming 7th season episode, Out with Dad, Martin ends up pretending he's gay in order for Frasier to score. It is a crappy episode, but arguing that the Martin of The Good Son would never have behaved that way is both a moot and an interesting point (I put the moron in oxymoron). Sure, the Martin we first met in 1993 would never have done what he does in the former episode. But that's the point. The character, as did Frasier and everyone else, grew thoughout the years, and a gesture like the one Martin does for Frasier at the end of the episode is intrinsic to his character's overall arc, as well as that of his relationship with Frasier. The Martin of the first episode could not even thank his son face-to-face for taking him in. But, having made his son wait for 11 years, Martin's thank you in Goodbye, Seattle was that much more meaningful and earnest than anything Frasier could have asked for. People did act differently in this show, but it was all a part of their character's growth.

On whether Frasier (the character) became more pompous as the series progressed:

Even though I can see arguments for the previous points I've recanted, I can't, for the life of me, see how one can draw a conclusion that Frasier's pomposity in the latter seasons outshone the former ones. He was always a buffoon, always a show off. Sure he knew a lot, but he thought (as did Niles) he knew much, much more than that. Just a case in point is The Crucible from the first season, where Frasier invites Martha Paxton, "the preeminent Neo-Fauvist," to his flat for a cocktail party where he intends to unveil his latest purchase, a Paxton, to his guests, whom he is trying to further impress by having the actual artist talk about the painting. Here's how the scene goes:

Frasier: Oh God, I've waited so long for this moment - I'm just going to stand back and let you describe your work - "Elegy in Green" in your own words. The way you insinuate the palette but never lean on it, you capture the zeitgeist of our generation.
It is the most perfect canvas it has ever my privilege to gaze upon. I mean, one can only imagine what inspired you to paint it.
Martha: I didn't paint it.
A murmur passes through the crowd.
Frasier: [fighting panic] Of course you didn't. You-you created it, you gave birth to it.
Martha: [walks to the painting] I didn't do anything to it - I never saw this painting before in my whole life.
Martin: [leans into Frasier's ear] And you thought I was gonna embarrass you!

Hell, the show's third episode, Dinner at Eight, is marked by Frasier and Niles acting like such arseholes at a favourite steak house of Martin's. He's an insufferable and immature buffoon later on in the season in Author, Author. What about Focus Group of the third season where he ends up burning an immigrant's kiosk (played by Tony Shalhoub - the immigrant, not the kiosk)? And the less said about his treatment of Martin's heartfelt present in Our Father Whose Art Ain't Heaven, the better. What I am trying to get at is that he was always a jackass, and even though it was accentuated further in some latter day episodes, I think that, too, was character driven. He was lovelorn, yet desperately wanted to be loved, and his pomposity was the only way to channel his frustrations (now that he and his father got along much better).

On the Farce Episodes:

I loved the farces when they were done right. Many of them were reminiscent of Moliere; and that is a spot on description of the better farce episodes like The Matchmaker (generally regarded as the best Frasier episode), The Innkeepers (Frasier acts like an arsehat in this Season 2 classic, too), The Two Mrs Cranes, Ham Radio, To Kill a Talking Bird, Merry Christmas Mrs Moskowitz, etc. The key to a decent farce is this: A woman is cheating on her husband. The husband walks in, the lover hides in the closet. Here's the kicker: the husband MUST get into that closet. It's a life and death situation; and, obviously, the wife cannot let him. There is the crux of any given farce. There is always a party involved who must do or say something, and another (maybe more) who must not let them for reasons the former does not know. Of course, there will be a surprise for the audience, too, when the whole thing's over (so we feel part of the whole shindig as well). The show's writers, and especially Joe Keenan and Christopher Lloyd, knew this, and made it work. There were times when the farce episodes did not work, like in the beloved (not by me) Ski Lodge, which just does not do it for me, but those were few and far in between.

My five favourite episodes in ascending order:

5) Episode 1.17 - A Midwinter Night's Dream

This is brilliant for showcasing, both for the first time and so brilliantly as well, the complete nonchalance that Daphne has towards Niles' sexual "non-advances" and histrionic desires. It also has such a great ending, showing a brilliant side to Frasier and Martin, as well as a beautiful production design. Frasier's all-too-familiar look at Niles following the episode's final line is still a sight to behold, after so many, many years.

Favourite Line:

Frasier: You're a complex little pirate, aren't you?

4) Episode 4.18 - Ham Radio

I love the farce episodes of Frasier, as do all Frasier fans I suppose but this one was one of the best. It has all my favourite supporting characters; Bulldog, Gil and Noel and they are all given such great material ("it keeps my coffee warm") to work with. The principals are great, too, of course but for me, Frasier and Niles are the centrepieces as you know that bottled up anger of Niles's is going to explode soon in the face of Frasier at his most domineering.

Favourite Piece of Dialogue:

Mel: I've done that accent both on Broadway and the London stage!
Frasier: Yes, well, perhaps, they have different standards than I have.

3) Episode 6.10 - Merry Christmas, Mrs Moskowitz

First of all, Amy Breneman is hot, hot, hot, so the gonads are doing some of the thinking here. Secondly, I have a fascination with everything Jewish and especially the humour that derives from that in sophisticated comedies. Finally, both those factors are combined in this wonderful farcical episode with, for me, Niles stealing the show when he is trying to be more Jewish than Jeff Goldblum. The road to the ultimate, painfully funny conclusion is both witty, and spectacularly silly.

Favourite Piece of Dialogue:

Helen: Who has a nice toast? Niles?
Niles: Oh, all right. L'chaim! Mazel tov! Next year in Jerusalem!
Frasier: Take it down a notch, Tevye.

2) Episode 1.19 - Give Him The Chair

Sure, it is not the funniest of episodes but it has one of the best writings of not only this particular sitcom but any TV show, ever! I have always loved Frasier for being able to go on for five-ten minutes without a belly laugh (out of the question for any other successful sitcom) but Frasier always managed it with aplomb; and in a show that values farce as one of its highest assets too. On paper, it would just scream out a balance problem but it works so well. This is a great episode, devoted mainly to Frasier and Martin's relationship, and Martin's speech is probably the finest the show has ever produced.

Favourite Piece of Dialogue:

Martin: Okay, I'll tell you what chair I want. I want the chair I was sitting in
when I watched Neil Armstrong take his first step on the moon. And when the U.S.
hockey team beat the Russians in the '80 Olympics. I want the chair I was
sitting in the night you called me to tell me I had a grandson. I want the chair
I was in all those nights, when your mother used to wake me up with a kiss after
I'd fallen asleep in front of the television. You know, I still fall asleep in
it. And every once in a while, when I wake up, I still expect your mother to be
there, ready to lead me off to bed... Oh, never mind. It's only a chair. Come
on, Eddie.

1) Episode 2.03 - The Matchmaker

As far as I am concerned, this is easily overall the funniest Frasier episode ever. I am not sure if it can be topped in a conventional sitcom. The episode starts promisingly with an obvious set up that one can see miles off, but that promise is fulfilled and then some with the scenes during the dinner party with Tom at Frasier's. I am not sure what is funnier, Frasier's earlier ignorance of the fact that he is on a date; Niles's taking the the piss out of his brother once he finds out or Frasier's childish embarassment at the end. Simply put: magnificent.

Favourite Piece of Dialogue (There are too many):

Frasier: Oh my God! Niles, do you realise what this means?
Niles: Yes,
you're dating your boss. You of all people should know the pitfalls of an office relationship.
Frasier: Yes, but he... he just never mentioned the fact he...
Niles: I'll call you tomorrow. But not too early, of course.

Other notable favourites:

1.24: My Coffee With Niles (For that beautiful ending to the first seson)
2.20: Breaking The Ice (Father-Son stuff turns me into a soppy goo)
2.23: The Innkeepers (A brilliant farce)
3.03: Martin Does It His Way (Honour Thy Father)
3.13: Moon Dance (Grammar's brilliant direction and the postcard gag!)
3.15: A Word To The Wiseguy (Niles acting tough - a sight to behold)
4.01: The Two Mrs. Cranes ("Now, now, Daphne. You are eating for two")
4.03: The Impossible Dream (I love Gil, what can I say?)
4.14: To Kill A Talking Bird ("Birds Today!" What a line - What a delivery!)
5.20: First Date (Niles and Daphne sitting in a tree and that song)
6.03: Dial M For Martin (It ain't paranoia if they're really after you!)
6.08: The Seal Who Came To Dinner (Go Keenan, It's Your Birthday!)
7.01: Momma Mia (The three of them watching the video at the end of the episode!)
7.10: Back Talk (The Revelation!!!!!!)
7.22: Dark Side Of The Moon (She loves him too!!!!!)
7.23: Something Borrowed, Someone Blue (Niles: “How do you feel about me?”)
8.14: Hooping Cranes (Frasier the Interpreter)
8.15: Docu.Drama (John Glenn in the booth!!!)
9.02: The First Temptation of Daphne (The Lizard Harness!)
10.06: Star Mitzvah (Noel is my hero!)
11.03: The Doctor Is Out (A welcome return to form)
11.23: Goodnight Seattle (“Though we are not now that strength, which in old days moved earth and heaven…”)

Ripe for a Remake: The Princess Bride

2008-02-18T16:33:00.008+02:00

When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin. When Istanbul woke up yesterday morning from an equally disturbing slumber, she found herself changed into Greenland. And I don’t mean it in jest. Unusual weather (snow itself isn’t unusual here – snowstorms that would make a taun-taun think twice are) such as yesterday’s would compel regular people (read: those without a death wish) to stay in doors, and curl up on the sofa with a warm cup of chocolate and a thick book. Not me, though, I had errands to run, the most important of which was to take in Charlie Wilson’s War and Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead.

I first had to travel halfway across the nival landscape to a friend’s place to feed their cat while they’re away. Not a problem – if I don’t count the half an hour I spent searching for the feline fiend, who, for some reason, had taken to hiding from me. Next, I had to switch my copy of House of Games with a new one as it won’t play on my DVD player. I had to get some food, too – again, no problem. But, by that time, what should have taken me an hour at the most had devoured the better part of my afternoon, and I had no energy left in me to go to the cinema. Thankfully, when I went back home, there were a few films on the telly that I had never seen before. The Princess Bride was one of them.

I only found out about The Princess Bride in the early nineties in Germany – until then I had not even known that it existed. If it had received a theatrical release in Turkey when it first came out, I didn’t know about it, or else cared. When friends started going on about the flick’s apparent awesomeness, my interest was piqued yet I never sought it out either in high school, or at uni, where quoting lines from the movie seemed to be one of the entry criteria (“No, I don’t want a peanut, but would you like a slap”). By the time I read about the film in William Goldman’s Which Lie Did I Tell?, it felt like I knew everything there was to know about it – the story, the jokes, the behind the scenes fun, the grosses, everything. So when I saw that the film was on yesterday, it was a great way to see what all the fuss was about without, literally, leaving the sofa (besides, the other option was The Doors, and I had no time to wallow in that mire).

It’s a good film, and I did like it. It has a quaint innocence that’s underscored by world weary sarcasm (the parachronistic gags are perhaps running commentary inserted by the Grandfather) – the charm comes from the way Rob Reiner devotes equal attention to both the fairy tale aspect and the comedy. As in This is Spinal Tap, the spoof never overshadows the story. It’s a nice little treat, perfect for a Sunday afternoon. Nonetheless, the film left me wanting – it would be unfair to call the production half-baked, but the film seemed to lack that final oomph, and the biggest reason was the way it was telling a much grander story than the one that had ended up on the screen. The visuals did not reflect the magnificence. Now what I am about to say will come as anathema, as blasphemy, to many of the film’s fans. But once they break the onerous shackles of nostalgia, even they would see that the film has summer blockbuster, maybe even franchise, written all over it. It’s a fine film, sure, but it has the potential to be so much more. The answer is simple: The Princess Bride simply must be remade.

I don’t believe that re-makes are intrinsically pestiferious. Nor are they – or sequels – commensurate with whore’s movies, as William Goldman argues in his typically irascible tone in many of his writings (David Bordwell has an excellent discussion on the history and merits of movie sequels here). The re-interpretation of an already-existing (and, at times, much lauded) work of art is not unique to American cinema. The practice is as old as human civilization itself, and encompasses all art. The Odyssey owes as much to the Epic of Gilgamesh as it does to the ancient tales of Asia Minor and Greece – in turn, Gilgamesh itself can be seen as the retelling of the Akkadian Atra-Hasis and the Sumerian Eridu-Genesis legends, both of which form the basis of all deluge myths. Shakespeare’s Hamlet or Goethe’s Faust are more modern examples. In Verrochio’s workshop where he was educated, not just Leonardo Da Vinci, but Boticelli and Perugino as well, were asked to do reinterpretations of existing works. In fact, reimaginings of classical themes and scenes form the basis of much of Renaissance art. Albeit less common, remakes can be found in contemporary painting, too: Last year’s Picasso exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art “included instances of American artists remaking, as new versions, particular works by Pablo Picasso, quoting passages of his paintings, or mimicking his style.” Covers are a dime a dozen in modern music, but keen listeners of Beethoven’s early work would find themes similar to Mozart, too. To quote from the aforementioned Picasso exhibit’s website, “a remake — by adapting, displacing, or just feeding off another film — not only generates something different and new, it reveals peculiarities of the original that we wouldn't otherwise see. Whether it is an homage or a travesty, a remake can be faithful to the original in changing it — or it can betray the original by imitating it.” In fact, as Matthew Gurewitsch wrote in the New York Times on April 4, 1999, and as today’s word of the day mailing from Dictionary.Com appropriately brings to my attention, “However we choose to define a classic, a sine qua non is that the material lend itself to reinterpretation in the light of changing circumstances.” So it can even be said that a classic is not truly a classic unless it can be (or is) reinterpreted.

Which brings us to why The Princess Bride needs to be remade. As I said earlier, the story is much more majestic than the film itself does it justice. It’s supposed to be a fairy tale, a grand adventure through many lands, an Odyssey of sorts, yet it feels like it was filmed in the emerald hills while the shepherds were keeping the flocks of sheep at bay – which they probably were. The scenery doesn’t have a commanding presence – and it should as this is a fairy tale, and the scenery is one of the most important parts of the story. Try to imagine the Lord of the Rings films without thinking of New Zealand…See, you can’t! The cliffs of insanity are not at all imposing, the soundstage where Westley duels Inigo too obviously a soundstage, the Prince’s castle, and its interiors, totally underwhelming. And the less talk about the risible sequences with the eels and the giant rats the better. Yet it’s not just what is lacking in the film that makes it deserving of a remake, but what’s already in it, too. The tongue in cheek, at times wonderfully meta humour, is currently very much a part of the pop culture zeitgeist. Just as getting involved in a land war in Asia is a bad idea still, so were swashbuckling action-adventure movies until a few years ago when Pirates of the Caribbean obliterated that particular axiom with panache.

Now imagine this. A visionary director, like Guillermo Del Toro, say, helming a page one remake of the story. While they keep what is great about the film – the characters, the humour, the heart – they completely overhaul the rest of the film. I am not just talking about better effects, which would be instrumental, but a rebuilding of the story from the ground up – a more fleshed out story, more formidable sets, luscious locations, new designs, etc.[1] The fact is The Princess Bride, however great it is, can be much better. They have the technology. They can re build it.

No – they SHOULD rebuild it. They owe it to the story.

[1] In fact, just as the original film is told as a bedtime story by the grandfather, this new version could be the director pitching the remake itself to an at-first oblivious studio exec. How’s that for meta!

Talk about mudflaps, my girl's got 'em...

2008-02-18T15:41:00.004+02:00

From BBC News:

"There are women today with large bottoms who are embarrassed, so it's to say don't be ashamed - be comfortable."

An update, not necessarily about this particular subject, is coming soon.

A Matter of Taste: Prologue

2008-02-15T16:13:00.003+02:00

(On his Scanners Blog, Jim Emerson started a very interesting discussion on taste. Inspired by the post, I will spend the better part of next week examining this topic. I will also review Cloverfield, Juno, There Will Be Blood, Sweeney Todd, Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead, We Own The Night and Charlie Wilson’s War. Below are my initial thoughts on the subject - comments at Jim’s site which I shall expand upon over the weekend.)

I remember it like it was yesterday even though it was almost 27 years ago. I was four years old, sitting at the table in my grandmother’s kitchen, as my parents discussed which film to take in that afternoon. The choices had already been narrowed down to two, Die Blechtroemmel (Best Foreign Film Oscar winner), or Clash of the Titans (where Harry Hamlin is guided in his magical quest by a mechanical owl). Now the films couldn’t be too different, and I recall my mother’s leaning towards the best foreign film Oscar winner, which usually means that the decision would be made soon.

To this day, I have not seen Die Blechtroemmel (and there’s a lot of sex in it, apparently, so damn you Harryhausen, and your captivating stop-motion effects which must have eventually enticed my parents), whereas I must have seen Clash of the Titans at least twenty times. We are all fastidiously forged in the crucible of experience, with nostalgia and the search for validation as fuel to the fire. As such there is emotional resilience in what we like, and how and why we like it. There are, of course, much bigger forces at work – that shape us, and our understanding of the world, too. And I suppose that’s where the class struggle argument fits in. Cultural snobbery, as I mentioned earlier, goes hand in hand in the modern world, at least among the self-described literati (I use the word extensively), with cultural slumming, with which the afficianado (by definition, of highbrow art) will rationalize their enjoyment of what they might perceive as the more plebian art of the lumpenproleteriat (this is not just particular to the upper and upper middles classes, but the petit bourgeois, too). The dismissal of critical opinion is the final step in this process. That, I believe, is the theoretical groundwork in a strictly dialectic way. But how does it work in practice? Easy.

“You know, I don’t usually go to these type of films, I prefer Mikhail Romm, and his somewhat ironic portrayal of socialist realism, but, well, sometimes you just want mindless fun, which is why I am now standing in line for High School High.”

I have no problems with people enjoying High School High. I do have a problem, however, with this rationalization process. It has three detrimental effects linked to the troika of points I brought up earlier:

1. It creates a hierarchy in art. As Carl Wilson says, and as Jim mentions, it “(divides) culture into highbrow, lowbrow and middlebrow.” This arbitrary classification (or de-classification, if you like – Ho-hum) is nothing but addle-brained reductivism. By definition, it instills in the enjoyment of art a specious “class struggle.” At its worst, people start feeling embarrassed for liking High School High, and others vindicated (or entitled) for liking Romm.
2. It automatically labels people who enjoy this lowbrow art, who enjoy it without the pretensions I mentioned earlier, to a sort of cultural leprosy. As such, the artificial distinction of the first point is solidified, and has a converse effect as well. Our man who loves his Romm so much will jest that he is slumming when he watches High School High, just as the person whose life revolves around Jon Lovitz’s afro in the aforementioned film will quip he’s “being artsy” when he runs into Nine Days in One Year, and finds himself enthralled by it.
3. Finally, it reduces everything into a false dichotomy of whether the work of art in question is worthy of critiquing or not. “Well, it’s just a (insert genre or the filmmakers’ names),” becomes a mantra in this case. But understanding why we like or dislike a work of art, or why someone else, a critic we like (or dislike), enjoys something we abhor helps in the quest to constantly challenge one’s self. Why we are where we are, why we like what we like, and how we got here (again points raised by Jim). In the big picture, it is irrelevant whether or not High School High is any good (it isn’t) just as it’s irrelevant whether or not Nine Days in One Year is any good (it is). There were two comments recently at The House Next Door regarding film criticism (linked to the earlier round of discussion we had a few weeks back); Ty Keenan said: "Frankly, at its best, criticism is a form of light therapy for both the critic and the reader." To which Matt Zoller Seitz replied: “True. Two of my favorite descriptions of criticism are from Pauline Kael, who in her 1995 collection Love Letters told people that were always asking her to write an autobiography, "I think I have"; and Walter Chaw, who in a House interview with Jeremiah Kipp, described film criticism as 1% savvy, 99% auto-psychoanalysis.” Who doesn’t want a piece of that? Even if it is about High School Bloody High.

This rationalization overshadows the story of our interests, how we got to where we are culturally. Clash of the Titans led me to Greek mythology, which led me to mythology as a whole, and then to languages and poetry and essentially the arts in general. This is very simplistic in purpose, for I must away soon (I am seeing Cloverfield, finally – but when I get home I will pop in The Seventh Seal because I am cultured), but I would like to explore this subject further. The fact of the matter is we don’t feel ashamed of our political, economic or sexual choices. We should not be ashamed of our cultural choices either.

“My son has an office on the right hand of Jesus”

2008-02-14T14:29:00.003+02:00

The sixth season of Curb Your Enthusiasm finished here last week, and I had been mulling over a review/recap of it when Edward Copeland beat me to the punch with a DVD review of the season. I agree with Edward that the fifth season was mostly uneven, though our opinions differ as to that season’s finale, which I thought was terrible. Thank god it didn’t end up being the series finale like Larry David originally planned.

Among my real life friends (all three of them), I am universally alone in my unabashed enthusiasm for Curb Your Enthusiasm. The show had slipped under my radar in the UK, where Seinfeld has never been a hit (and had been condemned to the graveyard slot during its initial run), which, subsequently, meant that Curb’s launch never had the kind of in-built momentum as it had in the US. Incidentally, a pet peeve of mine is the way many Brits dismiss American comedy, especially sitcoms, as nothing more than workmanlike series of sappy family humour or frat boy-friendly histrionics (not that there’s anything wrong with that). But that’s an unfair simplification of a genre, which is most natural to American television, and in which it clearly thrives. In fact, it is British sitcoms that are generally dreadful, and The Office and The League of Gentlemen and Phoenix Nights, all of them sublime, are all but oases in the barren Sahara that is British television comedy.

Anyway, back on topic: Larry David is one of the great storytellers currently working in television. I’ve been watching the fourth season of Seinfeld these past few days – the break-out season, and the first one with an overwhelming arc ("The Jerry Show"). Although Seinfeld would use arcs in its later seasons, to varying degrees of success, The Jerry Show arc is the one that is closest to the way Larry David has fashioned all seasons of Curb Your Enthusiasm after its debut season. In fact, the clockwork precision of the second, third, fourth - and now the sixth - seasons, the way the episodes, and the overall arcs, inexorably lead to an ineluctable outcome, and yet still manage to be supremely surprising once they get there, is a testament to David’s perfect grasp of screwball and farce. The show’s cinema (or television) verité style and its indebtedness to such disparate influences as Moliere, Alan Ayckbourn, Phil Silvers, Mel Brooks, Joe Keenan etc only serve to highlight David’s tremendous achievement. The style complements the substance – the apparent haphazardness of the single-camera approach and the mainly improvised dialogue the yin to the yang of the plot’s labyrinthine machinations.

The main arc of the show’s sixth season finds The Davids’ “adopting” an African-American family who’ve been left homeless in the wake of a Katrina-like Hurricane. Fortuitously enough, they happen to be called The Blacks. It’s these too-on-the-nose set-ups that I love about David’s comedy. You know that something most awkward is going to happen with a combination like that – but you just don’t know exactly what. Leon Black, the up-to-no-good, plebian, loud-mouth nephew could usually be interpreted as an attempt to extend a show’s appeal to different demographics – but not in this one. Stereotypes are introduced in an off-handed way, and then subsequently demolished with the same ease. The second arc involves Sheryl dumping Larry when the latter prefers to deal with the TiVo guy instead of talking to his wife, who’s called him from her plane that’s seemingly about to crash. (There is so much I can relate to in that particular plotline – I’ve had an ex who used to call me only three-minutes before The Sopranos would start, and then complain that I wasn’t paying her any attention. Don’t make me choose between you and Tony, hon. Yes, I am a moron.) All the actors do sterling work – the veterans have grown into their roles, and you can see affectations, and lines coming to them naturally. Watch as Larry David tries to stay “in-character” after Jeff Garlin’s adlib at the Laundromat: “At home, I keep photos of all my dry cleaners on the wall.” The additions to the cast, JB Smoove (best. name. ever.), Vivica Fox, Ellie English are equally great.

And then there’s the finale – which comes completely out of left field, and is in such contrast to the general cynicism of the show that it’s not just an artistic non sequitur, but almost Lynchesque in its weirdness. Truly, truly a work of genius.

Postscript: The show had an 11.00PM slot here, which is now occupied by Californication. I suppose the thinking was that, sometimes, just before you go to bed, you want to see a bald man make a tit of himself. And other times, you just want to see tits. Fair enough.

Kali Ma Shakti Debut: Indy Trailer to Arrive Today

2008-02-14T13:07:00.004+02:00

The teaser trailer for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (one truly graceless title) debuts in a few hours at Yahoo Movies, and the film's official site. There’s a bootleg version floating about, which I have no intention of watching. The official site says the trailer will have an international launch at the cinemas, so hopefully I will also catch it on the big screen sometime this weekend.

Don’t forget – Cerebral Mastication is hosting an Indiana Jones Blog-a-thon to coincide with the release of the new movie. Click here for details.

Pineapple Express Red Band Trailer

2008-02-13T13:53:00.005+02:00

Judd Apatow is a very funny man. The 40-Year-Old Virgin is the funniest film of this decade, with Superbad's running a close second. Even when he fails to meet my expectations, as in Knocked Up, Apatow still manages to bring enough of the funny that I overlook his films' other problems (like his penchant for keeping his movies, on average, at a sprightly seven hours).

Judd Apatow is also a very busy man. His schedule, and seemingly overnight success following Virgin, has been compared to John Hughes' in the director’s 80's heyday, and, like Hughes, Apatow likes to have myriad projects at various stages of development simultaneously. Of his current slate of movies, Drillbit Taylor and Forgetting Sarah Marshall do not interest me in the slightest, even though I'll end up seeing them the weekend they open - though I am not sure I will be able to extend my patronage to You Don't Mess with the Zohan, an ostensibly by-the-numbers Borat knock-off, which sounds like a take-the-money-and-run kinda deal for Apatow.

However, I can't wait for The Year One, and Pineapple Express, an action/comedy written by Apatow, Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, and directed by David Gordon Green, which is a combination just kerazee enough to work! Its red band trailer has been leaked to the interwebs, and, in only a minute and half, I counted quite a few references to Tarantino, the Coen Brothers, Hong Kong cinema, 80's action movies... So basically it’s like Hot Fuzz, but actually funny. Check it out:

Thanks to Timothy Sergeant for sending me the link.

I'm the Lord of the Flies

2008-02-13T09:28:00.002+02:00

Interestingly, my IQ is also 24.