Star Trash

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.

A Pinchbeck Parable

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.

Eli's coming, hide your heart boy!

“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

"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.