My Journal, Or: Thing to Do When There's Nothing Else To

A survey, answered wid total honesty

2006-10-31T21:24:00.000-08:00

1. The phone rings. Who do you want it to be?:

Orson Welles, calling from beyond the grave to tell me not only where the missing reels of The Magnificent Ambersons are, but the footage cut from Lady From Shanghai

2. When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart?

No. Should I?

3. In a social setting, are you more of a talker or a listener?:

Depends. If he or she has something interesting to say, I listen.

4. Do you take compliments well?:

Extremely.

5. Do you like to ride horses?:

They're okay. Rather eat them.

6. Did you ever go camping as a kid?

Sometimes. Haven't in decades.

7. What was your favorite game as a kid?

Chess...

8. If a sexy person was pursuing you, but you knew he/she was married, would you pursue it?

Never mind sexy, what kind of movies does she like?

9. Could you date someone with different religious beliefs than you?

Depends. What kind of sex does she like?

10. Can you speak another language?:

Siyempre.

11. If you had to choose, would you rather be deaf or blind?:

Deaf. I'd rather watch films with the close captioning turned on.

12. Do you know how to shoot a gun?:

Uh--air pistol?

13. If your house was on fire, what would be the first thing you grabbed?

Kids.

14. How often do you read books?:

Every chance I get.

15. Do you think more about the past, present or future?:

Past.

16. What is your favorite children's book?:

Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind Prefer that to either the Narnia OR Lord of the Rings books.

17. What color are your eyes?:

Brown sugar.

18. How tall are you?:

5'10".

19. Last person you talked to?:

Parents on a porch, handing out candies.

20. Have you ever taken pictures in a photo booth?:

Yes. I keep the results to scare rats.

21. When was the last time you were at Olive Garden?

Once. I don't consider that dining out.

22. What are your keys on your key chain for?

One for front door, one for car, one for--I forget what that one's for.

23. Where is your current pain at?:

Lumbar.

24. Do you like mustard?:

Yiz.

25. Do you look like your mom or dad?:

They're my parents. What can I do?

26. How long does it take you in the shower?

Ten minutes.

27. What movie do you want to see right now?:

Um--the reissue of Army of Shadows.

28. Do you put lotion on your dog or cats?:

Do people do that?

29. What was the cause of your last accident?:

It was a Saturday night. I was with a date and there was a traffic jam in front of us--someone was arguing with a security guard. Suddenly shots rang out. I reversed the car and went the other way. More traffic. Suddenly someone rear-ended me, hard. The car reversed, ground gears, jerked up on the sidewalk, crunched itself against the side of the building, and stopped.

Found out later that was the guy arguing with the security guard. The guard had shot him in the head, and ran off; he had enough strength left in him to put his car in gear, crash into my car, and die. The stuff on the ground beside the car was probably his brains.

30. What was the strangest thing that happened to you today?:

Uh--some guy brandishing a chainsaw at me while I was walking in the sidewalk.

31. What are you drinking?:

Water

32. Was your mom a cheerleader?:

She's got a masters in art and a business degree. I don't know about cheerleading.

33. How many hours of sleep do you get a night?:

5. Maybe 4.

34. Do you like care bears?:

Grilled and with a lemon squeezed over them, they're very good.

35. What do you buy at the movies?:

Balut. That's a duck egg 15 days old, when the fetus is formed. Very good with rock salt.

36. Do you always read MySpace bulletins?:

Depends on if they're interesting.

37. Ever been to canada?

No. Where is that?

Kidding. I'd like to.

38. Did you eat a cookie today?:

No.

39. What do you and your parents fight about the most?

Who I went out with and who I married.

40. What's your favorite brand of water?

Tap.

Last post: The Imaginasian Filipino Film Festival

2006-10-24T10:30:00.000-07:00

Closing down my AOL blog. It'll still be here, but there won't be any more new posts. Or if there are new posts, they'll be links to this blog: Critic After Dark: A Review of Philippine and World Cinema, and Other Grotesqueries

And check out my first real post there: an account of what happened at the Imaginasian Filipino Film Festival.

So long, and see you there...

Ulzana's Raid (Robert Aldrich, 1972)

2006-10-24T01:52:00.000-07:00

I've seen quite a few Aldriches including his oft-mentioned masterpiece Kiss Me Deadly (1955), and while I can appreciate the qualities of that film (considered by many to be the greatest if not film at least noir ever made), strangely enough it's only with Robert Aldrich's Ulzana's Raid (1972) that I truly appreciated the man's work. The film is late period Aldrich, and I think it shows: a young filmmaker can't do a picture this measured, wary, or economical.

I like the frustrating way the cavalry keeps arriving on the scene, always late (even unto the end, in fact), in time only to see the latest atrocities Ulzana hath wrought; I like the way Aldrich uses the tilted rocks of the Arizona desert as a series of Sisyphean slopes against which protagonists and antagonists struggle for the upper hand. I especially like the timing of some of the sequences: while violence often erupts suddenly and develops quickly, there are other times when patient action is required, and any attempt at hurrying leads to deadly mistakes. It's the kind of suspense our filmmakers have practically forgotten how to create, much less build on.

Most of all I like the way Aldrich uses the atrocities--they're horrifying enough, and Aldrich photographs them head-on, albeit without resorting to grisly closeups, but they're hardly gratuitous. They drive home more than any mere lecture or workshop or seminar every could the alien nature of Apache culture and thinking. It seems horrifying, cruel, and sadistic, and Aldrich doesn't deny any of these qualities, but he also gives equal time to the thinking that created these qualities. I think it's Davison's struggle to understand that thinking that's the true dramatic arc of the film, and not Ulzana's pursuit and eventual capture.

Aldrich gives adequate time to explaining that thinking to Davison, but I like the fact that he doesn't explain everything--he doesn't explain how this Apache practice of torture and mutilation (actually, stealing power), is in some way a tribute to the victim; that if he hadn't been so treated, it means he has nothing worth stealing, and is beneath contempt (that's why when one smart settler manages to shoot himself, the Apache's answer is to spit on his corpse).

The final, wordless confrontation between the scout and Ulzana--that was great. It brings the audience's sympathies full circle. We mourn for the dead settlers, and we mourn for--well, maybe not mourn, but perhaps appreciate to some extent, at least--Ulzana's devastated hopes.

A great film, and for the first time I think I truly appreciated--emotionally as well as intellectually--Aldrich the filmmaker.

Tags: Robert Aldrich, Historical

Interview on Philippine cinema

2006-10-12T22:33:00.000-07:00

Edi Sian interviewed me for his blog Pinoy Post: When was the last time you watched a Filipino movie?

Excerpt:

If there is one thing Filipinos love to do it is watching movies in theaters. It is one of the cheapest forms of entertainment in the Philippines. The cinema offers a temporary escape into another world where Sharon Cuneta is accused of being "a second-rate, trying hard, copycat" or Kris Aquino's Dida matches Rene Requesta's Pido. But, this proud history of Philippine cinema that stretches way back to the Sampaguita, LVN, Premiere era is sadly being swamped by a tsunami of Hollywood blockbusters.

So, how did Philippine cinema, once the most prolific in Asia, end up where it is right now? Pinoy Post devotes 45 minutes to the state of the Filipino movie industry with Filipino film critic, Noel Vera. Noel is the resident film critic of BusinessWorld Philippines. He maintains a blog devoted to movies and he has also written a book on Philippine cinema called Critic After Dark.

Tags: Philippine cinema, film criticism

I'm going to New York's Imaginasian Film Festival

2006-10-11T19:09:00.000-07:00

Apparently I'm going after all to New York City's ongoing Imaginasian Filipino Film Festival:

Imaginasian Filipino Film Festival schedule

The films shown are all either on projected DVD or projected Betacam except Lino Brocka's "Insiang" (1976). Many of them will not have subtitles; the Imaginasian schedule will indicate which ("Insiang" is subtitled, for the record).

I do still think the films are worth seeing, if only because this is possibly the only chance many New Yorkers will have to see the best the Philippines has to offer.

Added incentive (for what it's worth): I'll be introducing the films at eight of the screenings, and hopefully doing a Q & A afterwards, depending on time availability.

The films I'm introducing are as follows:

Saturday, Oct. 14

Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang Lino Brocka 2.30

Tatlo, Dalawa, Isa, Brocka, 5.00

Angela Markado, Brocka, 7.30

Tubog sa Guinto Brocka, 10.30

Sunday, Oct. 15

Himala Ishmael Bernal, 1.00

Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos Mario O'Hara, 3.30

Monday, Oct. 16

Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos O'Hara, 6.30

Insiang Brocka, 9.30

I'll be the big guy with the loud voice. Hope to see you there...

The New York Times' Dave Kehr on two Filipino films, out on DVD

2006-10-10T20:46:00.000-07:00

The New York Times' film critic Dave Kehr on Manila By Night (Ishmael Bernal, 1980) and Ina, Kapatid, Anak (Mother, Sister, Daughter, Lino Brocka, 1979)
Mr. Kehr also mentions all the Filipino films being screened in New York (The Imaginasian, and the New York Film Festival)

Homecoming (Joe Dante, 2005); Pick Me Up (Larry Cohen, 2006)

2006-10-04T18:55:00.000-07:00

"Homecoming is a satire of Bush's re-election and of the Iraq War"--no kidding. What's really surprising is the gusto and sheer joy with which Joe Dante so thoroughly skewers his all-too-skewerable targets ("This is a horror story because most of the characters are Republicans," he's quoted as saying). He stuffs his short film with as much caricatures and political references as he does cinematic references in his other pictures (though he can't resist putting "Jacques Tourneur" in one tombstone here), and galvanizes everything with a moral outrage not dissimilar to the kind of spirit that drove the Civil Rights movement.

Something just as surprising is how moving it is; it's easily the most heartfelt (and least gory) of any entry in the series. Dante has a zombie soldier shamble into the voting booth and it isn't about the voting zombie (a nice twist on the classic election trick of stuffing ballot boxes with the names of dead people), but on the young woman who recognizes him, who sees him not as one of the walking undead, but as someone she knew and maybe cared for and admired--more now, with this sacrifice way beyond any reasonable call of duty, than ever. Later Dante manages to insert a quick vignette of a lonely zombie taken in by a sympathetic black couple; it's like a Saturday Morning Post cover painting of a pair of quiet liberals comforting a disillusioned Vietnam war vet.

Larry Cohen with Pick Me Up directs for once not out of his own script but someone else's, and the results are more coherent (if not quite as uniquely wild); it's a helluva lot gorier than I remember Cohen ever being, but the over-the-top humor is pure Cohen. Nice to see Michael Moriarity back in a Cohen film too; judging from his very best performances (his small-time-turned-big-time loser in Cohen's Q comes to mind), he's every bit as talented as, say, Robet De Niro or Al Pacino; with this entry he's apparently also doing better, braver recent work.

Tags: Joe Dante, satire, Larry Cohen, horror

Filipino films in New York and in Vienna

2006-10-03T19:52:00.000-07:00

Lino Brocka's Insiang (1976)--his masterpiece, in my opinion--is scheduled to screen at The New York Film Festival, Oct. 14, Sat. at 12 noon, Alice Tully Hall (North side of 65th Street, west of Broadway).

I write about Insiang here (warning: plot discussed in close detail)

Meanwhile, Mario O'Hara's Pangarap ng Puso (Demons, 2000)--my vote for the finest film, Filipino or otherwise, of the past 25 years--will be screening at the Viennale in Austria on Oct. 16, 3.30 pm, at the Kunstlerhaus Kino, and on Oct. 24 at 11 am, at the Metro.

I write about the film here.

Finally, a rare showing (Rare? I believe it's its US premiere!) of O'Hara's Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos (Three Years Without God, 1976) at The Imaginasian, Oct. 15 Sunday at 3 pm, and Oct. 16 Monday at 6.30 pm. There will also be showings of Brocka's Tubog sa Ginto (Dipped in Gold, 1971), Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang (You Were Weighed But Found Wanting, 1974), Tatlo Dalawa, Isa (Three, Two, One, 1974), Insiang again, and Angela Markado (1980); Ishmael Bernal's masterpiece Manila By Night (1980) and Himala (Miracle, 1982); Mike de Leon's Itim (Rites of May, 1976) and his masterpiece Kisapmata (Blink of an Eye, 1981); Siegfried Sanchez's mockumentary Anak ni Brocka (Son of Brocka, 2005); Manuel Silos' great Biyaya ng Lupa (Blessings of the Land, 1959); and Auraeus Solito's Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros (The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros, 2005).

Here are links to articles I wrote on Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang (warning: plot discussed in close detail); Ang Pagdadalaga Ni Maximo Oliveros; and Tubog sa Ginto.

(Some of these films may be in projected video; I know Tubog sa Ginto exists only on tape).

Recommendations? I say see them all, even the ones I didn't mention. If you don't have time, well, here's a ranked list.

Book meme

2006-10-01T21:08:00.000-07:00

Caught it from Zach Campbell's Elusive Lucidity

1. One book that changed your life?

Frankly they all changed my life. Catch 22 introduced me to absurdist humor and (in the final passages) terminal despair; in One Hundred Years of Solitude I remembered how matter-of-factly the fantastic was presented, Moby Dick introduced me to a kind of pagan spirituality (or at least one that had as much connection with nature and the sea as it had to Christian faith); Dostoevsky's novels showed me the depths of human perversity and the wonders of human redemption were often two sides of the same degraded coin.

If I have to choose one book, I suppose I'd choose Cervantes' Don Quixote, if only because of any novel, it most completely represents all novels: massive yet intimate, slyly witty, crudely hilarious, intensely moving, fabulously imagined, profoundly metaphysical. It's the whole set of Shakespeare's plays in one volume, the world entire on the palm of your hand (if your hand rested on a tabletop, that is--most editions of this are chunky).

2. One book that you have read more than once?

Olaf Stapledon's Starmaker. World-building and imagination of a scale and density of detail no writer of fantasy or science fiction has achieved before, or approached since. A chilly philosophical view that annoyed C.S. Lewis to no end (though people as disparate as Virginia Woolfe and Winston Churchill professed admiration, and Jorge Luis Borges called it "a prodigious novel"). A monumental work too obscure and difficult for most science-fiction readers to embrace enthusiastically, too centrally embedded in the genre for mainstream literature readers to easily swallow. What's not to like?

3. One book you would want on a desert island?

Easy: Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu. At around 5,000 pages it's long enough and complex enough a world to get lost in, and I imagine there's nothing in those pages that mentions deserted islands, something I'll probably appreciate on the tenth year of my stay.

4. One book that made you cry?

Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. The final passages, when Humbert Humbert realizes just what Lolita had gone through--what it had cost her to be with him--are a terrible experience, not so much because of the suffering Humbert undergoes as the shame he feels (which Nabokov so memorably evokes). Better to have been shot in the head than to have to feel such shame.

5. One book that made you laugh?

Another easy one--The Bridges of Madison County. A laugh fest from beginning to end. I was in tears when I put it down.

6. One book you wish had been written?

Oh, yet another easy one: The First Encyclopedia of Tlon. Of course, there are those who say the book has already been written...

7. One book you wish had never been written?

I could think of several hundreds, but Anne Catherine Emmerich's The Dolorous Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ was the book that most readily comes to mind...

8. One book you are reading currently?

Still re-reading De Sade's Les 120 journées de Sodome ou l'école du libertinage and Thomas Rick's Fiasco: The American Military Adventure in Iraq. Sometimes I can't tell which book I'm reading...

9. One book you have been meaning to read?

Well, the Proust. I have the volumes sitting here. Need to start.

10. Pass it on

Oh, anyone who wants to, go ahead.

Tags: meme, books

The single best American fiction film of the past 25 years

2006-09-30T00:36:00.000-07:00

(Note: It's a hugely limiting question--if I were to pick the single best film of the past 25 years, it wouldn't be American at all, but this film, presently showing at this film festival (catch it if you can, I urge you).)

From Andy Horbal's film blog No More Marriages:

What is the single best American fiction film made during the last 25 years?

Excerpt:

This is a riff on the very similar poll that the New York Times conducted in regards to books a few months ago. You're on your own defining "American," "fiction," and "last 25 years," but I'm going to insist on that word single. It's this restriction that makes this question so interesting to me.

Road to Guantanamo (Michael Winterbottom, 200)

2006-09-27T17:07:00.000-07:00

Michael Winterbottom's Road to Guantanamo (2006) is terrific, a scathing indictment of the US Government's malevolently nebulous policy on terrorist detainees.

These aren't the worse prison conditions I've ever seen; they aren't quite concentration camps, geared towards systematic genocide. And even as detention facilities I could think of worse--say, Filipino prisons where the fellow prisoners prey on each other as much as the guards do (Mario O'Hara's Bulaklak ng City Jail (Flowers of the City Jail, 1985) comes to mind). But that a developed, supposedly advanced country organized this--worse, one that proposes to be a vanguard of democratic principles--the monumental scale of the hypocrisy, that's the real shocker, the true obscenity (I think it can be argued that this is mostly the Republican's doing--but then, where were the Democrats?).

I don't have a problem with the three youths not quite registering onscreen--truth is, they come off as shallow at first, they don't seem worth committing to memory; it's when they're being dehumanized and treated worse than animals that their identities, their very humanity, comes to fore (In a way, the film's title is brilliantly chosen, evoking as it does the Cosby-Hope "Road" movies--this is a lark, an adventure gone horribly wrong).

I don't have a problem with their motives being not that clear either--I don't think their guilt is the point, and I believe Winterbottom took care to leave their reasons as vague as they themselves allowed it to be. The point is the treatment of these prisoners; guilty or not guilty, they don't deserve this treatment, not from a civilized nation.

And that I suppose is yet another point--that with Guantanamo, the United States (or at least this Republican version of it (with the Democrats in absentia)) reveals itself as less than civilized. The early interrogations seemed not only sadistic, but incredibly inept--they appear to have been staged not to gather information but to allow these amateurs (in military uniform instead of the clothes of real intelligence operatives (those appear later, with subtler techniques)) a venue for venting their anger at the people responsible for 9/11. It's the United States trying to get a bit of its own back, and as a result perpetuating the cycle of violence.

Arguably, Winterbottom's use of both documentary and drama--re-enactments mixed with interviews of the actual detainees--is a weakness, taking away from the intensity of the re-enactments, but it does have one effect that may not be possible any other way: looking at the interviewees, it was a shock to realize that the man speaking in front of me was the smooth-faced, callow youth in the re-enactments. You wonder: what happened to him (beyond the obvious fact that, yes, they used actors (mostly non-professional) for the re-enactments)? The cliche 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger' pops up, but seeing this contrast of faces, you feel as if you've witnessed the actual, working principle; you know these men have grown into their present strength. They looked like unlikely material for revolutionaries then; they seem more ready to stand up and struggle now--and that's the real danger of these detention camps.

It's interesting that Winterbottom includes scenes of the intelligence people trying to undercut the case for the detainess' innocence; they make a fairly good job of it too, or as good as they can (the three were released without any conviction, two years after they'd been captured). You get the sense that Winterbottom doesn't want to whitewash these youths, that he includes their flaws and police records and all, and at such a time--late in the film--when it would be most damaging (we've taken to them, we trust them, and it turns out they might be guilty after all?). It's arguably propaganda, but not simplistic propaganda; Winterbottom's smart enough to present the prosecution's case as well.

All in all, it's as good a film, I suspect, as we're going to get on the subject for some time. If the film hasn't made a bigger splash, well, I suspect I know the reason why: no one is eager to hear an unpleasant, unwanted truth.

Hollywoodland (Allen Coulter, 2006)

2006-09-26T15:35:00.000-07:00

Allen Coulter's Hollywoodland is good, but good as a collection of performances than an actual thriller, and far better as the story of George Reeves than a noir. Adrien Brody's a terrific actor, but when someone compared him to Ralph Meeker, I wanted to laugh (okay, it was probably meant to be ironic--but I still wanted to laugh); the rest of his co-actors don't really make much of an impression (although Diane Lane makes a devastatingly sexy elder matron).

It's when the movie goes into flashbacks that it really comes to life, and it's amazing that Ben Affleck, of all people, comes through best here. He probably doesn't capture the real Reeves (I haven't seen all that many episodes of the show, just enough to get a faint impression) so much as he creates a Reeves we can all identify with--ambitious, not a bit unscrupulous, charming nevertheless, and overall--and this is the tragedy of his life--haunted by the sense that he's not really as good as he makes himself out to be.

He does get to humanize what's essentially a cardboard character and a two-bit actor's interpretation of it: just before jumping into action in a children's party, he looks down to his crotch and asks (with apparently sincere interest) "does my penis show?" During the show's filming, he grabs Lois Lane and starts humping her saying "Here's the Man of Steel!" and "More powerful than a locomotive;" the actor playing Perry White makes his entrance and can only say "Great Ceasar's Ghost!" Affleck's Reeves gives us a hint of the things an adult, playing what's essentially an absurd children's show character, might think or feel underneath the relentlessly wholesome exterior.

But the real thrill is seeing this man of flab (Affleck bulked up for the role) step into the costume of the Man of Steel, and somehow, as if by magic, his back straightens, his face brightens, and he seems to put on an air of invincibility--this was the kind of transformation I saw Chistopher Reeve do in his Superman movies and what I failed to see Brandon Routh fail to do in his Superman movie (Routh seems incapable of slouching, much less transforming); it's something of a treat for Affleck to throw in that same conceit here, with his small-screen Superman, thatthe costume--that hot, smelly, heavy costume Reeves hated so much--somehow has the power to change someone, even if only for a time.

The picture isn't crazy--it doesn't have the exuberant sense of style or spirit of experimentation of De Palma's The Black Dahlia (I know, I'm in the minority on this)--but through Affleck (I still can't get over it) it does tell the story of one man's low meteoric trajectory. This is easily the best, most moving Superman film I've ever seen. Well, maybe not--I still have a weakness for Richard Lester's funny, sexually sophisticated Superman 2--but I'd say this comes a close second. And Affleck, after Reeves in Superman 2, is easily the best Superman I've ever seen.

Sven Nykvist 1922 - 2006

2006-09-20T19:44:00.000-07:00

Cinematographer Sven Nykvist dies at 83

It's hard to imagine the great cinema of the '60s--or any great cinema, for that matter--without the work of Nykvist; he's practically defined the look of the period for many of us, particularly the kind of spiritually austere, introspective psychodrama he and filmmaker Ingmar Bergman were working on at this time. From the "Trilogy of Faith" (Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, and The Silence), to the experimental Persona, to the horror-film Hour of the Wolf to the great Shame (my favorite of his films of this period), he's lit many a classic with that unique frosted-glass look of his, as if sunlight was cold instead of warm; as if it were filtered through a chilled windowpane, darkly.

Maybe the single most amazing trait of Nykvist's was that he achieved many of those magical effects through mostly simple techniques; as Bergman once said of the man in Bergman on Bergman: "All he needs to work is three lamps and a little greaseproof paper." He could in effect sweep aside all the technical paraphernalia associated with his trade, home in on the dramatic essence of the scene, and capture it on film for his director.

He worked for other directors, most notably Roman Polanski (The Tenant), Woody Allen (Crimes and Misdemeanors), Philip Kaufman (The Unbearable Lightness of Being); his finest non-Bergman work is arguably Andrei Tarkovsky's The Sacrifice, with its final six-minute shot (the first take of which had famously jammed, requiring a very expensive reconstruction and reshoot). If Nykvist had been known only for these films, he'd probably be considered a great cinematographer; as is, he is legend. The world is all the dimmer without him.

The Black Dahlia--masterpiece or monstrosity?

2006-09-20T18:07:00.000-07:00

Brian De Palma's latest film The Black Dahlia is taking a lot of flak from critics, even traditional De Palma fans. Is it one of the worst films of the year or one of the most interesting? Matt Zoller Seitz's take on the film. The comments are worth reading too, I think (shameless bit of self-promotion, there).

Frenzy (Alfred Hitchcock, 1972)

2006-09-19T21:00:00.000-07:00

Revisited Frenzy (Alfred Hitchcock, 1972), and noted with a shock that this was written by Anthony Shaffer (Why did I forget that? Has it been that long since I've seen it?).

Noted with surprise what the film's really all about--the possibility or impossibility of conducting a normal, healthy relationship between men and women. Couples abound, and even the first victim--or first character we come to know who becomes a victim--heads a marriage arranging service (the putative hero describes himself as one of her failures--her ex-husband, Richard Blaney (Jon Finch). Mr. and Mrs. Blaney's is an unhappy but not necessarily abnormal marriage: two basically decent people whose relationship couldn't survive the pressures of a (as Richard puts it) 'run of bad luck.' Their dinner together establishes that they do care for each other, but even caring can't stop the man from losing his temper.

Running counterpoint is Blaney's relationship with Babs, a barmaid he works with; their relationship is more easygoing and carnal, possibly because Babs is more at Richard's level (Mrs. Blaney seems too classy for him; possibly some upper-middle class princess he had dazzled with his military record). She trusts him too; when he presents his case for innocence, the facts as they are aren't too convincing; it's his likeability--and her affection for him--that wins her over. I don't know if it's intentional or not, but it's possible Blaney pushed her wife away because he thought she was too good for him; it's his screwed-up yet likeable sense of integrity that's doing him wrong.

Set that relatively healthy relationship alongside the more tense, more Hitchcockian Porters. Billie Whitelaw as Hetty Porter is positively full of sensible, if selfish, common sense, and she's furious at her husband's impulsive act of bringing a hunted criminal to their home (never mind if he's an old war buddy). They're moneyed, classy, well-traveled, and about as warm and compassionate (Hitchcock just loves dysfunctional upper-middle-class couples); any decent impulses in them reside in the husband (played by Clive Swift), who, when push comes to shove, readily gives in to his wife.

Maybe the oddest couple in the picture is Chief Inspector Oxford (Alec McCowen) and his wife. They seem to be pretty much normal, but the wife insists on torturing her husband with baroque dishes out of a gourmet cookbook. It's a wonderfully odd love, with her getting off on the unholy messes she serves on silver platters, and him going through all kinds of contortions (sneaking the soup back in the serving bowl, spitting a pig's foot bone on his plate) to avoid said concotions--you might say they communicate through a kind of gastronomical S & M.

What makes it all funnier is how dated the film's notion of weird food is--duck with cherry sauce? Pig's feet? Child's play (she even serves a 'margarita'--a drink made of tequila, triple-sec, lime, and salt--menu items that are almost de rigeur in Hard Rock Cafe or Ruby Tuesday (double irony, they're just as indigestible when served in those places)).

All of which contrast with Barry Foster as the charming Robert Rusk. He's all friendly bluster and affable respectability, and he seems to have a close relationship with his mother (alarm bells going off in Hitchock afficionados' minds), but it's his otherwise inability to have a normal sexual relationship with a woman that sets this whole film going.

Tonya J: "Maybe the oddest couple in the picture is Chief Inspector Oxford (Alec McCowen) and his wife. They seem to be pretty much normal, but the wife insists on torturing her husband with baroque dishes out of a gourmet cookbook."

Love those scenes.

What's so sad about the food is that I doubt if anyone really thought it grotesque--I think Hitchcock is sophisticated enough to enjoy such fare (I suppose I need to read his biography to really find out). The problem may be that she seems to be applying English-style cooking to the dishes, boiling them and heating them until it all seems to have been reduced to the same uniformly muddy grey. Except the Margarita, of course, which looks a bit like baby pee.

Groundhog Day (Harold Ramis, 1993), Battleground (Brian Henson, 2006)

2006-09-18T14:44:00.000-07:00

Finally convinced the kids that Groundhog Day might actually be worth watching (everytime I mentioned the title in the past their faces made this look, as if they had to eat fried toenails). They sat down quiet long enough to reach the point when Murray repeats the day for the first time, then they were hooked--'Why's that happening? When will he stop repeating himself? How can he get out of it?' Ultimately, they liked it, but it was a damned hard sell, and part of the pleasure is in finally saying 'Told you it was good.'

Which made me ask myself: what's the appeal of this picture? Partly I think it's seeing a metaphysical question--an idle one at that--made real (what if you had to repeat a day over and over again?); partly it's seeing a man wield the powers of god--or a god, anyway; partly it's the pleasure of watching Murray riff for the length of a picture on a single comic premise and all its surprisingly complex consequences, winning Andie McDowell (who is unusually lively and charming here) as first prize.

The younger pointed out the obvious right off: "He'll keep repeating till he gets his act together." But the film goes through so many permutations, and does so in so inventive a manner, that you forget the ending's inevitability, or choose to forget that ending, and allow yourself to be charmed by it when it finally happens. That's the film's achievement, I think.

Finally saw Brian Henson's "Battleground," the premiere episode of Stephen King's Nightmares and Dreamscapes, with a Richard Christian Matheson (son of THE Richard Matheson) script from a story by Stephen King. Better than I expected, with the nice conceit that not a single word of dialogue was spoken (mostly grunts and all), and that for a reasonable amount of time, the assailants are more suggested than shown, and that they retain their essential toyness.

I do wish they had shown the camp described by King's story, complete witha medic treating the wounded. And that the ending wasn't so attenuated. And that the 'special with this box' addition had a recognizable shape--not some obscure backpack--and that the classic mushroom cloud had been achieved.

I can see a problem with this series compared to, say the Masters of Horror series--that has some of the best names in the business (Carpenter, Gordon, Cohen, Dante, McNaughton, Hooper) working with a variety of writers, this one has some lesser filmmakers (Rob Bowman, Brian Henson) working on the stories of just one writer. You get less visual and verbal variety all around. At least "Battleground" was satisfying--but it had a good premise, of course, and a nice twist ending.

Coconut oil helps against heart disease, HIV

2006-09-17T13:12:00.000-07:00

Now this is the view of a few experts; it isn't accepted by the establishment yet, I imagine, but it's interesting food for thought...

Docs support VCO (Virgin Coconut Oil)

Filipino films on Netflix

2006-09-13T15:45:00.000-07:00

Good Filipino films on Netflix / DVD

Two by Hubert Cornfield: The Night of the Following Day (1968); Pressure Point (1962)

2006-09-12T22:19:00.000-07:00

The Night of the Following Day (1968)--director Hubert Cornfield in the DVD commentary notes that this was a property Kubrick wanted to get for his Hollywood debut (but couldn't, forcing him to do The Killing instead, leaving Cornfield to finally adapt it years later). It's Brando at his least mannerly brooding best, and he's matched point-for-point by Rita Moreno as his junkie girlfriend (they have this marvelous scene together where he walks in and tries to calm down her jealous rage, and the speed and surprise with which he does it is startling), and by Richard Boone as his psychopathic colleague (it isn't so much the sadistic, irrational things Boone does, really, as it is the playful manner in which he does them).

Maybe the film's most notable for the atmosphere Cornfield evokes, more moody and surreal than in your standard-issue crime caper. The camera seems often handheld, in a state of free-floating anxiety, much like Polanski's in Knife in the Water and Repulsion, as ready to catch a stray psychological nuance as catch plot details.

The ending should really be a surprise and a twist, but considering the state of one's consciousness as you sit through it--the sense of sitting half-awake through a nightmare laced with odd details (like Brando and Moreno naked in a sensual clinch, fading in and out of the big screen; or the Magrittelike man in raincoat and bowler walking across the beach); the lighting being consistently half-darkened, as if the cinematographer was intensely reluctant to intrude into your drowsiness--that particular ending ultimately comes across as the only natural, inevitable direction the picture can take.

Pressure Point (1962) is, I think, simultaneously worse and much better than that later film. It's yoked with Stanley Kramer as producer, and he probably wanted the speeches clear and morally defensible, but Cornfield (I'm guessing) undercuts Kramer's twelve-step agenda with wild hallucinations and dream sequences, and strange transitions from reality to memory and back (a boy speaking in a man's voice, or a camera that swoops up and down, like a hawk at its prey) that move too smoothly not to make you suspect someone with a real visual imagination was at work.

Best of all is an incredible Bobby Darin playing one of the most persuasive and charismatic sociopaths I've ever seen, matched against a grim Sidney Poitier who feels not a little intimidated by the man's formidable intensity. And for all its melodramatic sturm und drang, I'd dare anyone to find a better or quieter scene of subtly sketched racial hypocrisy than Poitier's showdown with his white bosses over Darin's possible release.

I might add, googling around, that Richard Boone apparently directed parts of The Night of the Following Day, and that Stanley Kramer directed the sandwich scenes that turned Pressure Point into one long flashback (no question who did who there--it goes from flat to interesting back to being flat, with music that shifts from melodramatic to strange back to melodrama).

The final line, describing the fate of Darin's character, is a total sellout: it undercuts the awful power of Cornfield's final scene (where the forces of 'evil' hold sway), and injects a tinpan note of hope into the whole thing (very Kramerlike, I might add).

Still can't get over the uncanny resemblance between Darin and Spacy; no wonder the latter obsessed over the former. And I'll bet Spacey modeled much of his acting style on Darin's in this picture.

Espiritu de la colmena (Spirit of the Beehive, Victor Erice, 1973)

2006-09-06T14:39:00.000-07:00

First saw Victor Erice's Espiritu de la colmen (Spirit of the Beehive, 1973) maybe seven or so years ago, on a poor video projection with a standing crowd in the way, and it looked impressive, but I wasn't moved--which was a pity; in a thirty-three year career, Erice has made only one film a decade, starting with this one (he makes Terence Malick look prolific). Saw it again in TCM recently (I just caught it by accident) and it's just tremendous--he plays with the metaphor of the Frankenstein creature, transforming Shelley's myth of hubris and failed responsibility into one of the lonely outsider (which is more in line with Whale's vision, and with what kids readily respond to). Over that is the metaphor of the beehive, which Erice has Fernando Feran Gomez looking at repeatedly like a god observing his subjects under glass. And over that is the developing consciousness of the children, which sees all through enchanted eyes, transforming the Spanish countryside into a fantastic dreamscape.

It draws from disparate sources: Spanish political history, Grimm fairy tales, Mary Shelly's novel, and I would say Swift in Gulliver mode (the creature is to the girls as the girls--or the father--is to the bees; perception shaped or modified by perspective), and I suspect Rene Clement's Forbidden Games. In turn, it has probably influenced films like Cinema Paradiso (a coarser, more sentimental treatise on the power of the cinema to fascinate the youth), My Neighbor Totoro (two girls exploring a lovely countryside, and encountering a mysterious figure (both have their threads of pathos, which the creators take in different directions)), much of present-day Iranian cinema (especially those that deal with children) and even The Shining (dysfunctional family in a large habitat; plus a shot of Ana at the typewriter, hearing a strange noise, moving away (along with the camera) from the typewriter into a series of doorways, to glimpse something terrifying behind a closed door).

Incredible complexity, and yet it comes across as hushed, simple, moving: you choose to see the connections if you so wish, but it works supremely well as the story of a young girl who wishes to make a friend and finds one, with all the attendant consequences.

Some notes: Erice rhymes and repeats images, sounds, textures, emotions. The day after the children watch Frankenstein, a schoolteacher unveils the figure of a man without internal organs; her lesson consisted of the kids putting the correct organs in place, a schoolroom parody of Dr. Frankenstein's work method. The sequence ends with Ana putting in the crucial component--the eyes--with which the figure, previously a collection of colored cardbored cutouts, suddenly acquires life and expression and perhaps even a soul. Ana looks on her creation with an ambigiuous expression: just what is she feeling? Longing? Fear? Pride? A masterful example of child acting (the actress, incidentally, made just one other film). The mother writes to a French lover, posts the letter at a drop box by a train's side, spots a handsome young man seated in a cabin. When her husband prepares for bed, the camera remains focused on the mother's face as she pretends to sleep, the father heard clomping around much as Frankenstein's creature does; when he finally climbs into bed, we hear a train whistle, and we're almost certain we know what--or who--she's thinking about.

Erice creates incredible imagery (with the help of the great Luis Cuadrado, who started to go blind during this production, and took his life in 1980). There's one that stays with me, even if it has little other significance: the father comes out of the house, the day just dawning, the the windows still lit, the house beautifully framed in the strengthening light; we follow him as he crosses down the path to the fields beyond and suddenly it's another composition, this time of the sun breaking over the horizon, the camera moving slowly past some tree branches to get a better view.

I read a college website that considers Ana a representation of the innocent Republicans, the older Isabel a representation of the corrupt, materialistic Nationalists. Possible, but I can't help but recoil from such bald symbolism. Isabel tells lies and teases Ana, but they both seem equally innocent, equally caught up in their childhood world (Isabel just seems more capable of using it to her own ends). One startling image of her developing beyond childhood is a scene of her with the cat. She strokes it lovingly, then in a fit of childish pique or excess affection, squeezes it; it hisses and bites her finger. She goes to the mirror and, looking at her face, spreads the blood across her lips. Remarkable image of oncoming sexuality, with the blood on her lips forshadowing the blood that will come forth another time.

This is considered by some the greatest film ever to come out of Spain. I don't know if I disagree; at the very least, I think I understand where such people are coming from.

Water (Deepa Mehta, 2005), Zulu (Cy Endfield, 1964)

2006-08-31T00:34:00.000-07:00

Not impressed with Deepa Mehta. Thought Fire was softcore porn (and pretty lukewarm porn, at that); thought Bollywood Hollywood a travesty of the Indian musical, compared to Dutt, Kapoor, and the like. Water (2005) may be her best and most coherent work yet, and it's still unsatisfying.

It's a great subject too, more's the pity: the treatment of widows in India during the 1930s and earlier is a tragedy, and it would help to present that tragedy as it appeared, without a modern-day consciousness in the form of an ultrahandsome Bollywood actor to pass judgement on the mores of the time. "It's economics," he declares near the end of the film, when asked why this happens; maybe it would be more useful to ask that question at the beginning of the film, and trace the various answers to their various bitter ends.

Would also help if the characters are more intelligent. The pretty widow rented out to old men to help support the ashram should have had the sense to ask just who the handsome man's father is; the handsome man should have had the sense to ask just why the pretty widow is able to keep her hair long in a convent full of short-haired women, and so forth. Maybe the best performance is by one of the widows, who begins to have motherly feelings for the little girl who begins the story--at least hers isn't an obvious tale of innocence corrupted or evil tradition attempting to preserve itself, but somewhere in between.

What else? Cy Endfield's Zulu (1964) is a terrific film. It neither condescends to nor demonizes the Zulus--they are terrifying and mysterious, but they have their reasons for attacking, even a sense of humor. The film unfussily gives us the tactics of both sides (the Zulus do clever feints and do not hesitate to exploit weaknesses; the British, though it's never explained, are smart to stay where they are and rely on an inner and outer redoubt instead of running away (where they could get hunted down and killed), or seeking higher ground (where they would have a difficult time building high defensive walls, run out of food and ammo, possibly be hunted down and killed)). It's also an excellent essay on how relationships between men warp or hold fast under stress, depending on the quality of the men involved (these are some fine specimens, apparently). Excellent peformances from everyone, especially Michael Caine as a foppish officer undergoing his baptism of fire, and Stanley Baker as a military engineer doing something a tad beyond his field of experience.

Rob Reiner attacks Gibson's films

2006-08-27T20:04:00.000-07:00

Rob Reiner attacks Gibson's films

Not a big fan of Reiner. Well, I loved Princess Bride, and he had a hand in shaping that film's comic timing and performances of course (I do wish he showed a less clunky visual style), and I love This is Spinal Tap (which I haven't seen in, oh, sixteen years?). But as far as I'm concerned, he's grown a pair of brass balls, and about time too!

Tags: rob reiner, mel gibson, anti-semitism

The Road Warrior (George Miller, 1981), The Warriors (Walter Hill, 1979)

2006-08-23T17:02:00.000-07:00

From Forum with No Name:

Two apocalyptic visions

(Plot discussed in close detail)

Saw The Road Warrior (George Miller, 1981) again and it's strange how prophetic all this seems today, the desperate struggle for dwindling supplies of oil.

Loved Norma Moriceau's punk costumes (I used to call it burlap chic) and always will, and really have no problem with the fact that Gibson's Max is mostly passive throughout the picture, that he mainly serves as a doll (sorry--'action figure') George Miller can pose against the ravaged landscape, or torture at will (the film fits in with Gibson's extensive gallery of masochistic messiahs). The movie's real hero of course is Bruce Spence's autogyro captain--he's a go-getter, and eventually we learn that he's also leader material (he becomes chief of the tribespeople Max rescues).

You see the lack of a production budget (which actually works for the film, because it really looks as if everything--their vehicles, their homes, their clothes--were salvaged from a junkyard), and you can spot the footage undercranked to make it all look dangerously fast, but it's such a skillfully shot and pieced-together picture that it gets to you anyway.

Interesting note: halfway through the chase (where Max's enormous Mack truck is pursued by twenty or so motorized marauders, ravenous for his cargo of precious 'juice' (refined gasoline)), there's a shot of Max pinnned to his seat by an iron-clawed punk, the Feral Kid (Emil Minty) whaling away at said punk. Papagallo (Mike Preston) drives up to the side of the beseiged truck and calls to the kid to jump; "We've won!" he says, but both Max and the kid ignore him. The very shot prior to his delivering that line we see the truck on the left and Papagallo's car coming up from the right; you can see the truck's--I don't know what they call it, drain pipe, or release valve or whatever--spewing not gasoline, but dust.

What follows is ten minutes of the most savage collisions between car and car and men and car ever seen on the big screen, an orgy of violently combining metal and flesh that would have given J.G. Ballard multiple orgasms. Then the twist: Max's (Mack?) truck tips over, and you're expecting (ever since the truck pulled out of the settlers' compound with its thousands upon thousands of gallons of what we all thought was fuel) a huge orange-ball of fire to follow, dwarfing the explosion that destroyed the compound earlier (on record as the largest pyrotechnic effect ever set off in an Australian film); instead, it's all spinning wheels and silence. Max walks up to the still spilling valve, cups his hand under the contents: red dust. Turns out the tribespeople had hidden the gasoline elsewhere, and used his truck as bait to lure away the punks.

Which means--what? That the last ten minutes of mayhem was all for nothing? That people died, and others murdered not for the precious fuel, but for the sheer joy of violence and destruction? The punks could plainly see, as we could, that the tanker was filled with red dust--that shot I mentioned earlier was a dead giveaway, and there were several more such shots--but they and we don't notice, or choose not to notice. We must have our share of blood, in other words, and plenty of it.

Final note: Miller, like Lucas, cites Joseph Campbell's "Man of a Thousand Faces" as an influence; if it is, it's an influence on the film's most pretentious parts (the opening monologue about 'world history,' the closing monologue by the same actor over an image of Max standing before a darkened sky (why would he elect to stay behind?)). Miller could have done very well without Campbell, I think (he did well without him in the first "Mad Max"); to be fair, Miller makes a more eloquent case for use of the man's ideas with this film than Lucas does with his Star Wars prequels.

Also saw Walter Hill's The Warriors (1979), after so many years. I could take or leave the director's cut with its comic-book transitions that don't seem necessary, and the Greek-warrior prologue that makes explicit what was implied all along; on the other hand, I've always seen the film in a murky video transfer, and this handsome DVD is practically a revelation: Andrew Laszlo's stylized photography of New York is tremendous, a gallery of beautiful graphic-novel artwork come to full-page life.

A lot of it is dated: the language ("boppers," "rumbled," "can you dig it?"), the relatively squeaky-clean streets (rain-slicked, to reflect the powerful colored lights better), the relatively low-calibre weaponry (handguns, no automatics), the lack of racism or drug use. But it's a handsome-looking action film, tightly structured (twenty-seven miles of city travelled in a single night), expertly paced, with the odd bit of surreal imagery (warpainted gang members with baseball bats) and eroticism (two women dancing sweetly to rock music; two lovers kissing as a subway train roars by (a cliche that--far as I know--was created by this picture).

There is enough characterization to sketch each player as Rogue, Riff, Fury or Warrior; there's not much acting, outside of David Patrick Kelly's punk Richard III. Hill's using these people for their bodies, for the way they run and move and the way light is sliced off by their sharp cheekbones and shines through their halo of hair.

Between the two--I don't know; some years back, I would have chosen The Road Warrior straight off, but now, I don't know. Miller's is the bigger vision, a whole new world risen from the blasted sand, where the cars roar and careen and crash and die almost as memorably as human bodies do. But Hill's has the gorgeous color palette, the classic action photography and fight choreography, the ability to take a familiar setting (New York City) and turn it into something fabulous, a nightmare fantasyland. It's also more moving in its understated heroism (it's clear Hill views these kids as heroes), and there's real pathos in the line delivered by Swan (Michael Beck): "This is what we fought all night to get back to?" (that he says it in a quiet deadpan makes the line all the more suggestive). I'd hate to do without either of these two pictures.

ChrisJ: Road Warriors/Mad Max 2 by far preferred by me but I like the Warriors a lot. If felt like it was in a dated time capsule when it came out... a bizarro world fantasy.

Warriors come out and play a hay...

Randy Wylde: You have no idea how many times I heard that ditty growing up. (Randy Wylde'sreal last name is "Warrior").

DH1: Looking back on it, the only real thing wrong with 'The Warriors' is the soundtrack. Don't get me wrong, it's a good soundtrack, BUT it's a flick with apunk attitude and punk look released right in the heart of the punk movement in the US. Instead, you get lots of Motown and a good Joe Walsh tune at the end, good stuff, but wrong for the movie, IMHO.

Especially with being set in NYC, there should have been boatloads of Ramones tunes.

ChrisJ: There's a whole lotta stuff wrong with the film ...

It coulda' shoulda been much rougher and tougher, without a few pretty boys in the cast a lot more consequences for violence, more gore of course... and if it was made tougher than you should have at least had the Ramones, New York Dolls, maybe Lou Reed and some others on the soundtrack rather than the motown, synth-near disco stuff and Joe Walsh.

There's a couple of real continuity error things...

DH1: Yeah. Even now, I'm thinking about how much cooler the fight scene with the baseball-themed gang could have been if it had been scored with the Ramones' 'Beat on the Brat.'

ChrisJ: Exactly.

I'll take y'all's word on the music. The violence for me is just fine; stylized, balletic, carefully and simply choreographed.

What was really fine, though, was this scene on their subway trip home. They're slumped on the seats or lying down outright, exhausted; Mercy (Deborah Van Valkenburgh) and Swan, who have developed some affection for each other through the long night, are sitting next to each other. Then some kids come straight out of their prom night walk into the car (the girl even has a corsage) and sit down opposite the couple. The two girls (Mercy and the prom date) stare at each other, and Mercy is conscious of the fact that she looks like she'd been dragged through miles of underground tunnels and several battles (which, as a matter of fact, she was). She puts up a hand to brush away a stray strand of hair, and Swan catches her hand, slowly pulls it down.

I took that gesture to mean Swan is saying to Mercy: 1) "Don't be ashamed of the grime and disheveled hair--they're a badge of honor;" 2) "Don't feel you're alone--you're my girl."

Not a single line of dialogue, but it's easily the best moment in the picture. Road Warrior is great, with tremendous action sequences, but I don't remember it having a scene as deeply felt as this.

jenniferb: loved that scene too.

DH1: Me too.

Tags: forum with no name, george miller, walter hill, action, science fiction

Food on film

2006-08-21T18:38:00.000-07:00

A NYT piece about food in movies

Eh, cute article, but it limits itself to the usual suspects (Tampopo, Babette's Feast, Big Night), and leaves out quite a few excellent examples. And as for the filmmakers involved--Peter Chelsom? Scott Hicks? Nora Ephron? A better calibre of filmmaker couldn't be induced to making a film?

The article also calls Ang Lee's Eat, Drink, Man, Woman the 'peak' of the trend, forgetting that Tsui Hark made A Chinese Feast a year later, and Stephen Chow God of Cookery a year after that. And while you can always count on Lee to make films full of terminally good taste (I suppose Brokeback did wonders for the gay cause politically, but I can't call it an interesting gay film artistically--much prefer Gregg Araki's Mysterious Skin, 'Joe Weerasethakul's Tropical Malady and Solito's Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros anytime), Chow and especially Hark trump Lee when it comes to outrageous dishes and eyepopping cooking skills, presented with the kind of filmmaking flair (at least on Hark's part, I consider Chow more a comedian than a filmmaker) that Lee so sadly lacks.

I'd mention Ridley Scott's Hannibal for the climactic dinner scene--the film itself is a wretched mess but that dinner was a witty and stylish setpiece, and the appetizer course featured an intriguing recipe for sautéed brains (the trick with sautéing fresh brains is how to keep them firm enough to retain their shape in a hot pan).

Even better is Fruit Chan's Dumplings, about a recipe for dim sum involving human fetuses that grants the consumer renewed youth (Don't watch the shortened version in the Three Extremes DVD; instead, look at the far better feature film, which is included as an extra in the second disc).

And arguably the greatest film on food ever made, at least for me, is Yasujiro Ozu's The Scent of Green Tea Over Rice, a wonderful domestic drama about conflict between a husband and his wife that is resolved in the film's penultimate scene, where they actually make the eponymous Japanese comfort food. It's a quiet, scene, nicely detailed, and a lovely metaphor for what is happening between the two (out of unpromising materials--cold rice, hot tea--comes a classic of Japanese cooking).

It's also the film Kurosawa (Akira, not Kyoshi) liked to poke fun at (He once said something like 'I don't make films about the scent of green tea over rice,' or words to that effect) but I think at least on the subject of Ozu he's both made a point and missed the larger point altogether.

Tags: food, film, Japanese

Pom Poko (The Raccoon War, Isao Takahata, 1994)

2006-08-17T20:36:00.000-07:00

Pom Poko (The Raccoon War, Isao Takahata, 1994)

Isao Takahata's "Pom Poko" (The Raccoon War, 1994) starts out with a little song where children call on the tanuki (Japanese raccoon dogs) to come out and play, and the tanuki reply that they can't, because they're eating pickled plums. The film goes on to outline their situation: land developers want to turn 3,000 hectares of the forests of Tama hills into suburbs housing 300,000 people--the same forest the tanukis have lived in for countless generations.

Takahata gives us the story straight, presumably because he has so much ground to cover. He has scenes of tanukis discussing strategy, followed by scenes of the same tanukis carrying out their strategies--scare tactics, sabotage, even outright assault on construction workers or the people surrounding the forest. The tanukis aren't as helpless as you'd think--according to Japanese folklore they have the ability to change their shape, much like the fox does (they even have the bizarre power to transform their testicles, from area rugs to paragliders to even small bridges), and the tanukis (and Takahata) exploit these shapeshifting abilities for their visual, psychological, and military possibilities.

George W. Bush is a saint

2006-08-16T20:38:00.000-07:00

From Bizarre Hatred of Random Celebrities:

President George W. Bush was scheduled to visit the Methodist Church outside of Washington as part of his campaign.

Bush's campaign manager visited the Bishop and said to him, "We've been getting a lot of bad publicity among Methodists because of Bush's position on stem cell research and the like. We'd gladly make a contribution to the church of $100,000 if during your sermon you'd say the President is a saint."

The Bishop thinks it over for a few moments and finally says, "The Church is in desperate need of funds. I agree to do it."

Bush showed up for the service and sat in the front row. With him were Dick Cheney, who sat on his right, and Karl Rove, who sat on his left. He nodded to the Bishop to begin.

The Bishop said: "George Bush is a petty, self-absorbed hypocrite and nitwit. He is a liar, a cheat, an unintelligent weasel, with the world's largest chip on his shoulder. He steals elections. He politicizes science. He lied about his military record and had the gall to sit himself in a jet plane on a carrier with a banner above him stating 'Mission Accomplished.'"

"He invaded a country for oil and money, and managed to do it by lying to the American people. He continues to blur the line between church and state. Corruption is rampant in his administration. He routinely appoints incompetent and unqualified cronies to high-level federal government positions and as a result, thousands of Americans died tragically in New Orleans. He is so psychotic and megalomaniacal he believes he was chosen by God."

"He is the worst example of a Methodist I've ever personally known."

"But--compared to Dick Cheney and Karl Rove and the rest of his cabinet, George Bush is a saint."

Tags: george bush, joke

Campanadas a Medianoche (Chimes at Midnight, Orson Welles, 1965)

2006-08-14T21:38:00.000-07:00

Finally, finally saw the Spanish DVD of Campanadas a medianoche (Chimes at Midnight, Orson Welles, 1965)--personally my favorite of all of Welles' films, easily the best-ever adaptation of Shakespeare to cinema, and arguably one of the greatest pictures ever made. Reasonably clear, everything as I remember it, not a frame or detail out of place--the brief, inexplicably ominous slow-motion shot of soldiers facing the camera at opening credits' end, hanged men swinging helplessly behind them; the flagstones laid on a kitchen floor doubling as the castle floor (with a crown on top); Falstaff running out into a field of crumpled white bedsheets standing in for melting snow (on a 35 mm print you can actually see the linen creases).

And the only battle sequence Welles had ever filmed, the Battle of Shrewsbury, which has haunted my dreams for the past, oh, fourteen or so years (the last time I saw the picture was in 1991 or 1992). I remember all the preparatory details--the armored men hanging from trees (visually rhyming with the opening image of executed men hanging from poles) as they're lowered on their horses; the tracking shot of soldiers marching past a row of spears aimed just above the audience's heads. Falstaff, iron-plated like a potbelly stove--with a thundermug for a helmet--tries to get himself lowered onto a horse (a squadron of serfs puffing away at one end of a rope), and is dumped on the ground for his pains.

The editing of the battle itself--possibly some of the finest in all of cinema--has been oft mentioned; what hasn't, I think, is the sound design, nightmarish yet tangible, real. Like much of the battle it seems confusing at first; after a while you sense a progression--from cavalry to weaponry to hand-to-hand combat; from the thunder of hooves to the thwack of arrows to the clash of armor to the thunk of steel into meat, the thud of club on bone, fists flailing away, everything eventually overlaid and overwhelmed by the sound of squishing mud.

The battle shows a similar progression, the shape emerging gradually out of the chaos--cavalry charges (Hotspur's army charges left to right, Henry IV's from right to left), infantry assaults, archers launching arrows; the action breaks up into small groups rushing here and there (the left/right dichotomy quickly disappearing), the peasants pulling knights off their horses to be clubbed to death. Matters degenerate further into a general tumult of nameless figures sunk in sodden soil, like struggling crustaceans on a tide-drained beach. Welles' Battle of Shrewsbury is, in effect, evolution in reverse, the men devolving from soldiers in an army to creatures in slime. Occasionally trumpets would sound, the men would rally, and you're invigorated by the odd twang! of arrows being fired. But the trumpets and battle-cries ultimately give way to gasps of exhaustion and pain, and even that gives way to an awful silence, as Welles' camera rises to take in a view of the field, choked with corpses (they almost don't need burying; they've halfway done the job already, screwing themselves firmly into the mud).

Paradoxically the only sane figure in all this is the fool in the potbelly stove, distinguishable from the general slaughter by his bulbous shape, and stubborn insistence on siding with the vegetation. Falstaff's done nothing but run from one massacre to another, watching without joining in; when opportunity presents itself, he steps forward to claim (falsely) credit for the single most significant event in that battle, Hotspur's death, and succeeds. War, Welles (speaking through Falstaff--first in soliloquy, then in action) seems to be saying to us, is foolishness anyway. For all the sacrifice and suffering on display the past ten or so minutes (seems like hours, it's so devastating), what one really must do to earn reward and military honor is to tell the right lie, at the right place and right time.

Kairo (Pulse, Kurosawa Kyoshi, 2001)

2006-08-10T11:13:00.000-07:00

Kairo (Pulse, Kurosawa Kyoshi, 2001)

Remade as Pulse (2006)

Excerpt:

Looking at Kurosawa Kiyoshi’s Kairo (Pulse, 2001) again on DVD, it is all the more apparent that the ironic subtext is that with all the means of connecting with others – email, webcams, the cellphone – people are still alienated. Kawashima (Haruhiko Katô), the computer-illiterate economics major, doesn’t seem to have anyone, neither friend nor family (that said, he’s the most resilient, and most persistently optimistic of anyone in the picture); pretty Harue (Koyuki), to whom Kawashima is attracted, has acquaintances – the students she helps out in the computer lab, the graduate student Yoshizaki (Shinji Takeda) – plus she’s more aware of what’s going on, but if anything this makes her more susceptible (it’s the computer geeks that fall victim first).

The one group that shows any cohesiveness are the employees of Sunny Plant Sales, a tiny business that grows orchids and other exotic plants on a rooftop greenhouse. Michi (Kumiko Aso), one of the employees, is worried for Taguchi (Kenji Mizuhashi) and visits him at his apartment (where he promptly hangs himself); she and fellow colleagues Junko (Kuruma Arisaka) and Yabe (Masatoshi Matsuo) meet at a café afterwards to talk about the suicide, and it’s clear from their interaction that they (and the absent Taguchi) were friends.

Princess Tutu (2002) and Master Keaton (Masayuki Kojima, 2003)

2006-08-09T21:31:00.000-07:00

From Pinoyexchange.com:

Princess Tutu (2002)

First five episodes of Princess Tutu were a chore. The heroine's voice is annoyingly squeaky, Prince Mythos is prettier than anyone around (I actually wonder if there isn't anything going on between him and Prince whatsisname, Fakir or Fakia, or something), the humor's forced, the premise--she's got to recover shards of Mythos' heart by applying dance therapy on various people (dancing with them while psychoanalyzing em) is a tad repetitive, the animation and artwork didn't feel like anything new.

I do know lighthearted animes darken towards the end, and there are hints early on, which is why I'm slogging on. This better improve soon.

That said, the outtakes were fairly amusing--easily the best thing in the disc.

DKL: Don't worry, just wait for the actual conflict to show up (which, hopefully you didn't spoil for yourself yet by doing research on the series… as crazy as that sounds, it’s totally better if you’re in the dark since a lot of the stuff is genuinely surprising), it ties all of what you've seen so far up really really well (in fact, maybe you’ll like it better when you look back on it afterwards).

Well, it starts rolling on at the end of episode 6, so, yeah.

... in fact, the first thing you'll probably think when you get that far in is "how the hell are they gonna close all of this with just X more episodes in the first season?"

But I dunno, it's nice to know that you're giving it a shot though; I really appreciate it with the full extent of my otaku-ness.

The outtakes were nice, but I think Jin Ho Chung did away with them after the first two volumes mainly because it might seem inappropriate at that point. Or they ran out of production time to slap one together, I dunno, we should go and ask David Williams (we hinted at it, but he didn’t really give us a straight answer last time… yup, when you’re in the biz, you gotta have that ambiguous poker-face kinda thing going on to keep everyone guessing).

Did you sit through the Etude and Beginner for Ballet sequences? The music seems to be re-interpreted to a certain degree, but I was impressed at how well researched everything was (And Mike Yantosca, the ADR scriptwriter, is pretty hardcore with the research himself, for the adaptation I mean)

As for the dub... it was pretty okay for the first 2 volumes (Marty Fleck as Drosselmeyer and TJP as Mr. Cat pulling in the most hardcore performances), but the quality jumps the hell up on the third volume (this was when there was a several months break between recording because some issues with the Japanese packaging came up)… it’s as if Jin Ho Chung spent all that time trying to figure out how to make stuff better; there was a lot of subsequent spot-on delivery on the 3rd disk that I found it hard to believe that it was the same ADR director.

For one thing, Luci Christian (duck) used a deeper projection disk 3 onwards, which I thought was a lot better (reminds me a little of her Kaname voice from Full Metal Panic! but then spliced with Duck’s voice… uh… yeah, that’s better than it sounds)

As for the actual show, I was immediately “enthralled” by the idea, because I found it strangely thought provoking (I mean, about identity and stuff… which actually reminded me of Kon’s Perfect Blue at the time… and no, I’m not kidding)

Who’s is Duck? Who is Tutu? Is she a bird, a girl or is she the prima-ballerina that returns the prince his heart? But if she’s a prima-ballerina, then how come she’s such a clutz? Who’s the real person behind the 3 personas?

I like that the idea didn’t feel muddled by the actual story.

I also like that they didn’t just stop at the idea and that they actually DEVELOPED it and provide a simple, but pretty brilliant, answer at the end (of the first season).

As for the “darkness,” I was actually surprised at how dark the series got… I mean, even with the expectation in there, I was taken aback by some of the darker story elements that moved everything forward. It came out of left-field (or right-field… whichever one conveys surprise a lot better).

As for the production… I dunno, I thought it was pretty great looking. The art director was doing his/her job since the way everything looked and felt helped convey a lot of the surreal/fantastic direction Koumoto was aiming for; I was surprised given that it came from HAL FILMAKER since they don’t exactly put out the best looking stuff. Arguably, the character designs cancome off as overly simplistic, but never has Ikuko Ito’s adapted art looked better (the recycled attack footage from Sailor Moon doesn’t count)… what’s more, from a character animation point of view, a lot of the movement is fairly realized when it’s at its best, so that’s always a plus for me; it just flowed well.

Yeah, labor on, you might be surprised (or you might not be… but then, you’ll at least have seen the first half like I wanted you to)

Oh… but then I’ve hyped you up and raised your expectations :P

The art direction is about level for most Japanese anime--better than American fare, but not as good as, say, Gainax or Watanabe's work.

As for the surrealism mentioned--I don't see it. It's no wackier than, say, Ranma and definitely more sane than Fooly Cooly (which I love). At least from what I have seen.

DKL: As for the surreal in Tutu, I dunno, I thought that it was pretty dreamlike and the atmosphere could get pretty thick. One scene in particular that I can think of is where Rue asks Mytho to tell her that he loves her (and then asks him to go and fetch some water after his lifeless reply… at least, that’s how I remember it going). I thought it was pretty cool. I also like the dynamic feel of the choreographed sequences. The dance-off between the ghost-maiden and Rue (and later, with Tutu) to Giselle was SOLID; I was also impressed that they got the timing down with the music.

Although, they do resort to using still images to save money at some points (it jives with everything else anyway, unlike other shows that use the whole still-frame thing and fail since the imagery is inconsistent and has a jarring transition)… but still, a lot of the cooler sequences get some nice animation in (I loved the Cinderella ballroom sequence in… episode 11, I think).

Oh yeah, there’s also a six-foot cat ballet teacher that threatens to marry his students if they don’t shape up. That’s pretty odd in itself.

The cat is cute, but hardly what I'd call surreal. Maybe if he turned his testicles into a dance floor...?

Well, the "surreal" feels fairly seamless since it's in the context of ballet/folklore/something... but still, there were a ton of peculiar elements like having animals coexist with humans I (which isn't particularly new), a whole town based in european fairy tales and... well… a lot of ballet dancing and even an entire ballet school (in fact, the medium of education seems to be something based in art... dancing, painting, acting, etc.).

It's not the normal surreal I usually see in anime... I mean, there's Hiroshi Hamasaki and stuff (like what he did with Texhnolyze), but most of that is still based in a reality kinda setting.

A nifty little thing in the art direction (that helps with conveying that surreal I was talking about) is how all of the settings change when Duck turns into Tutu... like... the first episode where everything in the backdrops suddenly has chalk-outlines and they change the setting in order to make it appear as if she's on a stage. That’s pretty dreamlike right there.

And Drosselmeyer, I mean, he’s the dead author who wrote the Prince and the Raven, yet he’s here right now somehow narrating the story. That can’t be normal :P

(In fact, he’s a deliciously evil character since he takes joy in the tragedy of the characters in the story… a lot of people don’t seem to like him because of that, but I was actually rather fond of him like how I was fond of Hamdo from Now and Then, Here and There… they’re just too crazy to not like).

But yeah, in the end, most of this is really explained, so it isn’t really all that strange without a reason (if being necessarily mysterious has to do with attributing to how surreal something is).

I don't know; Haibane Ranmei felt more surreal to me. This doesn't seem strange, only sloppy.

Appreciate the use of classical music, but that doesn't seem so strange either. "Fly Me to the Moon" in Neon Genesis Evangelion, that was strange.

Finally saw the second disc of Princess Tutu. Opinion improved, marginally. Prince Mythos (His head looks like an artichoke, was that intentional? I keep calling him 'Chokehead') just as annoying as ever--he's prettier than Tutu, and you just know he and Prince Fakir are having a Brokeback moment.

Keep thinking: Haibanei Ranmei felt stranger, the first ten minutes of Spirited Away felt stranger.

The outtakes are the best thing in the DVD.

I really hope this improves.

Haha! Yeah, it only gets better and the climax on the third disc is immensely satisfying... well, I thought so

And well, strange is... I dunno anymore *hahaha*

So, what'd you think about the whole insertion of Princess Kraehe thing?

Oh, and the whole "He looks prettier than her" thing is like... that whole Androgeny thing right?

Ever seen Gackt? Or that other guy, Hyde? *hahaha*

But yeah, that's considered handsome... in Japan, anyway (from what I recall)

Spike in Cowboy Bebop's good looking, and I never doubted his masculinity. Same with Kenshin, or Naruto, or any of half a dozen anime heroes--that androgynous thing gets doubly annoying when the android--sorry, androgyne--is a passive wet noodle like Mythos. Fakir's more interesting; he's at least as bitchy as Princess Rue and the rest about having his piece of the Prince's ass.

Princess Kraehe--didn't feel anything special. Actually, this whole thing reminds me of Magical Princess Akazukin Cha Cha. Although, come to think of it, she didn't have any limp-wristed princes to deal with either.

Finished all 18 episodes of the series (that's what's available)--it gets better, and the climax at episode 13 has better than average (for the series) animation. Mythos continues annoying, but with the second story arc, which doesn't finish, at least they give him a nasty edge--not his own tho; it's a form of mind control so obvious you wonder why no one realizes it sooner.

I guess all in all, this thing isn't my speed. I really miss the outtakes, they were worth the rental.

Maybe part of why I can't appreciate Tutu (so far, anyway), is because I keep remembering Michael Powell's The Red Shoes. Great ballet film, maybe the greatest ever. Also very strange.

Master Keaton (Masayuki Kojima, 2003)

Okay… while in the shower a while ago, I decided that I think that Masayuki Kojima is a superior director in comparison to the likes of Hayao Miyazaki (well, I saw Princess Mononoke last night, which is now my new favorite Ghibli movie *whisper was my last one*)

So… anyway, I’m going to take this “controversial” stance in my upcoming review for Master Keaton by going into detail as to why I think so… yeah, controversial… Mmm… good.

But… maybe this will help promote the show, since, you know, maybe people will be interested in why the hell I thought this way… or something.

But, so I don’t fall into the “Oh my god! Miyazaki is t3h overrated” mindset, I’m actually going to have to study his touch very comprehensively for the next few weeks… I mean, so I can pick it apart

First five episodes of Master Keaton I like better than Tutu--maybe because Keaton is like a male version of Miyazaki's heroes: pacifistic, low-key, smiling all the time. The eyes aren't the huge, sharply defined kind with standard-issue blue irises, and the hero has an intriguing pug nose that makes him less boringly handsome, and more good-naturedly attractive.

If there's a flaw, it's the details in some of the episodes, like the first one--stepping out in the open with only a spoon, against a handgun? Granted Keaton claims the spoon's more dependable on a windy day, but I wouldn't count on wind blowing my enemy's bullets of- course; besides, the opposition can fire twice in the time it takes to swing that spoon up and over, no matter how fast I am.

Stuff like that. The opening of the second ep in the market--if he's such a surveillance expert, why wasn't he aware of the men tailing the woman he's following? And why did he allow himself to be picked up? Was he so certain they wouldn't beat him up or silence him? I wouldn't be so confident of predicting what 'amateurs' will do.

And when they stage the assault on the terrorists' lair--weren't the terrorists worried about a large truck, however innocently marked as 'maintenance' being parked outside the building? It was close enough as to be almost touching, and I'd imagine a terrorist would be too paranoid not to worry.

Some of the other details ring true--like shooting the hinges and not the lock, or using seven or more people to shadow a house.

The lasagna episode--it seemed too callous, how Keaton just told the girl that her father died from drunk driving; I guess it's meant to be honest, but still. I do like the showdown between Keaton and the former boxer (even if the boxer is your run-of-the-mill thug), the relationship between him and the girl, and the ultimate joke he tells the girl, which is nicely lame.

The immortal man was the first episode I really liked; for one thing, the old man kept showing up Keaton not so much with tactical smarts as with his philosophy in life (so what if he does the wrong thing sometimes?), plus he's both irritating and charming in an amusing way. That said, shouldn't it have occured to Keaton that when the weather improves the Russian mafia would be looking for them (they're just walking in the snow, out in the open)?

The fifth is more of a character development type episode, and we learn more of Keaton's weaknesses, vulnerabilities, doubts. It's okay. I could have used a little more humor.

Been looking at volumes 2, 3, and 4 of Master Keaton. Can't remember too much, but my impression was: not bad. My favorite episodes would be those that involve some crotchety old man or woman ('A Case for Ladies;' his own father in 'Memories of Summer Pudding') who was actually smarter than Keaton, or able to exploit him or abuse his hospitality; not that the turnaround is surprising (it isn't), but it's so much fun abusing him, and the filmmakers seem to have a gift for depicting these walking anachronisms. Even that earlier one "Immortal Man" was enjoyable precisely for its familiarity, and deft way with details.

I do seem to notice that the plots, especially the crime capers, seem to be getting predictable--I realized, for example, in 'Mansion of Roses' that the gardener's body was buried in that empty plot (just one look and I said 'there's a body buried in there.'), and that in 'Walls in One's Heart' the long-lost daughter was actually the nanny, and that she wasn't up to any good.

Plus the plot for that faker episode is a direct lift from Nagisa Oshima's 'Boy,' only in Oshima's film the parents force their sons--one 10, the other 3--to fake their own car accidents...harsh and funny film...

And I found 'Negotiator's Rules' especially problematical--if two to three million is the standard ransom amount, why didn't the kidnappers ask that in the first place, instead of going through all this rigemarole? It's so unusual a request you can't help but think either the kidnappers are morons (which the police assure us they are not), or there's more to it than just the money--but the episode never answers that for us. Shouldn't have raised our expectations if it's just going to be an ordinary kidnapping.

As mentioned, plenty of similarities with Miyazaki--not sure that the manga writer wasn't influenced. Maybe what I'm missing is the kind of inventive visual imagery Miyazaki can toss off, even in a TV series (I'm thinking of his Sherlock Hound series, Disc 1, Disc 2 & 3.

Tags: pinoyexchange, anime

Piranha (Joe Dante, 1978)

2006-08-08T23:14:00.000-07:00

Was looking at Piranha and it was good fun. If Jaws is a diminution of Moby Dick, and Piranha a diminution of Jaws, maybe the smaller film's advantage is in knowing its place in the food chain, and actually scoring a joke or two off of it (an early shot shows a (remarkably primitive) Jaws video game; at one point a vacationer reads Moby Dick).

Dante gets extra points for operating at a budget several levels lower than Spielberg, and for using a script (an early effort by John Sayles) that actually seems wittier and more literate than Peter Benchley's source novel.

I love the little stop motion creature--Dante's tribute to Ray Harryhausen--wandering cautiously through the corners of Kevin McCarthy's lab; I love the lines "They're eating the guests, sir," and "Terror, horror, death--film at eleven;" I love Heather Menzies flashing her breasts (insert shot, pity) at John Sayles, after asking him "are you gay?" (who says writers don't enjoy any benefits?). I love the piranha footage, the little devils nibbling furiously away, whipping up so much blood and chaos you can't see them clearly (which makes them more effective; more, when you look at real footage from the National Geographic channel, the shots look amazingly similar); I love the brief breast shots, all creamy soft with erect nipples, and the creamy young faces above 'em (for some reason, I never liked the girl in the opening of Spielberg's film, I don't know why--was it the frizzy hair?).

I love it that Dante's smaller film picks more ambitious targets (water resorts, aquafarming, scientists ("some things are more important than a few people's lives"), the military, and the news media) than Spielberg's, and skewers them more thoroughly (not only is the military here callous and sinister, it's involved in shady land deals with water resort developers). The film's prophetic, too, in saying that the United States' weapons development programs and numerous military adventures are going to come home and bite it in the ass, literally.

DVD commentary's fun too, especially when Dante notes that 300 gallons of Karo syrup and a thousand dollars' worth of marine plants managed to create a new life form in the swimming pool they were filming in--the USC had to drain the pool and scour the walls before they could use it again.

And Dick Miller, as Buck Gardner, the resort owner--for most of the film he comes off as all sleazy and avaricious, but there's a moment near the end where he shoves aside a TV reporter filming the bloody victims and suddenly becomes human for us. Certainly it's in his interest that they stop filming, but no one in his right mind could think they would really stop, or that the news won't come out; the act seems more like a sense of disgust at the cameraman's predatory instincts, instincts he recognizes in himself as well. It's a sign of remorse, I think, and it actually comes off as moving, in the light of the catastrophe visited on his resort (ironically, the actual Aquarena resort bragged for years about being a major location site for the picture), that he's started to care about his guests.

All in all, it's a worthy no-budget alternative to Jaws--even its superior, possibly, in some aspects.

Tags: joe dante, low-budget, creature

Southern Fried Chicken

2006-08-07T22:26:00.000-07:00

Tried my hand at Southern Fried Chicken--soaked a dozen chicken legs in brine overnight; dredged them in a flour mix that contained garlic powder, onion powder, cayenne pepper, sweet paprika, salt and pepper; dipped the pieces in a buttermilk-and-hotsauce mix; dredged them a second time in the flour mix; laid em in a plate to dry.

Heated up half a pot of peanut oil on medium high heat; tossed in while cool three sprigs of rosemary, a bunch of sage leaves, a bunch of thyme stems, and half a head of garlic (lightly crushed) into the oil; fished them out when the oil hit 370 degrees (I bought a candy/frying thermometer for the occasion); fished the herbs and garlic cloves out and set them aside.

Dropped in four drumsticks which caused the oil to bubble up, and the thermometer promptly slid off the side of the pot where it was clipped. When I fished it out, the top half had melted--you can imagine what fun it was to try maintain a 350 degree frying temperature with an oily, half-melted thermometer in one hand. Finally gave up, donned an oven glove, and held a probe thermometer in the oil.

The chicken came out dark brown with slightly burnt spots--but they were huge (they had swelled up thanks to the brining apparently), from drum sticks to bowling pins full of briny juices, with a crisp oniony-garlicky-paprika skin, and just enough heat to sharpen the flavor, but not sear the tongue.

Served the dozen or so pieces of chicken on a large serving plate with lemon wedges, topped with the fried herbs (the sage was especially nice and crispy). The meal was accompanied by a salad of baby spinach leaves and an apple-butter vinagrette (extra-virgin olive oil, apple cider vinegar, dijon mustard, kosher salt, fresh-cracked pepper, garlic clove and all the apple butter left in the jar, with a bit of maple syrup for sweetener). Dessert was--what else?--watermelon, cut in huge chunks.

Tags: food, southern cooking

Showboat (James Whale, 1936)

2006-07-26T22:06:00.000-07:00

Just saw James Whale's Showboat again, and this time around it was like a a fist connecting with your face; you swoon, you see stars, literally.

It's an odd musical, when you think about it; it basically begins with a great story--of Julie (Helen Morgan), the half-black singer who marries Steve (Donald Cook), her white co-star--then for whatever reason angles off to the less incendiary subject of Gaylord (Allan Jones), a gambler who falls in love with Nola (Irene Dunne), the showboat captain's daughter, and stays with them for the rest of the film.

It's not as if the remainder is negligible, but compared to that moment of terror and tension where Julie and Steve have to prove they're innocent of miscagenation, or the scene where Queenie (Hattie MacDaniel) and Joe (Paul Robeson) argue over a mess of peas, I think it's no contest--Julie, Steve, Queenie and Joe have it over Nola and Gaylord in terms of pathos, passion, humor and bittersweet affection.

That said, this is possibly the best role Jones ever had; I've mostly seen him as the male ingenue in Marx Brothers comedies, where compared to their far more vivid presences he usually faded into the background. Here he's a cad, a harmless one who's more likely to give a woman a hurt look than strike her, but is just as unable to support her; his sudden disappearance three-fourths of the way into the picture is sudden, but hardly surprising--you expect it of him. When he comes back for the finale, it's touching how feeble and out-of-touch he seems; Jones, who usually seems sweet and charming, finally achieves the kind of sad pathos his characters are destinied to achieve (they always needed the Marx Brothers' help to come out all right).

James Whale's treatment is splendidly extravagant--the film opens with the camera swooping down on a lovely diorama, with little cutout figures (their clothes and expressions sketched on) tinkling past a marvelously detailed cardboard town complete with lampposts, banners, verandas. Whale reminds us of this shot when he introduces the showboat itself--he shoots at a low angle, from behind the crowd, so that it looks as if a huge, gaudy building was floating into town (much like that cutout parade floated into the cutout town). He inserts volputuous tracking shots of gigantic, gorgeous sets, and stitches them together with precise editing, the little hairs at the back of your neck tingling from the sheer pleasure generated by his visual style. For the number "Can't Help Lovin Dat Man," he layers the room in light and shadow, so that when Dunne does this odd back-and-forth swaying dance she moves in and out of the light, a girl-child hovering between innocence and sexual knowledge.

Later, Nola and Gaylord have become the star of the show, and Whale gives us that show, complete with a hundred and one disasters and a thousand little tricks of the stage--a simple effect, like a lamp with a reflector rising behind a scrim to represent the moon, and the audience gasps with delight. Whale tops the sequence off with an extended scene of Charles Winninger as showboat captain Andy Hawks, describing what the rest of the play would have been like if if the actor playing the villain hadn't taken sick (frightened off the stage by two belligerent viewers offended by his villainy). Winninger plays all the parts at once, filling his tale with titanic struggles and spectacular slapstick, and Whale shoots him head on, following every pratfall; the audience responds by cheering him far louder than they ever would have if the play had been done properly (you feel as if Cap'n Andy would do the whole show all by himself, if he could). It's theater at its most enchanting, the way Whale presents it; you have to shake your head hard to remember that this is a movie from the '30s, being broadcast on cable TV.

Then there's Paul Robeson as Joe, with his wonderful paean to black male indolence "Ah Still Suits Me" that slyly turns into a loving tribute to his wife Queenie, and, of course, "Ole Man River," one of the greatest song numbers in all of cinema.

The song's opening shot couldn't be simpler: Robeson sits with his back against the wharf pilings, his deep church-organ voice pouring out the words; the camera circles closer and closer, looking for the best place to sit down and listen. Whale inserts terrifying images--of a black man with his arms raised in despair; of slow barges to be toted, huge bales to be lifted; of the jail cell that awaits him at day's end. By the number's end, Robeson's pained, gravid voice--slow not with indolence but with an awesome patience--sounds like the voice of the vast, ageless, knowing river he's been singing about (it may not be God, but it sure as hell feels and sounds like something close). His reprise of the song closes the film, giving it a grandeur it otherwise wouldn't have.

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (Gore Verbinski, 2006)

2006-07-20T22:33:00.000-07:00

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (Gore Verbinski, 2006)

Excerpt:

My dear Mr. Verbinski;

Greetings from the captain of the "Black Pearl," and congratulations on your commercial success. It has been made known to me through various tabloids that yours has earned the most receipts of any theatrical production yet made, and that you apparently "rule the box-office," much as my own crew once ruled the Caribbean.

All the more unfortunate, then, that fate should assign me the task of reprimanding you for what I feel is a task half-done. "Half-done?" you may ask; "but the box-office! The tremendous popularity of the picture (Odd term that--most "pictures" I know are painted and hang on walls)!" True, but given the success of your earlier effort ("The Curse of the Black Pearl," if I recall correctly) I would have imagined that you and your illustrious collaborators would have both the financial means and freedom to do something better, to improve on what simply was a fortuitous bit of casting on your part--namely, assigning thespian John Depp the task of portraying yours truly on the large screen (and it really is a large screen, apparently; I had taken the liberty of poking at it a few times with my cutlass until told I must seat myself if the show was to start).

Wolf Creek (Greg Mclean, 2005), Dumplings (Fruit Chan, 2004)

2006-07-19T15:05:00.000-07:00

Two horror films

Been hearing about Wolf Creek, and on watching it, I have to agree: this is head and shoulder better than Hostel (grimmer, for one--which is all right with me, because here the grimmness is earned), the Saw movies (less absurd by far), and all their flashy ilk. Low-key and moody, it's closer in spirit to the orignal The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, with a fairly well-written bare-bones script that takes care to define and create memorable characters we can root for, feel afraid for, and care for when they come to considerable harm (that said, John Jarratt is particularly memorable for his affable "g'day mate"-type bushman with maybe a dark side).

My one big reservation is the director's shooting and cutting style--the handheld photography seems more sloppy than gritty, and this is still the same kind of standard-issue jump-cut editing we see in modern horror movies, meant to give the film edgy creds.

Happy to see Roger 'I'm desperate for clues' Ebert give this film no stars. You go, Roger--right up where the sun don't shine.

Even better, I think is Dumplings, Fruit Chan's full-length version of his Three Extremes short. More complex, more breathlessly erotic, with more horrific details fleshed out fully from characters and story. It's perhaps not as intense as, say, Wolf Creek, but I think it's more unsettling--the quest for eternal youth and the ultimate food thrill, in beautifully realized fable.

This is Fruit Chan's first horror film/thriller, despite the many moments of urban horror or violence in his films, and the outsider's perspective and trademark grittiness he brings to the picture helps immensely (despite being better known for depicting the lower and middle classes, he gets the upper class types here just right, down to the various transactions (that's the right word, I think) between wife, husband, and mistress on issues like money, sex, and children). Terrific film, and it helps that Chris Doyle gives the film a lustrous, brightly colored sheen--including the unsettlingly orange filling glimpsed through the dumplings' gelatinous wrapping.

Note: Googled around, and found--to my horror--plenty of slanderous websites accusing the Chinese of systematic and wholesale consumption of aborted fetuses. Chan's maybe tapping into that sinophobic sentiment with his film, which seems both courageous and reckless--like playing with dynamite to entertain an audience (to his credit, he's careful to show that this is strictly a one-woman operation, not some huge government conspiracy).

Birth of a Nation (DW Griffith, 1915)

2006-07-17T19:31:00.000-07:00

Saw Birth of a Nation again recently on TCM and it's hair-raising in ways Griffith likely never intended--you can't believe the shit he puts in here: a Senate taken over by blacks, a courtroom with a black judge and jury; you want to ask "Since when did black people have that kind of power?"

What's startling is how many genuine blacks actually appear in this movie. Can't account for this except I suppose they thought it was a role just like any other, and that they didn't know what the film was really about. Griffith does use blackface for crucial roles--Silas Lynch, the rapist, the faithful servants.

On the other hand, Griffith's bewilderment seems inexplicable: if he was so unaware of the film's effect on blacks, why use blackface in those roles? It implies that he knew blacks wouldn't play them, no matter how hard up for work. Or does 'bewildered' mean his reaction to the white people who protested? That would lower my estimation of him a notch further.

That said, it's tremendously exciting filmmaking, and you get caught up in the climax despite yourself, with a humdinger of an ending because the Klan rides to the rescue. Interesting to note, that assault by the Klan of the black town feels like Griffith's way of restaging his Civil War battle, earlier in the film, only this time the right side wins.

Griffith's final images are fascinating--he's done with the story, and this is where he gets up on his high soap box, and gives us a pious message--Dare we Dream of the Day when Bestial War is Gone, and The Prince of Brotherly Love. We get an image of a man on a horse, towering over all these people writhing on the ground; we have a fifty-foot Christ, half-buried in the ground, with hundreds of the faithful innocents (and they would be innocents, to head for some bearded giant with hands outstretched) gathering around him. Beautiful in a cheesy way, detailed and lovingly staged. A real jawdropper.

Cure (Kurosawa Kyoshi, 1997)

2006-07-12T23:23:00.000-07:00

Took a look at Kurosawa Kyoshi's Kyua (Cure, 1997) again, and apparently kids six and up can follow and appreciate this kind of horror--even enjoy it a good deal (they enjoyed Kairo (Pulse, 2001), too).

Several things stand out--Kyoshi just loves long takes, meandering ones that snake in and out of rooms, and frame and reframe actors according to the demands of the scene and what he wants emphasized, or not. The long takes allow him to create several effects: first, any shock or surprise depends on the actors' timing, and not the usual one of editing (as is found in most horror/suspense/action films nowadays). Second, with the action usually framed in medium shot there are no closeups telegraphing what to look for or where to look for it--again standard issue film language for any thriller/shocker. As a result, any gesture, however innocuous (a hand coming out of a pocket, a man bending over a bag) can hide a knife, a club, a gun ready to stab, swing or fire.

Third is the appearance of unity. Kyoshi's films will sometimes have different characters, seeming lapses in plot logic, or even disparate stories, and the only thing that sometimes connects them, the only thing that assures us he's in control or hasn't completely taken leave of his senses, are these snakelike shots. He'll have long expositions happen in these shots, sometimes throw in a plot twist or two, then record how the characters respond to them; or he'll have something happen completely out of the blue, and if we don't throw up our hands and give up on him that's because the shot hasn't ended, and we can hope for some kind of resolution or explanation (which may or may not be given).

Interesting to learn from an interview that he's always concerned with offscreen space--that he insist on that unseen space having some effect on the space onscreen. Those shots may also be his way of trying to relate one space to another to another, not all of them visible, tying all together in one visually intricate Gordian knot.

Interesting too to learn that Kyoshi considers Koji Yakusho, the actor who plays Detective Takabe, his alter-ego, because he's of the same age, and the same generational point of view. Koji's performance here's atypical of many (but not all) of Kyoshi's films--more the kind of macho-posturing, hot-tempered police officer than his usual passive protagonist. It's a delight to see his intense smouldering played against the background of Kyoshi's impassive storytelling style--like he's beating back at the limits set by the film itself, trying to find a way to break out.

Finally there's Kyoshi's influences: in terms of American films a narrow range, from what he calls the end of the "New American Cinema" (for Japan, this seems to be the films of the late '60s) to the advent of Spielberg with "Jaws" in 1975 (actually Spielberg was hardly new, but that was the film that put him on the map). But Kyoshi doesn't cite the usual suspects (Scorsese, Coppola, Altman); his idols are Peckinpah, Aldrich, Fleischer, Seigel--filmmakers who started out in the '50s and, as he puts it, in these uncertain times asks exploratory questions with ambivalent intentions using classic, complex techniques. He sums his style up as something similar, both confused and sophisticated at the same time.

If he hadn't pointed it out, I probably wouldn't have noticed it, but yes, there's something anachronistic about his love for long shots and carefully composed images, as opposed to the current fashion of shock cuts and wildly swaying handheld footage. I wouldn't say I've figured him out completely, but some things have been brought out in the light.

June Allyson (1917-2006)

2006-07-11T01:05:00.000-07:00

June Allyson

It's a good obit, but it doesn't mention Allyson's finest (at least to me) role, as librarian Connie Lane teaching Peter Lawford's Tommy Marlowe a little French in Charles Walter's fine 1947 musical Good News.

Lawford spoke French, Allyson didn't, so he taught her how to instruct him in "The French Lesson" scene, which with its half-spoken song predates Rex Harrison's singing style in My Fair Lady by almost ten years.

Allyson wasn't drop-dead beautiful, nor did she project a particularly strong personality onscreen; she was more wholesome and lighthearted than anything (though she did show a dark side in The Shrike (1955) and They Only Kill Their Masters (1972)). By her own admission couldn't sing or dance either, but that didn't stop her from being enchanting when, after "The French Lesson" number she sings "The Best Things in Life are Free." The pure yearning and passion there transcends any suggestion of wholesomeness that might weigh her down (or at least render the issue irrelevant); she fully justifies Lawford's smitten delivery of the lines (spoken as he gazes at her eyes) "they sure are blue."

Cinema Paradiso (Giuseppe Tornatore, 1989)

2006-07-11T00:27:00.000-07:00

Robert Osborne introduced Cinema Paradiso on TCM tonight, gushing about what a great film this is, so I finally sat down to watch it.

Huh? It's basically a rehash of Amarcord, I Vitelloni and The Last Picture Show only lobotomized, with gallons of Morricone's syrupy score poured on top. I don't believe Fellini would ever stoop to scenes like the young girl going up to the boy's projection room, or the boy as famous filmmaker crying over his friend's archive of film strips; this kind of 'magic' works wonders in the boxoffice, I suppose, but it's not heartfelt filmmaking, it's shameless tearjerking.

I think I know why Morricone works well with some filmmakers, not with others. Sergio Leone makes films on a grand scale, and demands grand emotions--emotions he doesn't fully buy into; in some sense they're basically there to give his lovingly designed shots emotional heft and and weight, and Morricone works to add to that impact (surprisingly, I think he works well with DePalma too--another stylish cynic who often goes for operatic granduer). When ask to score something intimate and character-driven like this, Morricone's too big; he makes the scene mawkish when it demands subtlety and understatement. Or maybe it's just the director who can't juggle all the elements with the required skill.

Might as well note that a Filipino filmmaker, Mel Chionglo, remade this film as Lagarista (The Film Biker, 2000), which is even worse than this, believe it or not.

Salo, or: The 120 Days of Sodom (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1976)

2006-07-06T13:38:00.000-07:00

A discussion between me, Saul Symond, and David Ehrenstein of Pasolini's most controversial film:

Salo roundtable

With a follow-up article by Saul:

Reflections on Salo

Excerpt (from the Salo roundtable):

SAUL SYMONDS: Salò has a unique history in my own country, Australia, which is fairly revealing: it was banned in 1976, the ban was lifted in 93, and reinstated in 98. The inability of the censors in Australia to make up their mind about Salò reflects, in a limited but precise way, the fact that Salò has remained a live-wire over the 30 years since its original release. Most films made in the 70s that were considered sexually shocking then, would barely raise an eyebrow now. So why can Salò? A first-glance kind of answer would point to the Sadean nature of Salòs sexual relationships. Its a fair enough answer that Im not quite happy with. I think that Salòs subversive power is directly proportional to Pasolinis cultural credibility. It is precisely because Pasolini has been accorded the status of a great postwar Italian filmmaker that his critique of culture is so effective. With the passage of time, by the laws of a fairly conventional cultural process, Pasolinis status has come to carry greater, not less, cultural clout. The same culture that accords Pasolini such an honoured place, still has the greatest of difficulty in watching his film. Its like claiming that Mr. X is the greatest of chefs and not being able to digest his food. The existence of Salò forces our culture into an aporia from which it struggles to extricate itself. Id like to initiate this jam session on Salò by opening up the question of the nature of this aporia.

Most film critics and theorists repeat Pasolinis claim that the film is a sexual metaphor, which symbolizes, in a visionary way, the relationship between exploiter and exploited. These repetitions consist of analyzing Salò as a sexual metaphor for class struggle and power politics in general, or for Italian Fascism in particular. But the two basic dimensions of Salò the political and the sexual can be read both ways. That is, if Salò can be seen as a sexual metaphor of political relationships, it can also and equally be seen as a political metaphor of sexual relationships. In general, film criticism seems to have preferred exploring the ramifications of the political reading, rather than the sexual one. On a number of occasions, however, Pasolini admitted his fascination with the purely sexual dimension of his film.

DAVID EHRENSTEIN: And its because of this sexual dimension the film has been dismissed by all and sundry.

Needless to say, aforementioned all and sundry have never read Sade. Had they done so they would realize that Pasolini wasnt recreating his own sexual fantasies, but rather staging a very small selection of the sexual fantasies inscribed in Sades massive, very much unfinished work. It is absolutely imperative to read Sade in order to understand what Pasolini has done with his text.

In the three-volume Grove Press edition of Sades writings there are photographs of the ruins La Ciste Chateau the site that inspired The 120 Days of Sodom taken by Alain Resnais. Resnais was, of course, being a good surrealist. Sade isnt evoked in his work. Buñuel recreates a scene from Justine in The Milky Way, and in the popular cultural imagination Sade is Patrick Magee. The Marat/Sade is a very important piece of theatrical literature. But the Sade it depicts is quite selective. Its better, however, than Kaufmanns Quills, which merely romanticizes Sade treating him as a naughty book writer. Huxley makes this mistake as well in his otherwise sublime After Many a Summer Dies the Swan. He seems to imagine The 120 Days which he obviously hadnt read was something Marion Davies would have found exciting. Its not. Its an impossible book. And Pasolini has made of it an impossible film.

NOEL VERA: Not just an impossible film an absolute, a sort of focal node for the far end of what's possible in cinema. Pasolini takes the text, and (Ehrenstein is right, this should be read first) and infuses it with a breathtaking visual beauty that you do not find in the book, which is a relentless cataloguing of perversions and violence in minute detail that has more of the spirit of the auditorthan the artist in it an obsessive dwelling upon long beyond and way past any notion that this can be in the least bit arousing, much less entertaining.

But there's a fascinating power in Sades thoroughness, this need to imagine every kind of horror and present it in a kind of barely credible tableau (the four friends, for one, insist on kidnapping upper-class or high-born victims, and are perfectly confident that there will be no consequence to this). Pasolinis achievement is to give us a sense, a whiff, of Sades thoroughness (as opposed to merely presenting it complete and uncut, which might have resulted in a ten-hour film), then investing it with the kind of aestheticizing transformation cinema can give Sades tableaus, in effect, backgrounded by Dante Feretti's brilliant colors, surrounded by Osvaldo Desideris luxurious sets, scored to Ennio Morriconi, Frederic Chopin, and Carl Orff's music, infused overall with Pasolinis cool, equally pitiless sensibility.

Then, as David mentions, theres the shift in locale, from some fantasy neverland located outside of France (Resnais may have taken pictures, but Im sure Sade embellished on the actual location) to a Fascist vacation chateau, equating this kind of horror with that particular regime. Obvious connection, maybe, heavy-handed, maybe, but it does bring Sade up with considerable credibility to the 20th century, the denizens of whom I believe he speaks to the clearest.

Hostel (Eli Roth, 2005)

2006-06-29T14:03:00.000-07:00

From Forum With No Name:

Hostel--eh. If you look at it from a shocker or gross-out level, it isn't as lovingly detailed or beautifully imagined as, say, an Argento or a Fulci. If you look at it from a storytelling level, big mistake turning these American kids into such hopeless dorks--you basically chortle when they're finally captured and tortured (after a fairly boring first hour), and there's no suspense or tension in that.

More, if that's basically a private club catering to those into torture and sadism, it's not a very convincing or very well-run one. Capturing an American tourist is a chancy proposition I imagine; I can't believe they can just grab one after another without either word leaking out or someone uncovering them. Roth's mistake is not so much in the idea of going after Americans as it is in not carefully considering the consequences--that this should be a strictly mobile operation (so it's harder to detect or track down a moving target), that the prices should be much higher, that the torture of an American should be an arena event, not the private locked-door pleasure of some amateur moron with a chainsaw (how unimaginative). A little role-playing would be appreciated too.

If you look at it from a political level--well, that's where the real repugnance lies: the film panders to American xenophobia, to American fears that the world outside hates them, and wants to do them grevious bodily harm (as if 'bodily' was the worst kind of harm). When the American escapes, it's by learning how to do it the way these decadent Europeans do--to do it to them first, and to do it to them harder; we're treated to all those scenes of torture so when retribution comes, the catharthic sense of vengeance is sweeter.

Which is fine in theory--a sort of horrorshow retelling of Bush's response to 9/11--but the film seems to be suggesting that this is a good thing, that the survivor has retained his humanity despite all that's happened to him, indulging only in one fairly quick vengeance killing in a train station men's room for our satisfaction. Bullshit. I like the original ending better with its darker implications, suggesting that the American has become what it fears the most.

Chris J: I honestly don't believe the film deserves that level of critical analysis in terms of Bush's 911 etc. There's nothing in the quality of the script or the movie to suggest such a thing. It's lousy on several levels but has an interesting idea that could have been developed into something quite interesting (as you point out in pretending there is something in the movie that isn't actually there or earned anyway).

We have problems right away when we're shown the dorks... the first guy to get nabbed is the older European character... not one of the two Americans. Their entire focus is on getting laid.. period.. and it's done like a very bad erotic film from the late 60s or 70s... We are supposed to consider them idiots and deserving of torture and death because the Boys just wanna have fun. The script treats women horribly of course... but the women wind up tricking the boys and are in on getting them captured and tortured... which makes them cruel accomplices and full blown blood thirsty conniving bitches... isn't that lovely....

SPOILER

when a couple of them get run over... I like how the guy is on the run and takes the time to go back and run over one of them again to make sure they are squashed...

I had heard this movie was a decent gross out kind of gore film.. better than most that came out in the last few years.. and that's utter bullshit... but there's people out there defending this attrocious film.

Nah, the 9/11 interpretation is only my lame attempt to cut them some slack, to try (for a moment anyway) to take them seriously, on what I thought were their own terms; but since the political angle doesn't fly (and I agree with you that it doesn't), the movie's every bit as bad as you say, if not worse.

Red Stick Lady: I tend to stay away from the slasher flicks. I don't find bloody and gross to be scary, just...gross.

Hostel's a bore. Drilled this, slashed that, yawn.

A Prairie Home Companion (Robert Altman, 2006)

2006-06-28T18:40:00.000-07:00

A Prairie Home Companion (Robert Altman, 2006)

Excerpt:

Robert Altman's "A Prairie Home Companion" (2006) is flat-out wonderful, and he could do worse than end his career on this particular grace note.

It's difficult to talk about it; David Ehrenstein pretty much sums up what I have to say in his comments on "A_Film_By:"

http://movies.groups.yahoo.com/group/a_film_by/message/36989

But let me try add a little to what he says.

In effect, Ehrenstein believes the film is all about death. The premise goes like this: it's the last show of Garrison Keillor's long-running program (someone called The Axeman (Tommy Lee Jones) is coming to close the place down); people are constantly talking about people who they haven't seen for years, or have died; someone actually dies (backstage, quietly, in the basement, while waiting to have sex); and Virginia Madsen as The Angel of Death In the Form of a Femme Fatale wanders about wearing a white trench coat through the corridors of the old Fitzgerald Theater, where the show is performed.

Which ties in with Altman's unnerving fascination with death--at this point of his life, what with a heart transplant, and Paul Thomas Anderson waiting in the wings to take charge just in case, Altman can't not have the subject on his mind. And his feelings I think infuse the film with a sense of dread, of nostalgia, of sadness.

Grave of the Firefly DVD (Isao Takahata, 1988)

2006-06-27T20:29:00.000-07:00

(Plot discussed in close detail)

Looked at the DVD of Grave of the Fireflies. Decent enough dub (as if I was paying it much attention); no extras. Annoying '1/2' symbol hanging about on the upper right hand corner that I have no idea how to get rid of.

On umpteenth viewing, noticed how use of music was very spare--most of the film, and most of the moments that you'd consider the dramatic highpoints go on unemphasized, even casually tossed off (I'm thinking of the mother's death, shown only by a quick shot of maggots and the body being carried off) and Setsuko's (just a flat statement: "she never woke up again.").

Of course, Setsuko's gets the full treatment after the fact--flashbacks to her playing during their time in the shelter, and the final incineration--but it's difficult to imagine how else to treat this sort of thing, and when you think about it, there's a psychological basis for dwelling on her passing; Seita's remembering her when she was alive.

Outrageously repulsive moment: when the janitors find Seita's body, one of them picks up the fruit drop tin, opens it, tastes what's inside. Later we find out what the contents were.

It's possible to read Grave as a cautionary tale about the dangers of living outside of traditional society, of leading a nonconformist lifestyle; in a way the aunt represents the voice of wartime Japan, quietly supportive of the war effort, yet callous in the way she expresses that support--in the way she expresses sensible advice. You're against her the same time you know she's right; you're with the kids, the same time you know they're being very foolish. It's not so simple and straightforward a film as you'd think (tho I'm sure the dynamics of all this were found in the novel). They go off on their own, live (for a while anyway) a romantically free life, and because a war's going on, no one notices, or cares.

When things start to go bad, and even money can't buy food--this part is the most difficult for me to watch--Seita stubbornly sticks to their plan. Are we still with them? We are, emotionally, but now different feelings intrude--why don't they go back and apologize (and in fact someone says that very thing out loud)? Why don't they seek help from the government--at the very least, from the cityofficials? Your pity is alloyed with exasperation, perhaps a little anger. Why do they wilfully do this? Their excuses start to ring a little hollow--the school and factory where they lived burned down, they don't know where their other relatives are, and (most common excuse) their father's going to help them somehow. When that final crutch is taken away (the father's revealed to have died), they're left with a handful of half-assed excuses and a desperate situation incarnated in Setsuko's severely starved body.

Is it a great film? I think so. Strangely, crying in this picture is something people admit to all the time, some of them constantly, but I don't think any brimming over of the cup is requested by Takahata except on one particular occasion, the final incineration, and even there, I don't feel Takahata actually demands anything; it feels like it just happens, of its own will.

Inside Man (Spike Lee), An American Haunting (Courtney Solomon)

2006-06-22T19:33:00.000-07:00

Inside Man (Spike Lee, 2006)

Excerpt:

Spike Lee's "Inside Man" isn't the work of an outsider, the kind of iconoclast filmmaker that Spike used to declare himself to be back when he did films like "She's Got to Have It" or "Do the Right Thing." Gone are the deep reds, bright oranges, warm yellows of his favorite cameraman Ernest Dickerson, replaced by Matthew Labatique's gray concrete and dim daylight. Gone are the in-your-face close-ups, the actors addressing the camera head-on while they deliver hilarious, often profane tirades. At one point Denzel Washington, playing Detective Keith Frazier, finds himself going down the street in an effortless glide, but it's more a reminder of or tribute to the Lee we used to know than a return to old form.

The plot, by newcomer Russell Gewirtz (it's his first big-screen script), is satisfyingly complex in a shallow way, the quickly sketched characters in effect enacting a game of high-stakes chess. A bank robbery staged by one Dalton Russell (Clive Owen) and three other collaborators quickly turns into a hostage drama, and Det. Frazier is called in as hostage negotiator; a subplot involving Arthur Case, the bank's Chairman of the Board (Christopher Plummer) has him hiring mysterious power-broker Madeline White (Jodie Foster) to protect the contents of a nonexistent safe-deposit box in that same bank. Plot twists and shadowy deals ensue, as Russell confronts Frazier and then White, and Frazier begins to realize that this is more than just a robbery.

An American Haunting (Courtney Solomon, 2006)

Excerpt:

Courtney Solomon's "An American Haunting" right off takes a high spot on my list of the five most awful pictures this year, even if the year's only half over. Solomon's only other credit as director is the screen version of "Dungeons and Dragons," and while I failed to catch that earlier opus, I can't believe it could possibly be worse than this. Swish-pan camera moves; Cuisinart shock cuts; candles and fireplaces that flare up as regularly as in a theme park ride; a loud standard-issue "haunted house" music score, accompanied by equally loud standard-issue "haunted house" sound effects--Solomon trots out every cheap scare tactic developed during recent years in the hope of getting a rise out of his audience, then trots them out a few more times, in case we don't get the point the first time.

Worse than the repetition is the silliness. John Bell, the haunted family's patriarch (Donald Sutherland), goes out hunting in the woods and is assaulted by what he claims to be a wolf, but the way the scene is shot and edited he could have been attacked by a rabid throw rug; the daughter Betsy Bell (Rachel Hurd-Wood) is dragged by some invisible presence in circles on the floor (leaving claw marks on the hardwood), and slapped so hard on both sides of the face you can't help but think of a Tom and Jerry cartoon (Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!). Later Betsy escapes by horse carriage and Solomon cuts to a point-of-view shot of the spirit soaring out the window and dive-bombing the carriage, sending somersaulting through the air like a stray "Dukes of Hazzard" stunt car. The movie becomes such an insult to the intelligence you can't help but wonder: are these people trying to be deliberately funny? Because they're not scaring us--the attempts are sophomorically sad--and it's difficult to keep a straight face.

Indio Nacional (Raya Martin, 2005)

2006-06-16T00:45:00.000-07:00

Indio Nacional (Raya Martin, 2005)

Excerpt:

The 2006 French Film Festival opens with a platter of recent Gallic offerings and a few classics, but easily the most interesting and imaginative of the lot isn't even French. Raya Martin, who just attended the Cinefondation Residence du Festival de Cannes--possibly the world's most prestigious filmmaking residency--is holding the Philippine premiere of his latest work: "Maicling Pelicula Nang Ysang Indio Nacional (O Ang Mahabang Kalungkutan ng Katagalugan)" (A Short Film About the Indio Nacional (Or the Prolonged Sorrow of the Filipinos), 2005).

The ninety-six minute film can be described as a conceit in the guise of a dream doubling as a memory told to us as a mystery. It begins with a woman lying on her mat, trying to sleep; she sits up, staring into space, and it's difficult not to read all kinds of emotions into her face--restlessness, dissatisfaction, impatience, even a kind of despair; outside dogs bark and crickets relentlessly chirp, but otherwise (you can tell from the ambient sound) the darkness is still and deep.

Samurai Champloo (Shinichiro Watanabe, 2004)

2006-06-14T15:25:00.000-07:00

Shinichiro Watanabe's Samurai Champloo shows promise--it has excellent animation, and an intriguing mix of the historically accurate (the clothes, the architecture, the bits of historical details and figures) and the intentionally anachronistic (the rap music, the graffiti artists), plus some eroticism and sophisticated humor.

There's even Watanabe's preoccupation with humdrum reality--where they should sleep, what they should eat, how they should earn money for food and shelter. Superefficient heroes who look fine and even look like they've had a manicure and beauty salon session are fine and good, but ronins who've spent days on the road and actually look (and almost smell) as if they did are more interesting fare--they help convince you of the reality of what you're seeing, prepare you to accept the more fantastic stuff, the blindingly fast, intricately choreographed fight sequences.

What's quite not there are a set of truly memorable characters. Cowboy Bebop, Watanabe's previous major work, had this teasing tension between Spike and Faye; here, with two men to choose from, Fuu barely strikes any sparks from both, just maybe some romantic longings and silly sentimental ideas (which the men for some reason sometimes take seriously).

It also helped Bebop that the main thrust of the action was Spike's attempt to reconcile his present with his gangster past. That allowed the other characters--Jet, Edward, Faye, even the dog--to branch off in all kinds of interesting stories, but it's Spike's story that held it all together, gave it unity and shape. Here, Muugen, Jin and Fuu all have to go meet their fates separately, and the climactic episode goes from one storyline to another, frittering away momentum; in Bebop, Spike said his goodbyes--some of them painful--and walked away to his destiny. Simple yet effective.

Interesting, worth seeing, but not the kind of breakthrough series that Bebop was, I think.

"Cigarette Burns" (John Carpenter), "Dreams in the Witch House" (Stuart Gordon)

2006-06-12T15:15:00.000-07:00

From Forum With No Name:

Saw my first Masters of Horror episode.

John Carpenter's Cigarette Burns, about the search for a long-lost horror film print with fatal effects on its viewers, seems highly uncharacteriststic of his work--no self-composed minimalist music score, no Hitchcockian angles, long takes or POV shots (at least, none that really stand out or call attention to themselves), and far more gore than is usual for Carpenter.

It's not the sort of thing that's going to have immediate appeal, and the concept--that the closer the hero comes to the print the worse the effects will be--doesn't have much of a visceral impact, beyond what's provided by shock cuts. The burning rings signifying 'burns'--visual warnings to the projectionist that the reel is about to run out--don't have much creep value either; I wished it could have been depicted in a subtler way.

But Carpenter speaks a secret language here, of the heedlessness of cinephiles and the allure of legendary lost prints, and anyone even moderately steeped in the lore will understand, even sympathize with these characters, or brood over their fates ("that Udo Kier, his fate wasn't that bad, considering..."). It's fun for that subtext alone, though I wonder at the film dubbing its hermit critic character 'the one of Kael's disciples who can really think.' That's giving Kael a whole lot more heft and influence than she really had, I thought.

Stuart Gordon's Dreams in the Witch House (taking a tale from his favorite source, HP Lovecraft) shows the kind of fluid camerawork and naturalistic yet effective lighting he gives us in his best works (Reanimator, From Beyond, King of the Ants, even Dagon). Not to mention he has a wonderful knack for introducing us to totally engaging characters (a likeable college student living in a rat-trap boarding house and his beautiful single-mother next-door neighbor).

It falters towards the end, and doesn't have the metaphysical punch of his best work, but he's got us hooked to the story and people, and we squirm and worry accordingly. A lovely little gem.

ChrisJ: I also appreciate more and more the usually natural humor that Gordon and company find in various situations. It's rarely overly exagerated (thought sometimes a bit stagey which you can chalk up to Gordon's stage experiences) It's missing from straight horror (like Carpenter's Cigarette Burns) and over-done in both campy (some of which I like) or I- want-to-be-loved-by-the-teen-audience- horror crap that invades our theaters every year.

Good quick snapshot Noel.

Udo rocks !!!!

Actually I think the staginess serves Gordon in good stead; he's able to draw from entirely different sources than film-school geeks usually do, and I think there's a force and authority in doing something deliberately theatrical (a ritual, say, or a tableau) that most screen images lack.

Carpenter's humor is more the deadpan, you-gotta-be-on-the-inside-to-appreciate kind.

Cars (John Lasseter, 2006)

2006-06-10T22:53:00.000-07:00

Cars is pretty much okay, about par for Lasseter (I'd be hard put to name a favorite--not because I love his works (I don't) but because I don't have many fond memories to choose from). Pixar, with Lasseter behind it, seems to revel in trying to animate unpromising material, from toys (which are fairly anthropomorphic, and therefore easy) to bugs, fish, automobiles, no less.

Do they succeed? The cars at certain angles have a startling photorealism--but who wants photorealism when you can just watch NASCAR on TV? The stylized bits are more interesting, somewhat, but there's only so much human expression you can squeeze out of a front bumper and a pair of headlights--the movie really stands or falls on its voice performances, and other than Larry the Cable Guy (who's mildly amusing as a tow truck) and one other exception, the cast is pretty much undistinguished, aurally speaking.

That said, Lasseter pours plenty of nostalgia for the sixties into the movie, from the building designs (the drive-in 'soda fountain,' the motel--but what, no drive-in theaters?) to the desert landscape (featuring car grill cliff faces and exhaust pipe mountain ranges and whatnot), and a lot of thought into the incidental details, from the VW Beetle houseflies to perhaps his funniest creation, tractors playing free-range cattle (they give off a little fart of a backfire when frightened).

Maybe the best single thing worth watching for in the picture is Paul Newman's gently grizzled performance as "Doc"--an old race car turned town surgeon / mechanic. Newman has a wide chrome grill mouth that somehow manages to look wrinkled and leathery, and he's been given those unsettling baby-blue eyes (the hero (Owen Wilson, who I usually like in real life--he needs his handsomely goofy face to make a full impression) also has blue eyes, but not this bright, or this magnetic). Newman effortlessly incarnates the kind of old-time grace Lasseter seems to put so much premium on--even validates it to a considerable extent. If the picture doesn't quite make it for me, it's probably because Lasseter didn't make him the lead of the movie (big mistake, in my opinion).

I'll say this much for Lasseter; I think he's learned from his idol and (let's be honest about it) master Hayao Miyazaki, everything from putting a pause to all that busy plotting to show us What It's All About, to giving us a fairly exciting ending where we learn that Winning Isn't Everything (isn't Newman's character some kind of indirect tribute to Miyazaki's sensibility?). Lasseter doesn't have his master's subtlety (for one, the lust to win is rarely an issue; in the case of Princess Mononoke, it's actually part of the problem), and doesn't feel the need to tackle genuine issues (the vulnerability of our environment, the folly of war, the quiet tragedies and triumphs of everyday living), but he's taken some baby steps. Not too bad, better than Over the Hedge (which I also fairly liked). You can do worse than watch this pic, but I wouldn't call it a must-see.

Additonal thoughts from Bizarre Hatred of Random Celebrities (6/12/06):

The culture of gas station cafes and roadside eateries along Route 66 is a fascinating one, and I regret not seeing in Cars--mainly because it is about cars--the kind of food you found in these places. Hamburgers and milkshakes, or so I read (I'd like to actually visit some of those places, someday), oddities like Rattlesnake Stew and The Worst Apple Pie in the World. Lasseter does okay--I don't think it's a bad film--but in my ideal Route 66 movie there'd be an endless line of greasy spoons.

6/13/06

Thinking about it, is Lasseter in Cars trying to teach a different kind of lesson? Not so much that Winning Isn't Everything, but that there exists a Cool Beyond Cool--that instead of attaining what everyone considers the ultimate goal or achievement, you forge a new kind of achievement and have everyone recognize that instead.

Could Lasseter, from his recent experience with Disney, have realized that association with the Mouse (or, as I like to put it, The Rat Factory) isn't the be-all and end-all of animators--that he himself is considered so golden (boxofficewise and criticwise) he's ipso facto the very zenith of modern-day animation quality (at least to those who don't seem to know any better)? And then--consciously or unconsciously--could he have grafted this attitude to his racing-car hero?

Is this what Cars is really all about? And would Lasseter's master approve of such a message?

Pinikpikan - a supertasty Filipino chicken soup done by gently beating the bird to death

2006-06-07T18:10:00.000-07:00

Taken from this article (Not for the squeamish)

Ringside view of 'pinikpikan' process

First posted 10:58pm (Mla time) June 07, 2006 By Micky Fenix

Editor's Note: Published on Page D4 of the June 8, 2006 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer

MY pinikpikan experience consists of eating the dish, twice at the Café by the Ruins and once at Ebay's near the Narda's outlet. It was like tasting tinolang manok, only more complex than trying to discern what made this soup dish so mysterious.

My information on the process of making pinikpikan was, at most, hearsay. Everyone described it by using the song title "Killing Me Softly" because the main ingredient, a fowl (wild bird, duck or chicken) was beaten to death but gently, if there's such a thing.

The Internet has something on the process, in word and pictures. But there's nothing like seeing it firsthand. And so when a friend, Aling Christie, said she would do it for the family lunch marking our mother's first death anniversary, I looked forward to documenting making pinikpikan from scratch.

Bicolana 'expert'

Three native chickens were brought, all from our guest cook's hometown in Naga. It seemed strange that a Bicolana was doing a Cordillera specialty. But she explained that, on her father's side, her grandmother was from the Mt. Province while her grandfather was from Bicol. And so she and her sister learned how to do the pinikpikan in Baguio where she grew up. Surprisingly, they had also been taught the pinikpikan by their American teachers in their home economics class at the Easter School where they studied until high school. I thought it such a wonderful policy to include traditional cooking as part of cooking lessons.

The other important ingredient of pinikpikan is the etag, the salted pork of the Cordilleras. Pork chunks are cured by salting (hence, its other name is inasinan). These are then dried in the cool Cordillera air. Etag gives the pinikpikan its flavor because no other seasoning, save for more salt, is added to the mix. But Aling Christie said she had run out of her supply of etag. So she bought about a kilo of pork liempo (belly), salted it and roasted it on charcoal. It will do, she said.

Odd one

Not one of my siblings wanted to watch, grimacing at the thought of witnessing chicken killed that way. That makes me the odd one in the family. It must have been because I always watched my grandmother start all her chicken dishes from scratch that it never bothered me. I thought that was the only way we could have chicken. Each of the pinikpikan chickens had its wings and feet tied together. The cook took one chicken, removed some of the feathers on its neck and started tapping it with a small flat stick. That both anesthetized and created blood clots, she said. You want the clots so that when the chicken is cut up, no blood is spilled.

The tapping is not done all over the chicken but only around the neck, inside the wings and at the inner thighs. While tapping the chicken, Aling Christie talked to each fowl, cajoling each to just sleep and thanking each for the service it was doing. The chicken hardly moved when the tapping was done. But it was still alive, as my son found out when one chicken was lowered into the boiling water for the final kill. It bolted from Aling Christie's firm hold and surprised him. The hot water makes it easier to remove the rest of the feathers. It also cleans the chicken. The whole chicken is then placed on the grill to burn the skin a bit. After that, each chicken is cut up.

The etag is finally cut and placed in the pot together with the chicken pieces. Water is added and then some salt. Everything is boiled. Aling Christie said it wouldn't take long to cook the pinikpikan because the chickens were fat and young. And so, for a little over an hour, the chicken and pork were cooked. The broth turned out to be rich and yellowish. We all had our spoons and dug in. Everyone kept going back, declaring the pinikpikan rich and flavorful and filling. It was better than any tinola of native chicken I ever tasted. The chickens and pork were indeed tender. It was the best pinikpikan I've had.

Great cook

It surely had something to do with Aling Christie being a great cook. She didn't have time to do her Arroz Valenciana to partner with the pinikpikan, she said. The last time we had it, the rice, including the chicken and everything else mixed in, was cooked perfectly. The secret, she declared, was letting the rice finish properly by cooking over very low fire, the procedure known as in-in. And she made the best laing, smooth and creamy when taken. She said she made sure the gabi (taro) leaves were from a particular place in Naga, picked by someone who really knew how, so the leaves didn't make the eater itch.

Pinikpikan can be just a dish, albeit an exotic one, especially for lowlanders. But Aling Christie said the cooking process could be a ritual that included prayers known as the ata. She said, with the prayers, were the acts of drinking a little gin from a small glass and puffing on a cigarette. The ritual of the pinikpikan was taught Aling Christie by her grandmother. None of her three daughters were interested. She has been training one of her nieces. This had to be passed on to the next generation, she said.

I tried the pinikpikan at Cafe By The Ruins, in Baguio. It was a large wooden bowl, filled with a dark brown liquid. The chicken leg meat was gum-bruising tough, and the skin was leathery, but it was flavorful; a big chunk of pork floated in the soup, almost as large as a small pork chop--that meat was a sin to eat, as it was made almost entirely of salty, pillowy-soft pork fat.

As for the broth itself--oh wow, that broth. Dark and powerful, dark as Igorot skin, and thick; you can feel your tongue struggling to wrap itself around that taste. It was like some mumbaki boiled half a dozen self-made chicken bouillon cubes in a cup of water, sprinkled mysterious herbs in it, then let it sit for a month and a half in a dark cave, praying over it all the while, only stronger. It made your toes curl and skin itch to think how much salty chicken fat was pouring into your veins.

Abras Los Ojos (Alejandro Amenabar), Night Moves (Arthur Penn), The Green Ray (Eric Rohmer)

2006-06-06T17:39:00.000-07:00

One gripe I have about Alejandro Amenabar's Abras Los Ojos (Open Your Eyes, 1998) is that it's essentially Philip K. Dick's Ubik without the wit and with the intensity dialed down a few notches. Other than that, it's wondrously shot and performed, especially with Noriega in the lead; I even liked (and was moved by) Penelope Cruz's hapless, helpless Sofia.

Strangely enough, I think Amenabar's best film to date is The Others, his 2001 film with Tom Cruise's ex-beard, Nicole Kidman--there he had an elegantly simple concept that unfolded with a bouquet of unnerving little details, and a central performance that captured you, fascinated you, ultimately moved you.

In Arthur Penn's 1975 masterpiece Night Moves Gene Hackman's Harry Moseby, much like Elliot Gould's Marlowe in Altman's The Long Goodbye, is an artifact (Moseby's more aware of it, though, and thus more effective at surviving). Hackman's Moseby (arguably his finest performance in a career of fine performances) gets by on what seems like sheer force of will, bullying when he's in a hurry, charming when he wants to be low-key. Maybe his weak spot is a sneaking sympathy for wounded creatures (a weak spot that's promptly exploited)--that and his complacency concerning his wife (who seems to know all about his weak spot--even loves him for it).

The ending is a startlingly violent (a pontoon ramming a diving mask; a pair of exhausted old men ramming fists into each other) and beautiful (blood on a bright blue sea; slow movement of a crashed plane sinking into the deep, taking its helpless, soundless occupant with it) demonstration of reality spinning beyond everyone's control, plans, wishes. The final image--of the boat running about in circles--is about as Sisyphean an image as one can wish for from the pessimistic '70s.

I'll have to agree with many others that Eric Rohmer's Le Rayon Vert (The Green Ray, 1986) is probably his finest work and my favorite of his films, with a great character in Delphine (Marie Rivere, in a bravely unsympathetic performance) walking around petulantly unsatisfied with the world around her (She's like a walking rebuke towards all those French films featuring sunny landscapes, countryside food, bright-red wines, rustic houses, young men and women with slim, casually erotic bodies). She asks the question wedare not ask: "Why should we enjoy these things anyway? Isn't there, well, more?" With perhaps one of the most thrilling finales--all the more remarkable considering it involves no chases, explosions, violence or even the threat of violence--in all of cinema.

Party in Hell like it's 6/6/06

2006-06-05T19:01:00.000-07:00

Party in Hell planned for 6/6/06

Excerpt:

The day bears the date of 6-6-06, or abbreviated as 666 -- a number that carries hellish significance.

And there's not a snowball's chance in Hell that the day will go unnoticed in the unincorporated hamlet 60 miles west of Detroit.

The Da Vinci Code (Ron Howard, 2006)

2006-06-01T16:50:00.000-07:00

The Da Vinci Code (Ron Howard, 2006)

Excerpt:

It would be tempting to consider "The Da Vinci Code" a kind of corrective to "The Passion of the Christ," the kind of movie liberal-minded Catholics, agnostics, or nonbelievers like to throw back on religious wingnuts--sorry, conservatives--when they mention Mel Gibson's snuff flick; it would also be tempting to think of this as a sensational expose of the nefarious activities of the Opus Dei (who may not be involved in any elaborate world-wide conspiracies, but do display cult-like mind-control tendencies towards their members)…but after actually seeing Ron Howard's latest opus, an adaptation of Dan Brown's best-selling novel, I'm forced to agree with most critics: the picture is a sad, sorry crock of cow manure.

Perhaps Howard's biggest mistake--aside from accepting the assignment to direct in the first place (or entertaining the notion that he is in any way a director)--is in treating this material with such reverence. The picture breathes portent the way a cheap horror-movie monster breathes halitosis down your neck; the characters keep reminding us that this is all part of the "biggest cover-up in human history," staged to "protect a secret so powerful that if revealed it would devastate the very foundations of mankind" (to quote Ace Ventura: "Re-he-he-he-ally?"). Howard and collaborator Akiva Goldsman (the scriptwriter of such artistically renowned films as "Batman Forever," "Batman and Robin," and "Lost in Space") necessarily trim some of Brown's awful dialogue--the airport paperback edition drones for some 454 pages--but force the actors to intone the surviving lines as if they were hallowed scripture. The book, bogged down by Brown's clumsy prose and hilarious lack of familiarity with (among other things) the Catholic Church, colloquial French, and basic European geography is made worse on the big screen by limping camerawork and the most laughably ominous Hans Zimmer music score this side of Ingmar Bergman parodies. This isn't filmmaking or even good commercialfilmmaking, it's big-budgeted finger-painting; if it's at all a hit that's because everyone trooped to the multiplexes, curious to see what the fuss is about.

Steak dinners

2006-05-31T18:08:00.000-07:00

Easter Dinner was two two-inch thick porterhouse steaks slathered with olive oil and melted butter, sprinkled with kosher salt and fresh-cracked pepper, and laid in a 12-inch cast-iron pan that had been heating in a 500 degree-oven for twenty minutes, and pan-roasted--8 minutes one side, 7 minutes the other. Steaks put aside to rest for five minutes, said pan was placed on medium stovetop heat, deglazed with half a cup of cognac, splashed with a cup of heavy cream, and whisked till sauce is thick, around five minutes.

Served with a crusty baguette and a spinach-and-arugula salad with apple-butter dressing (extra-virgin olive oil, cider vinegar, kosher salt, cracked black pepper, dijon mustard, crushed garlic clove, cider, and enough apple butter to drown in, all whisked together).

Dessert was strawberries and blackberries in mascarpone cream (two egg yolks mixed with 4 ounces sugar and 4 ounces mascarpone; whipped two egg whites till foamy then folded whites into egg-cheese-sugar mix a little at a time; chilled for an hour before adding the berries).

Tonight did a variation on pan-fried steak. Slathered olive oil on four bone-in ribeyes, sprinkled them with kosher salt and cracked black pepper, laid them in two 12-inch pans (the cast iron one worked so much better, have to buy another one) on medium high heat, two minutes on each side, and maybe a few extra minutes searing the fatty sides. Set aside steaks to rest, poured out the extra oil (leaving around two tablespoons in each pan).

On medium heat, dropped half a cup of sliced shitake mushrooms in each pan, fried em for a few minutes; poured in maybe half a cup of Madeira wine followed by half a cup of heavy cream, whisked a few more minutes till thick; poured sauce over steaks, and sprinkled everything with chopped Italian parsley.

Served as side a spinach salad with an orange marmalade vinaigrette (extra-virgin olive oil, apple cider vinegar, a crushed garlic clove, kosher salt, cracked black pepper, a tablespoon of dijon mustard, and plenty of orange marmalade). Topped salad with mandarin orange segments.

Sliced a ciabatta bread open, spread herbed butter (garlic crushed with kosher salt, cracked black pepper, Italian parsley, chives in softened butter) on each side, and toasted the whole thing in an oven at 350 degrees till the bread is lightly browned.

Shohei Imamura (1926-2006)

2006-05-30T13:36:00.000-07:00

Shohei Imamura (1926-2006)

His films weren't easy to see--only managed to see two of his films on the big screen: Kanzo Sensei (Dr. Akagi, 1998) in the Hong Kong film festival, and Kamigami no Fukaki Yokubo (The Profound Desire of the Gods, 1968), and only managed to write a short piece on the former; the rest I had to see on video, or even laserdisc.

I had this to say about Kanzo Sensei:

Shohei Imamura's "Kanzo Sensei" literally translates from the Japanese as "Dr. Liver"--which, when you think of it, better captures the fleshy, somewhat absurd nature of the film than the artier-sounding "Dr. Akagi," the film's official English title. Imamura is a Japanese filmmaker from an older tradition than, say, Kore-Eda Hirokazu ("After Life," "Maborosi") or Kurosawa Kyoshi ("License to Live"). He maintains a fashionably modern distance from his subject but his storytelling style--lively, intimate, totally engaging--recalls Japanese masters like Ichikawa, Mizoguchi and the older Kurosawa.

The film is about a World War II Japanese doctor who literally runs all over the small town that is his territory, diagnosing hepatitis left and right. The town authorities think he has hepatitis in the brain, but that's because the disease is everywhere, in epidemic proportions. The latter half of the film concentrates on Akagi's quest to isolate the hepatitis virus--he throws together a delightfully elaborate device involving flasks, microscopes, a slice of a dead man's liver, and (nice touch) a broken-down movie projector. He almost succeeds (which would have made the film science-fiction) but fate keeps throwing distractions in his way--like the escaped Dutch prisoner all the soldiersare looking for, or the lovestruck nymphomaniac that insists he spank her bottom (Imamura's comic erotic scenes perk you up, like cortisone injections). Akagi muddles through anyway, and achieves an ironic apotheosis--staring into an atomic mushroom cloud in the distance, he recognizes "a huge liver…magnificently hypertrophied!" "Kanzo Sensei" is a tragicomic film about World War II Japan, seen through the befuddled eyes of a benign monomaniac.

Businessworld, 4/23/99

I remember seeing Kamigami no Fukaki Yokubo in the Detroit Institute of Arts, in the early 90s. Thirty years since I saw that film, and images still stay with me--the priestess with her breasts being mashed, the giant rock hanging above the pit, and how it eventually drops to crush the incestuous lovers, the figure of a woman, prancing on the tracks, before the oncoming train...

His films were often bitingly funny and wonderfully erotic, and that the satisfaction of sexual desire onscreen was often frustrated or interrupted, which only aggravated one's thirst for fulfillment. It gave his work a dirty thrill, a live-wire energy you don't find in many filmmakers today. Also, that the focus on diseased livers probably makes Kanzo Sensei his most prophetic film, and that 'benign monomaniac' might be a good description of the man--he dwelt on the most disturbing subjects with an air of equanimity, as if talking about some pleasant subject (weather, or better yet bar chow), and trained his camera towards his characters with all the attention and intensity of a monomaniac. A great filmmaker.

Fan mail (a response to my "Da Vinci Code" article)

2006-05-29T21:57:00.000-07:00

Found in my inbox today, in response to my article on The Da Vinci Code (Ron Howard, 2006):

(Note: Lito Lapid is a former Filipino action star)

Mon, 29 May 2006 18:52:14 -0700 (PDT)

From: "al diaz" aledgeds@yahoo.com

Subject: So dumb the Crap of Noel Vera

I could not believe that someone let you write this ignorant movie review you just did on The Da Vinci Code in their publication. And I cant believe that you are this stupid.

Please tell me Noel Vera that you are not this fucking stupid..... Answer these questions for me please... I couldnt believe someone is really this dumb.

1. What part of "FICTION" didnt you understand about this movie???

2. Since when did Dan Brown's objective in writing this COMPLETELY FICTIONAL NOVEL is to destroy the credibility of the Roman Catholic Church???

(PLEASE TELL ME THAT YOU ARE NOT SERIOUS IN THINKING THAT DAN BROWN WROTE THIS TO TOPPLE CHRISTIANITY AND NOT FOR FAME AND MONEY?)

3. Since when did the "The Da Vinci Code" become a historically educational film?

Let me quote this incredible Noel Vera stupidity....

"The Da Vinci Code isn't good history, isnt good criticism of the catholic church, isnt even decent entertainment; it deserves not our censure...."

GOOD HISTORY? <--- This is FUCKING FICTION!!!!

CRITICISM OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH? <------- I think Dan Brown wrote this Novel TO MAKE MONEY . (DID YOU SERIOUSLY THINK THAT HE WROTE THIS TO TOPPLE THE VATICAN?!?!?!)

Let me quote another incredible Noel Vera stupidity....

" (Ron Howard)... or entertaining the notion that he is in any way a director) "

SO WHO IS A DIRECTOR FOR YOU IF A PERSON WITH THIS MANY MULTI MILLION BLOCKBUSTER MOVIES (BEAUTIFUL MIND, APOLLO 13, BACKDRAFT, CINDERELLA MAN) IS NOT A DIRECTOR?? I BET YOU LIKED LITO LAPID MOVIES.

And lastly you dumb stupid fuck is, how did you become a movie critic when you are this biased? Anticipating falling asleep even before the movie started? What kind of a movie critic are you? I BET YOU GAVE ALL LITO LAPID MOVIES 5 STARS!

PLEASE REPLY ASAP I ALSO WANT TO KNOW IF YOU WENT TO COLLEGE

ALVIN EDGENBERG

Mon, 29 May 2006 22:04:01 -0700 (PDT)

From: "Noel Vera" noelbotevera@yahoo.com

Subject: Re: So dumb the Crap of Noel Vera

Wow, hey--get that plug out of your butt, maybe you'll feel better.

Mission Impossible III (J.J. Abrams, 2006)

2006-05-25T18:45:00.000-07:00

Mission Impossible III (J.J. Abrams, 2006)

Excerpt:

Hello, Tom.

Your two previous big-screen missions as IMF operative Ethan Hunt have been quite successful. Your first, directed by Brian De Palma, showed a breezy disregard for the complex script (by legendary Hollywood screenwriter Robert Towne ("Chinatown")) that at the same time managed to be lucid and exciting (never mind that, as die-hard "Mission Impossible" fans point out, you trashed the premise of Bruce Geller's original TV series by putting a premium on maverick adventuring over closely coordinated teamwork). Your second, also written by Towne, was more openly emotional (a response to complaints that the first was cold-hearted and difficult to follow); as directed by John Woo, it sacrificed plot twists for Woo's signature action sequences, complete with slow-motion axe kicks, eyepopping motorcycle stunts, a pair of blazing handguns, the flight of fluttering doves.

On your third outing you have carefully considered your next choice of director, having previously discarded Joe Carnahan ("Narc") and settled for J.J. Abrams, creator of the hit TV series "Alias" and "Lost," on his big-screen debut. Abrams, who has admitted that the original series influenced his own "Alias," must have seemed the perfect director for this movie. His screenplay posits a more domesticated, more human Hunt, one who has found true love in Julia (Michelle Monaghan), and is willing to propose, marry, have a baby with her--this closely mirroring your real-life engagement and impregnation of starlet Katie Holmes. Perhaps the only details that differentiate your onscreen story from your real-life one are 1) You do not jump up and down on a sofa, shrieking about true love, and 2) you do not offer to eat your child's placenta (something, it must be pointed out, that the mother and not father traditionally eats, to reduce postpartum depression).

Preaching to a bear

2006-05-24T18:23:00.000-07:00

From Glenn H. in Bizarre Hatred of Random Celebrities:

A priest, a preacher, and a rabbi all served as chaplains to the students of Northern Michigan University in Marquette. They would get together two or three times a week for coffee.

One day, someone commented that preaching to people isn't really hard. The real challenge would be to preach to a bear.

They decided to do an experiment. They would all go out into the woods, find a bear, preach to it and attempt to convert it.

Seven days later they're back to discuss the results.

Father Flannery, walking on crutches and with his arm in a sling, says: "Well, I went into the woods to find me a bear. And when I found him I began readin' him the Catechism. Well, the bear wanted nothin' to do with me and began slappin' me around. So I grabbed me holy water and sprayed him and, Holy Mary Mother o' God, he became meek as a lamb. The bishop's comin' out next week to give him farst communion and confirmation."

Reverend Billy Bob spoke next. He was in a wheelchair, an arm and both legs in casts, trailing an IV drip. He declaimed, "Well, brothers, y'know we don't sprinkle! I went out and found me a bear. I began t'read mah bear God's holy word! But the bear wanted nothin' to do wid me. So I took a-hold 'a him and we began to wrassle. We wrassled down one hill, up another, down yet another till we came to a creek. I locked him in a full nelson, dunk'd him and baptized his hairy soul. And jus' as you say, he became genn'l as a spring lamb. We spent the rest o' the day praisin' Jesus."

They both looked at Rabbi Goldstein, who was on a hospital bed, in full body cast and traction, with IV's and monitors running in and out of him. He says "Looking back on it, circumcision may perhaps not have been the best way to start out with my bear..."

Trouble in Paradise (Ernst Lubitsch, 1932)

2006-05-22T19:07:00.000-07:00

Saw the Critierion disc of Ernst Lubitsch's Trouble in Paradise again tonight and it sparkles on the umpteenth viewing, like the moon in that wonderful champagne. Peter Bogdanovich talks about the beginning--which Lubitsch and Raphaelson spent three days trying to think up--saying it's a twist on the Venice of the Grand Canal and its gondolas. Here the gondola is a trash barge and it's easy to say that's a way of pulling the perfumed atmosphere of Venice down a notch or two (something the Hays Office was actually worried about), but I see it differently--I think it's the garbage that's being uplifted. Garbage on a gondola, drifting down the canals of Venice--what better treatment of unpromising material can you get?
Characters like Kay Francis' rich widow or Charles Ruggles (who looks like Harvey Keitel with a moustache and a deadpan sense of humor) and Edward Horton's emasculated suitors, or Aubrey Smith's faithful chairman are revealed to have clay feet, the same time outsiders like Miriam Hopkins and Herbert Marshall's thieves are shown to have their share of hidden gold; that's what I think that garbage gondola--and this film--is really about.

I can't help but suspect Larry McMurtry somehow saw this film and was inspired to create the character of Aurora Greenaway and her several lovers, one of which is a dead ringer for Ruggles' military man; if so he's forgiven for copying such a memorable character--even if, much as I like Aurora in McMurtry's novel, she doesn't compare to Francis' sexy, scintillating original.

As for the film itself--what else is there to say, except to mention a few in an endless list of inimitable moments? Hopkins and Marshall reclining on a sofa, fading away as if into a higher plane of existence (or ecstacy); Kay Francis swinging both legs over her head, looking straight at us (at Marshall) with a provocative smile on her face, and asking if we approve (I sure as hell do); Francis later taking her pearls off (as intimate a gesture as if it were her underwear) and saying "but I don't want to be a lady." The way she fingers those pearls while saying this causes a tingling sensation in a corresponding (if considerably larger) part of the male anatomy. Everyone talks of Lubitsch's 'light' touch; personally, I think this is powerful, heady stuff, not to be seen with a beautiful woman unless you're both ready to follow through on what happens next.

The Poseidon Adventure (Ronald Neame, 1972)

2006-05-18T18:35:00.000-07:00

The Poseidon Adventure (Ronald Neame, 1972)

Excerpt:

"The Poseidon Adventure" came out in 1972, two years after "Airport" had proven that there was money to be made in disaster pictures--again (actually, Hollywood had gone into a disaster-flick kick at least once before, when "San Francisco" (1936) became a hit, followed by John Ford's "The Hurricane" (1937) and "The Rains Came" two years later).

"Poseidon" set the formula; "Airport" thirty-plus years later is a dull affair, a movie literally and comprehensively about the running of an airport--how to cope with passenger stowaways (less possible now with all the high-tech security), should they or should they not offer disaster insurance, and which stewardess is sleeping with which pilot.

Irwin Allen knew what was missing; he thought he could do better, and does. "The Poseidon Adventure" is about the cheesiest enchilada in a decade full of sticky rolled tortillas--not the best, not even the most bizarre, but easily the ripest, complete with a set of the saltiest hams available.

Uhaw na Pag-ibig (Thirst for Love, 1983) Mario O'Hara

2006-05-17T23:36:00.000-07:00

New article out on Criticine, an online magazine specializing in Southeast Asian cinema:

Uhaw na Pag-ibig (Thirst for Love, 1983) Mario O'Hara

Excerpt:

I watched Mario O'Hara's Uhaw na Pag-ibig (Thirst for Love, 1983) expecting a mediocre production—no awards, no admiring words from anyone—and for the first thirty minutes or so it pretty much confirmed my suspicions. It's your run-of-the-mill, fallen-woman story where Lala (Claudia Zobel) fights with her mother (Perla Bautista), gets pregnant by her boyfriend (Patrick de La Rosa), plans to elope with said boyfriend (who is stabbed while waiting in an alley), and eventually runs away from home.

Matters become more interesting once she leaves. She hooks up with Bong (Lito Pimentel) who gives her a dancing gig in a nightclub, then asks her to “entertain” a select clientele of men to the tune of two thousand pesos each (roughly 250, early '80s U.S. dollars). Bong's pimping is just one of his sidelines; there's the suggestion that he's also a drug-smuggler, and when one of his men bursts into his bedroom with a bullet wound in the shoulder and a police officer not far behind, Bong handles the situation with such cool ruthlessness (O'Hara's clean staging and editing of the action reminds you of Sam Fuller, or Raoul Walsh) that you suck your breath in dismay: this guy is bad news, and too damned smart to beat easily.

Carciofi alla Giudi (Deep fried artichokes)

2006-05-17T23:10:00.000-07:00

So we tried something a little different: Carciofi alla Giudi, or deep fried artichokes, Jewish style. Cleaned and trimmed six chokes (first time I ever did this and it's a bitch of a job), soaked them in acidulated water; prepared a pot half full of oil and water, and simmered the chokes for fourteen minutes. Took em out, drained them in paper towels; when they've cooled, their soft yellow inner leaves easy to spread out, like the unopened buds they really are. Heat two inches of olive oil in a medium pan; deep-fry the opened chokes in the oil, pressed down so they stay opened up. Eight minutes of this, then take out, drain, and sprinkle with salt (kosher, what else?) while still hot.

The result are crispy gold blossoms, salty and surprisingly satisfying. By way of side dish (I know, they're appetizers, but after wrestling with six chokes I wasn't in the mood to cook anything more), I just heated a loaf of bread and dipped it in the chokes' cooking oil with a bit of salt.

Role playing sex

2006-05-16T11:58:00.000-07:00

From Sense and Sensuality:

Rosemarie: We have fictional characters we play. He's a American wartime journalist in Berlin and I'm an American call girl who ran away from home at fourteen with aspirations of a more edifying life in Europe, and we're drinking buddies and best friends.

Roy Kay: I was chatting with a woman who was seriously thinking about being a labor organizer. I musingly teased that that would be an interesting scene, since I'd fit the role of "Capitalist Exploiter". It's a good thing she's into piercings, because that would provide a use for my diamond stickpin.

It doesn't have to be obviously glamorous, does it?

What about a numbers-cruncher who works for a big accounting firm--a small, colorless man who tends to blend in the background in office parties (he's painfully shy), doesn't seem to have a girlfriend, and goes home alone to his pet dog?

At home (a studio apartment) he's reasonably neat, likes to read food magazines, cut out simple recipes, and try them out. Watches very little TV (no cable), on weekends takes walks outside, just wandering the city by himself, either by bus or subway or on foot, sometimes to parks, sometimes to little quiet corners he finds hidden away in the city, where he can sit down with a sandwich and a soda he fixed up to eat.

He has a secret: he plays the violin. Pretty good, not concert-hall league, but he can play. Doesn't like the classics, but he can do folk songs, pop, and he even composes. One short little melody he once did is actually touching. He dreams of playing it to some girl someday.

Sexually--not much experience. He's had some girlfriends, here, there, sometimes for years, but it isn't so much that there's something wrong with him or them, it's just that there were no sparks. He's still friends with all his formers.

He has one friend, an old man in a retirement home, was a friend of his father's; he goes there on weekends to play chess with him.

Sounds dull? Or interesting? What d'ye think?

amiable: Too much work.

I just like to fuck.

sparky: oh, my.

Roy Kay: Not sure where the plot is headed, Noel, so I can't much essay a judgment. Could we have a little more?

Uh, I DO approve of where Amie's plot is headed, though. More. More! MORE!

He's arrested under suspicion of being a terrorist (computer glitch plus he looks vaguely Arabic), tortured, injected with a modified virus under a genetic engineering program, grows a second schlong beneath his first, escapes to India where he learns from a yoga master the deepest secrets of the Kama Sutra, and now rangers through America fucking male and female rightwing conservatives alike in both orifices at once, converting them to liberalism with his mindbending sexual techniques as the darkly sensual terrorist known as "W."

Roy Kay: Well, it sounds all in a good cause - especially in Ann Coulter's case.

Oui, oui.

Rosmarie: Well, that plotline certainly took a turn, Noel!

Could hear the snoring from the balcony, is why.

I actually rather liked your initial premise, for a short story or something. It didn't exactly get my sexual juices flowing, but it was a nice vignette.

I tried on my little Dom Hat yesterday...still finding my footing, as it's not my usual inclination. Basically, I had him wash me in the shower but wouldn't let him touch me for his own pleasure. If he started looking too smitten or dreamy, I'd get very stern and detached and make him take his hands off. It was quite enjoyable. I felt slightly awkwardly bossy in moments, but he seemed to like it in the context.

You remember to tell him to scrub behind his ears?

Among other things, yes.

Clean ears are important. Among other things, of course.

But don't let me catch you appearing to enjoy those ears or you'll get a smack! Stick tostrictly business, please!

Yes'm.

David Cronenberg's "A History of Violence" (film vs. graphic novel, and other matters)

2006-05-15T12:26:00.000-07:00

From Forum With No Name:

TonyaJ: I'm very impressed by what Cronenberg did with this film - the themes operate on more than one level; love of family, deceit within families; the myth of the perfect family; how violence can shape our lives and make liars of us. It's also a deeply-felt thriller (you could even call it a violent fable) which poses hard questions, such as can the violence Joey Cusack/Tom Stall left behind but resurfaces be more honorable than the violence at the very beginning of the film, where two low-life drifters on a seemingly endless roadtrip of utter depravity kill at random, not to protect, but in a self-serving way? Whereas Stall kills them to protect his business and employees? Also,what are the limits of forgiveness?

What's even more interesting is that you don't really need to know why Joey walked away from it all, though you can read between the lines. Perhaps first it was fear of retribution, but can a man who was once evil redeem himself by living a good life that he believed to be a true one?

The ending of this film was utterly brilliant. Maria Bello as Edie could have been starting to utter a number of phrases as Tom gazes at her, "Where have you been," "Welcome Home," "What are you doing back here," and he can only wait for whether it's forgiveness or condemnation. I wouldn't say the ending is ambiguous but it's left unfinished. Wonderful acting by everyone concerned and William Hurt's short but effective turn a real treat.

We talked about the sex scenes to some extent in Film and Politics, and some of the ideas that came up was that the second sex act was not loving but hostile, where Bello was challenging Joey to show how good he was, sexually--trying him out in place of her husband, in effect (well, this is more my version of what happened; the group may have come up with various other interpretations). Some of them believe the first sex act had unhealthy implications too, but I don't agree--felt it was a bit of role playing and oral sex (someone--don't remember who--noted that Cronenberg acted out the sex to the two actors, which freaked them out no end).

Harris and Hurt played their roles in a humorous vein, but I don't see it as less threatening for all that; if anything, I felt the clowning was more unsettling because it implied confidence in its ability to mete out violence.

The ending--David E's interpretation I largely agree with. The son does seem dismayed at the possibility of genetic inheritance. I don't think Bello accepts Joey at all; I think that's a very uneasy truce there, that the final image is full of tension. One implication is that it's only a matter of time before Joey turns on them all, and the son has to face off against the father.

Browsed through the graphic novel, incidentally; found the fight sequences more believable in the film. Noticed that Bello's character is a plain housewife in the novel (and not a lawyer, as in the film), and is treated more of a prop than the social and psychological equal Bello plays. The novel's latter part is grotesque beyond believability, and I think Cronenberg (or the scriptwriter) is right to cut much of it out; and there is the novel's conceit that Joey and his brother are kids who manage to outfight and outsmart the mob and are never part of it--that's a real stretch of credibility (the film implies that Joey is a fully initiated member, which I prefer--it explains where he got his gun and hand-to-hand combat training).

Finally, the novel has none of the sex. Cronenberg added that, and I think it improves the story--and Bello's role in it--immeasurably.

Tonya J: One thing I don't agree with is that Joey might turn on his whole family. It's plain, at least to me, from the point where he comes in the door after the interlude with his brother and sees his family starting dinner that he's trying to feel out whether he'll be accepted back into the fold. I get no sense of malevolence from him. And in the absence of any action on their mother's part, the children offer the first olive branches or indications of acceptance; the dinner plate put out for him, the food handed to him. Maybe a father who deceived them is better than no father at all?

I don't think Maria Bello's look signifies much acceptance. No, there's not much malevolence on Viggo's face as he enters the room--but you have to remember that each time his alter-ego surfaces, there's precious little warning. His old self seems to come out easier each time, and each time his new self has less and less control over each eruption. Then you also have to remember the propensity for violence flows through the son's blood as well, and that was also recently released, it's implied, by his father's example. Right now their outbursts of violence are justified by extreme circumstances (bullying, threat to life and loved ones), but for how long? There's a lot of tension in that family (which the little girl is blessedly unaware of--but not for long), and if violence erupts again, it'll probably come out of that very tension.

TonyaJ: Yup, I got the whole son thing but there's a part of me that wishes they could go back to the way they were before the incident in the diner, but as you point out the new self comes out at times of extreme stress (but I'm wondering what his family could possibly do to trigger that?).

Any number of things, from the wife saying she's leaving him to the son saying he's gay to someone cracking up the car. Right now his other self only surfaces in dire need--but can we be sure that'll always be the case? A gun just sits there, waiting; sooner or later, it's going to be used.

(Postscript: Bill Krohn, in A_Film_By, had these thoughts:

Cronenberg is only pessimistic from a humanist perspective. He is optimistic from his own perspective, which is Gnostic. Let's not forget that Gnositicism is the most anti-humanist of religions: it considers the created world - Nature - to be a mistake and a prison from which our individual pneumae are struggling to get back to the Hidden God, who did not create this mess, and lives at an infinite distance from it. The god or gods who rule this world (the Archons) are prison wardens who are keeping us here, as portrayed in Kafka's novels.

The leap from the Gnosticism of Videodrome and Naked Lunch to the ideas contained in A History of Violence is a leap of auteurist faith, in a way, but I think it explains a few things.

The big question for interpreting this film is: Is the ending a happy ending or an unhappy one? The logical possibilities are:

1) It's a good thing. Tom's evil past has erupted, threatening his family's happiness, and he has been forced to eliminate the threat. Now things can be as they were.

2) It's a bad thing. The virus of Tom's violent past has infected his wife, who now likes rough sex, and his son, whose pacifism is a thing of the past. Nothing will ever be as it was before.

3) It's a mixed bag. The family has survived the threat, but their illusions are shattered. They will carry on, but they will have to live with their new knowledge.

4) It's a good thing. They were sleepwalking through a state of Innocence that had to be destroyed. Their awakening has reintroduced passion into Tom and Edie's sex life and saved them from the fate the son prophesied for himself and, implicitly, his parents: boredom, infidelity, alcoholism.

5) It's a bad thing because they're going to fall back into denial of their instincts. They have returned to their "dirty water," like Orphee and Euridyce at the end of Cocteau's Orphee.

(4) and (5) would be analogs of a Gnostic reading, with the rediscovery of atavistic impulses that had been buried by Tom's conversion (he does say he was "born again") taking the place of the mystical awakening sought by Gnostics. I think there is a lot in modern culture - the "edge culture" that Cronenberg's films are part of - to support one or both of these readings, which are ironic with respect to 1) and 2). In other words, (2) is the humanist unhappy ending, but Cronenberg may consider it a happy ending (4); (1) is the humanist happy ending, but Cronenberg may consider it an unhappy ending (5).

I believe that irony was operative in Videodrome and Naked Lunch as it is in Orphee, where the happy ending is a debacle from the point of view of Death and Heurtebise, and I guess I believe it's operative here, although as usual Cronenberg leaves it up to the audience how they will read the ending.

The only film where he actually tried to point up a happy ending in a tragedy is The Fly. It originally ended with the birth of Geena Davis'child, who turns out to be a marvellous insect-human version of the Star Child in 2001: A Space Odyssey (that great Gnostic film). Barry Diller made him cut the ending after it was shot so that the film ends with Davis killing the mutated Seth.

But Cronenberg has always been there to suggest in interviews that the horrors in his films aren't horors, and I can't think of any Cronenberg film where weird sex, in particular, is seen as a bad thing. He usually says something to the effect that the various forms of monstrous coupling may be an evolutionary leap forward. In A History of Violence, it's both: a regression to atatvism and an evolution to some higher form of Innocence, where there is no disconnect between "Joey" and "Tom."

Maybe this would be (6): the Gnostic (or para-Gnostic) analog to the "mixed bag" of (3), only seen from a perspective where the fact that they will live with their new knowledge will be a good thing. Of course, they might eventually turn into the parents of Jon Benet Ramsey, who had an SM room in their basement where her body was found....)

Howl's Moving Castle (Hayao Miyazaki, 2004)

2006-05-13T00:46:00.000-07:00

Man in a high castle

(Written in response to Walter's Miyazaki Fest at his Quiet Bubble blog, now ongoing)

Hayao Miyazaki's version of Diana Wynne Jones' Howl's Moving Castle doesn't look as good on DVD as it does on the big screen. That opening shot, of mysterious fog through which the castle suddenly lurches into sight (a gigantically mutated armor-plated version of the Baba Yaga's chicken-leg house, complete with gun-turret eyes and goldfish fins (is Miyazaki familiar with Russian folklore?)), loses much of its impact on the small screen. But as with most of Miyazaki's projects, there are other pleasures to be had.

It's an encyclopedically monstrous patchwork compendium of his previous films, if you want to see it that way--the castle moves in the same sliding-plates manner he developed for the Ohmu in Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind; clouds and airships loom over grassy hills as they do in parts of Laputa, Castle in the Sky; tarry spirits menace our hero and heroine the way they did in Princess Mononoke and Spirited Away; a fire demon quips from his grate, much like the cat does in Kiki's Delivery Service. Even some of the aerial battleships recall, in design and movement (metal fins or cilia rowing in the air), mechanical versions of some of the more bizarre monsters you find in the thousand-page manga version of Nausicaa.

What's new is Jones' intricately plotted story of a young girl cursed to be an old woman, and the heartless wizard she meets; that, and the sense that magic plays a common if occasionally complex fact of life in her world, much as technology does in ours. Miyazaki doesn't include all the details; he picks and chooses. Jones' heroine Sophie is plucked whole from the novel, a girl so gray and timid she seems old long before she's cursed with an aging spell; Howl's knotty relationship with his fire demon Calcifer makes it intact--remains, in fact, the heart of the film (in more ways than one) as it was the book's.

Miyazaki downplays Sophie's sorcery--she does talk to objects, but whether they obey her or not is not immediately apparent; when the Witch of the Waste turns her into a ninety-year-old, the spell appears to strengthen or fade, but Jones implied as much (if aroused, elder Sophie calls upon reservoirs of strength she never even suspected she had). The moments when her youth returns seem arbitrary, but I think John Lasseter in his DVD introduction to the film was right in saying it comes in times of high passion--when Sophie is provoked, or feels the need to rise to the occasion (her most sustained period of renewed youth happens after Howl (who has admitted to caring for her) walks into danger).

His biggest change, however, is in altering the basis of conflict. It's still the twin story of Sophie's coming out of her shell, and of Howl assuming the mantle of responsibility and commitment (both crucial requirements for young people to become adults), but what causes them to do this is not the Witch of the Waste (she's pretty much sidelined midway through) but the war that in Jones' novel merely loomed in the background. In Miyazaki's film the threatening crisis has become a full-blown conflict, and Miyazaki reserves his most spectacular effects for depicting its horrors, from smoldering battleships limping into harbor to hellish night-time bombings that leave cities glowing like hot coals (the level of technology has been advanced from what seemed like the 18th century in the novel (sailing ships, horse-drawn wagons) to around the time of the Second World War, and in fact the bombings recall the London Blitz). Instead of a personal antagonist as in the book, a former lover who insists that Howl recognize her claim on him (insisting, in effect, that he grow up), Miyazaki gives us a society suffering the fever of war, a society under which young men and women are forced to choose between fighting--giving in to the fever, the societal madness--and the perhaps more mature alternative of resistance. From the more focused threat of a fearfully powerful Witch Miyazaki shifts to the broader one of a besieged police state, desperately recruiting its warlocks and witches, turning them into monsters, and hurling them against its opponents (shirkers like Howl, conscientious or not, are ruthlessly hunted down as enemies of the state).

It's not a matter of which is better, I think; Miyazaki has simplified the plot twists, dropped or changed several characters, and along the way lost much of Jones' unique flavor (the way Sophie point of view departs from, or collides with, reality; or the way magic is cunningly introduced, either as a bit of trickery, or as a fragment of a poem by John Donne) and understated humor (Howl with nonchalant pride parading past Sophie, trailing a blouse several miles long); on the other hand, he's made a film that speaks more urgently to us, what with the recent images of war and violence lingering in our minds.

As for the dub voices, it's a pleasure to hear the new Batman (Christian Bale) speaking out as Howl (you sense the spoiled Bruce Wayne ultraconfidence in some of his line readings); the beautiful Jean Simmons playing the elderly Sophie; Emily Mortimer, she of fresh face and fine figure and delicate yet emphatic warble, matching Ms. Simmon's own voice as a young girl. Critics didn't much like Billy Crystal's Borscht Belt fire demon, but I did; he goosed his lines the way a good comedian gooses his audience--that is, hard and often.

The ending is problematical--perhaps the first really obvious misstep in Miyazaki's career (please skip this paragraph if you plan to see the film). I'm not talking about all the loose ends suddenly being tied up (Jones' novel had a similarly hurried conclusion), but the way Miyazaki has the authorities end the war, as if it were a silly game you can call off and not some collective insanity that requires radical therapy for everyone concerned--war and the hatred that creates war can't be so easily dismissed as all that. Miyazaki's ending has the unintended effect of almost trivializing the tremendous scenes of destruction and carnage he's worked so hard to create.

Almost; perhaps I'm just saying the glass is half-full when it's half-empty, but the ending doesn't quite wipe out my memory of those war scenes, and what it meant for Howl to be in the middle of them, acting out his defiance. It's a wonderful picture despite the flaws, full of indelible images--of lonely Sophie on her stool, working on a hat; of Howl looking down at the fallen star nested in his palms; of the castle itself, a rickety, clanking wonder that in terms of charm and sheer amount of bolted-on imaginative detail leaves Katsuhiro Otomo's larger (if far more bulky) Steam Castle in the dust. One of the best films I saw in 2005, and easily the most complex and ambitious animated film in recent memory.

5/13/2006

Some other articles / posts I wrote on Miyazaki:

Sherlock Hound DVD, Disc 1

Sherlock Hound DVD, Discs 2 & 3

Miyazaki and Takahata's Panda! Go Panda! DVD

Princess Mononoke

Spirited Away

Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind

Links to posts of other blog-a-thon participants:

Tuwa on My Neighbor Totoro

Walter on Spirited Away

CultureSpace on Spirited Away

Walter on Princess Mononoke

Cinemarati mention ofthe Miyazaki blog-a-thon

Walter on Kiki's Delivery Service

Walter on Porco Rosso

Walter on My Neighbor Totoro

Walter on Laputa, Castle in the Sky

Walter on Nausicaa, of the Valley of the Wind (my favorite Miyazaki)

Walter on Castle of Cagliostro

Europa, Europa (Agnieszka Holland, 1990)

2006-05-11T13:36:00.000-07:00

Europa, Europa (Agnieszka Holland, 1990)

Excerpt:

"Europa Europa" makes for a fascinating parable despite the fact that--or perhaps especially because--much of the story is true. Salomon Perel's story--of a young Jew who flees Nazi persecution, is forced to join the Russian "Kosmonol" and later the "Hitler-Jugend"--speaks to our morally ambivalent age: was Salomon (or Solly, as he's sometimes called) a hero or heel? How far should someone go to guarantee his survival? Is his declaring his Jewishness at war's end Salomon's way of rising up to reclaim his original identity, or yet another ploy he's playing to be accepted, to stay alive? And--though we may not actually have seen such an event and Salomon never admits to doing so (and I would understand if he never did), the thought comes up in one's mind--did he ever turn in or have a role in turning in a fellow Jew during his time with the Nazis?

Intimacy (Patrice Chereau, 2001)

2006-05-10T18:41:00.000-07:00

From Forum With No Name:

Patrice Chereau's Intimacy is terrific--his take on a grittier, more realistic Last Tango in Paris, and what Closer could have been if it had a pair of balls exposed and hanging on the big screen.

The sex is photographed in a ghastly clouded-day glow, as filtered through frosted glass; Chereau makes odd cuts here and there, not so much cutting away extraneous moments as he is fast-forwarding the footage, keeping us as off-balance and unsettled as the two lovers onscreen.

As Jay, Mark Rylance is the film's vivid center, a twisted knot of frustrations and hostility; he strikes out at his new bartender and his gay friend; he can't strike out at his lover because he knows zero about her, and it galls him--it's a situation he wants to correct. Kerry Fox is wonderful as the complexly unhappy Claire, trying to find a measure of peace and happiness. Timothy Spall is heartbreaking as Claire's husband Andy--he's smug in his contentment, but there's a poignancy to his smugness; it's so small and vulnerable it feels like a cruelty to tear apart.

Chereau, I'm told, doesn't get all the details of British life right--I don't know enough to comment on that. Ebert, though quotes one Kristina Nordstrom as saying 'no woman would be attracted to sex like that,' and 'Any woman would know this movie was directed by a man.' I don't know--seems to suggest to me that both Nordstrom and Ebert have been too offended to think clearly or they just haven't met enough women. Ebert goes on to say the film 'lets Jay off the hook.' It lets go of Jay before he reforms and lives a better life (implying that he probably doesn't); I don't see the film letting him off any hook. If anything it leaves him on said hook, hanging helplessly, hopelessly.

Tonya J: It's so odd David E. and I agree completely about this film, especially when it involves hetero sex, and that the director, Chereau is gay. He's pretty reasonable about films like this, but re Brokeback Mountain impossible to have a conversation with. Glad you liked it Noel, as did I. Way back I had that real sex in movies thread, which I'm thinking about reviving in some form, and it's a record of how my thinking was able to come around to acceptance of the brief, but real sex there was between the actors in the film.

And this Nordstrom woman is an idiot. When I was 19, ill-informed about life and more than a bit selfish, I had an affair with someone who was married with a child. It went on for 1 1/2 years; stolen moments and hours here and there. I think I was fairly obsessed and when it was over I was devastated. My reasons were much different than the Claire's and the setting(s) weren't grubby like theirs, but still ... yes, women do want sex like that as an escape, as a need, as a release.

Ah, well, there you are. But I was thinking of someone I know, who lived a life not too dissimilar, and wrote a terrific erotic screenplay that was an extension, exaggeration and in a way fulfillment of the life she lived. Interesting Filipino film, and I wish it was more easily available.

And she was--ow--breathtakingly sexy. Best argument for adultery that ever walked on two legs.

Slither (James Gunn, 2006)

2006-05-09T14:27:00.000-07:00

Slither (James Gunn, 2006)

Excerpt:

What with very real horrors readily visible in news broadcasts (from Iraq, for one), escapist horror seems the order of the day in the multiplexes. Last year there was "Saw 2," "Hostel," "The Devil's Rejects," "The Exorcism of Emily Rose," "Dominion: Prequel to The Exorcist" and remakes of "House of Wax" and "The Amityville Horror" among many others; this year there's "The Hills Have Eyes" and the just-released "Silent Hill."

Maybe my biggest problem with all these slash-and-splat flicks is the lack of humor in them; solemn horror now being the dominion of Japanese filmmakers (I'm thinking of Hideo Nakata, whose "The Ring Two" was an underrated little gem, and Kurosawa Kyoshi, the best living practitioner of the genre in Japan--and one of the best in the world, for that matter), most attempts by American directors to be taken seriously will end in a fit of giggles. American directors are better off going in a different direction--the 'horror comedy' for one, which requires the kind of aggressive irreverence they are particularly gifted at (and in fact there already is one American master of the genre, the late, great James Whale). American horror needs, in short, to get back to being fun again.

James Gunn's "Slithers" is horrible fun, a mishmash of half-a-dozen titles including a few classics (the opening is straight out of the original "The Blob"), with references to half a dozen more, including "Rosemary's Baby," "The Thing," "Basket Case," and "Tremors" (don't be intimidated by all the arcane allusions, though--there's plenty to cringe at, and laugh at too).

Whispers of the Heart (Yoshifumi Kondo, 1995)

2006-05-03T21:09:00.000-07:00

From The Forum With No Name:

Something I posted at the Nausicaa Mailing List six years ago (has it been that long?!):

Saw Whispers of the Heart (Please note: plot discussed in close detail). The difficulty here is this is the first I've ever seen of the genre of realistic Japanese high school romance-type anime. I'm not a big fan of young love on film--high school, grade school, nursery, or delivery room--in the first place; hard to put a film into context when you don't really know the context (or have previously held said context in utter contempt) (Note: I've seen a few since then, and this film holds up as one of the best in the genre, I'd say).

That said, the film has enormous charm, is a quiet story of a painful first romance.

The first ninety or so minutes, as Shizuku and Seiji fall in love, are a flawless romantic comedy--wonderfully understated, enchantingly told. I like the device of the library books--as if Seiji where stealthily and obsessively laying his presence all around Shizuku without her noticing it until the right time. I like the cat, fat and self-satisfied--I defy any real cat to come up with as insouciant a performance. I like the precisely executed slapstick bits, the perfectly timed embarrassing revelations, the momentum building up to that delightful moment on the rooftop, where everyone is listening in to the two of them talking.

The last twenty or so minutes are necessary, I guess, to lift this beyond being a mere (if perfect) romance, to explore the consequences of these two particular people falling in love. I can't really object to this part--at this point, the film pretty much could do what it wanted with me--and at least it kept true to its characters, bringing a rather ordinary (if nonetheless true) message home without the thud of obviousness or heavy moralizing.

You can say the marriage proposal at the end is a happy ending--but people declaring undying love at that age have a special pathos, in that they don't really know what the rest of their life will bring to them, or to their relationship. I think the credit sequence--the people walking across the bridge, with only that wonderful cat as recurring character--implies this life-goes-on warning.

I did think that though the fantasy sequence features a lot of flying and floating objects, it didn't have that special spark of a flying sequence actually directed by Miyazaki. (Not true; turns out it WAS directed by Miyazaki; I guess I just wasn't impressed with this particular sequence of his).

The film's special strength is in the Impressionist light that filters through trees (this was Yoshifumi Kondo's first and last directing effort--he died in 1998--and he seems to be a master of leaves and sunlight). One scene--where Shizuku and a boy hold hands--is especially memorable for the beauty of the image (again, with leaf-filtered sunlight), and the emotional charge of the moment.

Sweet and slight (in this case, slight being a high compliment); the best thing I can say for it is that it stays honest to its admittedly sentimental title: it does whisper something to your heart.

And a sequel--

I couldn't help but think of the Scott Spencer novel Endless Love (I can sense the raised eyebrows--but the novel is really much better than that hilarious Brooke Shields travesty).

The lovers there are roughly the same age (though far more, shall we say, physically precocious), and they do make some kind of commitment, though not of marriage. The boy tries to stick to this commitment, and is committed to a mental asylum (this is how we view commitment nowadays?). In the end, they separate, but the boy insists that, outside of time (and in a beautifully written final passage), his feelings for the girl remain the same.

It's not that they love each other less, or that they were incapable of deep or real love; it's just that things change, sometimes beyond one's reach or comprehension.

The two lovers in Whispers have the courage to make such a commitment--though I doubt if they knew what they were really up against. I don't find their gesture implausible, and I definitely appreciate the spirit behind it, but it's a brave thing to do in an essentially impermanent world. I think they know themselves enough and they know how they feel; I just don't think they know enough about the world at large just yet...which is why I find it so tragic and hopeful at the same time.

Asoka Handagama's "Letter of Fire" under fire

2006-05-02T23:05:00.000-07:00

Sri Lankan rights group fears ban on film about incest

The protest letter I sent in response:

It should be noted that Mike de Leon's Kisapmata (Blink of an Eye, 1981) dealt with incest and is regarded as one of the Philippines' greatest films.

The portrayal of incest in a work of art does not imply approval or endorsement of it. Mr. Asoka Handagama, who I met in New Delhi's 2001 Cinefan Film Festival and whose film This is My Moon I managed to see and love in Cinemanila, is a wonderful, humane man, and a true artist. He should be allowed to show his films, whole and unmarred.

Send your own protest / Contact him

Jay Presson Allen, dead at 84

2006-05-02T16:13:00.000-07:00

Jay Presson Allen, dead at 84

I liked her adaptations from novels and the stage best--films like Deathtrap, Prince of the City, Alfred Hitchcock's flawed but fascinating Marnie and, above all, her adaptation of Christopher Isherwood's Berlin Stories into what I think is the greatest musical film ever made, Bob Fosse's Cabaret.

According to Los Angeles film critic David Ehrenstein, her screenplay for Just Tell Me What You Want is based on her affair with producer Ray Stark.

Church thinking of lifting condom ban

2006-05-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

Catholic Church thinking of lifting condom ban

Excerpt:

ROME, May 1 — Even at the Vatican, not all sacred beliefs are absolute: Thou shalt not kill, but war can be just. Now, behind the quiet walls, a clash is shaping up involving two poles of near certainty: the church's long-held ban on condoms and its advocacy of human life.

The Cooler (Wayne Kramer, 2003)

2006-04-28T12:43:00.000-07:00

The Cooler (Wayne Kramer, 2003)

Excerpt:

In Wayne Kramer's "The Cooler" (a 2003 movie for some reason being released in Manila only now) the eponymous character not only has consistent bad luck, but is able to spread that luck around him, like a social disease. It's the kind of superstition you would only find in the old Vegas; the new Vegas is too high-tech, too concerned with balance sheets and the appearance of theme-park wholesomeness to subscribe to such foolishness.

William Macy isn't just the lead; he's the main reason to actually watch this picture. Macy's done sad-sack characters before, most memorably as the put-upon car salesman in the Coen Brothers' 1996 "Fargo," and as the porn star's cuckolded husband in Paul Thomas Anderson's 1997 "Boogie Nights," but I think his Bernie Lootz is about as far as this persona can go without falling into cheap caricature. With his downward sloping eyes and rubbery lips and expression of constant disappointment, he radiates misfortune in waves, affecting players and tables as he passes.

Michelle Pfeiffer as "Catwoman" in "Batman Returns" (Tim Burton, 1992)

2006-04-28T00:19:00.000-07:00

"Life's a bitch; now so am I."

Part of the Michelle Pfeiffer blog-a-thon, managed from this site: Pfeiffer-pforever

(Note: plot points of Tim Burton's Batman Returns (1992) discussed in close detail)

Those immortal words were first spoken on the big screen for the first time on 16 June 1992, and while they haven't exactly changed the world in obvious ways, they have in several thousand little ways, over the many years since. They've certainly stayed with me.

Batman Returns was meant to be Tim Burton's reward for making the 1989 Batman, a huge hit for Warner Studios. Where in the first film Burton felt the pressure and interference of the studio in directing a superproduction, this time he had carte blanche and it shows: the film has more--well, not coherence, you can't really say that--more consistency say, more evidence of a single consciousness' (Burton's) sensibility. If the plot isn't any more logical, the emotions do contain some kind of satisfying sense--Batman (Michael Keaton) and Catwoman (Michelle Pfeiffer) share feelings that progress from mutual attraction to mutual aggression to mutually shared anguish--and the film has dark humor and self-centered melancholy found in Burton's earlier works (Edward Scissorhands; Bettlejuice; his various shorts).

It helps that the script, started by Batman scriptwriter Sam Hamm, passed into the hands of Daniel Waters; Waters, who wrote a memorable female protagonist for his first big-screen feature Heathers (easily the best role dewy, dark-eyed Winona Ryder ever sank her teeth into) seem to have added all the best lines in the film, borrowed a plot from an old Batman TV episode about the Penguin (Danny DeVito) running for mayor, and turned it into an acrid political satire about the struggles involved in winning control over a major American city.

Burton and Waters' script went further on paper, including a more elaborate campaign to discredit Batman (among others, an army of fake Batmans running about and raising hell) and digs at spin-off merchandises like Batman lunchboxes (apparently Burton, unlike Hitchcock, was unable to persuade studio bosses to nip the hand that feeds you). Waters scripts are often toned down, rewritten (his original ending for Heathers had the school blowing up), which says something about how comfortable studio executives are with his work; fortunately, much of the dialogue he wrote for Pfeiffer made it into the final cut.

"How can you be so mean to someone so meaningless?"

Pfeiffer as Selina Kyle, Schreck's secretary ('assistant,' first enters the film carrying coffee for her boss Max Schreck (Christopher Walken); she's Selina Kyle, Schreck's secretary ("assistant," she insists), and Schreck's attitude towards her is summed up with the following words: "I'm afraid we haven't properly housebroken Ms. Kyle…in the plus column, though, she knows how to brew coffee."

It's a witheringly condescending attitude, made worse by how meekly Selina takes it all in, slapping her forehead and calling herself a "stupid corn dog;" when Schreck forgets his speech for a Christmas tree lighting, Selina hurries desperately to bring the notes to him and is assaulted by a clown member of the Red Triangle Gang, who holds her hostage with a stun gun at her throat. Batman knocks the clown out and leaves her without a word, to which she responds: "That was very brief. Like most men in my life. What men?"

Then we get the first hint of a worm turning: Selina picks up the stun gun and gives the unconscious thug a quick jolt.

Selina's first words upon entering her apartment are: "Honey, I'm home." Pause. "Oh, I forgot, I'm not married." She feeds her cat, Miss Kitty, all the while commenting enviously on the cat's active social life--apparently Selina's smart and witty, but also so lonely she has to provide her own funny repartee. Her answering machine furnishes further tidbits: a mother that nags her to call back and a boyfriend that on doctor's advice is breaking up with her "to be my own person now, and not some appendage" ("Some appendage," Selina mutters). Finally she hears her own voice, reminding her to go back to her office to do some more work.

"The party never stops on Selina Kyle's answering machine," she notes dryly at one point. If she's lonely that's because of her low self-esteem, beaten down in part from living in the big city too long (it's not as if she had a choice; back in her home town, her lovingly asphyxiating mother is waiting for her to call back--and here we see the other source (other than Schreck) for her shrunken sense of self). She's not without spirit--she beats her boyfriend at racquetball*, speaks up (if timidly) to her boss, gives the odd psychopath a good jolt in the ribs--but these are like fading signs of life in an upright corpse. Batman came to her rescue but didn't even bother to return her greeting; he responded to her jeopardy, but refused to respond to her neediness.

(*Selina wonders "I should've let him win that last racquetball game," but it's not a question of letting some man win a ball game; it's the pathos of choosing a man so lame his confidence is shattered at losing to a girl)

Pfeiffer in these scenes is wonderfully game: she was always good at comedy, especially romantic comedy, and can even do slapstick (Into the Night; The Witches of Eastwick; Amazon Women on the Moon; Married to the Mob; The Fabulous Baker Boys; Frankie and Johnny). Here her huge blue eyes widen in dismay or terror at problems big and small (a forgotten speech; a boss' withering comment; a psychopath's assault), her shoulders slump in comic exhaustion ("you have to come all the way back to the office"), her feet spin and whirl and double on themselves to keep up with her hectic yet empty life.

Yet there's that moment with the stun gun. She looks around to see if anyone's looking, then jams the instrument into the man's side, her face crackling with malevolent glee; it's as if the gun were wired directly into her pubis and she was taking unholy delight from the voltage. When she pulls the gun away she's totally bewildered, unable to believe she was capable of such an act.

An interesting problem for the meek and mild Selina to try and grapple with; you can almost hear the questions: "Who is this inside me, ready with power racquetball serves and stun guns? Why do I let all these men walk over me--when they bother to notice? Why did I leave home, where I’m oppressed, to come to the city, where I’m oppressed even more?" All interestingly knotty questions that would take most other movies the rest of their running time to work out; she never does here, unfortunately, because she's murdered that very same night.

"I don't know about you, Miss Kitty, but I feel so much yummier."

Selina's death is terrifying enough (Schreck pushes her out a high window, and in moment of Burton-style visual audacity we follow her all the way to the ground) but the scene with all the cats 'feasting' on her body--what is that? Resurrected life was not part ofthe Catwoman comic-book mythos (though Selina in the early comics sufferedfrom amnesia caused by a blow to the head, which might be considered a kind of resurrection (later, the amnesia is explained away as faked, an attempt to give up her life of crime--yet another resurrection, in effect)).

Bast--a creature in the form of a cat, or a woman with a cat's head--was one of the most popular gods in Egyptian mythology; she was said to be a daughter of Ra, the protector of cats and of those who protected cats. In the Middle Ages, black cats were considered familiars of witches, associated with the Devil, and burned. Cats have a mystique, a sense of not being completely of this world, and are worshipped for it; at the same time their aloofness and unpredictability can be aggravating, even terrifying, and they're persecuted for that as well (to the medieval Europeans' unknowing regret--the massacre of cats led to a proliferation of rats, and helped bring about the Black Plague). The same can be said of women too, that they're worshipped for their beauty and mystique, and persecuted for their fickleness and duplicity (a dog's affection or dislike is readily apparent; a cat's--who knows who it likes, and for how long?).

Can we say that Selina, protector of a cat (or at least its keeper), is possibly under Bast's protection? That Selina's Miss Kitty is a witch's familiar, calling on fellow cats and the the Devil to bring its mistress back to life? That the cats, sensing a fellow feline in distress, lent her their life-force? That Selina is a kind of put-upon cat who in extremis finds herself wielding the cat's most fascinating power, its ability to live out nine lives (to, in effect, survive eight deaths)?

Whatever; the upshot of all this is that Selina Kyle is reborn as the more powerful, less sane Catwoman. The rebirth is not a painless process; Selina comes home, recites her familiar line ("Honey I'm home. Oh I forgot, I'm not married..."), walking like a woman in a trance. She listens to her answering machine, relentless chronicler of her so-called life,and on the umpteenth message with ironic import finally cracks, screaming her head off, trashing her apartment, smashing the letters 'o' and 't' in a neon "hello there" sign, making it read: "hell here"); she sews patches and gloves together to create a cat costume, all wire and gleaming black vinyl.

Selina's already fragile psyche has shattered; in her attempt at recovery she's stitched together various fragments into a Frankenstein personality (talk about sewing as psychic therapy)--part avenging angel, part feline, part psychopath. Pfeiffer's eyes take on a wild glare, her lips red and moist and open, her voice a mix of low purr and barely controlled shriek.

"Mistletoe can be deadly, if you eat it." "A kiss can be deadlier if you mean it."

To make things more complicated, Selina shows up for work--to no small surprise to Schreck--and Batman, in the guise of Bruce Wayne, is finally expressing interest. Why? Bruce is yet another hurt psyche; as a superhero, he finds it more prudent to respond only to great need and extreme circumstances, otherwise he'll stop functioning altogether (from sheer exhaustion, for one). If Selina attracts Bruce, that may be because she's no longer entirely Selina but a stronger persona, one who--like him--has learned to cope with her various traumas in a not-altogether-sane fashion. As Selina puts it later in the film "sickos never scare me--at least they're committed." Sickos apparently don't scare Wayne either--the opposite, if anything.

Selina ventures forth as Catwoman; she encounters Batman, and they fight. Catwoman's tactics are distinctly feline (distinctly feminine?)--when Batman strikes her, she yelps "How could you? I'm a woman!" Batman murmurs "I'm sorry," reaches down; she promptly kicks him backwards off the roof, lashes her whip round his hand and, as he hangs by his arm, continues: "--I'm a woman, and can't be taken for granted." More witty banter, more innuendos, some napalm judiciously applied to a slender upper arm, a savage thrust at a heavily armored midriff (Batman's vest is proof against bullets, but interestingly not against Catwoman's sewing-needle claws), and Batman finds himself accidentally throwing her off the roof. "I tried to grab you--save you--" Batman later tries to explain, to which Catwoman replies "Seems like every woman you try to save ends up dead, or deeply resentful."

We've seen this sort of relationship before: two people mutually attracted the same time they're antagonistic with each other, a storyline that was old back when Shakespeare used it for The Taming of the Shrew, through the screwball comedies of the 1930s, up to "Moonlighting" in the 1980s. To this classic formula Burton and Waters add masks, and a shared case of borderline psychosis.

The additions are no small thing. Notice, for example, that when meeting each other as normal human beings, Selina and Bruce are politely civilized; when masked their true selves come out fighting. They're able to do more--kiss, caress, lather the other's face with saliva, share their most intimate details--disguised than they do undisguised, where a special news report or urgent phone call can cut short their lovemaking (it helps that Keaton and Pfeiffer were former lovers--they bring the physical ease and sexual chemistry they had in real life (what other actress would be so liberal with her tongue on an actor, no matter how famous?) to the big screen).

Then, of course, Schreck's costume ball--it's a brilliant conceit by Burton and Waters that the one time everyone is expected to don a mask Selina and Bruce wear bare faces. They talk softly, flirt gently. Selina reveals her reason for coming (to kill Schreck), and Bruce, shocked, tries to shush her; details slip from between their lips, and they recognize each other's true identity.

But it was already obvious; you just had to take note of the way the two were talking to each other, as if they had their masks on, their civilized veneer off. They need to remember that their masks are off, and that they have to keep their discoveries from everyone else. It all becomes too much, at least for Selina; when Bruce asks her who she think she is, Pfieffer gives a wild, near-hysterical laugh and replies, tremulously: "I don't know anymore." It's a funny line, and you laugh when hearing it; then you look at Pfeiffer's face, see how lost she looks--a little girl who literally doesn't know which way is up--and the laughter dies in your throat. A poignant moment, one of the loveliest in career full of lovely moments.

"I am not a human being! I'm an animal!"

It might be argued that Batman Returns is essentially a '90s variation on classic screwball, with this silly monstrous Penguin-Man getting in the way once in a while, but DeVito's Penguin is too memorable a character for that to be totally true. He's a grotesque variation on Charles Dickens' youthful protagonists, the little orphan grown to mutant proportions (he might have been someone Dickens thought up had Dickens lived to the the 1990s and written for Hollywood). He represents unattractive little boys and their tendency to be abandoned by their parents, by friends, by everyone; his story gives us the pathos of people so utterly unlovable they can't totally be hated (Batman, I suppose, gives us the pathos of someone who hates too well to be able to love easily). Both Penguin and Batman and every other aspect of Burton's masterpiece have dimensions and complexities that deserve further discussion in their own separate articles.

It's interesting to note, though, how the three main characters are treated, how their storylines unfold across the picture's running time. Each is a force of nature, with his or her set of 'familiars' (animal servants representing the witches' will, life-force, what-have-you) hovering about them, giving them a larger-than-life quality, sometimes influencing the outcome. The three storylines criss-cross, interlock, careen and bounce off of each other--Penguin's is the first to begin, first to end; Catwoman's is the last to begin and ends next; Batman's is perhaps the saddest, continuing to the next few (and far more wretched) sequels directed by Joel ("I'm such a hack everyone and their sisters for miles around can smell me") Schumacher.

If Penguin represents the fear of abandonment and Batman the thirst for vengeance, Catwoman comes to represent the tendency of the feline and feminine to attract as well as antagonize. In emphasizing the split nature of Selina and Catwoman--how they're two radically different faces of the same coin--the film shows us the equally radical faces of cats in general, the different ways we respond to them, and, by incident and metaphor and imaginative imagery, how this extends to the way women appear and are treated as well. We've heard stories of cats burned, crushed, smothered, drowned, tortured, turned into steamed buns, of a hundred and one uses for a dead cat (in fact there's a famous joke book from the late '80s), of worse, much worse; it's not so much the fact that they're abused as it is the number and variety and sheer cruelty displayed that's so unsettling. Selina Kyle / Catwoman in this film is dropped from a building, scorched by napalm, strangled by an umbrella's crook, repeatedly shot by a gun, electrocuted by a massive air-conditioning unit, leered over, abused, insulted and all around humiliated; at the same time she's reborn, renewed, even regarded with love, affection, regret.

The film is not a cheerful depiction of the treatment of cats (or of women), overall, but it's a strangely inspiring one; it shows their strength and uncanny ability to survive, even thrive in the face of adversity. I don't think it an accident that after this film Burton wanted to make a spin-off sequel, this time focusing on Catwoman's characteralone (would have been even nicer if Pfeiffer hadbeen available to reprise her role). Catwoman / Selina / Pfeiffer may not have been the only memorable character in the film, but she was arguably the one with the most resonance, the one that haunts our--or at least my--memories the most often, leaving the sharpest pangs of--well, whatever. To quote one of the Penguin's funniest lines:

"Just the pussy I've been looking for!"

I can accept no other.

The Bad and the Beautiful (Vincent Minelli, 1952)

2006-04-25T14:29:00.000-07:00

Vincente Minnelli's The Bad and the Beautiful is a struggle to like at first; knowing it's a takeoff on David Selznick's life doesn't help. Every time one of the people facing Walter Pidgeon tells his or her story, Pidgeon replies with "Oh yeah, he ruined your life--all you got was an Academy Award, big boxoffice, the Pulitzer Prize, etc."

And maybe that's bearable, but the line "you know, when they list the ten best pictures ever made, there are always two or three of his on the list" really sticks to my craw. Well, there is The Third Man.

Maybe even if I didn't know it was Selznick it's a bit of a struggle. His brand of tough love in the service of his passion for moviemaking seems, on one hand, teasingly authentic in detail, yet on the other, somehow sanitized--he doesn't go to bed with Turner, he's implicated but did not cause the murder of Powell's wife, so on and so forth.

But it's still a fascinating story, and it's wonderful to see how real Hollywood characters are conflated or combined, leaving you guessing who is who (is that Stroheim or Sternberg? Is Turner Diana Barrymore or Jennifer Jones? Is Powell Faulkner or Fitzgerald?). And the climaxes of each story have real power, as Douglas runs through the deadliest of the sins. Betrayal for power, betrayal for sex, betrayal for maybe the most perverse motive of all, the good of the person betrayed.

The most vivid climax I thought was the second, with Douglas freaking out and frightening Turner into that half-suicidal drive. I've heard of people watching that scene for laughs but I thought it was hair-raising the way the camera swings around her like a passerby catching a glimpse, the way the traffic lights glare and glower round her, the way Turner (in one take, I hear, possibly her single best moment on film) runs the gamut from hysteria to despair, all in a few minutes. She upstages Powell's story, though Powell does have one great bit--when he stares at Douglas, finally knowing what he'd done, and Douglas desperately tries to talk his way out of it.

Alida Valli, dead at 84

2006-04-24T00:25:00.000-07:00

Alida Valli, dead at 84

Walking past the hapless Joseph Cotten in Carol Reed's The Third Man, being humiliated by Farley Granger in Luchino Visconti's Senso, grinning as the evil Miss Tanner in Dario Argento's Suspiria, she's had many a memorable moment in many a memorable film.

2046

2006-04-21T14:46:00.000-07:00

2046 (Wong Kar Wai, 2004)

Excerpt:

Critics seem to feel that Wong Kar Wai's latest film "2046" (2004) is inferior to his previous "In the Mood for Love," made four years earlier; that the former--endlessly tinkered with to the point that it was seriously late for its screening in Cannes--is essentially an amorphous, unfinished work that needs both serious tightening-up and developing. I feel differently; taken together, the two films seem to be stronger than if taken separately.

It's about Mr. Chow Mo Wan (Tony Leung Chiu Wai), a writer in the '60s living in a Hong Kong hotel, making love to a passing parade of impossibly beautiful women (Gong Li, Zhang Ziyi, Faye Wong, among others), obsessing about a neighboring hotel room with the number 2046 nailed to its door, and writing about a superfast train traveling in time to the year--you guessed it--2046.

The proper use of Rock Hudson

2006-04-21T00:54:00.000-07:00

I liked Sirk's famous pair of films with Jane Wyman and Rock Hudson, but what stays with me is the question of Rock Hudson. He's like a taller, more imposing Keanu Reeves--impassive, somewhat limited, but there's something to that dully handsome exterior that you can't quite dismiss.

Much--maybe all--of the fascination is in the way he's used, and Hudson's lucky in that respect; in Frankenheimer's Seconds (where he gives what I think is the performance of his career), he's convincingly anguished. In Sirk's films, he barely cracks a facial muscle, but Sirk manages to suggest pages behind those minimal twitches, in the way his characters are written, and the way he's directed and shot. Sirk's always using his handsomeness against him--in Magnificent Obsession, to suggest an initial shalloweness, something Hudson has to struggle against and finally overcome; when he courts Wyman, his ardor suggest that of a drop-dead gorgeous but insecure actor courting his muse, wishing she would bestow on him the blessing of a great--or at least fascinating--performance. The gambit works, I think.

In (and I think more interestingly) All That Heaven Allows, his handsomeness suggests a monumental sense of self-possession, comparable to Reeves in Little Buddha or in The Matrix. Hudson's character has got no insecurities, no neuroses, no hypocrisies, nothing to prove or achieve or hide, and the effect, the film seems to suggest, is to make him supremely calm and serene--to make the man, in effect, as physically magnetic as, well, Rock Hudson.

In both films, it's Wyman who's the dramatic focus, Wyman who moves us to tears. But Hudson's the rock--the pure, unadulterated crystal that Sirk's melted down and fused--against which Wyman is able to turn and find dramatic traction; he focuses her energies in the direction Sirk intended.

Roast Pacenta (in honor of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes' alleged baby)

2006-04-20T00:34:00.000-07:00

Taken from a website Mothers 35 plus:

Chop one onion, one green pepper, and one red pepper; crush one packet of saltines into crumbs. Add in a bowl the onion, peppers, saltines, a teaspoon each of bay leaves, white pepper, black pepper, one clove of roasted and minced garlic, and one cup tomato sauce and one 3-pound placenta (fresh; no more than 3 days old) in a bowl.

Put in a loaf pan, cover, bake at 350 degrees for ninety minutes, occasionally pouring out excess liquid.

Actually sounds tasty.

"Imitation of Life" (John Stahl, Douglas Sirk; 1934, 1959)

2006-04-19T21:42:00.000-07:00

For some reason I've been catching Douglas Sirk and Vincente Minnelli films.

Interesting to see the two versions of Imitation of Life; thought John Stahl's version has a wonderful performance by Claudette Colbert, and some lovely give-and-take between her and Warren William as her boyfriend. Liked the film overall, and wondered how Sirk could improve on it.

Few days later, saw Sirk's version. No, I didn't think Lana Turner was quite the equal of Colbert (I can't think of many women who are), and John Gavin was a poor substitute for the suave William.

Juanita Moore, however, was tremendous as Annie Johnson, and she answered the one question bugging me about the classroom scene in the 1934 version: how can a mother be so dense as to not realize the effect her visit to her white-looking daughter would have at a school full of white children (in Juanita's case, Annie had expected her daughter to admit she's not white)? Louise Beavers played Delilah Johnson as a sweet simpleton; Moore's Ms. Johnson is cannier, wiser to the ways of the world--when her heart breaks, it's more affecting.

And her daughter, Sarah Jane, has been reworked into a more malevolent presence. As played by the young Karin Dicker, Sarah Jane's chillingly impassive; as played by Susan Kohner, she's an intimidating sexual presence as well. I actually felt a thrill when she looked hungrily at Gavin, thinking she'd make a play for him, was disappointed when she didn't; she added a lot of heat to the film's already melodramatic mix.

Maybe the one scene of hers that I disliked was her meeting with her boyfriend--that somehow felt off, like they should have perhaps played that scene physically closer together, or perhaps they should have talked faster, in a more casual manner; I'd also like to see more convincing blows from the boyfriend; as is, they seem to miss completely. And I wish the music had been anything other than the obviously lurid jazz piece actually used.

Sandra Dee's plotline isn't so hot, either. It wasn't when Rochelle Hudson played Colbert's daughter, but at least she provided the catalyst for Colbert and William's conflict; in Turner's case, she just looks distressed for a while, then forgets the whole thing because Sarah Jane's in trouble again. The black women's story consistently overshadows the white women's; only Colbert is able to give her dilemma some poignancy towards the end.

Turner, to her credit, plays some of her best scenes near the beginning, when we see her struggling to succeed. The subplot in the '34 version involved pancakes (it's amusing to see Delilah incarnate the story of 'Aunt Jemima'), and while setting up a successful business is probably harder and more involved work than succeeding on the theater stage, it isn't as dramatic, which is what we get with Turner's story, and she runs with it as far as she can.

Lovely to watch Sirk tell the story--I'll have to admit, I like the 34 version's no-frills storytelling, but there's something to Sirk's voluptuous, bright-colored style that's maddeningly seductive. He'll give you a deceptively simple setup, and have the actors walk from one side to the other, away and towards the camera, and you realize that no matter where they walk, they end up in a series of interesting compositions. At a dramatic moment Sirk moves the camera in closer, and the movement is like a punctuation mark, like the thrill of feeling a rollercoaster car jerk closer towards a sheer drop.

I'm afraid I don't like the music--I'm hardly an expert, and almost definitely not qualified to judge, but the score seems to do a disservice to the intelligence of Sirk's visual style, points up the melodrama when I'd much prefer it underplayed--or maybe used as some kind of ironic counterpoint.

Roman-style carbonara

2006-04-18T20:13:00.000-07:00

From The Forum With No Name:

Did a carbonara the way they do it in Rome (or as close to Rome as I'm going to get), which turns out to be as easy as falling off a log. Fry a cup of panchetta (which had soaked in water the night before, to leach out the saltiness) till crispy, set aside; boil the pasta (eight ounces only, or half a box--this is a heavy dish). While the pasta cooks, whisk four egg yolks with half a cup of heavy cream, add plenty of grinds of black pepper, gurgle maybe half a cup of white wine into the mix; a few minutes before it's done spoon half a cup of the boiling pasta water into the cream and egg, to temper the mixture. Put the panchetta back on low heat, drain the pasta and dump on top of the panchetta, pour in the egg and cream mix, toss immediately for one minute, then top with a cup of grated Pecorino cheese and chopped Italian parsley.

Not too bad. Can't eat too much of this, or my arteries'll clog...

Grave of the Fireflies (Isao Takahata, 1988): a little debate

2006-04-18T04:21:00.000-07:00

Interesting debate on Grave of the Fireflies, Isao Takahata's 1988 masterpiece, initiated by gabe in the Miyazaki Mailing List

He does an admirable job of editing together the various posts in a very long and rather intense discussion...but fails to include my final word on the subject.

So, to put the record straight:

Friday, 28 October 2005:

> From:    Sing Yung JONG <singyung@PACIFIC.NET.SG>
> Then there is the "art film" aspect, by which I mean
> a film that is NOT
> plot-driven. I mean, some "stories" are really
> mood-driven, character-
> driven, theme-driven, etc., rather than
> story-driven.

There is a whole mode of storytelling in film and
literature that works this way, to which Japan is a
significant contributor: the works of masters like
Naruse and Ozu, of present-day contributors like
Hirokazu Kore-eda, of Taiwanese like Hou Hsiao Hsien
and Edward Yang, of Theo Angelopolous, Jacques
Rivette...it's a whole other way of storytelling
Hollywood (or Disney, for that matter) hasn't even
begun to explore.

> That's why I think it's a great idea for the
> Japanese TV series based on
> the book to use the aunt as a viewpoint character.

I'd like to see that series; wonder if it'll ever make
it on DVD.

> On Tue, 25 Oct 2005 21:24:12 -0700, Patrick Drazen
> <patrickdrazen@YAHOO.COM>
> Specifically, I'm thinking of the scene in which
> Shizuku nestles happily
> into Seiji's back as he gives her a ride on his
> bike.

Another moment that stays with me is San waking up to
Ashitaka watching over her. She has this moment where
she blinks sleepily, and it's as eloquent a moment of
blissful content as anything I've seen. A prime
example of Miyazaki transcending the, what I called
"ostensible limitations" of his medium.

> From:    gabe <gabechu@GMAIL.COM>
> that I found the
> brother's actions/inactions disgusting

Disgusting I can possible agree (I think that's one of
the key ambiguities in the film), but a person acting
in a morally repulsive manner doesn't necessarily
imply that the film is morally repulsive.

> I'm not trying to convince you
> that it's a bad
> film.

Understood. But if a person speaks out in a strong
negative reaction to a film others cherish so much,
the others can't help but ask (at the very least) that
person to try substantiate or elaborate on his
reactions--to help them at least understand where that
person is coming from, and beyond that, I guess,
hopefully learn that where that person is 'coming
from' is at least an understandable view. I'm not
quite sure I understand.

> I really don't remember the music (a hallmark of a
> good soundtrack
> some might say)

Two kinds of music: those that stay in the background,
and those that do not. Good music would follow the
artist's intentions. I do believe Takahata wanted
background music, not something you would hum walking
out of the theater.

> When I said that I felt it was trying too
> hard, I was
> referring to it's plot and situations (from a story
> point of view, not
> from a biographical point of view). See my statement
> regarding bathos.

Bathos coming from a real-life situation? I can't see
that. I can see bathos coming from the tone of the
film, and the way crucial scenes are played; that's
why I'm focused on the music and 'acting' (word in
quotes because, after all, these are celluloid figures
(which is the magic of it)).

> Not that I want anyone to, but I don't think anyone
> has actually
> refuted my main point of the brother's actions being
> disgusting.

I've mentioned choice being an essential part of
classic tragedy. Beyond that, the fact that the
brother had a choice gives rise to a series of
thoughts and feelings that complicate one's attitude
to the film beyond mere pity. That's the sort of thing
art does.

> already brought up). I don't want to see him letting
> his sister starve
> to death again. That, to me, is not a good story.

I understand the sentiment, though I might add by that
line of reasoning, Shoeshine and Los Olvidados (an
equally if not more harrowing film) do not have good
stories. Come to think of it, they have 'meandering,'
'shapeless' narratives as well (words in quotes since
these qualities are often arrived at through careful
script writing).

> While discussing any subject it
> certainly helps to be
> well-versed on the subject matter

Definitely agree with that.

> From:    Charles Schoppet <schoppet@GMAIL.COM>
> I can understand the actions of the brother in GOTF.
>   It's so easy
> for an adult to miss the signs of starvation in a
> child, that they see
> everyday.

There's that moment of shock when the girl takes off
her shirt, and the brother sees her ribs poking
through the skin. He may have had an idea, but I think
the full extent of it never dawned on him until that
moment.

> From:    gabe <gabechu@GMAIL.COM>
> without question. But without admitting the brother
> character
> logically had to have eaten his sister's food,
> viewing the movie might
> seem that the brother character placed a relatively
> larger part of the
> blame on the situation rather than his own decision.

It's possible; the tragedy there then is of willful
blindness. But if he blames the situation rather than
himself, would he allow himself to starve to death?

> Reading the author's words, there was a very clear
> admittance of guilt
> and wrongdoing on his part. Watching his story, I
> don't think he went
> so far as to fully disclose the depths of his
> depravity.

But does this make the film a bad film? The author
speaks out directly, and that's good; the film makes
the point subtly, the guilt hinted at by the brother's
decision to leave his aunt (he kills his sister with
his pride) and his own eventual suicide.

> On 10/27/05, Charles Schoppet <schoppet@gmail.com>
> wrote:
> > However, I do believe he should have taken his
> Aunt's lead and found work.

And that's why I believe Grave is closer to classic
tragedy than a mere documentation. He had a choice, he
wilfully led his sister to her doom. With the
mitigating thought that he probably didn't think of it
intentionally that way (I'd rather have my pride than
my sister), that he actually thought they can live it
out on their own, and that swallowing one's pride in
that situation is really quite hard. I can see he's
wrong, but I hesitate to condemn him for it.

> From: gabe <gabechu@GMAIL.COM>
> I mostly avoid dramas, but when it comes to
> tragedies, I'll move to a
> different state. Had I looked at it in that way (or
> had it been sold
> to me in that manner), I probably would've never
> even watched it.

I do think the marketing doesn't do enough to warn
prospective viewers...but how to do that without
giving away the story? Tough sell.

(Postscript: I should clarify that what I mean by "classic tragedy" isn't the tragedy of the Greeks, where fate is unchangeable, but something closer to Shakespeare, where character determines fate as much as outward forces do. Seita is undone by his inner flaws as much as by the war.)

Dirty pictures in a Disney film

2006-04-17T19:51:00.000-07:00

Naked women in The Rescuers

The key question here, as pointed out, is why the video was pulled out. If they didn't bother with all those other films (The Little Mermaid, The Lion King, Aladdin), why this one? To help with nonexistent sales?

Fatty shrimp in pasta

2006-04-17T16:06:00.000-07:00

Quick pasta--some large shrimp, fatty head still attached, cleaned and deveined, thrown into a really hot pan with olive oil and a pat of butter, quick sear, then just as quick put aside, toss in the shrimp heads for a moment till they turn orange (for the flavor), take out and discard, then add chopped smoked oysters, mushrooms, minced garlic, a squeeze of lemon. Toss in pasta cooked a minute short, put back the shrimp, top with chopped Italian parsley, toss to mix, and serve.

The oysters gave the whole thing a nice smokiness, and the shrimp fat--thick and bright orange--adds a whole world of flavor and richness to the sauce...

Philippine horror films at monstersandcritics.com

2006-04-13T17:49:00.000-07:00

My article on Philippine horror films at monstersandcritics.com:

It's Alive

(Apparently you need to be patient; it takes time to upload)

Excerpt:

Horror isn't a respected genre in the Philippines--actually, it gets little respect everywhere--but there's been good, maybe even great, work done in the country.

Gerardo de Leon started a trend with 'Terror is a Man' (1959), loosely based on H.G. Wells' 'The Island of Dr. Moreau,' but because of a small budget, Wells' monsters were reduced to one limping Leopard Man.

De Leon's atmospheric style made up for lack of monsters, however, and the film earned enough money that De Leon followed up with a series of so-called sequels, the 'Blood Island' movies: fun if carelessly made flicks full of nudity and gut-spattering gore.

De Leon also directed a pair of vampire films--'Kulay Dugo ang Gabi' (Blood is the Color of the Night, 1966), and 'Dugo ng Vampira' (Blood of the Vampires, 1971) which are worth seeing for the lovely visuals and seething subtext of incestuous passions.

Smart kid

2006-04-12T10:47:00.000-07:00

From Bizarre Hatred of Random Celebrities:

Mrs. Brooks was having trouble with one of her students.

"Johnny, what's your problem?"

Johnny answered, "I'm too smart for first grade. My sister's in third grade and I'm smarter than she is! I think I should be in third grade too." Mrs. Brooks took Johnny to the principal's office.

The principal spoke to Johnny: "Now Johnny, if you're so smart, you should pass this test. What's 3 x 3?"

Johnny: "9."

Principal: "What's 6 x 6 ?"

Johnny: "36."

The principal looks at Mrs. Brooks and tells her, "I think Johnny can go to third grade."

Mrs. Brooks says "Let me ask some questions. What does a cow have four of that I have only 2 of?"

Johnny: "Legs."

Mrs. Brooks: "What do you have in your pants that I don't?"

Johnny: "Pockets."

Mrs. Brooks: "What starts with C, ends with T, is hairy, oval, delicious and contains a whitish liquid?"

Johnny: "Coconut."

Mrs. Brooks: "What goes in hard and pink and comes out soft and sticky?"

Johnny: "Bubblegum."

Mrs. Brooks: "What does a man do standing up, a woman sitting down and a dog on 3 legs?"

Johnny: "Shake hands."

Mrs. Brooks: "You stick your poles inside me. You tie me down to get me up. I get wet before you do. What am I?"

Johnny: "Tent."

Mrs. Brooks: "A finger goes inside me. You fiddle me when you're bored. The best man always has me first."

Johnny: "Wedding Ring."

Mrs. Brooks: "I have a stiff shaft. My tip penetrates. I come with a quiver."

Johnny; "Arrow."

Mrs. Brooks: "What word starts with F, ends in K and means a lot of heat and excitement?"

Johnny: "Firetruck."

The principal said to the teacher, "Send Johnny to the university. I got the last ten questions wrong, myself."

Peter Dragon in 'Action'

2006-04-11T16:53:00.000-07:00

From The Forum with No Name:

Peter Dragon, testifying before a congressional panel on violence--

Senator Powell: Mr. Dragon, you have a young daughter, do you not?

Dragon: Let's not go there.

Senator Powell: Her name is Georgia. She's about 10 years old, I believe.

Dragon: Don't do this.

Senator Powell: Has little Georgia seen your film entitled "Ripcord"?

Dragon: She can't get in, Senator, it's rated 'R'.

Senator Powell: --which contains 357 acts of violence, 175 profanities and four scenes of lesbian sex? Is she proud of her daddy for that one? How can you look that sweet little girl in the eye?

Dragon: I manage. I never voted to subsidize the growing of tobacco while turning my back on programs for starving kids. I've never vetoed a gun control bill--all my guns are fake, Senator. I've never rushed to the defense of Kuwaiti oil fields while ignoring genocide in Africa because the big oil companies that line your fat pockets aren't concerned with Africa. Those are all productions of your company, Senator. This company right here.

Powell: Now you're coming perilously close to being cited for contempt, Mr. Dragon.

Dragon: I'm already in contempt. I'm in contempt of all of you old whores and hypocrites. At least I'm giving the American people what they want.

Powell: And just exactly what is it that you think they want?

Dragon: I'll tell you exactly what they want, Senator. They want chase scenes and car crashes, they want firm breasts and tight-assed Latino men. They want their cowboys to be strong and silent, they want their cops to bend the rules to get the job done, they want the boy to get the girl, they want the alien to be killed--unless he's cute. They want the good guy to win, they want the bad guy to die, hopefully in the biggest explosion the budget will allow but most importantly, Senator, they want to walk into a theater and forget the fucking mess you have left of this nation.

Harold Ramis tears yahoos a new one

2006-04-10T21:55:00.000-07:00

From an interview of Harold Ramis in The Believer:

BLVR: Rumor has it that you turned down the chance to direct Disney’s remake of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner because you felt they weren’t interested in really exploring racism.

HR: The way they wanted to do it didn’t have a lot to do with the colossal amount of pain and violence that swirls around racial injustice. It would’ve been like an episode of The Jeffersons. What’s the point? But who knows, maybe that’s as much as most people want. I can’t tell you how many people have told me, “When I go to the movies, I don’t want to think.”

BLVR: Does that offend you as a filmmaker?

HR: It offends me as a human being. Why wouldn’t you want to think? What does that mean? Why not just shoot yourself in the fucking head?

Robert Sheckley's 'Immortality, Inc.'

2006-04-10T21:22:00.000-07:00

Was reading Robert Sheckley's Immortality, Inc, and it's brilliant metaphysical stuff, with enough ideas to have inspired half a dozen life-after-death films, plus plenty left over that no one's mined yet. And funny as hell, with an intriguing sense of morality. The plot twists and outrageous effects aren't there to amuse and provoke (though they do plenty of both); they're there to drive home an actual point, about the concept of karma and the idea of taking responsibility.

One thing not a lot of people mention is that Shecklye's prose can be quietly lyrical. His description of the Marquiesas is loving yet specific, not just the sights and sounds and scents but the very feel of the place; you get the idea you'd find the place familiar if you ever dropped by for a visit.

On nasty film reviews

2006-04-09T18:35:00.000-07:00

From Salon's Laura Miller, reviewing Lopate's new anthology of film criticism:

Of course, for indiscriminate journalists — the sorts of writers who have filled the post of movie reviewer at a lot of American newspapers and some American magazines for decades — the preponderance of dull, average movies isn’t a problem. They can’t tell much difference between “Wedding Crashers” and “Failure to Launch” to begin with and are happy to be dazzled by the stars. But good reviewers, remember, must also be good writers, and good writers want subjects that fire them up. The kind of person who sees, say, “Ultraviolet,” then goes home, looks up a review online, marvels at the critic’s vitriol and fires off an e-mail saying, “Chill out, dude, it’s just a movie. It was fun,” is not someone whose opinions anyone wants to read at length, on a regular basis — or ever, really. (And, confidentially, if you are the kind of person who sends those e-mails: What gives? If you don’t think certain movies should be taken so seriously, why even bother to read the reviews?)

Italics mine.

Richard Fleischer, dead at 89

2006-04-08T01:28:00.000-07:00

Richard Fleischer, dead at 89

Son of Max Flesicher, he was a terrific craftsman. Maybe my favorite of his works was 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (the best live-action Disney, as well, until Lynch's The Straight Story came along). I'd love to have seen his 3-hour cut of Mandigo, said to be a great film.

How much of a film snob are you?

2006-04-07T00:28:00.000-07:00

TOTAL FILM SNOB
You scored 100% film snobbery. If you are not working for a film magazine or an academic film program, you should be. You are Hollywood's most harshest critic. You even gave "Lord of the Rings" a bad review. Oftentimes, your friends will look at you funny because of your obscure film tastes. You would even occasionally get into arguments over films, to the extent that people think you hate films. Your favorite hobbies are likely to incluide sipping lattes and bashing Spielberg. However, you have a tremendous love for film even though most people think you're a cinematic party pooper.

My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 99% on variable 1

Link: The How Big of a Film Snob Are You Test written by klausweasley on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Some comments:

Simon has a tremendous filmography (L'Atalante, La Chienne, Boudou Saved From Drowning), but I love Mifune more.

Ditto Auteuil vs. Murray (no, I'm not a big fan of Jean de Florette and Manon of the Springs, and yes Auteuil is very good there).

Ditto Seberg vs. Bergman (far as I know, Seberg's only worthwile pic is A Bout de Souffle).

Huppert can be such a bitch; if I vote for her, that's because she's worked with plenty of great directors (Chabrol, Godard, Tavernier) and very good ones (Kurys, Haneke, Ozon, Russell).

I love Lloyd (and so do my kids) but Keaton is God.

When mentioning regions, the time period is also crucial. Hence, France and Italy are unbeatable in the silent period, India is great during the '50s, etc....

Not a fan of Tati, but the rest of the choices are even less palatable.

Kafka's 'Metamorphosis' has been done many times.

Ivens died in 1989?!

Jack Cardiff (cinematographer of The Red Shoes and Black Narcissus) is still alive?!

Rent (Chris Columbus, 2005)

2006-04-06T13:02:00.000-07:00

Rent (Chris Columbus, 2005)

An excerpt:

I like the theory that operas actually need their relatively melodramatic plots. It's the nature of the medium to heighten emotions, and nothing inspires (or tempts) a composer more than some extreme situation calling for the expression of intense feelings (you don't see many operas written about, for example, accountants doing an audit). It's not so much a flaw in operas, I think, as it is an element that helps them break through to a dramatic level few other art forms can touch. If Violetta in Verdi's "La Traviata" or Mimi in Puccini's "La Boheme" both have to die for their beloved after years of suffering and heartbreak, that's not some silly convention you have to endure again and again but a meticulously prepared and carefully timed moment allowing the composer to pour his heart out; and, far as I know, an outpouring from a Puccini or a Verdi is all the excuse you'll ever need to listen.

The problem of "Rent" onstage, I imagine (I haven't seen it onstage), is that it's Puccini's premise without the music (okay, Puccini took his scenario from Henri Murger's "Scénes de la Vie de Bohéme"). One thing (maybe the only thing) that justifies Jonathan Larson's modern-day Manhattan version (it's set in Alphabet City, a rough neighborhood that has recently seen a surge in upscale housing) is the introduction of AIDS. Talk about upping the ante from Puccini--not only is the heroine dying, but half the cast and a good number of bystanders as well (this was in 1996, years after Norman Rene and Craig Lucas' film "Longtime Companion," our own Laurice Guillen's "The Dolzura Cortez Story," and Tony Kushner's epic play "Angels in America" dealt with the subject in their own more thorough and more profound ways).