ThomasSpurlin.com -- Reviews and Reflections from a Cinema Dork

A Lot to Say About Kelly's Ambitious 'Southland'

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 04:39:00 +0000

More than likely, you're probably familiar with director Richard Kelly's Donnie Darko if you're taking the time to discover his newest work, Southland Tales. If that's the case, then the scene in which an obscure, inexplicable stream of metaphysical goo stretching from Jake Gyllenhaal's sternum probably sticks out as a memorable and taxing piece of cinema. If you haven't seen the film, don't give it too much thought; nothing much has been ruined since that scene, even with all its theoretical analyses packed in before and afterwards, still lingers as a curiosity that's not completely discernible.

Southland Tales is, in essence, a lot like scooping up a heaping load of that strange material, slapping it on a glass slide with patriotically hued dyes to show its contents, and magnifying just the unexplainable and pensive bizarreness from his previous film. Donnie Darko challenges its viewers with erratic, albeit quite thematically consistent, science fiction mannerisms and psychological obstacles; Southland Tales, splattered in red, white, and blue anarchy across another brainstorm from Richard Kelly, manages to be visually and idealistically imaginative, but without a lick of cohesiveness.

Southland Tales exists amidst a state of mania in an altered version of the United States of America. Three years prior to the timeframe surrounding the core narrative (2008), a nuclear explosion erupted in Texas that devastated the country. Following this "attack", the government tightened its control on security measures and privacy monitoring. As seen through the eyes of the film's extensive narrator, Private Pilot Abilene (Justin Timberlake), this includes gunmen strategically stapled across city skylines prepped to shoot anything they deem threatening. Along with the government's shifts in police stratagems, they also utilize a new level of visual monitoring, US-IDent, to keep tabs on internet broadcasts, monetary transactions, and overall everyday activity. Throughout these stringent surface-level changes, an upheaval brews in the depths; a ragtag cluster of Marxist revolutionaries plot and scheme against the government's oppressive weight in attempts to control this election year's outcome.

Richard Kelly brought his brain to the playing field when assembling Southland Tales, that's for sure. Set in this marginally futuristic America in 2008 amidst a new universal experiment for alternate fuel usage, it opts to deride the focus on the disappearance of a precious celebrity, Boxer (Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson), and his pathway that leads away from the superficialities of the modern world. While stricken with amnesia after an accident and shacking up with ex-adult movie star Krysta (Sarah Michelle Gellar), now the lead of a reality-based TV show, Boxer and his new main squeeze throw together a film screenplay that, oddly, prophesizes the way that the world will end. In the midst of both Boxer and Krysta trying to piece together how their film will financially and thematically be made, Boxer has the government, as well as a cranky lover (Mandy Moore) and her US Senator father (Holmes Osbourne), scanning the American landscape in search for him. Somehow, with Boxer's prophetic script and the words of Abilene echoing in the distance, the weight of the film gravitates towards Roland Taverner (Seann William Scott), a California cop whose relationship with his Marxist revolutionary twin brother, Ronald, will impact the fabric of the world itself.

Southland Tales, in its uneven satiric tone, exists in a densely layered, excessively over-thought environment that oozes from its pours with symbolism and critique on American culture and government society. Here, very little dodges Kelly's scathing eye - fuel consumption, citizen discomfort with overly stringent governmental control, the unnecessary mental damage inflicted on soldiers through overseas wars, both left and right wing critiques, et al. As such, nothing exists in the film without a purpose that tries to latch neatly onto its mutinous and writhing motives. Even in spite of this, Southland Tales still really tries to be a comedic insight on these points. Several choices in actors, namely a tight grasp onto numerous veterans from NBC's sketch-based Saturday Night Live (Cheri OTeri, Nora Dunn, John Lovitz, etc), lean the heavy-handed critical tone away for split seconds at a time towards a more, well, quirky layer. No matter whether it's a compliment or a detriment that the film cannot sidestep its serious topics enough to be humorous, either way it makes Southland Tales tonally uneven. There's simply too much going on in the film for it to dig in and remain focused.

It's a shame, because I can make out the bombastic and colorful pathway, even with the obscure musical numbers and unusual set design, that Kelly was trying to create with Southland Tales. He means for it to be a hybrid clash between comedic tonalities and pensive thought, and he achieves sputtering success much akin to a faulty Roman candle. I found the visuals, the music, half of the performances, and a handful of Kelly's more fleshed ideas reasonably engaging; the way it all comes together, however, is a lot like dumping a cartload of bright colors into a mixing pot and expecting a pinnacle hue of brilliance - only to see that the erratic mix folds into itself to produce nothing more than a gray mass of unrealized potential. In the midst of expansive, fathomless depth within its theories and projected connectivity about America's faults and contrivances, Southland Tales lacks the evocative core that would make its audience compelled to such a degree that they'd invest enough into its overblown complexity to make perfect sense of it all.

Everything upon everything in Kelly's film lampoons one another, creating a façade that feels more like a charade than an indulgence. An ex porn chick chugs an energy beverage with her visage on it, while a blockbuster celebrity stands and fiddles with his fingers nervously in any hectic situation; examples like these rouse a few chuckles and invoke a thought or two through their over-the-top nature, but they also break linearization and identifiableness with the audience. It's a hard balance, especially when both Sarah Michelle Gellar and The Rock do such a good job of spilling their characters from the seams with their almost plasticized caricatures. William Scott and Timberlake, oddly, deliver two of the more downscale and fathomable characters, even when the material surrounding them teeters on the flat-out unfathomable. After Abilene's narration and biblical scripture references accompanied by CG schematics that illustrate how the past 3 years went down at the start of the film, the fabricated satiric qualities later on appear, on the surface, tangible even though they lack the substantial delivery to pour flesh into its concrete shell.

Southland Tales does, in fact, share some trippy successes similar to Richard Kelly's vastly superior Donnie Darko. As it gallops towards the finish line after an exhausting two-and-a-half hour endurance run, it keeps you roped in with its handful of insane, yet attractive, qualities. Afterwards, I was left fairly vapid with a giant question mark over my head over all its oddly aligned elements. Yet, that's a similar reaction many, including myself, felt after watching Kelly's other work. Much like Donnie Darko, I found myself contemplating Southland Tales several days afterwards and, with a little gumption, felt a shade more warmth towards its convoluted wirings. It still is deeply flawed and misbalanced with its tonal awareness, not to mention just downright blatantly odd in certain patches, but Southland Tales at least musters up the cojones to think as it does. It deserves marks for its introspective psychosis, but suffers in the end from misfired execution.

TV on DVD: Seeker, Blood Ties, Big Bang

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 14:03:00 +0000

"Those familiar with "Hercules" and "Xena" will have memories of a lightning bolt, one that obliterates an image of a Mona Lisa-inspired sketching in the Renaissance Pictures timecard at the close of each episode. It capped off the boisterousness of each weekly foray perfectly, ending the spurt of clanking swords, mythical creatures, and exaggerated yet thoroughly sustaining performances with a loud splash of sound. Almost as a reminder, "Legend of the Seeker", another Renaissance Pictures production airing on ABC, harks back to those memories in grand fashion, bringing together a new weekly fantasy-based storm of magic, romance, and adventure that's equally as exhilarating as its influences."

Check out the full review of Legend of the Seeker's first season here.

"It seems like vampires lurk back into the pop culture spotlight every ten years or so, as they cropped up for a stretch in the '90s with the "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" story arc and, most recently, with both the Twilight phenomenon and HBO's adaptation of the Sookie Stackhouse novels, "True Blood". One series that'll likely remain overshadowed during this stretch will be "Blood Ties", a relatively short-lived Canadian-turned-Lifetime television series adapted from Tanya Huff's novels. Blending "Buffy" with an "NYPD Blue" meets film noir tone, this series' sharp writing and tongue-in-cheek supernatural rambunctiousness shouldn't go unnoticed."

Check out reviews for the first half and the second half of Blood Ties' first and final season.

"While some traditional sitcoms take up nearly half a season with character refinement and "testing of waters" to see what comedic tones jive with the audience, it only took one episode for Chuck Lorre and Bill Prady to find the perfect rhythm for "The Big Bang Theory". With a little beefing of characters, a geek chic set makeover for the apartment, and added nerdiness onto Sheldon's persona, it quickly transformed into a very smartly-written and uproarious show that appeals to both nerds and non-nerds alike -- though more towards the nerd, like myself. Keeping the momentum built from its first season, "The Big Bang Theory" enters into its second season with familiarity and tightly realized characters in tow, and it's still an absolute riot."

Check out a full review of Big Bang Theory's second season here.

Something's Familiar About This 'Echo'

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 13:56:00 +0000

Billed as a film "from the producers of The Ring and The Grudge" -- bear in mind that they're referring to the American remakes, not the Japanese originals -- The Echo does very little different than the lot of J-horror ghost copycats floating around. Its similarities to Ju-On, also known as the original Grudge, are uncanny, introducing a haunted house with a deadly mystery lying underneath as the cause of the spectral torment. Even down to the villain, yet another long dark-haired female prone to making a lot of noise, the uncanny influence from a catalog of other Asian-inspired ghost dramas drags down any sense of inventiveness -- yet the direction from Yam Laranas and a concentration on sonic punch keep The Echo alive and kicking.

Director Yam Laranas concentrates heavily on making this an exercise in sound-based claustrophobic terror, using the story of recently-released convict Bobby (Jesse Bradford) shacking up in his mother's old apartment as a basis of claustrophobia and paranoia. He's trying to pay it straight by getting a job at a mechanic and contacting an ex-girlfriend (Amelia Warner), all while getting settled into the drab and dusty conditions left by his mother when she passed on. Everything seems fine, until he starts to hear banging, scraping, and screaming from his neighbors' place. It doesn't help that the next-door apartment's owner, after a quick peek out Bobby's peep hole, seem to be a rather large, domineering cop (Kevin Durand from Lost) with a violent streak towards his family.

From the opening credits filled with screams traveling down a creepy, dark stairwell, The Echo fervently makes it know that it's going to be a sound-heavy horror flick. Within Bobby's new apartment, he hears the scraping along the walls and the pounding against a wall behind his mother's piano. It's an erratic environment that has a similar effect to that of nails dragging along a chalkboard, heightened by some clever and well-pitched textural sound design that ratchets up the tension by itself. Now, the use of the high-pitched ringing through his -- and our -- ears repeatedly throughout the picture holds little bearing on the environment and might drive someone (read: me) bonkers, but it's at least authentic to some reports of paranormal activity.

As The Echo soldiers on with negligible yet steady plot development and intensifying wall-rattling, Bobby begins to see visions outside of his apartment -- harking to Takashi Shimizu's Ju-On to tremendously obvious degrees with its maddening atmosphere. It begins to play tricks on his sanity and affect his work which heightens the density of the atmosphere, yet it grows more nonsensical as it continues forward. Very little is actually explained, allowing a vein of mystery to start coursing through film-lover's minds as Bobby stumbles across bloody clues. Don't think too hard about it, because the answer's a simple one if you've spent even a modicum of time with these types of ghost mysteries. It at least has something to say for reporting domestic violence, a thematic element that intensifies along with the brooding, ferocious atmosphere.

Naturally, the ghastly element starts to knock off people around Bobby, which sends it down some trite, foreseeable pathways done many times over in films almost exactly like it. Jesse Bradford builds an unexpectedly believable performance in projecting Bobby's tweaking sanity as the threat starts to close in on him, but the obviousness behind the events that occur once the ghost grows angrier simply squashes the tension. Some might argue that the simplistic, predictable nature of Laranas ghost mystery might root it in realism, yet it can't help but swallow the audience up in a drudging environment that's simply over familiar. But when The Echo comes to a close in an overwhelmingly easy and closure-free fashion -- answering absolutely none of the questions that it provokes -- all we're left with is solid sound design, meager characters, a bloated sense of "realism", and a falling-face-flat vague conclusion that fails to justify a well-tuned sense of moody tension.

Painted Veil: Film Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 02:52:00 +0000

It's always fantastic when a film meets or exceeds expectations. The Painted Veil, the romantic yarn from director John Curran, achieves such composure in these eyes. Though, frankly, it wasn't what was expected. Adapted from the W. Somerset Maugham novel, this '20s era dramatic love story embraces a sumptuous beauty amidst lovely, understated achievements from both Naomi Watts and Edward Norton. This is quite the display of visual, aural, and theatrical confection.

Set primarily in China during the 1920s, The Painted Veil takes us on a journey through the lost emotional whimsy of Kitty (Naomi Watts), a London metropolitan. She wishes nothing more to escape the clutches of her demeaning family and to enjoy the simple aesthetic pleasures of another life. In steps Walter (Edward Norton), an austere bacteriologist with a shy yet determined disposition and a wholly obsessed drive for his work. His government position keeps him bolted in Shanghai, a locale many moons away from London that proves to be enticing for the not-so-enamored Kitty. Walter proposes to Kitty, which ensues in a marriage instigated by all the wrong reasons that explodes in a smattering of ill will shortly thereafter.

Amidst the fireworks of a sputtering marriage, Walter jumps on an opportunity to help amidst a horrible cholera epidemic in a remote Chinese town. Dragged within the clutches of a now stringent Walter, Kitty delves into the epidemic as well. It's a tumultuous journey for a condemned couple into a condemned area that seems to have no shining light in sight. However, their path is also a glorious tribulation of growth and understanding, both for Kitty's void recoil and Walter's headstrong brashness.

It's hard to get over the aesthetic splendor atop The Painted Veil's melancholy romantic nature. Foremost, cinematographer Stuart Dryburgh's visual achievement is flat-out mesmerizing. There's such a simple, wispy vigor within the shots, not so much enchanting for the scenery but for the way even simple scenes are achieved. It doesn't hurt, though, that the epidemic happens to take place in a lush, glistening gem of a locale in the outskirts of China. Furthermore, the incredible Golden Globe winning score from Alexandre Desplat swirls and swims with the lavish scenery, giving this film the aural richness needed to parlay with the majestic visuals.

Not even considering the physical prowess, The Painted Veil is a sublime, rapturously beautiful piece of filmmaking. It resonates with a timeless narrative reminiscent of classic Hollywood romance. Pure, sweet magic shimmers within each scene as if meticulously etched into raw jade with a pick and hammer. There's not a plethora of high-impact scenes or stringently potent aggression amidst this bittersweet tale of subdued punishment. When they do arise, they arrive with gallant strength. Curran's newest piece takes a gracefully gentle pace with understated, nuanced performances atypical of the two leads.

Make no mistake that The Painted Veil is, in fact, a Naomi Watts vehicle. Kitty's tale of complex, muddled emotion takes the rings as the central conflict of the film. At the start, she's an empty shell, focused on surface eccentricities and an undemanding escape from her life. Watts nails down this persona quite admirably, displaying ample timidity and hollowness. Much like a mass of clay ready for molding, Kitty starts unshapely and gradually melds into another form through careful, subtle pressures. It's a part that requires deterring vacancy, and Watts handles her with supple poise.

As ample as Kitty's portrayal is, she wouldn't hold the same assets without an equally precise Walter. He could easy hold monstrous properties, but it's only through Edward Norton's sensibly crafted performance that his realism and integrity shine. Instead of brazen aggression like his outings in Fight Club and American History X, Norton adheres to careful, quiet electricity for Walter. He parries wonderfully with Watts' equally delicate performance, assembling a finicky dance between the two that lends an enthralling air to their duel. The lack of aggression from both Kitty and Walter perfectly suits the scenario, their characters, and the period in which this all occurs.

All this wistful splendor unfolds with delicate, sweeping glory. Hold no doubt that this is a tale about the writhing, duly correctable mistakes of misguided lovers. Many a theatric within The Painted Veil leans on the saccharine side of echoing romanticism. That's what makes this film's narrative so pleasant, however. Sure, there's a remotely foreseeable bow to be tied atop a pretty package. Watching these two unfurl amidst this horrible epidemic, however, keeps the story on a radiant level. The Painted Veil maintains a credible, silky keel that's wholly pleasant to run your fingers through from start to finish.

Spacey's a Pot-Head Again in 'Shrink'

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 18:30:00 +0000

Several years after Crash took home top prize at the Oscars, we're still seeing many of the ultra-connected, "it's a small world" storylines coming out of the woodwork -- some of which are more far-fetched and beyond our grasp than others. Shrink, however, isn't just about its web of connected characters; instead, imagine Bob's story of aging hopelessness from Lost in Translation wrapped up in a overbearingly melancholy tone, adding dashes of the drug reliance from Garden State in with the troubled mentorship dynamic of Good Will Hunting. Somewhere in there you'll find this Kevin Spacey-led thoughtful dramedy from director Jonas Pate, a bleeding heart reflection on the death of creativity and virtue in a network of high-profile nutcases. It fares much better than the other Altman-like imitators around these days, offering a dramatically bloated yet tender glance at awakening from a static period in one's life.

When psychiatrist and successful self-help novelist Henry Carter (Spacey) wakes up in the morning, he reaches for a stash of weed and blazes up as soon as possible. Some might see this as simple addiction, but it runs deeper than that when considering the recent death of his wife. He's so distraught that he can't even sleep in their old bed, let alone start a casual relationship with a woman or, forbid, do a coherent job helping his high-profile Hollywood patients at his practice.

He helps a slew of different Hollywood folk, from a hyper-neurotic OCD agent (Dallas Roberts) and a sex-driven older actor (Robin Williams) to a beautiful yet aging starlet (Saffron Burrows) and her narcissistic country-singing husband -- hell, even his godson-in-law and close smoking buddy (Mark Webber), a struggling writer with an eye for the aforementioned agent's assistant, wants in on the therapy. Henry gets a bit of a wake-up call, however, when he's crow-barred into taking a pro-bono evaluative case named Jemma (Keke Palmer), a misguided, movie-loving girl with a similarly dark past to her doctor.

Without Kevin Spacey, it's possible that Shrink could've been nothing but an overwhelming cliché "we're all connected" picture; however, his controlled and gripping performance as Henry is surprisingly vivid, counterbalancing the ham-fisted schmaltziness lingering in the film's motives. The austerity he gives Hank fuels the first half of the film with a brooding intensity, while a credible awakening helps to ease the grievances that we might have with the overbearing effortlessness of the second half's race to help everything come to absolute fruition. It also helps that he and his office serve as a believable cornerstone for the interwoven narrative, stirring up a blend of part realism, part marginal suspended belief in the links between characters that helps engage our emotional investment. It's far more intelligible than the endless network of individuals in Crash, that's for certain.

Shrink's ultimately a heavy comedy that tries to mask itself a bit much as a touching drama, yet it's still affective enough to dig deeper in our emotional space than expected. One of the natural mistakes some might make lies in assuming that it's a sappy Hollywood pity party for their elites, instead of a black comedy with a human heart. It levitates around these high-profile individuals, yet it interacts with them on a normalized plane as they nervously pace about Henry's office. That's what makes each character intriguing and, in controlled doses, an obvious yet subtly sharp reflection on their archetype. Though flickers of Jeremy Piven's agent character in "Entourage" echo in Dallas Roberts' agent and Saffron Burrows' turn as the aging actress is overtly one-dimensional, they're easy to digest due to well-tuned charisma. And, especially in Roberts' case, they're executed potently with a dour satirical tone as the motivation.

Though Shrink's all about Henry's reawakening and the shaping of his clients, the film's beating heart lies in Jemma -- and the commanding performance from Akeelah and the Bee star Keke Palmer. It's a little bit on the obvious side, sure, but her ticket-stub-collecting thirst for being transposed from this life into the silver screen embodies the raw passion at the core of the filmmaking industry, an element of innocence and creativity that gets crippled underneath the upper-echelon pressures mucking up Henry's patients. Something special beats at the center of Shrink because of Jemma, and even if it takes a few stumbles in plot belief to get there, it's still worth grasping at this implausible network of relationships to unearth it from an avalanche of involvedness. Amid a depressive, apathetic state, Henry slowly begins to pull himself from the rubble and crawl towards this epiphany -- and so do we.

'Monsoon Wedding' A Downpour of Delight

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 18:20:00 +0000

Mira Nair's Monsoon Wedding is an experience in every sense of the word, capturing the subtle memories, unforeseen excitement, and the ups and downs of real life while showcasing a rally of heartening moments. It takes an intimate look at the interworking parts of a wedding ceremony, from the father's bickering with the organizer to the shades of doubt between the husband and wife days before, while making us feel like a fly on the wall instead of a mere witness to a story. This, on the other hand, is a different sort of wedding than many might be used to, an arranged marriage in modern time between two Indian families with a long history. Within that combination of realism and lingering cultural poignancy, we take a beautiful trip through the complications and joys surrounding this family, coming together in a vivid and blissful event that would likely get a smile out of even the most melancholy film lovers.

Written by Sabrina Dhawan to emphasize minor elements and the simple joys of interaction just as much as the bold and boisterous, Monsoon Wedding focuses on father Lalit Verma (Naseeruddin Shah) and his four day scramble to throw together a lush and expensive wedding for his daughter Aditi (Vasundhara Das), an event that will bring the entire family together under one roof. Her arranged marriage, carried through with a man she hadn't known for very long, is awkward for Aditi due to her lingering feelings for a married television host, a man whom she's shared a physical relationship with in the past.

Underneath the bedlam of constructing this ceremony, Murphy's Law comes into full effect as several other family woes come to the surface. The relationship between Lalit's niece Ria (Shefali Shetty) and her wealthy uncle-in-law -- a man who has provided generous funds to the family -- slowly simmers due to his offer to fund her education. A disagreement intensifies between Lalit and his son Valum, a kid who's more interested in dance choreography and cooking instead of being a "real" Punjabi man. Furthermore, a lingering attraction between Lalit's Australian-based nephew and Aditi's young female cousin rises up after some flirtation. You know, the "typical" dirty laundry to come out of the woodwork around any kind of family reunion, though it grows thicker and thicker as the date approaches.

At the heart of Monsoon Wedding lies a story we've heard before, one featuring cold feet and fleeting desires from a soon-to-be-married person wanting to indulge in past amorous urges for a loved one. It's a cliché plot device that's been played out in even the sappiest of romantic films, yet director Mira Nair never causes us to dwell on that for one second. Her handling of the material paints a superb picture teeming with tangible emotion and meditation, giving us a struggle within Aditi's woeful mindscape. Her downhearted attitude detaches her from the family to a degree -- especially to her father -- which arouses trepidation in our emotional investment with her character; however, as the film progresses and we develop a stronger grasp on both her concern and her family's multifaceted connections, their actions and external reactions begin to balance out our reservations and earn our appreciation.

Interestingly, Monsoon Wedding's more robust connections come in an array of densely emotional sub-layers underneath the paramount wedding narrative. Though Aditi's woes are motivation enough to latch onto the film, it's hard to ignore the overwhelming potency behind Ria's role in the family chaos. Played wonderfully by Shefali Shetty, her character undergoes a bombardment of draining complications involving her family, from emptiness regarding the absence and tragedy revolving around her mother and father to her complicated past with her uncle-in-law. A second, more purist romance ignites between the unsuccessful-in-love wedding coordinator P.K. and the Latit family servant Alice -- which shines an evocative spotlight on the link between the two that's cheeky, humorous, and highly satisfying. We assume that the wedding coordinator will be a one-dimensional worm-like entity, yet his evolution -- and that of the servant -- can be quite touching. Their connection becomes the pure thumping heart in Monsoon Wedding, especially as P.K. and Alice grow closer and their glances grow deeper.

Mira Nair's ace in the hole in Monsoon Wedding comes in her capacity to render exquisite male characters, showcasing a sharp eye for intensity in their mannerisms. Her handling of women, especially Ria, is exceptional as well, yet there's a specific level of panache in the ways that she projects the Punjabi masculinity that's stellar. Her technique is especially visible with Naseeruddin Shah's impressive portrayal as the family patriarch Lalit, a strong and driven man who struggles with financial issues during the wedding and raising his children. His energy can be felt from frame to frame, whether he's bickering with the slimy wedding coordinator (slimy in his eyes, yet he's starting to warm to ours) or attempting to instruct his misguided son.

Monsoon Wedding has a lot in common with Jonathan Demme's 2006 independent success Rachel Getting Married, both in concentration of meaningless yet endearing personal dialogue and in the flowing visual design that follows their interactions -- and there's a reason for it. Both films were captured by cinematographer Declan Quinn, something that becomes readily obvious by watching even short spans of their work. However, he's encouraged to be much more poetic and creative with his visuals in Mira Nair's film, focusing on the blistering colors of marigolds and the swirling majesty of an Indian dance in rapturous fashion. It's a more elegiac experience which, without question, connects deeper with our senses as we're carried through the warming narrative.

It's all cradled within a story that's able to be told in a moment's length, yet the way in which we're seeped in New Delhi culture and expressive, heart-on-the-sleeve emotional resonance incenses our cinematic pleasures in a trove of different ways. We're given beauty from start to finish in Monsoon Wedding, bustling along and brimming with splendor in a way that appeal to both visual and cultural pleasures. Between a few splendid dance sequences -- one lengthy stretch near the conclusion that's particularly entrancing -- and the consistent stream of poeticism behind its graceful flow, I can't help but be utterly mesmerized by its fluid execution. Especially at the conclusion, which shines with undeniable jubilation at the celebration of life and family. Since her achievement with the Verma family, Mira Nair has gone on to piece together another cultural assimilation picture with 2006's The Namesake, a picture that's potentially more than the dramatic equal to her Venice prize-winning wedding tale; however, drenched in pure goodness and emerald-bathed beauty, Monsoon Wedding's splendor still stands proud as her most vivacious and lyrical work.

'Hero': Pinnacle of Zhang Yimou's Artistry

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 23:18:00 +0000

In 2000, Ang Lee revitalized a genre with his beautifully composed film, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Though films like Once Upon a Time in China had kept the sect of historical martial arts epics alive through the '90s, it was the renown that Lee's film received that brought the spotlight back on its majesty. Two years later (four years for us in the United States), we're given Zhang Yimou's Hero (Yīng Xióng), a film that's exciting and beautiful in equal measures. It's in the film's composition as a piece of art in motion that has transformed it into an enduring piece of work, taking its potency away from the drama that fueled both Ang Lee's film and Zhang Yimou's later pictures (House of Flying Daggers, Curse of the Golden Flower) and filling it with direct artistry. The result is breathtaking, transforming Hero into a simple yet effective story of heroism crammed full of beautiful choreography and dazzling visual delights.

Set during the period directly before the Qin Dynasty where states were at war for dominance, the plot revolves around a nameless prefect (Jet Li) who has arrived to garner an audience with the King of Qin (Daoming Chen), a warrior leader known for his violent conquests in an effort to unite China. The king stays in his battle armor and sleeps in the main hall of his stronghold in fear of assassination, all following an attempt on his life. With the weapons of three known threats to the king in tow -- the spear of Sky (Donnie Yen) and the blades of Broken Sword (Tony Leung Chiu Wai) and Flying Snow (Maggie Cheung) -- Nameless arrives in his hall and tells the king the stories behind the defeats of three highly-skilled assassins.

As he tells these stories of deceit and plotting, we're treated to bold colors slowly beginning to ink into the picture by way of Christopher Doyle's mesmeric cinematography. Zhang Yimou uses multiple palettes to shift and alter the mood as he deems fit, drenching scenes in red to evoke passion, green to reflect freshness, and white to dial into truth. His narrative mirrors that of a color-infused spin on Akira Kurosawa's Rashomon, navigating through several renderings of the same story being told with different voices -- voices of zeal, romance, skepticism, and bleakness, all of which carry their own truths and fallacies. And they're all a sight to see as they reveal bits and pieces about the characters through each yarn spun, all performed excellently by a smorgasbord of perfectly-pitched talent -- from Jet Li's stoic projection as Nameless to Tony Leung Chiu Wai and Maggie Cheung's great chemistry as Broken Sword and Flying Snow.

Though Yimou handles these palettes in bold, oftentimes blunt fashion with crisp blues and glaring shades of ivory white approaching absurd levels of emotive communication, they all tie into the filmic tapestry in a way that makes the sledgehammer-worthy imagery enchanting to behold. Incredibly beautiful images fall into our vision, like two red-draped warriors fighting amid a sea of yellowing leaves and the sight of green drapery falling from a ceiling. Whether he wanted each movement to mean something or not becomes inconsequential, as the meaningfulness behind Hero becomes growingly more organic for each viewer. Colors and imagery can either be a focal observation, or merely a striking kaleidoscope to fill the background during an enthralling martial arts epic.

Zhang Yimou ties Tony Ching Siu-Tun's exhilarating choreography within each of these handsomely-drawn stories, which persistently, yet gracefully, grapple onto the purpose behind the film. Frivolous fights aren't cooked up just so icons Donnie Yen and Jet Li can square off, or for the purpose of witnessing stars Tony Leung Chiu Wai and Maggie Cheung from In the Mood for Love cross swords -- which, amusingly, they carry a similar distance between them here to that of their star-crossed married types in Wong Kar-wai's film. Instead, this martial arts choreography streams together with Hero's valor-fueled story to an expressively moving degree, letting raw feeling fluidly control their battles. It even manages to capture wuxia (wire fighting) in a way that feels both whimsical and welcome, a difficult blend to hit. Among the five central stars -- including Zhang Ziyi in an impressive turn as Moon, Broken Sword's disciple -- almost every actor matches with one another, and none of it feels artificial or tacked on.

One recurring theme flows through Hero that I absolutely love: the universality of artistry. Though we're taken through a story of tyrannical pain and the benefits of his removal from his throne, a stream of skillful imagination persistently stays with the picture that latches onto a respect for intelligence and the arts. We see the connections between swordplay and calligraphy, weiqi (the Othello-style game referred to as "chess" in the film, also known as Go), and even the respect to musical rhythm. It humanizes the characters and, amazingly, creates a bridge between the king and his enemies through his respect for the arts.

That's one thing that you'll slowly begin to see about Hero: though it's largely about struggles between good and evil, it's also about the state of mankind in ancient China attempting to obtain harmony in drastically dissimilar ways. Though it's best to look at it through a poet's pair of glasses and soak it in as a piece of emotion-driven physical art, like a combination between a ballet and a painting being brushed before our eyes, there's also a purposeful aside about diligence in the eyes of oppression. Zhang Yimou's film thrives as a lyrical tragedy because of it, becoming gorgeous and entrancing on top and rather stirring underneath. As both an entertainment and as a visual symbol chock full of magnificence, it stands among the very best that martial arts can offer.

When the 'Moon' is in the 'Seventh' House

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 23:09:00 +0000

Some Chinese Buddhist and folk religion believers celebrate Ghost Festival, which occurs on the fourteenth night of the seventh month in the year, to pay respects to the dead in a fashion similar to Mexico's Day of the Dead holiday. Offerings are made to the dead on that date, a time when their ghosts are believed to roam the earth. In a way, that means Seventh Moon, the creepy Ghost House Underground flick from The Blair Witch Project director Ed Sanchez, is rooted in truth -- well, to some extent. If red flags are raised at the mention of Blair Witch and shaky camera movement, then you might want to dodge this light-on-gore spectral suspense; however, if thrills surrounded by desperate, bickering human interaction give you goosebumps -- and mild Kwaidan-esque eeriness appeals to you -- then Seventh Moon might offer a moody surprise, albeit an oft-played and slightly bothersome one.

Though it's not the same sort of found footage that's recently become popular with [REC], Cloverfield, and, of course, The Blair Witch Project, the way that we eavesdrop on newlyweds Melissa (Amy Smart, Varsity Blues) and Yul (Tim Chiou) during their Chinese honeymoon feels as close to it without using the gimmick. They're an amorous couple, full of joyful banter and all that other obnoxious crap you see from most honeymoons as they're whirling around the lavish Ghost Festival in the streets. With their travel guide Ping (Dennis Chan) carting them around, sober or not, they're living it up as much as possible until they meet Yul's family. It sounds kind of boring, but so does a late-night interview session at a fire station or a guy's going-away party to Japan.

We've got to plow through a long stretch of ebb-and-flow conversations between the married couple to get to any of the supernatural goodness, which starts to really grind on the nerves as Ping drives them further out in the country -- edging closer and closer to the night's darkness. Amy Smart and Tim Chiou are fine as the focal protagonists and carry the dialogue well enough for a low-brow horror flick, but their chemistry and banter isn't substantial enough to hold our interest by itself. It paints a picture of their characters for us as they approach the point of "interest", and we couldn't be happier for them to get out of the car. Similar to the dialogue in Blair Witch leading up to the stick figures, they're only a bit more maddening and less natural -- which is a shame for Amy Smart, since her efforts in suspense flicks like The Butterfly Effect are rather good.

Along the way, the couple talks to the guide about his beliefs in the mystical recesses of Chinese folklore, which sets us up for Seventh Moon's eerie second and third acts. At the point when we reach a central courtyard in a small-ish cluster of houses with an "offering" splayed out in the center, Sanchez's film starts to slowly justify all the time spent crammed in the car. It taps more into our curiosity than a true sense of dread, intriguing us to piece together clues in our mind. There are certainly a few chilling surface-level moments, like Yul's translation of what the townspeople are yelling from the safety of their homes as they walk closer to the offering point.

Curiosity remains the driving force in Seventh Moon, even when it drenches us in formulaic, cat-and-mouse supernatural terror and discombobulates us relentlessly with shaky-cam photography. The drive behind our cravings to discover more about the ghosts hounding Yul and Melissa makes up for the lack of either realism or originality in their scramble away from them. But that's assuming the audience actually cares one iota about the Buddhist elements swirling around it, which might be understandably less intriguing to those not as easily tantalized by the understated and creepy flecks of real-world mystics -- especially when they're handled in this fashion. Even without that investment, it's possible just to indulge in the eerie story built around the effectively-constructed makeup work for the ghosts.

Director Sanchez showcases his familiar Blair Witch style in mixing heightened human angst between our focal couple with their growing dread, which creates a satisfyingly curious bundle of nerves that buzzes all the way up until a bizarre yet unrewarding climax. Ultimately, we're left understanding what happened with the Chinese ghosts and why it all happened, yet there's a sense of underlying comprehension that escapes our grasp. Maybe it's the waning care that we share for the leads that causes this slight annoyance, or maybe it lies in the only moderately-elaborated mystics present in the storyline; however, Seventh Moon still left me partly satisfied with its blend of tension and reflexive influences, bleakly constructed into a supernatural chiller.

'Chinatown' Still Neo-Noir Amazement

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 21:26:00 +0000

"Well, to tell you the truth, I lied a little".
-- J.J. Gittes, Chinatown

When a film lover thinks of Roman Polanski's body of work, it usually involves two sharply-divided brackets of cinema: a catalogue of tense psychodrama in the vein of both Repulsion and The Tenant, and, of course, the noir-like mystery in Chinatown. Written with delicate precision by Robert Towne, this densely layered whodunit differs greatly from the rawness of Polanski's more cerebral pictures. Instead, the concentration falls on constructing a historically-minded story that's intelligent and complex -- yet still shockingly coherent. Considering its moody score, splendid period visuals, and iconic performances on top of Towne's unmatched script, Chinatown comes together under the typically unbridled director's eye into a superbly stylish masterwork of post-era noir.

Whether or not you decide to read up on the California Water wars of the early 1900s is neither here nor there, but you might find it a rewarding experience before diving into Towne's suspenseful fictionalization of the period. In our eyes, however, we follow J.J. Gittes (Jack Nicholson), an ex-Chinatown detective turned private investigator who mostly focuses on infidelity cases. One day, a Mrs. Mulwray comes into Gittes' office and solicits his services in order to watch her husband Hollis, the driving force behind California's water and power supply. Without hesitation, Gittes and his team get on the job. They discover that there's something else lying underneath the cheating husband mystery, a greed-fueled conspiracy that Gittes begins to unspool as he probes deeper.

Nicholson makes J.J. Gittes come alive in the central role. Fresh off his Oscar-nominated performance in The Last Detail, he steers away from the brashness of ole' "Bad Ass Buddusky" and dives into a more suave, smug demeanor befitting a detective of the time. As he schmoozes from place to place to learn more about Mawlray, it's impossible not to be drawn into his sly demeanor and indulge in every moment of it. Though he expresses the somewhat false sliminess of one in his profession, we identify with the moments where he exposes reality in his character -- especially when he clearly starts to let a few mistakes slip through the cracks. It's important for us to identify with Gittes because we're watching this story unfold somewhat through his eyes, unlike narration-heavy '40s noirs that reveal every internal detail.

It's only once we discover that the Mulwray infidelity is nothing more than the cream scooped off the top layer of corruption -- and that the woman who came to visit Mr. Gittes wasn't actually Mrs. Mulwray -- that Chinatown starts to exhibit its meticulousness as a top-shelf murder mystery. We're blindly led into the lucrative world of land ownership and the power of controlling water in a city, with the real Mrs. Evelyn Mulwray (Faye Dunaway) guiding Gittes' into it with uncertainty weighing on his, and our, shoulders. Faye Dunaway is stellar as Evelyn, especially as Chinatown progresses towards its revelatory conclusion. Eventually, we're introduced to co-water-tycoon Noah Cross, played with gusto by famed director John Huston of The Maltese Falcon, who assures us that his connection to Evelyn, wife to one tycoon and daughter to another, runs far deeper than just a struggle over land and money. And we're more than intrigued to peel the layers back in discovery of what's underneath.

Tonally, there really isn't a more perfectly-pitched film than Chinatown. Though the twists and turns grow more and more complex in Robert Towne's script, leading us through pitch-black water sites and ripe orange groves, none of it goes without purpose or simply to just get a rise out of us. It's ceiling-to-floor suspenseful, but sparks of other sensations pull off other varied levels of magnificence throughout. Though we're talking about a grim story about a grizzly cover-up murder fueled by profiteering, Towne never abandons a sense of humor with its stylish dialogue -- notably a clichéd "she's behind me, isn't she" moment that's used to potent effect. It's these rays of dry humor that work similarly to letting pressure out of an over-pumped tire; it never ceases to be intensely electric, but the rifts towards mild lightheartedness give it a grounded, human feel that allows us to connect with it amid the out-of-reach '30s era.

Part of Chinatown's seamlessness comes from sublimely crafted (Oscar-nominated) aesthetics. One of the first things you'll hear is a sleek trumpet solo from Jerry Goldsmith's original score, an arrangement pieced together at the 11th hour of the film's production. It holds a similar charged theme throughout the picture with these tunes, harking back to classic mannerisms of brooding noirs, while at other times grasping an Asian flare about its rhythm -- all while keeping its tempo vigorous with the ebbs and flows of the film's suspense. Unlike the multifaceted music, John Alonzo's cinematography only keeps '30s Los Angeles in mind as it gives us a near first-person account of J.J. Gittes' investigation. His eye, along with Polanski's attention to detail and Anthea Sylbert's sharp costume design, marvelously paints the semi-corrupt flood of lavishness from the period. It's also in the minuscule details, like the way our eyes are drawn to the hands of a broken pocket watch used to pinpoint the time a car drives away from a location, that make it such a rich visual experience.

As Chinatown begins to connect the dots late in the game, everything we've grown to appreciate about Roman Polanski's film whips into a whirling dervish of a conclusion that turns everything topsy-turvy -- then answers any and all questions we've pieced together about the mystery. Many of the great classic films leave a hint of suspicion about the events that stretch beyond the unavoidable finale, but Towne's story manages to wrap everything up in gratifying yet tragic fashion. But that melancholy dissatisfaction embodies the essence of true noirs, which certainly befits this sublime detective story. We're left wanting nothing else from Gittes' investigation and thankful to not be wrapped up in all that mess, yet completely mesmerized by the structured labyrinth of greed and villainy underneath Polanski's fingertips. Chinatown's a phenomenal departure for the typically mind-jarring director, as well as the overshadowing benchmark of the neo-noir genre that's still an ageless influence to this day.

Looking Forward to These!

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 20:32:00 +0000

Ahhhhh, Amazon UK. You rock, plain and simple.

'Audition' Still Creepy-as-Hell -- Film Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 02:25:00 +0000

Japanese director Takashi Miike has been branded one of the genre's most gripping auteurs for many reasons, but the primary one comes packaged in a blood-soaked, barbed-wire little firecracker entitled Audition (Ōdishon). Yet, you'd be very hard-pressed to believe such a statement by watching the first half of the film. Cleverly disguised as a family story with little more than a dark secret lying underneath, though Takashi Miike fans know better, it finally explodes after impatiently watching the fuse inch closer and closer to the conclusion. But the explosion, in all its frightening morbidity, likely won't leave your thoughts for many days afterward -- showcasing that Audition's seemingly deflated character work was merely the framework for a masterful slow-burning nightmare.

When Audition starts, we wonder what exactly we're looking at -- if it's going to be Wes Craven's Music of the Heart or David Lynch's The Straight Story all over again. The first scenes feature a somber, intimate hospital room where father Shigeharu Aoyama (Ryo Ishibashi) and his young son say goodbye to their recently-deceased mother. It cuts several years down the line, where the father/son dynamic has strengthened into something special amid their pain. But there's something not obviously missing from Aoyama's life, as pointed out by both his son (Tetsu Sawaki) and his work colleague Yasuhisa Yoshikawa (Jun Kunimura): he needs a new wife, while he knows very few eligible bachelorettes.

Here's where the title comes into light: the rusty, woman-shy Aoyama and Yoshikawa cook up a fake audition for an acting job, bringing them all up front-and-center in a way that'll give Aoyama a good look at a large array of (presumably) attractive women. Director Miike uses this opportunity to comfortably lure us into an upbeat mood, watching as the two men ogle and critique several candidates in a fashion that's pretty comical. At least, it's all fun and games until the delicate and understated ex-dancer Asami walks into the room -- and Aoyama becomes smitten with her emotional fragility. At this point, the film's almost begging us to accept its tranquility head-on.

Miike's at his best in Ichi the Killer and Gozu when he's operating with outlandish gore and surrealist imagery, both of which play vital yet camouflaged roles in Audition. The graceful drama almost never intersects with his other-worldly darkness, his diverse strengths instead being scattered throughout the slow-burning suspense in provocative fashions. This allows for a gentle, ambient style of terror to slowly creep behind his audience, masked by good intentions, rather tightly-executed human interaction, and a simple yet charming sense of humor (which, if you've seen Happiness of the Katakuris, you know he's certainly got a humor femur or two). Miike's almost begging you to find some form of comfort with Aoyama's situation, almost trying to sedate his audience to a degree where they drop their guard -- acting as both a tactic to play with fresh eyes and a nod to a more Miike-weathered audience expecting something, well, more.

Audition aims to establish a strong sense of legitimacy behind the family bond, boasting its firm construction like an "invincible" drunken guy at a bar begging for a punch to the stomach or a castle claiming impenetrable walls. It challenges the audience to empathize with Ryo Ishibashi's performance as the heartbroken-yet-healing father, which can claim a lot of ownership to the dramatic qualities. It gives us a tangible character in Aoyama with which we strongly identify, something that very, very few horror films can actually claim -- a true sense of sentiment behind the lead. Eventually, of course, we'll wish that we didn't identify with the family and that those walls were a great deal stronger.

Innocent little Asami, played by Eihi Shiina, give us a reason to spin around rapidly and see what's been creeping behind us from the start of Audition. Little hints are scattered throughout that pave the way for something deeper and darker in her past, yet her complacent disposition never reveals anything at an inopportune time. She's enchanting in all the wrong ways, unbearable stone-faced in her facial expressions, and quite possibly one of the most highly regarded villains in all of horror. Witnessing the tension swelling amid her presence is something akin to watching a razor-tipped pendulum swinging backwards and forwards onto an unsuspecting victim; you have a hunch that it's going to lead towards the demise of the person underneath, but you can't help but stare with breathless awe as it swings closer and closer. And, without question, Takashi Miike doesn't leave us dissatisfied, pumping it full of gender-flipped potency that would likely make In the Realm of the Senses' director Nagisa Oshima proud.

As Audition quickly begins to unspool at its spellbinding third act, the look of chaotic disbelief on fresh watchers' faces is the stuff horror legends are made of. It builds into something utterly terrifying and grisly within a whirlwind barrage of abrasive surreality, swelling with near-unbearable tension as its climax -- heralded by many as one of the most frightening and grotesque scenes in all of horror -- works its masochistic magic. Time after time in front of this arresting little horror masterwork, it has yet to fail in causing my head to spin in a lightheaded stupor at its pinnacle of exploitative, grindhouse-style monstrosity. Superb acting and taut, shiver-inducing production values make its improbable constriction in narrative seem much more viable than we'd ever really want it to, while brandishing returners to its guttural intensity as near-masochists. A thought arises before each screening of Audition, something to the tune of "Why on earth should this be watched again?" The answer lies in Takashi Miike's excellence in manipulating our perception of the normal into anything but, mounting into a shocking horror classic that endures because of its ability to lure us into a nightmare -- then tear our senses to shreds.

Talking 'Bout My 'Deadgirl' -- Film Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 17:04:00 +0000

Let's make this clear: Deadgirl has an abundance of imaginative force riding behind it, something thoroughly appreciated in the drooping sector of American horror. It cooks up a crazy yet believable story, offers an impressive array of refined makeup work, and consistently dabbles in thoughtfulness about the mentality of forlorn teenage men. All these facts, as well as a promising trailer reflecting on coming-of-age elements within its creepy premise, make it all the more infuriating to see the potential behind Marcel Sarmiento and Gadi Harel's curious zombie flick fall flat due to stilted dialogue and broken logic -- creating a horror film about a pretty, well, disturbing topic that's not quite as chilling or as highbrow as it could've been.

Two high-school outcasts, J.T. (Noah Segan from Brick) and Ricky (Shiloh Fernandez), ditch school and stumble over to an abandoned insane asylum, tactfully called "the nuthouse". They do typical bent-up guy stuff like break windows and spraypaint the walls, then stumble to the lower corridors only to come to a rusted-shut door. A little jimmying open and the guys get in, but they discover a very bizarre treasure within -- a pale, rotten-smelling woman (Jenny Spain) chained down to a bed with a plastic cover draped over her otherwise naked body. As if the situation couldn't get more bizarre, the girl begins to breathe.

Sadly, perverse minds might see where this is going. Instead of reporting the discovery like all other normal people (trust me, we're not working with the cream-of-the-crop here), J.T. simply mumbles something about "keeping her" and instantly starts on with the hornball-infused dialogue about what he'll do with her. That much can be swallowed for curiosity's sake, even though Deadgirl handles it in haphazard fashion. Just put the science behind it out of mind, as dwelling too much on sexing up an older "dead" woman (read: zombie) brings up more than a few health and intelligence concerns for the baby-batter-driven guys. Of course, these are teenage guys who don't care about things like that, right?

Instead, we're asked to lay back and take the barrage of sadist masculinity pumped into Deadgirl, then, in the process, somehow find catharsis around love and lust's uncontrollable nature inside the labyrinth of the sexually-frustrated teenage mind. Since little of the horror offers real chills and none of the coming-of-age suspense really works on any deep level, Deadgirl better classifies itself as a form of undead sexploitation cinema -- yeah, really -- that pushes the necrophilia envelope in a creepy-as-hell effort to intermix youthful growing pains with horror-minded oddity. It does offer a handful of staple jump-worthy scares and a determined flow of grotesquery throughout, but its aim to be genre-free amounts to a bite-in-the-rear when it fails to find the proper pitch on any set level.

First-rate makeup for our zombie sex-slave and surprising musical scoring from Joseph Bauer dress it up nicely, along with photography by way of the same model of camera (or one exceedingly similar) used in Cloverfield, but it doesn't make up for a haphazard attention to thematic and situational detail -- leaving a gruesome slab of all-too-annoying questions and doubts amid atmosphere-driven horror. Don't even get me started on this film's horrendous grasp on tire irons and their effect on the cranial cavity, where a blow to the gut with a baseball bat knocks a guy out while a human head can take a blood-letting shot to the back of the scalp without even a flicker of lost consciousness. Creativity and cleverness can only go so far in masking gaps in logic.

It really doesn't help that we care so little for the characters in Deadgirl, an important factor for this horror / tense drama hybrid. We question Ricky's presupposed "good guy" convictions after he plainly surrenders to J.T.'s whims and offers a pinky-swear to keep this their special little secret -- something we as an audience quickly cry foul on. See, his somewhat pure heart has a soft spot for a popular red-haired girl named Johanna, so the prospect of fooling around with a chained-up piece of rotting meat locked away in an insane asylum doesn't make sense to him. But he certainly won't make an effort to stand up for how wrong it is. He's an undeniably weak character in a vile cesspool of ignorant wackjobs, crippling any attempts at dramatic poise amid this macabre erotic fixation -- and the cascade of perverted, bleak, and macabre answers to Deadgirl's provocative questioning simply isn't convincing.

Taboo and interesting, sure, but not convincing.

CEDIA 2009 -- Audio Video Revolution Write-Up

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 05:16:00 +0000

Recently, I had the chance to explore the show floor at the 20th Anniversary CEDIA Electronics Expo in Atlanta, Ga. After waltzing around the entirety of both main halls in the Georgia World Congress Center, both my eyes and feet were killing me from the broad arrangement of brightly-colored kiosks, booth, theaters, arenas, displays ... and many other terms for the individual exhibits that I'm assuredly forgetting. But it was very insightful on the future of electronics to come in 2009, as well as excruciatingly enticing to see all of the stellar equipment on display.

You can check out my photo montage / article over at AVRev.com, or by clicking through this link to "CEDIA 2009 Show Floor Impressions".

Requiem for a Dream -- Film Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 01:54:00 +0000

Though Darren Aronofsky's Pi might be his freshman film, Requiem for a Dream clearly stands as the catapult for his career. That's not to turn a blind eye to his first work, which more than earns its Spirit Award for Best First Screenplay, but to show exactly how essential his sophomore film -- an adaptation of Hubert Selby's novel about drug addiction, also entitled "Requiem for a Dream" -- truly is. As a reflection on the corruption of innocence, it's nearly flawless; however, as a portrait of the dangers of addiction, Requiem for a Dream should not only be celebrated, but deemed a necessary viewing experience.

Structured by season running the course of a year (almost), the plot revolves around four individuals in the New York area dealing with addiction. Harry Goldfarb (Jared Leto) stands as the common link between all the individuals, with his girlfriend Marion (Jennifer Connelly), best friend Tyrone (Marlon Wayans), and mother Sara (Ellen Burstyn) each with their own types of dependence. The three twenty-somethings get wrapped up with heroin, both as users and dealers looking for a way out of their lives. Sara, on the other hand, endures the effects of a diet pill addiction as she prepares to go on television. They all have their own structured reasons, but it all comes back to one central desire: displacement from the real world.

At the start, Requiem for a Dream portrays the beauty of "flawed perfection" on an impeccable level. The romance between Harry and Marion isn't like a storybook painting, but the tangibility present in their tender connection carries a genuineness that'll appeal to anyone who's been in a true enduring relationship. Mirroring their conjoined enjoyment of life's little joys, Harry's mother Sara also indulges in simple pleasures -- television in her close-quartered apartment, the randomness of selecting chocolate from a box, little things -- all following the death of her husband that left her somewhat without purpose. Watching Harry and Tyrone wheel a television across long expanses of sun-baked New York boardwalks and streets shares a playful purity, even though we know exactly what they're going to do with it.

Aronofsky keeps a firm grasp on the chemistry that's been generated between all his impeccably-chosen actors, a mood that slowly mixes unsullied relationships with gradual splashes of corruption from outside sources. Watching these characters from a point of happiness makes witnessing their deconstruction utterly heartbreaking, yet powerful and touching enough to appeal to a broad range of deep emotional connections that we might have built with them. Like watching poison drop into a mixing bowl, we stand back and observe as chaste ingredients are slowly tainted by unwanted outside components. Each character holds their own strengths and weaknesses, from hopeful elements like Harry's charisma and Tyrone's ambition, to Marion's lack of ability to differentiate between acts of love and acts of counter-production towards the trio's illness. Jennifer Connelly's shift from innocence to darkness as Marion stands out as the second-most pronounced, as we can see it emptying from her disposition from start to finish.

Drawing a parallel between heroin use and Sara's doctor-prescribed diet pills marks the difference between Requiem for a Dream being in-reach with the audience and beyond comprehension to those inexperienced with addiction. Watching Harry's mother buzz around her apartment, popping pills in front of the television, and grow more and more emaciated in a similar fashion as her son reflects the same sort of caustic power behind harmful drug use. Ellen Burstyn's performance, in effect, ties everything together; though we watch the horrors of worst case scenarios with the younger users, it's with Sara's gradual fizzle towards chaos within the confines of her own home -- by means of a flippant doctor's prescription -- that the connection really hits home. Some of the comparisons achieved by Aronofsky between actual brick-and-mortar prison and the prison of Sara's sanity can be downright frightening.

The characters' situations may differ, but their addictions share one thing in common: a driving force to separate themselves from reality. They reveal internal demons to us -- most revolving around a desire to separate themselves from the banality of their substandard lives -- in a fashion that reflects an unappreciative eye for the simple joys in life. That implies that all of the joy we witness in the first part of Requiem for a Dream aren't powerful enough to keep them from plummeting into a world of swelling drug use. Or maybe, it's just that the insurmountable impact of drug dependency is so strong that it'll swallow even the most pure and pleasant of elements. Either way, it shows how quickly that grasp of reality can be lost and how life's little pleasures become invisible to jaded, hungry eyes.

Though heartbreaking to witness, Requiem for a Dream's cinematic style makes this painful deconstruction even more heartfelt and, in many ways, gorgeous to behold. It features a legendary score composed by Clint Mansell, revolving around the infamously haunting musical cue from his "Lux Aeterna" that catapulted his stature as a Hollywood composer. Though it's rare that a piece of music can so aptly reflect both the pinnacle of beauty and the darkest recesses of depression, Mansell's magnum opus score certainly achieves it. Since then, he's pieced together excellent scores for many works -- including a sublime score for Aronofsky's own The Fountain -- but the energy and breathtaking emotion present here is really something to behold.

Probably the most iconic element present in the film is the superb editing work from Jay Rabinowitz, Jim Jarmusch's long-time editor responsible for piecing together Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai and Dead Man, as he comes together with Aronofsky's vision and Matthew Libatique's cinematography to create something visually astounding. He's driven to task with Requiem for a Dream, combining lightning-fast quips to replicate the feverish process -- and time-consuming nature -- of doing drugs. Incorporating shots of widening and tightening retina, the stilted flow of blood cells through a vein, and the shifts between rapid and sluggish movement by adjustments in the flow between frames is a masterful achievement in pushing film as an artform dangerously close to the replication of real-life experiences. It envelops the audience within a dizzying yet undeniable tornado of beautiful chaos, one where we can barely watch the character's fall -- but can't manage to pull our eyes away in wonder.

To label Requiem for a Dream as merely a cautionary tale is drastically undercutting its potency. It's a potent character film with well-drawn, affective entities that we can't help but empathize with, even when they're spiraling down the darkest of paths. Aronofsky shows familiarity with the structure he's created, building a beautiful arc between splendor and limitless suffering that looks in both directions. The characters look back at a life before they got wrapped up in intravenous drugs, while we -- a broad range of humans with scoring levels of corruption -- look at their downward spiral as a deeply communicated warning. Yes, it's a cautionary tale; but Requiem for a Dream's ability to connect with its audience comes as close visualizing the collapse of friends, family, even one's self, as you're likely to get.

I have no qualms in admitting that Requiem for a Dream succeeds in causing me to shed at least a tear or two upon every viewing. It draws audiences of many different styles to its message, appealing to those curious about the effects of drug use all the way to those who find the blanket of depression hard to remove from their lives. No matter the reason, Requiem for a Dream should become essential viewing to those approaching the age of lost innocence; Aronofsky's film reminds us to grasp a hold of the truly radiant elements in life, while attempting to dodge anything that might consume us. To speak to addiction, temptation, and diligence in trying to find a way out is a tough feat, but Requiem for a Dream -- with its poetic construction and potent allegorical resonance -- does it better than any film I've seen.

Rudo y Cursi -- Film Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Here's a quick rundown on Rudo y Cursi: two siblings working day-to-day as farmhands -- the oldest a slightly-hardened pessimist, the younger a whiny dreamer -- are discovered by a talent scout in the middle of nowhere while playing sports in a backwater recreational league. They leave their homes via the whims of the agent and become big rags-to-riches success stories in a professional league, then clash together in a conflict-riddled final game that'll define their relationships for the rest of their lives.

Yes, that's a slightly vague synopsis on my part, but the framework still sounds deviously familiar to something else at face value. Though it imitates a film seventeen years its senior, the sappy yet sweetly satisfying A League of Their Own, it's handled in a fashion that pours over the charm from Alfonso Cuarón's intimate Mexican dramas, Y tu mamá también and Sólo con tu pareja -- both of whom have director Carlos Cuarón, Alfonso's brother, attached as writer. However, all that creates an uphill battle for the simpler-minded Rudo y Cursi, pitting familiarities against familiarities in a sports film that's amusing yet dryly unoriginal.

With the slightly snake-like agent narrating their story, we follow Beto, "Rudo" (Diego Luna), and his brother Tato "Cursi" (Gael García Bernal), as they skyrocket up the ranks in professional soccer. Rudo, a brash banana foreman with a taste for gambling, supports his family with little more in his imagination outside of becoming a soccer superstar. Cursi, however, wishes to be a singer, and only follows through with the agent's luring because of his persuasive comments about the concerts he'll eventually play as an athlete-turned-musician. Through the extraordinarily easy (and highly suspect) magic that the obnoxious agent conjures up, they both make it to the pros -- and, naturally, both of these agricultural-working, sheltered men get tossed around with the sharks in the professional league, both on and off the field.

Carlos Cuarón's direction takes this familiar narrative about sibling rivalry and gives it a nice comedic kick. He invigorates the dynamic with natural yet harpy-like bickering in spots between Rudo and Cursi, mostly during their adrenaline-fueled antics before they're brought up to the Mexico City soccer league. Gael García Bernal and Diego Luna build their pre-sports characters adequately, making both Rudo and Cursi endearing while preserving the interplay that made their chemistry in Y tu mamá también a delight. Even as the agent stumbles into their dusty town and "makes a decision" between the two in absolutely ridiculous fashion, their banter carries the film gracefully over the hurdle between bloated family-centered explosiveness and into the professional sports ring.

Once they've become big shot soccer pros, Rudo y Cursi begins a flamboyant roll downhill. Carlos Cuarón's ample direction gradually evaporates at around the halfway point, which exposes a secondhand, cliché story framework that loses the attractive promise that was built up in the first half. It begins to go in auto-pilot, to a degree; between the one-two punch of Tato's singing career and all-to-predictable marital issues, along with Rudo's own domestic bouts revolving around gambling and martial breakdown, it transforms into a slightly amusing yet extraordinarily predictable hodgepodge of sports antics and sibling rivalry. All the satirical potshots are amusing, sure -- like the ridiculous music video Cursi records and the threatening fans reminiscent of American high-school football crazies -- but the combination of musing-like narration and unconvincingly smooth sport framework take it down a few notches.

There's clearly talent swimming around in Carlos Cuarón, both as a writer and, potentially, as a director, but Rudo y Cursi might have been too undemanding and structured of a comedy for his premiere directorial effort. The vibrant tone he sets for the film feels like a jubilant stenciling of a past picture with an overly familiar force driving it across the finish line, even while he's deftly handling the tension of the soccer field and scattering humor about for good measure. It does make us laugh though, which seems like the primary aim behind this sports flick, and somehow it's impossible to ignore its flavor of comedic timing. Though too silly and far too familiar for its own good, you'll still likely find this Cuarón production appealing enough to satisfy the urging for a semi-artsy, screwball sports comedy.

Musings: Marion Cotillard as Catwoman?

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 04:47:00 +0000

So, Inception happens to, in truth, be a science-fiction film -- meaning all its actors can be put on a bit of Batman 3 rumor hiatus, all while we can look forward to a non comic-book Christopher Nolan film. For most of the casting speculations, that's a good thing; however, there's one idea that's stuck in my mind:

Marion Cotillard as Catwoman.

Rumors are floating around that Ms. Transformers herself, Megan Fox, might be in the running for the role. That's all well and good, as her name has already been tossed around for Wonder Woman, along with being implicated as an Angelina Jolie clone -- another "rumored" female of the feline persuasion. I've got nothing at all against her, as I'm looking forward to the Diablo Cody penned Jennifer's Body where she vamps up as a bloodsucker. However, the decision to slap her in the Catwoman role by the studio is one that, as implausible as it might seem to Nolan supports (myself included) wary of the choice, isn't as far-fetched as some might be led to believe. She is, after all, the second-biggest driving force behind the masses paying to see Michael Bay's million-dollar explosion fests. Fox has yet to flex her true actress muscles, so we'll just set her to the side for a moment as a pop-culture bargaining chip that might be a consideration from WB.

Now, to the bedrock of my brainstorm. It's actually not all that difficult to draw out, outline or sketch if you will. Flip through the first couple of pages in "Batman: The Long Halloween" and check out Selina Kyle. Then, give a thought about Marion Cotillard in her shoes. Aside from having mammoth acting chops that have yet to be fully explored (aside from her astounding performance in La Vie En Rose), she simply fits the mold of the archetypal age, form, and grace of the character -- feline without being exuberant, and sleek with an edge. And sure, she's still grasping at the English language; however, why couldn't Catwoman have a distant foreign background that would make her accent second nature? It's not unreasonable for Selina Kyle to have traveled from overseas for one reason or another, finding her place in Gotham City at either a young age or later. That's all, of course, hearsay.

Here's a little background on the "modern" (read: non Eartha Kitt or Lee Meriwether) vision of Catwoman via Wikipedia:

"Catwoman's origin — and, to an extent, her character — was revised in 1986 when writer Frank Miller and artist David Mazzucchelli published Batman: Year One, a revision of Batman's origin. In this version, Selina Kyle is reintroduced as a independent and more modern minded woman. She is a prostitute in order to survive and wants to break away from her abusive pimp (and former boyfriend). She witnesses his crimes and because of an event which occurs to her (nun) sister, fears for her sisters life and begins to study self defense and martial arts."

Sounds like something the Public Enemies star could pull off, doesn't it? With the assumption Christopher Nolan even wants to put Selina Kyle/Catwoman in his newest Batman flick, she'd be a great addition. Maybe they're negotiating as Inception winds down principal photography?

Just a thought.

Less 'Samurai' to 'Love' -- Film Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 22:35:00 +0000

Those accustomed to the deliberate yet powerful film adaptations of Shûhei Fujisawa's novels, namely Twilight Samurai and Love and Honor, will find The Samurai I Loved (aka Semishigure, or In Chorus of Cicadas) excruciatingly familiar. Sadly, in this case, that's not a good thing; the absence of Yôji Yamada is certainly felt, as Mitsuo Kurotsuchi adamantly tries to replicate the tone from his successful samurai dramas with little avail. Though aptly performed and attractively photographed in a similar fashion, it instead makes us appreciate the delicate directorial measures taken by Yamada to keep Fujisawa's novels compelling within their pacing, instead of this drab, drawn-out rhythm.

It revolves around the two lives of Bunshiro, half of the film concentrating on his youth and the other as an adult. He studied the ways of the samurai with his friends as a young student, showing promise as a talented warrior while his friends lagged behind. But when his father is sentenced to commit seppuko (ritualized suicide for an embarrassing act) by the magistrate for wrongful acts and their food stipend removed, his life tumbles down in a state of embarrassment for his family. Forced to eke out a living with his mother, he grows into a talented samurai who, eventually, would find himself in a similar position as his father.

This film is entitled The Samurai I Loved for a reason, of course, which brings up his relationship with childhood friend Fuku. She's forcefully shipped off to serve in a far-off household, only to return in Bunshiro's adulthood as an eleventh hour plot device. At least, that's the way that the sloppily-handled narrative emphasizes their relationship, given very little gravity by all the unmemorable actors at play. Under tighter direction, their love could've been more emphatic and wistful. Instead, she's little more than a secondary element for most of the picture, largely due to the misbalanced handling of Bunshiro's complex life. Somegaro Ichikawa and Yoshino Kimura aren't completely to blame, since they perform their adult roles fine enough to mirror their less-than-stellar child counterparts, but the transition between youth to adulthood never really carries over any sense of evocative vigor.

As with other adaptations of Fujisawa's novels, samurai swordplay acts more as a character growth element that an action beat. Usually, with his bell-shaped narrative flow, it only hits two-or-three action pieces per story. The Samurai I Loved floats along with the same ebbs and flows, but they're handled in a fashion that's simply not interesting. Though the conclusion elicits shades of Kihachi Okamoto's Sword of Doom in its semi-claustrophobic bustle, the editing and acting present in the scene feels both forced and bland. Granted, the samurai action isn't the draw to the story; however, there's an immediacy evoked with Yôji Yamada's sparse sequences -- often the final duel at the close of each film -- that rustles up excitement around both the internal and external battle to give it punch. That's simply not present in Mitsuo Kurotsuchi's picture.

Fujisawa's core story manages to be the only thing keeping The Samurai I Loved cinematically afloat, suffering from an exuberant two-hour-plus runtime, weakly drawn characters, and forgettable drama encompassing period theatrics. The story structure actually supports the mediocre surroundings much better than you'd expect, containing a healthy level of conspiracy and familiar turmoil. Through all the Terrence Malick-like visual imagery with snakes slithering and the usage of cicadas, it tries to paint a graceful story. Instead, Mitsuo Kurotsuchi's film suffers from the exact adjective criticisms that often get misdirected towards Yôji Yamada's trio of samurai dramas -- sluggish, somewhat bland, and only mildly satisfying.

Dogfish Head's Indian Brown Ale -- Beer Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 22:17:00 +0000

It’s hard to beat Dogfish Head’s Indian Brown ale when you’re venturing into the darker ranges of craft brews, as this higher-BAC (7.2%), affordable porter / stout mishmash certainly offers one of the more complex, delectable experiences around. Poured into a stemless snifter from a 12 oz bottle, purchased at Green’s on Ponce in Atlanta.

Dogfish Head’s Indian Brown pours a deep, rich brown, barely translucent at certain angles to reveal a thick brown amber shade. The scent leans surprisingly to both floral and fruity notes, hinting at a crisp alcohol-laced naturalness that makes the brew feel very earth to the nostril. It sticks with you, especially the hop-infused bite at the end of each quaff. With an aggressive pour, it’ll render a ½ inch cream-colored head that lingers for only a minute or so. That creaminess causes a bit of lacing as the beer level falls lower and lower in the glass.

With each taste, Dogfish Head’s flagship dark ale will enchant with each sip. It’ll grasp your tastebuds a bit, as the alcohol content is a bit higher than other porters and brown ales of its ilk. But the slightly sweet, floral essence from the quaffs translates over to each sip, all while keeping a nutty flavor at the core of its flavor. What’s especially impressive is the hop-styled bubbly punch that hits the mouth with each taste, something that stays memorable after the bottle has been finished. Each mouthful is moderately thick with a hint of sweetness, masking the alcohol flavor well. There’s complexity present in this brew, a level of layered flavoring that’s both rich and pleasant.

Though labeled as a style of “brown ale”, Dogfish Head’s Indian Brown consistently reminds one more of a porter-like brew infused with a bouquet of impressive, complex hops and earthy notes that impresses with each bottle. It’s a personal favorite, and easily one of Dogfish Head’s best brews – which, conveniently, happens to be one of their least expensive as well.

Intriguing 'Inception' Trailer Void of 'Batman'

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 18:41:00 +0000

For a while, I was persistent with the notion that Inception was a code name for Memento director Christopher Nolan's third Batman film. With the cast that he's got lined up, including Bats veterans Cilian Murphy, Michael Caine, and Ken Watanabe, it almost seemed like clockwork that the oft-rumored potential "replacement" for Heath Ledger as The Joker, Joseph Gordon-Levitt (Brick, The Lookout), was brought aboard and might possibly find his way into the picture as a suitable, worthy stand-in much in the vein of the gaggle of talent behind Dr. Parnassus. However, bear this in mind: I'm a Nolan supporter far before I'm a Nolan-directed Batman supporter (even though I'm a nerd for the character), so those initial thoughts were actually somewhat of a downer in my mind since they led towards another Nolan film "inside the box" instead of a complex outside-thinking piece of work -- like his surprisingly potent magician thriller, The Prestige.

Well, an Inception teaser with a fistful of footage has been released by Warner Brothers, and the fact that it's clearly leaning towards being an actual science-fiction film instead of a Batman cover-up is a beautiful thing. Beliefs about Scorsese's lucky charm Leonardo Dicaprio (The Aviator, The Departed) being The Riddler, Marion Cotillard (La Vie En Rose) being Catwoman, and Gordon-Levitt possibly taking a stab at The Joker have been buried; what comes now is pure, enthralled excitement for this oddly claustrophobic science-fiction film existing in the confines of the human mind. It's great that WB quickly put these theories to rest, because now the excitement can build for the first film where Christopher Nolan's the director and SOLE WRITER of a new type of intricately-constructed suspense picture.

July 2010 can't come sooner.

'War': What Is It Good For? A Laugh

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 22:03:00 +0000

As a Middle-Eastern conflict critique, War, Inc.'s boldness in execution doesn't match its limited depth; but, as a blend between zestful satire and zany verbal slapstick, it entertains unlike many others of its kind. Richard Kelly tried to achieve similar results with his heady misfire Southland Tales, a film rife with consumerist pokes and societal tomfoolery, but murky concept development halted its potential. This John Cusack vehicle doesn't try to be the smartest war farce out there, but it does take all of its ideas -- spoof, wit, and concept alike -- and slickly blends them together into a rowdy, entertaining-as-hell satirist comedy that came up as quite the under-appreciated surprise.

War, Inc., directed by Joshua Seftel, operates much like an alternate-universe sequel to the sharp black comedy Grosse Pointe Blank, only with a neo-political edge that blends Kelly's Southland Tales' American-dystopian societal concepts with Lord of War's grasp on dark militant humor. It features John Cusack (High Fidelity) as stealth assassin Brand Hauser, a hotsauce-chugging, jittery ball of nerves on assignment to knock out an oil minister in the occupied Middle-Eastern country of Turaqistan. "Occupied" has taken a different meaning in this crumbled future location, meaning ownership lies with wealthy corporation-funded military operations, as it adorns this dusty town with advertisements, trigger-happy mercenaries with the Hallibur - erm, I mean Tamerlane's company bright red logo on their shoulders, and profit-turning ventures like fast-food restaurant chains -- and Hauser's on retainer of sorts for the company. He's undercover with assistance from his liaison / secretary (Joan Cusack, Working Girl) as a trade show coordinator embedded into Turaqistan's crumbled core, though he shares no real interest in working at all with the show -- which essentially totes the message of Tamerlane's capitalist growth.

Portrayal of the gaudy marketing-laden Turaqistan landscape becomes the first target for mockery to fall underneath War, Inc.'s crosshairs. It's an environment saturated by marketing bits and pieces from sand to sky, including classic scene involving Coca-Cola signage and fast-food restaurants. Here starts the critique on enterprising in War, Inc., a theme that the film blasts at full volume without much timidity -- as well as consciousness for audience threshold. They make no bones, bits, and pieces about the fact that they're illustrating pseudo-American occupation as profiteering, even going to far as to slap a poilitical-corporate bigwig at the front of its cause. Though it's bold, it's also sharp and conscientious enough to make these ideas very, very funny.

To balance this, cinematographer Zoran Popovic makes certain that all these false contours, perfect angular architecture, and bold color schemes lock our eyes in unwavering engagement. But even with the cinematographer's slick eye for mock-Kubrick symmetry and Children of Men style dilapidation photography around Turaqistan, it's still clearly a character comedy filmed in similar ways as other Cusack films -- with quipping dialogue and exaggerated up-close and personal humor. There's another interesting paradox at play in his visual design: product placement. Popeye's fried chicken, Hummer H3s (you know, the little ones), and shiny new Nokia camera tech adorn the streets of Tamerlane-occupied city ruins, yet they become more of a mockery of glitz-and-glamour consumerism instead of appearing desirable -- kind of like Hannibal Lecter endorsing steak sauce. Normally, this extensive exploitation of an idea, especially one rooted in the discomforting image of a bright red corporate logo plastered everywhere, might clutter the film with unnecessary levels of instigation. Somehow, that wasn't the case for War, Inc.

Instead, it all crafts a farcical outlook on serious government and corporate policies that's an absolute riot to soak in, both for the wild saturation of Western excesses and for its darting comedic timing with Cusack in the foreground. He's nailed down that jumpy nice-guy-doing-not-so-nice personality that pops up in a lot of his "darker" characters, assassin or not. War, Inc. doesn't differ, especially considering the fact that Cusack has such an easy template to duplicate with Martin Blank. As a co-writer on War, Inc., also responsible for two of his previous well-written films (Grosse Pointe Blank, High Fidelity), he succeeds in applying a filtered stream-of-dialogue to Brand Hauser that displays strong consciousness of his strengths and weaknesses. Cusack's resident nice-guy assassin performance was pretty darn enjoyable in '97, and hasn't lost its rhythm to this point. Like many on-stage duos playing the same characters, he and his sister Joan know what attributes work for each other respectfully -- and exploit them to varying degrees, sometimes making them come off as mildly cartoonish when pushed too hard.

But in this dystopian environment of saccharine mockery swordplay, that over-the-top flavor keeps their characters humorous and exciting. This indulgent projection trickles over into War, Inc.'s stellar supportive cast, from the surprisingly affective Spears/Aguilera parody mishmash named Yonnika Babyyeah (Hillary Duff, A Cinderella Story) to the eerily accurate ghosting of Dick Cheney in Dan Aykroyd's pseudo-V for Vendetta projection of Mr. Vice President. Their over-embellished rhythms make certain to remind the audience that this is, in fact, a situational comedy and not quite the same kind of significant satire as the likes of Dr. Strangelove. Heck, even Ben Kingsley (House of Sand and Fog) gets in on the spectacle of it all as a government-esque overseer to Hauser that, I swear, sounds like he's evoking Matthew McConaughey through vocal tone and demeanor.

Yet, it's Marisa Tomei's (My Cousin Vinny) sharp-edged delivery as Hauser's journalist love-interest Natalie that anchors this chaos to pseudo-reality, dragging the Tobasco-blooded Hauser a little further away from his bleak neuroses. She adds a sense of normalcy to a little universe that begins to seem surreal in its paralleling techniques with modern practice, culture, the works. War, Inc.'s sprawling effort still seems to work better as an overblown punchline laced with socio-analytical approaches than as a full-throttle study of war-torn corporate dissension, yet it cleverly finds a way to rustle up explosive entertainment to burst between both extremes -- such as the chaos surrounding Hauser's cookie-cutter relationship with Natalie, surprisingly reminiscent of Cusack and Minnie Driver's rhythm in Grosse Pointe. There's an almost infinite level of political arena festivities that can cloud the big picture confetti-style in War, Inc.; but, strangely, this steady stream of material manages to amplify the few moments of waking reflection that sneak into this potent and riotous comedy.

Say Yes to 'Chaos' -- Film Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 04:23:00 +0000

The chaos theory, or butterfly effect, tinkers with the idea that as the fabric of our life shifts and changes through chance and coincidence, more differentiated outcomes can be produced. In short, as things are done a certain way throughout time, the outcome of time itself shifts. We've already endured a time travel version of this same concept with the Ashton Kutcher vehicle Butterfly Effect. Much like that trippy moral tale, reviewers and audiences alike seem to be divided over the Ryan Reynolds'-helmed philosophical comedy, Chaos Theory. Honestly, I don't see why; Chaos Theory, as a thoughtful screwball comedy with an undercurrent of reflective tendencies, is a heartwarming and hilarious triumph that finally singles out the Van Wilder and Waiting ... star in a controlled, pitch-perfect pool of light. Plus, it featured one of my newly favored lines of dialogue in a film: "Say Yes To Chaos".

Reynolds plays Frank Allen, a corporate motivational speaker who concentrates on time efficiency. He preaches what he knows, that's for sure; Allen is a slave to structure and strategic planning via the ticking clock of time. He knows, to the second, the exact minute he must jet out of his home to drive his car to the ferry, park his car, drive over, and arrive at his scheduled location at the precise moment to be punctual. His wife Susan, played by Emily Mortimer in a role vaguely reminiscent to that of her snarling firecracker in Match Point, knows of his submissive nature to time as well. She takes advantage of it, all the while never letting us know whether she finds Frank's eccentricities to be endearing or annoying. Her love comes overshadowed by the fantastic chemistry that Frank and his daughter Jesse have, one that's sweet beyond words but warm enough not to care. We learn all this, as well as about the explosive nature of Frank's problematic romantic past, as he sits and talks with his daughter's husband-to-be just a few hours before their wedding.

Normally accustomed to playing a pompous meathead in most of his roles, Ryan Reynolds has to excise a few decibels of himself for Chaos Theory to give Frank Allen the kind of tangibility that makes him seem like a real dweeb while, in the same breath, getting us to laugh at his charm behind his mannerisms. Subtle nuances with his speech, especially once that nagging twitch of unpunctuality gets under his skin, escalate Reynolds' fumbling discomfort to some really screaming-head points of laughter. The level of restraint Reynolds places on his charisma is a real accomplishment in comedic timing, only letting his humorous sparks come out to play in sporadic little darts. When he pulls out the "cards of fate", it's all downhill from there. Reynolds nails his role in my eyes and gets the ball rolling from the start without the slightest intent on slowing it down.

Honestly, I haven't laughed harder at any recent comedies than I did during quite a few moments in Chaos Theory, especially once the real chaos in the film gets to going like a set of dominoes lined up for miles. It's a situational comedy that hinges on the charismatic quirks of a Monk-meets-C3PO archetype of a character gone awry down a path of infidelity, complicated fatherhood, and the essence of battle between fate and choice, and we're all the more willing to follow when it keeps this kind of twitchy, rolling-through-the-aisles energy. Chaos Theory takes many a turn towards the loony as the fabric of its chaotic world folds and knots with each conflict that pops up in poor Frank's life. Normally, such ludicrous plot points would make my eyes roll, but not here; instead, I ate each character and their complete disjointed miscommunications up with a spoon, especially Frank.

It doesn't hurt that the female characters in Chaos Theory come out with enough well-written energy to counterbalance the controlled testosterone Reynolds embraces. Emily Mortimer fits into a template with Susan - the embittered wife who assumes that her husband is a weak individual who obeys higher powers that she, in her very finite capacity, can tweak to her advantage. She's a simple, lukewarm character that really doesn't do much to alter the tone of Chaos Theory. Instead, she purely interacts with the ludicrous hand that fate dealt Frank on one particular day, playing the reaction game instead of one that'd give her character any excessive substance. Where the passionate, alluring energy comes in is through the anarchistic "temptress" to Frank's well-oiled planning, filled with gusto by Scrubs actress Sarah Chalke. She's perfect for the role, playing another controlling element in Frank's life as he starts to lose his own grip on the solidity of his world.

This control that we as structured humans exercise upon our lives as we try to strike a balance between choice and fate is part of the nonchalant thoughtfulness that radiates from Chaos Theory. Director Marcos Siega isn't out to teach any real lessons behind his and Daniel Taplitz' film of screwball twists and turns, but merely to rustle up a dash of pensiveness behind how tight of a grip we have on our lives. It also respects the sprawling, contusive nature of chaos and the dangers behind complete surrender to anarchy. Chaos Theory plays a balance game between the two within its humorous situational scrambling, and it kept me entertained every step of the way.

In that, it hits a fantastic balance between keeping the humor heavy and keeping the core emotional plot devices rather light and digestible. The notions of chaos, structure, and the amount of realistic control we have over either comes out with more of a nudge-nudge wink-wink style of idea plugging instead of in the form of one of the lectures Frank gives. Chaos Theory gets a lot of tonal and situational elements just right, which leads me to love just about everything about it. From the colorful, gloriously conceived modern cinematography that director of photography Ramsey Nickell achieves within her wide lenses, to the saccharine, uncomplicated ways in which the film comes to its conclusion, director Siega's radiant little comedy is one of laughter and warmth that doesn't neglect its rather substantial and thought-provoking roots.

Chaos Theory is simple when it needs to be simple, complicates just enough to spice things up as needed, and rarely neglects any of its characters as these cinematic dominoes click and tumble in their steady stream. And it's paced well too, sitting right underneath an hour-and-a-half long as a patch of brash complications that could easily have gotten spread too thin much too quickly. Along with Reynolds and the other characters inside, Siega's film knows the boundaries it rides and tinkers with these beliefs in the chaotic nature of our world enough to keep me engaged and, ultimately, spark me to laugh my head off at a character swallowed whole by it. Yet, there's enough attachment to Frank that sympathy also comes through, transcending Chaos Theory into a situation where we laugh with Frank instead of laughing at him during his epiphonic deconstruction.

Witness an Emotional 'Revolution' -- Film Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 23:13:00 +0000

Sam Mendes has a flair for directing films both beautiful and painful alike, from his claim-to-fame cathartic suburban drama American Beauty to his family-based gangster picture Road to Perdition. Now he gives us Revolutionary Road, a meditation on suppressed emotions and crumbling hopes underneath the invisible avalanche toppling over '50s lives across America. To say that it's his most mature work to date is both accurate and daunting, considering how evocatively his films about war, self-image, and murder can be. But Revolutionary Road is also Sam Mendes' paramount accomplishment to date, one that shrinks his natural buffer zone between the neo-idealistic façade of a mundane existence and unbearable emotional torment even further.

Adapted from Richard Yates' novel, it begins with two starry-eyed young people eyeing each other across the room during a party. Frank (Leonardo DiCaprio) is slightly timid but vivacious enough to approach her, while she's a spirited, possibly dominant creature with a zest for life. She sees emotion in his eyes, and vice versa. They share a dance, a deep look, and a natural moment where it seems as if everything just might play out for them. Their connection is apparent from the start, making quick work of calling our invested emotions into the two characters that appear to be shaped from the same mold -- something different from the rest of the partygoers. What's obvious from this scene, and all of the other sequences featuring "young" Frank, is that he strives to truly be "alive", something that seems to be missing from everybody else around him.

Just as we're beginning to appreciate the brighter side of their dynamic, we promptly cut several years down the line to a point where Frank and April have ensnared the "perfect" existence after their courtship. It, however, isn't anything like we'd imagine for them, and far from perfect; Frank, once something of a renaissance man, has broken down under the pressure of society and family necessity to stick with a job as a iron-heart marketing suit, while partly-aspiring actress April has been chained down to the domestic life. Married with two children and living in a Connecticut suburb, they appear to have the whole she-bang on paper -- except happiness. It's been replaced by vitriol, mangled emotions and persistently sharp banter that slowly, and painfully, changed each of them into their antithetic personalities.

From the start, we can't help but share at least mild fondness for both Frank and April, due in large part to the rekindled, somehow innocent reunion between Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet. They reconnect for the first time since Titanic, bringing to the table over ten years of development as actors / actresses. During that time, Leo has brough Howard Hughes (The Aviator), a South African diamond smuggler (Blood Diamond), and an undercover cop (The Departed) to life, while Kate Winslet has absolutely lit up the screen in role after potent role -- with Finding Neverland and Little Children, sure, but also as the effervescent Clemetine in Michel Gondry's masterful Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. With April, Kate Winslet delivers a criminally underappreciated performance; under societal suburban pressure, she makes us see April of yesteryear within the April crippled by her maddening situation. Glimmers of her past vibrancy ink through, interconnecting with her torment in incredible fashion. Alongside a very strong turn from Leo as the sexually repressed, emotionally broken Frank, they create heart-wrenching magic with each verbal blow delivered.

Anyone who has been in a relationship gone sour will find something familiar and natural within Revolutionary Road, largely thanks to the fantastic penmanship at play with Justin Haythe's adaptation of the novel. It paints the portrait of two individuals who have, essentially, had their hearts forcefully reconstructed into something undesirable. Frank and April's arguments might not be about the same topics that we've thrown around in fallen relationships, but many of the punchy dialogue will feel eerily familiar. For those who haven't endured something like this, it's a cautionary tale; there are wrongs and rights on each side, irrationalities and desires repressed. It's a film about anything and everything stirring within an emotional soul -- repressed passion, unfulfilled desires, a sense of worthlessness, and the big question as to whether you're living your life the way you really should.

That's where Revolutionary Road really packs a punch. Like American Beauty, Mendes finds himself shackled back into suburban mental hell. He manages to make it a beautiful hell though, calling back cinematographer Roger Deacons -- also the Coen Brothers' mainstay photographer -- to pump it full of life, along with exceptional composer Thomas Newman for another outstanding score. But all the beauty only heightens the intensity of the chaos, making the appealing atmosphere all the more unbearable as it crushed the once-smitten couple. As their lives spiral downwards into a world of affairs and bloodcurdling arguments, the idyllic little house on Revolutionary Rd. being to shape into one of the more attractive battlefields you could imagine. Truth be told, it's not an uncommon battlefield, and Mendes really has a grasp on the timelessness of that notion.

But their plight heightens and grows to its most complex levels with the addition of one character: John Givings, played by Michael Shannon. Frank and April's arguments were embittered and gripping up until the point when he, an ex-mental patient, comes over to visit with his mother Helen (Kathy Bates). Then, John opens his mouth and changes the ways that they, and we, view the sanities and insanities of the "picture perfect" life. He's in three scenes total, but they're easily the three most important pieces of the film; though considered to be the ramblings of a lunatic -- an intelligent lunatic, mind you -- by John's family, the Wheelers are able to see beyond his mental condition and absorb his earnest, surprisingly sane insight on love and the nuclear family. Michael Shannon absolutely steals the show and, in ways, snatches credit for everything positive and negative that topples down afterward.

Which, it does. Revolutionary Road molds around the prospects of attempting to regain innocence, of escaping the invisible trap of suburban press, by taking drastic measures and grabbing the bull by the horns. Frank and April try to regain their prior identities when the maddening atmosphere grows thicker, expressing the desire to flip-flop who's dominant in the relationship and how they live their lives -- harking on their desires to visit Europe. It's in the haunting, chain-on-the-ankle draw from the jaded and pessimistic American suburbia that weighs them down, brainwashing them into surrendering their happiness for safety. As it progresses, their interplay grows more maddening with each notch as it approaches a deceitful, volcanic conclusion.

Revolutionary Road is, simply, brilliant; solemn, melancholy, and heartbreaking, but a brilliantly emotional deconstruction of relationships and, easily, one of the best films of 2009. Surprisingly, even with the insurmountable pain pulsating through the Wheelers' war of words, there's still a small stream of hope ... one of the key things that Mendes always seems to keep running through his pictures, no matter how depressing or painful they get. It might only be a slight glimmer of hope underneath the story's messages that revolve around feeling trapped and losing control of one's own life, but it's certainly there.

Samuel Smith's Taddy Porter: Beer Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 23:03:00 +0000

Coming in a classic gold-foiled top with its old English feel, Samuel Smith's "Famous" Taddy Porter endures as a smooth yet robust dark session brew. Served in a tall glass from a ~19oz classic bottle, purchased from Green's in Atlanta.

When poured, it streams into the glass with quite a fizz. It's very dark brown in color, showcasing some rouge when held to the light. The scent mainly consists of a roasted coffee-like punch, along with very slight butterscotch sweetness underneath that makes it appealing. As it reaches the top of the glass and begins to settle, a soft mocha-colored head begins to form measuring close to three-quarters of an inch high. It doesn't stick around though, quickly settling into the glass with practically no lacing.

Sam Smith's porter isn't quite as thick as it looks when sipped, containing a more lightly carbonated texture than it implies by its head. It feels rather pleasant to the taste, expanding a bit as it lingers. The thinness shouldn't be taken as a negative, since there's still plenty of foaminess from the lips to the back of the mouth. It's just a bit airy compared to other dense porters, which is a pleasant surprise.

Though a bit thinner in texture in texture, the Taddy Porter certainly carries a flavorful punch. It's not unpredictable, as it carries a very familiar nutty, roasted punch that's sublime to swallow. But it also has a bit of a sweet, caramel-style touch to the rear, counterbalancing the lightly nut-centered alcohol punch in the mouth with velvetiness. After each taste, the roasted nuttiness lingers long after each taste, staying tasty yet jaunty enough to enjoy throughout the evening.

Removing the wrap from the lid on one of Samuel Smith's Taddy Porters ensures a pleasant, classic night of roasted English dark ale. Tasty and robust with its slightly smoky, light nutty flavor, it's an easily irresistible porter out there that almost begs the drinker to swallow more.

'Lovely Bones' Trailer -- Outstanding

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 18:27:00 +0000

As most people know who have had their attention drawn to Lord of the Rings' director Peter Jackson, he first directed a rather tense childhood drama entitled Heavenly Creatures -- a powerful, emotionally tense picture about growth and perception in the eyes of a young girl. That's exactly why his adaptation of The Lovely Bones has me excited; molded with a perfect casting decision in Oscar-nominated Saoirse Ronan, it looks like Jackson might have put together the film that What Dreams May Come aspired to be. Mark Wahlberg naturally holds back a mild amount of enthusiasm, but the visual style, the tone of the trailer, and the supportive cast including Rachel Weisz all seem to mesh together extremely well. It'll certainly be a great film to release in December, 11th to be exact.

'Perfume' Hits Horror on the Nose -- Film Review

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Spurlin) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 14:16:00 +0000

Try to imagine smell -- not necessarily the image of food, cloth, or wood that accompanies a particular scent, but the actual olfactory sense flying through the wind. Though any sensory element is tough to capture on film, Tom Tykwer has given us a wonderfully dark and emotionally twisted horror film in Perfume: The Story of a Murderer that harnesses one of the most difficult to imagine. To say the least, the director of the electrically charged Lola Rennt (Run Lola Run) has meticulously crafted an adaptation of Patrick Süskind's novel, "Das Parfum", that's packed with mesmerizing tension.

Narrated by Alien and V for Vendetta star John Hurt, Perfume drops us into a raunchy, grimy puddle within a crumbling market in 18th Century France. Orphaned and abandoned at birth, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille (Ben Whishaw) shuffles to and fro between "owners" as a slave, stumbling along and learning whatever inklings about human nature he possibly can without a speckle of guidance. The one thing he does discover, and harness, is an insurmountably potent sense of smell that can absorb the rich scents of the world to endless bounds.

From the decadent aroma of flowers and vegetation to the obscure taste of wet, molding stone and rotting flesh, nothing escapes Jean-Baptiste's nose. A "power" like his, even in his dilapidated surroundings, eventually has to surface. Lending fuel to his innate fire, an aging perfumer Baldini (Dustin Hoffman) discovers the young boy and his capacity to isolate smell. Baldini doesn't know about the unsavory desire for scent preservation that begins to rapidly unfurl with Jean-Baptiste's education -- and the boy's crumbling, brazen sanity building within his growing desire for women.

An intriguing, humorous anti-development story about an unguided youth very quickly evolves into something close to a tense nightmare, as Perfume shifts tones at this point from being dark with a dash of humor to purely macabre horror. What makes Tykwer's film so haunting isn't just the way he harnesses smell on screen, but his manipulation of the olfactory sense itself. As humans, we rely on scent as somewhat of a pleasure organ. From picking up fluttering scents escaping food to the undeniable rage of erotic flavor, he keeps us fully aware of the nose as a way to grasp unbridled wonder from the world.

Does Ben Whishaw, a young, skinny actor with few claims to his name, make a compelling anti-hero in Jean-Baptiste as he sniffs his way into becoming a oddly-motivated murderer? Unquestionably. Watching him absorb the mucky, expansive world around him repeatedly embraces the aura of a snake "tasting" the world through its quivering tongue. Along with purely nailing down creepy, he makes being unnerved a load of fun. There are small twinkles in his aromatic eyes that reflect innocent disparity with an uncontrollable glisten of vigor. And it all works wonderfully inside his quiet, unaware personality to give him discomforting menace. Whishaw has risen to the occasion in several other performances, namely in Brideshead Revisited, but his portrayal of Jean-Baptiste lingers enough to remind of its potency with each of the actor's roles. It wouldn't be unreasonable to chalk up Jean-Baptiste as one of the more unique, oddly disturbing villains from the past ten years of cinema, as his incensed quaffs and brashly lurid nature offer a compelling -- and violently unsettling -- entity to absorb.

Several other quirky, well-fleshed performances are what help to smooth out Perfume's unyielding vigor, counterbalancing the bleakness with plenty of demented humor and sublime theatrics. This is an aggressive tale that could've wobbled a bit along a non-watchable brink with the wrong cast; instead, Tykwer has made several very wise casting choices, two in particular. It's within Dustin Hoffman as Baldini and Alan Rickman as a father to one of Jean-Baptiste "interests" that an enjoyable radiance exists which counterbalances the film's shadowy weight. Tremendous dramatic quality exists in both, the only couth male presences in the film; however, their naturally playful auras give their characters a luster akin to coins glistening in the middle of those French mud puddles.

Perfume: The Story of a Murderer is an intriguing type of grotesque tale, one that aims to grapple more visceral audiences with its gratuity while also entrancing more discerning crowds with a rich story densely embedded in its iconic 18th Century French setting. Seamless in dramatic transition and carrying a fluent grace in visual style, it also has every dirty staple and grotesque stitch impeccably placed. Flowing through this terrarium of olfactory terror can really knock someone back with plain filthy detail, while watching this editing style that grasps the swollen, primitive dilapidation underneath civilization harks to a Requiem for a Dream style of sporadic snippets. They seem to harness these sensations just long enough for us to process and dispose them, leaving nothing more than the lingering thought of what might have been seen.

Tykwer then poises us into a surreal, uncomfortable twist between scent's eroticism and an underdeveloped passion raging within Jean-Baptiste. His unbridled nature, how it develops in many of the ways that our own passion develops at that age, build the tension naturally and, in ways, familiarly as we watch him develop. It's impressive how Tykwer accomplishes such discomfort in concocting a thoroughly discombobulating mindspace around the picture, all while allowing his audience to soak in these swirling eccentricities to a near-visceral level. Perfume's natural tension and ability to exploit its unique way of projecting aromatic elements transform this into a whopper of a hybrid picture that's evocative, horrific, and quite humorous as it churns deeper and deeper into the audience's psyche. Let all the scents of this unusual tale seep into your nasal cavity, because it certainly earns its worth as a well-textured gothic thriller from first whiff to the final bold flavor.