Failed to Razzle-Dazzle Me

I don't know what my least favorite part of Rob Marshall's newest glitzy musical Nine. For one, I probably shouldn't have even attempted another boisterous Hollywood musical again, because I often enter with predetermined feelings of distain. Yet the impressive cast and promise peculiar homage to Fellini's classic 8 1/2 was enough to get me to drop the ten dollar ticket price. But I should have known. The film from which the musical draws its inspiration is perfectly captured through Fellini's visual and psychological mixing of form and content to the demise of an actual narrative. Bound by the control of the camera and the mind, 8 1/2 captures a level beyond the false minor life details that would supposedly progress a linear plot line. And ultimately that is what Nine becomes comprised of; meaningless encounters with his subjective women.

The film is made up of patchy and jilted musical numbers by each of the dramatic famous "Italian" director Guido Contini's (Daniel Day-Lewis) women. Now I use a possessive here because that is essentially the role each and every one of them hold. They fall subject to the unfortunately surface concerns of Guido's character, each only concerned with the role in relation to the man. Not one of these strong female characters seemed able to go beyond the man, and were therefore bound to the superficial portrait of his character. Each and every one of these actresses I have at least a small amount of respect for, yet all seemed subject to the simple relationship between this man and every woman. With the exception of Fergie's shockingly impressive role as the childhood spirit Saraghina, all numbers seemed more akin to a tacky knock off a Chicago stage performance. Marshall did not fail to mask the shallow nature of his content in his infamous glitter and sequins set against his spot-lit black background. In fact maybe that's my problem with this movie; with all the feathers, bosom and grainy black and white footage thrown at us, I was still wasn't even entertained. Forget all the referential film history crap, I was down right unimpressed by just about everything. There was no retreat, no truly catch numbers (with the exception for Fergie's "Be Italian") , or even some gripping plot line. Nothing. Nothing but a whole-lotta lingerie and moanin' and groanin'. Thumbs down. Not even worth my time.

wants another oscar nod, me thinks

You already made this film, Ridley Scott. It was called Gladiator.

Letter to the producers of Leap Year

Dear Movie-makers,

I was unaware we needed a prequel to Maid of Honor.

Thank You,

Me

yeah... so apparently this is happening...

The Sorcerer's Apprentice trailer has officially premiered and now I have a few concerns for the sanity of Hollywood:

1. Why the hell was this made?

2. Why does Nick Cage have that damn haircut? And why isn't he accompanied by a clumsy, curious mouse in a cape?

3. Why do they feel the need to ruin the magic of Fantasia and Goethe's short story? I don't think Goethe intended there to be purple dragons and mythical men from the east involved...

can we talk about this?

Since when does shitty chick flick and a smoggy L.A. skyline equal the iconic epitome of Parisian fantasy?

cinematic perfection

I'll be the first to admit I complain about film all the time. Unfortunately, the complex that comes along with a film studies degree is to find fault in just about everything you see. But in the spirit of the New Wave I'm going to take a positive look into cinematic perfection.

Cinema is able to captivate me because of it's deliberately clashing identities. It combines different facets of art, audience and industry in a matter of often less than two hours time. We are dealing with an entirely unique medium. Something that has the power to enhance, embrace and utilize the center point in which it sits. So, in order to explain myself, I'll give you my recipe:

Great film, to me, is when art meets industry and form meets content.

This intersection between technique, creativity, marketing and narrative is what inspires me to study film. Film has the power to unite and utilize seemingly opposing forces. We can have film that is art and commodity. One that brings about narrative and technique to create a new meaning; a cinematic moment. Something living in between reality and fantasy. Film falls into the definitive gaps; creating an understanding of the world and entertainment by blurring our notions of absolute categorization.

Film can entertain the masses and be an artistic masterpiece. Film can both showcase and explore the realms of reality and create, edit, and manipulate our perceptions of said reality. Film can bring about narrative and technique to create new meaning outside of physical or literary capabilities.

And in celebration of this union, I dedicate my blog to the exploration of this unique medium. With hope that I can examine the films that do bring about intersecting perfection: cinematic harmony.

Opposing Collisions: crashing realism and formalism in the French New Wave

Since when did cinema fit into so many tiny boxes? So much about the way we break down the vast and infinite world of film and film studies out there, we begin to see the facade of terminology that divides and conquers our picture of order. It's become a world of stifling genres, three tiers of world cinematic division and ultimately forced assumption through these arbitrary means of separation. Film has become an object which is easily contained in our "horror," "romantic comedy," and "action" categories. Even the smallest of low-budged, independent films fall to the powers of the "foreign film" or "avant garde" labels. Our cinematic language is controlled and contained through the use of a simple mode of classification. It's either, or; good or bad. We've become a simplistic society of a set dichotomy; one that encourages the proliferation of economically advantageous marketing labels, and leaves little room for grey area.

As I returned to the past in my first week studying the French New Wave, I remembered what it meant to transcend these false boarders. And frankly sometimes I forget that film, of all modes of popular artistic expression, can have the power to bring about "opposing forces." In our world of the Hollywood Blockbusters, Independent Film Festivals, and art house cinema, we tend to forget that our lines of division are not as clear cut as our modes of viewing. Cinema does not exist within our three spheres of production: First, Second and Third Cinema. Our attempts to separate the three in fact come from disconnected third-party designation of categorization. I would argue our grey boarders are full of films that have not succumb to the boarders of marketable production, rather attempt to see film outside of our realms of division as a means of expression.

And I would argue the very opening scene of Truffaut's The 400 Blows crashes our divisions in a single take. The very first rung of filmmatic division comes with the theories of Formalism and Realism. If one takes a simple Intro to Film course, you'll likely come across the common spectrum expressing the various genres that lie to the far ends of the two categories. We have documentary on one end (Realism) and Avant Garde (Formalism) on the other. In between lies the mundane of Classical Hollywood Cinema. For so long, this dichotomy of Realist and Formalist cinema has plagued the how one chooses to view a film. I myself, found the comfort of expressing my views as a "formalist" using the superfluous spectrum to support my opinions. But I now see, after beginning to delve into the brief but beautiful period of the New Wave, how film is a medium to blend, bend, and deny these divisions. Film is a unique in itself, as it melds the lens from which we view the world, to both manipulate reality and be entirely honest in a single moment. Truffaut's opening sequence, illuminated through a playful little soundtrack, disrupts our poetic and iconic image of the Eiffel Tower and deconstructs it at the same time. His jump cuts remind us we are in the world of cinema, ultimately bound to the constraints of our director, yet allows us to glimpse at the gentle grace of a moving camera, seemingly captured by a single object. We, like the tower are both bound and free; placed at the heart of the cinematic world and cleverly manipulated to the changing will of a single lens.

a little change of scenery

I'll be spending autumn in Paris, so get ready for a pretty dramatic shift in material. The focus of my studies will be the French New Wave in its fiftieth anniversary. I don't know exactly what's to come, but the summer blockbuster season is over and I'm taking a few steps back in time to hopefully begin to understand our current "post" stage in contemporary film.

To be Seen and Unseen: The Brilliance of Horror

I had the daylights scared out of me last night. In a fabulously exclusive fashion, the indi-flick turned online buzz-worthy film, Paranormal Activity, debuted in Seattle with scares for all. When I heard about this film's marketing campaign, screening only at midnight in selective campus venues, I was of course dying to see it. The trailer, which I would typically scoff at, blatantly showcasing the cheap thrills through videotaped audience reactions, actually managed to scare the shit out of me. The free and fun-filled event easily thrived off the poor college kid vibe and expertly played into the immediate hype such star treatment would generate. And despite the verbal diarrhea that spilled from the attention-starved boys in the audience, the film truly held its own.

Paranormal Activity might just be the scariest movie I've ever seen. Now, I know, that's a tall promise and I shouldn't rip my thoughts straight from the movie poster, but truly this is something that haunts you far beyond the jumps in your auditorium seat. And I'm going to tell you why. (And this goes out to anyone looking for success in the horror genre).

What you can't see will hurt you.

My cardinal rule for scare success is exploiting what you can't see. This film thrives off the space beyond the frame. Our objectified viewing position within the confines of our "home movie" cinematic style utilizes the sheer vulnerability of the audience. We are no longer in control and are well aware of it. It is within this transfer of power that the space beyond our viewing position becomes the manifestation of the infinite terrors that breed within our imagination. The sheer assumption of the audience and lack of control we have over the image makes our mind our own worst enemy.

The reveal of our enemy is always where the horror genre loses me. Once I have a controlled image of my villain, power has been transferred back to me. I can then rationalize said image into a manageable entity that exists within the diagesis of the film.

But Paranormal Activity is a viewing experience that lives beyond the frame. What little snips of physicality that remain in our villain, are blown out of proportion, as the utilization of off camera space magnifies the intensity of our image. Sound and suggestion are the key elements. Unfortunately, there are two instances where physicality hinder the over-all pace and thrills of the film. We are given to rather privileged image of a burning ouija board, and frankly they nearly lost me there. Again, this same sort of cliched image arises with a broken picture frame, deliberately sending a threatening messaged through cracked glass; cue eye roll.

But redemption was swiftly around the corner, as night time promises unending tension. Never in my life have I been so desperate for people to stay awake forever. The film's greatest moments take place within the wee hours of morning, as our sleeping couple drifts happily beyond the realm of demons- only to then be woken by the terrors of said demon. I do not want to spoil this movie for anyone, because it was a true viewing pleasure that lives beyond its hour and a half run time. The plot is not the point of the film, nor of much importance. The film lives beyond our visual or narrative spectrum; within the dark corners of the night.

On the Apocalypse

So I'm sitting here, not watching the blow-your-snow-load blockbuster The Day After Tomorrow, contemplating the state of the modern action film. One cannot deny the fact that Day After strays from the common path littered with flaming cars and massive weapons. But are these fights with nature really a step forward for our blockbuster audiences?

Movies like The Perfect Storm, Whiteout, Twister and the upcoming 2012 appear to promise a "higher brow" viewing experience for adrenaline seeking audiences. They seemingly create a cultural outlet for contemporary issues, like global warming, that allow for us to both "enjoy" the movie and feel like we're taking a stand against something (by apparently indulging in the horrors of the impossible). By combating our own desire to see the latest Vin Diesel movie, in favor for the compassionate words of Dennis Quaid, we seem to have fought the cause; stepped into the "message" film, something greater than the "happily ever after." But we haven't. These films that supposedly sit somewhere between the causation film and the contemporary blockbuster actually follow our shallowest of genre conventions.

These films substitute guns for wind, cars for hurricanes, and fire for well... fire. We are viewing a convoluted rehashing of the car chase glossed over with blustery winds and the declaration of national emergencies. Our villain is substituted with a faceless cause that we still eagerly oppose with fascist gumption. The bad are still bad and the good are still good. Rather, I'd argue these films continue to blatantly support the nationalistic messages of the super hero genre. We unite against our common enemy (communism?) yet again. We have merely continued the violent cycle of Cold War sentiment. But instead of "Reds" and "Commies" we're just confused with who we hate; it seems our nationalistic common enemy is the world we live in.

Post Grad

awful.

Cinema in Jest

Quentin Tarantino's six (or seventh- however you see the Kill Bill installment) film, Inglorious Basterds, seems to ultimately be a veritable homage to cinema itself. Film (specifically the film community), becomes our climactic end to all evil. Our complicated (and often slow-moving) mixture of filmmatic references, genres, narratives and characters converge in our common thread (and language): cinema. I do not doubt the infinite number of ways one can read this film- I myself am still struggling to fully contemplate my two and a half hour viewing experience. I can ultimately say little more than you need to see it for yourself. For this film, more than any other that I've seen recently, deserves personal viewership.

Layers and layers of cinematic history and reference build upon the film's five-part narrative. Grounded in our three rag-tag groups: the basterds (lead by charming and wonderfully cool Brad Pitt), our Jewish heroine in search of revenge (Melanie Laurent), and our Nazi "enemy" (celebrated Christoph Waltz). I leave "enemy" in quotations as I contemplate the talent of Mr. Waltz. His charm and gripping performance undoubtably leads the film, as he becomes our dangerously luring connecting character between the three groups. His expertise of Nazi charm becomes charismatic beyond all borders of preconceived Nazi-hate. (The same can be said for Bruhl's doe-eyed Zoller). Tarantino's Nazis become likable, enigmatic humans and cold-blooded killers (note: nearly every person we encounter could fall into similar categories). And though I do not view this with the distain of the New York Times, I think it's an important paradox to think about.

Though Inglorious Basterds let me have a pretty good time (Tarantino can always be counted on to make explicit violence a hell of a lot of fun), I think it needed some serious editing. And you're likely going to hear me say it time and time again: a brilliant writer/director does not exist. The ability for self editing seems to have diminished in one's own attempts to deliver a fully-controlled piece of work. Tarantino, like his other contemporary counterparts (i.e. Charlie Kaufman, Michel Gondry, M. Night Shyamalan) fail to see beyond their big vision. To put if frankly, Basterds was probably about 45 minutes too long. The film often got lost in Tarantino's homage to the western stand-off, bogging itself down in tension-filled extensive dialogue, with little cinematic form to match. Often with a bit of formal technical intervention, our verbal shpeal could have been cut in half. Yet I was interested, for nearly the entire time. Which is why I continue to circle around this film. As much as I continue to look into techniques, be it narrative, formal, referential, I cannot come to a concluding thought. I seem to have been handed a mess of contemplative fodder and am left to my own devices- which are currently failing me. There seems to no right nor wrong way of looking at it; only the inspiration of critical thought and an agonizing infinite road, splitting at every turn with no end. But maybe I'm analyzing a bit too much; is this really a complex compilation of cinematic reference, or is Tarantino simply fucking with me?

hmm... nearly a decade for this?

James Cameron has some serious ego. The premier trailer for his first film in nearly a decade, Avatar, debuted on Apple Trailers today. Eagerly anticipated for last few years, the trailer was preempted by a flashy countdown heading on the site for nearly a week before hand. So, upon my initial viewing, expectations are high. Did it kind of suck? Well yeah. Come on, James Cameron, what do you expect? His ridiculous campaign for this film makes me think his head has gotten bigger than his attempts at what looks like Fern Gully 4.

District 9

Did District 9 live up to my over-hyped, over-advertised expectations? Of course not. Did the film undoubtably show immense promise for new director Neil Blomkamp? Absolutely.

The film in its entirely does deserve the hype and praise its been given. Is it a perfect film? One to break all barriers of film before it? No. But what can you expect? This film came out of something purely commercial. District 9's Halo beginnings are all over this film, sending a big "fuck you" to the studios that showed little confidence in Blomkamp's "amateur" status.

And Blomkamp shows no sign of rookiehood as the film expertly crafts a world in which aliens feel and look like they belong here in our modern world. The small 30 million dollar budget lends itself to an inventive new director, as Blomkamp uses mock documentary footage and grainy CG to layer commercial media into the fabric of modern day Johannesburg. This method, more successful than other recent films like that of Cloverfield or Quarantine, allows the viewer to comfortably hold their meal while the camera moves through uneven shots and scrolling closed circuit security footage. The tension feels and looks real, we become connected to our protagonist Wilkus and even his completely fake "prawn" friend Christopher. We're shocked, disgusted and wow'd by the hurried and rushed cinematic image. It's elegant, dirty, raw, fun and liberating. Tight editing and carefully crafted cinematography gives off a careless feel, while perfectly manipulating the unsuspecting viewer. I'm in love with it.

And then I got bored. District 9 turned from inspirational directorial debut to all-out action-packed Hollywood crap. Suddenly I felt like I was watching Halo, a movie I couldn't give a damn about. And perhaps that's my biggest problem with the film. So much about the end of the film seemed to be focused on showcasing the Halo that "could have been." Our beautifully recreated video and documentary footage turned to classical continuity editing. We lost our shaky camera in exchange for something more typical of the latest Michael Bay film. Destroyed is our intriguing and mysterious plot-line constructed through playfully vague interviews. Instead we got the typical storyline riding on heroics and the power of love. Bleh. Even if it's alien love, it's still boring! What happened? I don't need to see every awesome gun you've got in your giant spaceship or watch a slum be demolished by exploding machinery. I want the mystery and tension back, and not in the "in-your-face" kind of way. If I wanted the end of this film I'd have just tortured myself by watching G.I. Joe or one of the other dozen blockbusters of its kind littering the theaters of our summer movie season. But this disappointment in ending does not make me forget the perfection of the first half. I have high hopes for you, Blomkamp, don't let me down.

...sigh

I cannot help but admit my soft spot for well constructed trailer. New York, I Love You's sweeping trailer manages to bring about the most cliched of urges embrace the Romantic Comedy genre with all my heart. Honesty, I'm a sucker for a catchy song, well-placed inter-titles and some tricky editing. Pull me in and take me there.

on a happier note...

I know this film has gotten an infinite slew of hype, but I'd just like everyone to know I bounce back despite cinematic disappointment: hope restored.

enjoy.

reflective and somewhat cynical beginnings

It seems somewhat cliche for me to begin this project after viewing the lighthearted summer movie, Julie and Julia. After all, the story chronicles a year of blogging, cooking and soul searching for Amy Adam's character Julie Powell. But I think I'd like to use this fluffy film to rethink the "hopeful" message of the movie. And hopefully this critical and undeniably biased look into our world of film, divided into "first," "second," and "third" cinemas (not to mention the infinite divisions reliant on economic and marketable genres), will begin to deconstruct our preconceived assumptions as film audience members.

I begin with Julie and Julia, a movie of little to no importance. The film is the typical "uplifting" tale of new beginnings, and driven attitudes, solidly grounded in one defining factor: food. Though the story attempts to parallel the lives of infamous chef Julia Child and down-and-out cubicle worker Julie Powell, I'd like to argue the entire story collapses on itself through the utterance of a single soothing doubt. I will not bore you with a recollection of the bland parallel plot, rather I'll skip to the climax. The end of the film (which I'm about to completely destroy you), seems at first to be the typical happy ending, promising book deals for all and happy smiles among friends and family. Yet the piece I absolutely could not ignore, even as Meryl Streep's smiling face drew the film to a close, was the heartbreaking moment shared just moments before by Julie Powell and her husband Eric. In then end, Julie's blogging endeavor leads to an infinite slew of book deals finally giving life to her broken dreams of being a writer. But amidst these happy and predictable messages lies a single phone call that brings together our two characters. The message is one of distain for our hopeful writer; Julia Child has nothing but sour thoughts for her delightful homage to the infamous name. In fact, Julie Powell never receives recognition from her idol, never meets her and only has those few comments through a faceless voice to understand Julia's thoughts on her endeavor. Instead success, according to the film, is purely economic, stressing the joys of financial payout for hard work. As much as this thought begins to spoil the uplifting and message of our two female characters, it is the words of Julie Powell's husband Eric that destroy my own picture of our deluded happy tale. In an effort to comfort his dejected wife, Eric stresses the importance of Julie's own picture of Julia Child in her mind. The woman she related to for the last year of her life, as envisioned through her recipes, was in fact the more important role. But what does this mean for our own vision of Julia Child? What we've been watching is an unbelievably positive portrayal of the famous chef for the last two hours! How do we as an audience member thus come to understand our own happy vision versus that unseen reaction to Julie's work? Julie Powell's relationship to Julia Child is one of fantasy, contrived through her own effort to generate hope amidst moments of self-pity. Is film's parallel version of Julia subject to the same criticism? Can we really believe that these two "unbelievable" stories are in fact "based on a true story?" I guess as a viewer I saw this moment as a huge red flag, calling attention to the fact that our conceptions of reality are entirely skewed by our own hope. Yikes. Who knew that despite the happy smiles of my pliable fellow audience members, the film in fact leaves me with the taste of gelled meat in my mouth. It is not an uplifting tale of two strong women, searching for dreams, rather a depressing look at the pathetic filter hope creates as it skews the vision of dreamers in our modern world.

I wish I had more to contemplate about this film, but it seems to have destroyed my dreams.