Thursday, 1 July 2004
The Butterfly Effect
I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure that Ashton Kutcher's career arc could be an early warning sign for the approaching apocalypse. How else to explain Demi Moore's dumping Bruce Willis for this boy toy (wait, I guess I just explained that one), the popularity "Punk'd," or a movie that portrays Ashton as a genius psychology student?
There are some movies that require suspension of disbelief for full enjoyment, such as Star Wars or Edward Scissorhands. Others demand suspension of disbelief for even partial enjoyment, such as most teen-sploitation sex comedies or the last ten years of Woody Allen's body of work. And then there is The Butterfly Effect.
If Ashton had donned fishnets and broken into campy songs, I'd have let out an audible sigh of relief - for there would be the knowing wink-wink that I was in on the joke and I could simply wait for Meatloaf's roaring motorcycle entrance. But that fourth wall remained stubbornly standing throughout the whole film, impervious to the hail of glares that we, the audience, threw at it in waves. Any laughter on our part was quickly followed by a pang of guilt, as if we'd realized that we were laughing at some Special Olympics runner who'd just tripped over his shoelaces.
It's not like any one of us had arrived expecting a Gen-Y retelling of A Beautiful Mind (which, for that matter, had its own problems). But the filmmakers could have at least taken the route of the justly titled Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure (Keanu Reeves's only role that reasonably matches his acting skills), and simply chucked the script and gone for the gold. Hell, it worked with Dude, Where's My Car? - which had me rolling in the aisles with laughter. That sure beats doubling over in pain as I forced myself to watch the entirety of this earnest scientist with a Messiah complex.
It's hard to figure out who's more to blame: those responsible for making this film, or myself for actually thinking "ah, how bad could it be?" and seeing it. We'll call it even; no grudges as long as Ashton promises more silly fun like "Dude, ...".
1 / 5 - Ashton, save your emoting for making doe-eyes at Demi; at least she buys it (apparently)
Friday, 2 July 2004
Runaway Jury
When I was younger, I used to love watching "L.A. Law." I'm not sure why, maybe I was just a glutton for punishment. But in that case, there must be a lot of gluttons for punishment - at least in the U.S. The guts of law, after the real guts shown in medical dramas, seem to draw people's attention like few other dramatic situations.
Maybe it's not too surprising: the Romans had their gladiatorial combats. What else, if not our modern bread and circus, is a showdown in a courtroom? Authors like John Grisham seem to smell the blood in the water, and they've tracked it with some success.
While I like watching courtroom drama, I'm not impelled to buy the books. So it's hardly surprising that I walked into Runaway Jury, the proverbial blank slate.
Not that it took me too long to guess what was going on: a dramatic thriller, with some pretty decent dramatic tension going on, and some high-tech goodies thrown in for good measure (James Bond, what have you done to us?). And it took little longer to see why this particular film got made.
Superman fought for "Truth, Justice, and the American Way" (at least on TV, which had added the latter third to what would have normally been a sufficient "truth and justice"). Besides "the American Way," Don Quixote also fought for the exact same principles. Is there anything more noble than that? Not to mention, anything more passé, quaint, outmoded - and just plain naive?
The modern public is jaded, at least the public that ingests enough mass media. There's no surprise that the media, with the willing (if not passive) participation of the public, has shaped the public to be that way. Sex scandals, policy outrages, abuses of power, graft, betrayal - from the local grocer to the President of the United States himself, everyone is doing something that they shouldn't be doing. And - were it not for apparently accidental discoveries - they would have gotten away with it, too. ("Those meddling kids!")
So we sit in front of that law drama, and we so want to root for the good guy. But who is the good guy? The prosecution? Maybe: the mourning family of an innocent killed by an illegal gun (or cigarettes, in the original novel) is certainly sympathetic. The defense? Probably not: they're portrayed as ghoulish profiteers, more cynical than even we, the audience.
But as the saying goes, the only winners in a courtroom are the lawyers. And I don't think there's a single audience member who is going to root for the lawyer, only slightly more trusted than a scorpion in a sleeping bag. How can you have your battle, when you'd really like to see both gladiators fed straight to the lions?
Well, guess what: the lion is the good guy. And that's where innocent-faced John Cusak comes in. The juror, out to beat the lawyers at their own game.
I'm pretty tired of the crook-as-hero genre, whether the crook is a simple schmuck or a dashing gentleman. Cusak, and his "outside man," Rachel Weisz, are somewhere in between. But as predictable as their motives were, I did find myself enjoying the plot as the onion layers peeled away.
Due credit has to be given to Gene Hackman, an amazing actor who I think is woefully under-cast in Hollywood. This is an actor who I can see on any side of an argument, and wouldn't be surprised to find myself believing in his passion - whatever the situation. Dustin Hoffman puts in a decent day on the job as well, with a mix of Willy Loman's doggedness and Benjamin Braddock's earnestness.
It was hard to swallow the happy ending, even if everything had been so perfectly constructed for you to feel happy. The craftsmanship and the thought that went into the structure was impressive, much like some newly completed bank headquarters. And, like I said, I enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game that kept me on my toes, something I wasn't entirely expecting from yet another "bad is the new good" story.
But in a testament to my true nature - and, I imagine, to the nature of the rest of the audience from whom this tale had been so carefully crafted - it was the thing that went wrong that gave me the most satisfaction in the end. Hackman's breakdown - just as inevitable as the Tower of Babel - was a majestic thing to witness.
It's a true sign of a master architect to purposely appeal to his public's baser instincts while leaving intact the core values of his work. Runaway Jury gives us our "bad guy" protagonists a clean getaway, and rains down the full fury of the Fates upon the carefully constructed "evil nemesis."
4 / 5 - Guilty satisfaction? Guilty as charged! But at least you don't have to disengage your brain.
Saturday, 3 July 2004
The School of Rock
Do you like chocolate? How about ice cream? Caramel? How about any sweet, in any form?
If you answered "no" to all of those questions - or maybe even if only to one of them - you don't need to bother reading any further. Go back to your liver-and-onion-lovers support group and practice your bitter frown.
The rest of us know the pleasure of things for their own pleasure. No benefits (aside from the visceral), no grand contributions, no guilt. Self-indulgent. Bohemian. Hedonist. Voluptuary.
These are all names that Jack Black would understand, and they apply just as well to The School of Rock as to his character in it. This is a film with no aspiration of greatness, not interest in elevating the audience's consciousness, no hope to improve the quality of your life.
And yet, it does. The plot is thin, but it's extremely well-executed. The moppets could be grating, but instead they're endearing and, to a certain extent, more than just two-dimensional caricatures. The music is fun and just plain rocks - whether it's Black's silly improv'ed tunes or the kids' grand finale, only the stone-deaf or the stone-hearted will be unmoved. The lesson plan is right there, and it's spelled "fun". And like some perpetual motion machine, you get infinitely more energy out of this film than you ever expected to put into it as a viewer.
Besides the 5,000-cc engine that is Jack Black, kudos go to the much-less maniacal acting from writer Mike White and the every-slightly skewed Richard Linklater. Both of them have art-house cred (Chuck & Buck, The Good Girl, Waking Life), pop-culture appeal ("Dawson's Creek"), as well as counter-culture followings (Dazed and Confused, Slacker).
I'm giving away a key plot point here, but it's a testament to this trio. The whole premise of the film (getting ready for a battle of the bands), the against-the-odds premise (kids duking it out against adults at said battle of the bands) and the stunning performance (the kids, again, and the battle of the bands, again) - all of this, it's pure bubble-gum empowerment and wish-fulfillment at its most classic.
Yet, what do they do? Despite the build-up - and the entirely expected pot of gold at the end of the rainbow - the kids lose. That's right, lose. Not an "oops, our bad" moment, where the winners are stripped of their honor for some technicality. Not a "things work out" ending, where the deserving kids unmask a nefarious plot to rig the show. No, this was an honest-to-goodness sip from the real-life can of whoop-ass. The better band played, rocked out - and lost.
But the film doesn't end on a sour note. Some wishes are fulfilled, but in a much more realistic way (comparatively, if not in absolute terms). Like Daddy Dare Care, only better, Black and White (there's a name pairing that's obviously made in Hollywood heaven) open their own kiddie rock academy. And - apparently - live happily ever after, rockin' out.
Special mention goes to the lyricists - my bet is Black, with help from White, though maybe the kids themselves helped out. And high honors go to the child performers, who really do belt out those verses, licks, or drum solos.
The ending - the true ending, the one running as the credits roll - is a super-concentrated moment of bliss for anyone who remotely liked the film. The principles just jam, adding fourth-wall-breaking lyrics to wall-shaking sound.
I went in to this film expecting a throw-away evening (in fact, this wasn't even Heather's and my first choice to see that night). I came out floored by how much I enjoyed it, and just about everyone - especially Heather and I - left the theatre, grinning ear to ear. And hey: for a film with no apparent goals, that isn't such a bad result after all, is it?
5 / 5 - not Shakespeare, not even Pixar - but you can't beat these kids and grown-up kids having fun and spreading the good vibe
Sunday, 4 July 2004
Immortel (ad vitam)
I think that people can define what is to be expected from them. There's one extreme: you can choose not to do anything, and never fail. Or you can try to do everything, and probably never succeed. The trick is finding the balance between setting the bar too low and setting it too high - and then, following through.
Immortel (ad vitam) is a perfect example of this philosophy. Enki Bilal is an amazing artist. He's best known for writing and illustrating bandes dessinées (larger-format hardcover volumes that come out every few years as opposed to the thin monthly editions that the U.S. calls "comic books").
His illustrations are nothing short of breathtaking at their best, a mixture of watercolor, ink and other media that give a surprising mount of texture and depth. He seems spellbound, if not obsessed, with possibilities resulting from the fusion of living beings (usually people) and inanimate objects (machinery, stone, metals, etc.).
Unfortunately, Bilal has never been much of a writer. His Nikopol trilogy is beautiful to look at, but its plot and storytelling are muddled at best. Egyptian gods live among a future human society, but aren't any more "special" than the multitude of alien species that walk among us. A cool idea - damn cool, to someone like me, big into both Egyptian mythology and science fiction - but his writing just isn't up to the task.
Sadly, Bilal's story doesn't fare much better to the screen. Setting the bar much too high for himself, he adapts his own books into a script and serves as the movie's director. The result is clearer, but not by much - and just as disappointing, given the visual aspect.
The imagery, on the other hand - oh, what visuals. The CGI work is pretty decent, and the computer-generated characters fit in extremely well with Bilal's human-hardware hybrid esthetic. The tone is appropriately dark for sci-fi noir, though some sets come off as flat (literally and figuratively).
The film is acted by virtual unknowns (aside from a slumming Charlotte Rampling), non who whom speak English as a native language. That knife cuts both ways: you have fewer preconceptions (at least, a French audience would - few Americans would know even the most famous French actors), and the odd pronunciations add to the just-slightly-odd nature of the future world (yes, sometimes even French films are done in English). However, it doesn't give you any more incentive to try to follow the plot's odd quirks that pass for twists.
This is Bilal's third, and highest profile, outing in the writer-director seat. The result is a rather faithful, but bland and muddled, adaptation of his rich bande dessinée sources. Just as in his solo efforts can't compare to his pairings with decent writers (the excellent Partie de chasse), Bilal should hand over the reins to someone more qualified and stick with his images. By trying to do too much, he ends up diluting his energies - and what could be mind-blowing images suffer for it.
3 / 5 - Bilal's latest foray into the Seventh Art reminds us that his movies are like his books: best poured over image by image, and most enjoyable when silent
Monday, 5 July 2004
Kiki's Delivery Service
Any country that produces cross-gendered super-powered teenage heroes, hero-worships a giant, rocket-powered, flying turtle or considers deadly-venomous blowfish the height of fine dining by needs must be deemed - and let's be honest here - not too right in the head. But like Jerry Seinfeld's wacky neighbor Kramer, the Japans of this world serve to make life more interesting.
Well, Kiki steps up to the plate and swings a homer: her mere presence makes other people's lives interesting. Of course, that's sort of what you'd expect when you consider that she's a pre-teen apprentice witch who makes broom-express deliveries while accompanied by her talking black cat.
At times, I had the impression that good ol' Kiki was a little soft in the head. But her work ethic and gentle perseverance ruled the day: the big city that she loves so much ends up loving her back. You couldn't get a better-spun morality tale if the Pope himself had written the story (though probably without so much of a flying-witch-and-talking-cats angle).
But this is Hayao Miyazaki's movie and it wouldn't be complete without all the trimmings. Sort of a cross between Lewis Carroll and Walt Disney, this is a man who I'd want as a neighbor. Even his evil robot clone would be welcome to come knocking down my door to borrow a cup of sugar.
With Kiki's Delivery Service, we see the elements that will make Princess Mononoke so powerful and Spirited Away so... perfect: A world where the supernatural is taken for granted (and yet remains special), anachronisms that are oddly at home (a visiting Zeppelin, but no world war), and cultural references that feel so right and yet so wrong (some sort of a Utopian German town with Anglo and Nippon attributes thrown in). All wrapped up in a story obviously made for children but which doesn't take them for simple fools.
If there's one skill which Miyazaki possesses that I admire most, it's the ability to convey the feeling that he is speaking to the children directly. Parents (and other adults, like myself) are tolerated, even welcomed. But in a perfect turning of the tables, they are the outsiders who are treated with a certain loving condensation - much like the sleepy child who wanders in on his parents' late-night party. Is it any wonder, then, that the Japanese and French children alike - living their highly regimented lives - would flock to his films like they might to a pied piper?
Overcome your initial urge to be condescending: you can't help but eventually be seduced by the weird aura of charm radiated by Miyazaki's films, and many other products of their odd country. I, for one, would voluntarily trade my own world for Kiki's or Totoro's or Pazu's, or even Mononoke's - and most definitely for Chihiro's.
4 /5 - not Miyazaki's best - not by far - but has loads more of the childlike wonderment that Disney's cynically produced marketing extravaganzas lack
Tuesday, 6 July 2004
Along Came Polly
When writing my movie "reviews" (I'll admit it: they're pretty much my using movies as an excuse to go off at the mouth), I might give the impression that my tastes lean a bit toward the elitist. You know, "those who can, do; those who can't, review." But despite being hard to satisfy, I like a simple, fun movie just like the next person.
"A simple, fun movie" pretty much sums up Along Came Polly. Ben Stiller has some pretty decent credits to his name, and seems to be able to get away with loads of silly movies while retaining his credibility. Jennifer Aniston, on the other hand, has done a few respectable films - but will probably always be remembered for her role in "Friends."
So really, what to say about this film? Stiller plays the comically neurotic guy, a slapstick Woody Allen. Aniston is neurotic in her own way, a seemingly normal person but one with some dubious beliefs - including some about relationships. In short, a normal, flaky couple.
In light of this being a "just for fun" kind of outing, and one that didn't knock me off my feet (unlike some others), I'm going to pass on actually trying to review the film. It's fun; it's not ever going to be a classic, but it's a decent hour and a half in the theatre.
On the other hand, I'll always hold the Farrelly brothers responsible for the amount of toilet humor that passes for comedy nowadays. I'm all for sick jokes (in the right movie), but poop problems are just overplayed. If you're going to do it, do it fast and do it original. When you're watching a movie that telegraphs everything (like this one did), it just gets annoying.
I did really appreciate the whole decorative throw-pillow scene. I'm far from a "stuff" kind of person, and I have a pretty low tolerance for - let's just say it - crap. A girl who'd knife to shreds these kind of things is the kind of girl for me.
As far as people in the film, the undisputed high note is Hank Azaria. The man behind several characters on "The Simpsons," he doesn't bat an eye at playing a laid-back - waaay laid back - French surfer - waaay French. He was hilarious, especially considering how well he nailed the ticks and mannerisms of the very people surrounding me in the theatre. It's a neat trick to pull when you can get the French laughing at their stereotyped mannerisms, and Azaria does it almost effortlessly.
3 / 5 - watch this one, laugh, then forget about it - just like all the other generic dating comedies before and after it
Wednesday, 7 July 2004
The Station Agent
There's something appropriate about watching a film starring a dwarf as an in-flight movie. The cramped seating and inhospitable conditions seem designed to make just about anyone, of any size, feel uncomfortable and out of place. And if those are only temporary conditions, can you imagine how someone who's outsized by life might feel?
Pretty normal, actually.
Bet you didn't see that coming, eh? It's rather inappropriate, socially speaking, to compare a temporary discomfort - albeit for the duration of a trans-Atlantic flight - and an actual body shape. And yet it's entirely appropriate for writing purposes, drawing a metaphor out of what a brief movie has to offer.
That's pretty much the point of The Station Agent. Being different is pretty much the same for everyone, if you'll forgive that strained logic. Finbar McBride, and presumably Peter Dinklage who plays him, has come to terms with the way he is. It's everyone else who has a problem - and that, in turn, creates problems for him. So nothing is really resolved. (Q.E.D.)
Not that this is a deep-thinking film. On the contrary, it's got a very smooth flow - a good feeling, if not a feel-good film. People hurt, people die, people move one, people live. Watching it all go past, like train-watching, is sort of soothing and yet a bit uncomfortable. It's not like you'll get some big bonus at the end, having sat through the film - the watching is its own reward.
And the ensemble - Patricia Clarkson, Bobby Cannavale and the aforementioned Dinklage - make it rewarding indeed. Backed up by the cutie Michelle Williams and the refreshingly non-precocious Raven Goodwin, these three give a performance worth sticking around for. Even for audiences not trapped in a plane seat, this is a film that deserves attention without commanding it.
4 / 5 - no big revelations, but then life isn't like that; the normalcy of these three people's lives is what makes them worth watching
I Didn't See Bush, But the Flowers Were Pretty
front entryway to the residence, with fountain and flags
Today I had a rare-in-a-lifetime experience: Celebrating Independence Day by going to a reception at the U.S. Ambassador's residence in Paris. (Yes, a bit belatedly - I think that the actual Fourth of July was reserved for the higher-ups.)
Friends Matt and Lauren work at the embassy and were able to swing guest invitations for Heather and myself. Heather, unfortunately, is on a trip and had to miss out. So this entry is for her, as much as for anyone else.
Intermittent rain and gusting winds forced the affair inside, but the doors were open to those who wanted to wander around.
one of the two great halls where we stuffed our faces
There were two great halls, mirror images of each other, where a long buffet of snacks and drinks were served. Food and drink were relatively abundant, and everything was in miniature: mini-quiche, mini-B.L.T.s, mini-sections of "classy" hot dogs (not quite sausage, not really hot dog) wrapped in a sort of pastry, mini-hamburgers. The latter reminded me of Big Boy burgers, with their "special sauce" of Thousand Island dressing. I didn't bother to take any pictures - in part because whenever a server passed by, the food didn't last long. Everything was mini-licious.
You can clearly see (or rather, as clearly as my picture phone allows) two giant tapestries hanging behind one of the seriously long buffet tables. People queuing for the food studiously ignored them. Not pictured, hanging on the opposite wall, were some much more modern pieces of, er, "art." I would have taken pictures of them too, but didn't, in following with my photographic version answer to the advice "if you don't have anything nice to say...".
large, central room with a chandelier
In between the two halls are a couple of nice rooms with high ceilings - and the prerequisite chandelier. I was going to install one of those in my apartment, but then I remembered that my entire place is about half the size of this room. Plus, I can touch my ceiling with my palms, standing flat-footed.
The backyard was open to all, but most people seemed afraid to wander too far from the free food 'n' drinks, and the waitstaff who shuttled them to us. The brave few souls who ventured out, such as we, were treated to a moment of fantasy.
what would have been the main drag out the rear entrance, had the reception been held outdoors as planned
right rear side of the residence, with the central canopy covering the main walkway
Mr. Roarke promised me a place like this, an island of quiet and greenery in the middle of Paris. Wait, remind me again: Does Mr. Roarke make you sign blood contracts for your soul?
pretty in pink
a picture of no one taking the brown acid
This effect, of course, is known as "my picture phone is on an acid trip." I'm not quite sure what else it experienced, but personally I remember the dancing elephants (not pictured) being particularly charming in their ruffled tutus.
part of the gardens
The grounds were pretty nice, aside from wilting flowers here and there. I don't get the feeling that the resident couple spends much time walking in the gardens.
That would be a shame, if it's indeed the case. The area surrounding the Ambassador's residence is far from being as noisy as my area of town, but it's definitely not idyllic, either. In contrast, the grounds are surrounded by a wall almost as high as the residence itself. While most certainly built for security, it also does a fair job of keeping out the noise of honking taxis as they circle around neighboring place de la Concorde.
This garden would go pretty far in soothing a troubled brow. I suppose it's only fair that a big-time ambassador gets to have it. I just hope he and his wife appreciate and enjoy it.
As far as anecdotes go, the real story was indoors: The Ambassador's wife has, um, interesting taste in art (and "art" - those things that pretend to deserve the moniker).
Scary Girl says, "Puzzles are hard! Also, I eat the brains of the living!"
An outstanding example of this can be found at the foot of the stairs leading up to the private section of the residence. This girl putting together a puzzle is in actuality a statue - though still frighteningly realistic. What you can't see is that she seems to be some sickly waif, jaundiced and in worn clothes. It reminded me of some 3D version of those pictures of wide-eyed children that were so often seen hanging in the avocado-green and harvest-gold kitchens of the 70's. Very creepy.
Lauren had told me a tale of a previous (though very recent) party at the residence. One older gentleman, apparently less able to hold his alcohol than some, had been talking with the scary puzzle girl statue. Lauren gently told him that it was, in fact, a statue. I kid you not.
The merry hosts themselves put in only a brief appearance. Apparently, receptions aren't their cup of tea. I can understand; it was sort of cool to at least see them walk by me on their way upstairs to the private section. I wonder if they touch the scary girl statue for good luck when passing by. Just a thought.
Lauren and Matt
So, in conclusion: Food tiny. Gardens pretty. Art scary. People numerous. Event noteworthy.
Also, more eloquently: The image quality of these photos is pretty horrendous, but at least security (unseen - hence omnipresent, most likely) allowed the guests to take pictures. I really have to get a "real" (i.e. dedicated), easy-to-pocket digital camera. Or maybe I'll just wait a bit and pick up one of the newer megapixel picture phones. Should be in just a few months, if I'm as lucky as I was earlier this year.
Anyway, it was a very nifty evening to add to my list of "huh, cool" experiences. Thanks, Matt and Lauren!
Thursday, 8 July 2004
The Company
Robert Altman has a well-known history of making his filmed subjects... interesting. Sometimes, "interesting" means adding enough of a twist as to brew controversy. MASH was ostensibly about the Korean war, but was a direct comment on Vietnam. Prêt-à-Porter and The Player upset more than a few among within respective power structures. Even more amazing, the latter was his first Hollywood studio film in twelve years - not a good way to win friends, but he pulled it off and even managed to find fans within the industry.
There's also the stately but more neutral Gosford Park. Then there's Dr. T & the Women or Popeye. Popeye? Yup.
So, what to expect from The Company, a movie about ballet? How about one that stars bad boy Malcolm McDowell? But wait - what if the headliner was Party of Five-r Neve Campbell? Hmmm - now we're stuck on a fence: Will Altman rip apart ballet's snobbish power structure, or handle it with kid gloves?
Well, neither of the above. At times, the film seems to be an ode to the sheer beauty that comes from its dancers' raw power and lithe grace. Then, moments later, you'll see a situation straight from the playbook of a daytime soap opera.
How to reconcile these two diametrically opposed facets? You don't - and Altman doesn't. If nothing else, this is his testament to the artist, warts and all. An average person is a mix of conflicting "good" and "bad," and we accept them for it. If an artist is an average person who has had some aspect amplified to the nth degree, isn't it reasonable to expect that other aspects may be as well?
Oddly, the ugly moments never seem like barriers to enjoying the film or hurdles to surmount in order to enjoy the ballet performances. They come and go, in their own time. Altman lets the performances come and go in their own time, as well. Anyone who wouldn't see ballet "in real life" is probably going to be bored to tears, but that's not Altman's audience. Instead, he lets the camera linger - the dancers are responsible for the movement. And the audience, both the fictional one on-screen and the one that the viewer is a part of, get to relish the results.
This film is no populist entertainment or broad-stroked comedy, nor is it a social commentary that appeals to the average Joe and people with agendas alike. Altman has made a film that shows performers' warts without being judgmental, and their high points without being overly reverential. In a way, he's used ballet to act as a mirror and a medium his own art.
This isn't an easy film to sit through, nor is it especially challenging. But the movement - of the dancers, of the plot - is worth it for what it is.
3 / 5 - worth seeing, even if this isn't ballet or Altman in top form
Friday, 9 July 2004
Mona Lisa Smile
In one of my favorite movies of all time, a character has come to accept the monotonous drudgery of his world. Traveling from one city to another, often on red-eye flights, he has compartmentalized his life to an extreme. Single-serving meals, single-serving bathroom kits, single-serving friends.
Sitting on my own flight, eating my own single-serving meal, I settled in to watch my single-serving entertainment. Much like the plane, its crew, and everything else related to a flight, in-flight movies are chosen to be safe and comforting. Regardless of any outwardly appearance of risk, every chance has been calculated to within acceptable parameters.
And so, I found myself watching Mona Lisa Smile. Jam-packed with promising, up-and-coming young stars, and led by a former promising, up-and-coming young star, the film purports to document the conflicts and upheaval at a girls prep school in postwar Wellesley College.
Of course, there isn't any real risk. Much of the movie seemed to be calculated, tailored to some audience-pleasing specifications. Not that the same couldn't be said of just about any other movie. After all, it's all about the trip, not the destination. No, the thing is that Mona Lisa Smile really doesn't make you care about the trip.
Don't get me wrong: we get some fine emoting and some juicy scenes. While I'm generally not a big fan of Julia Roberts, she puts in a decent performance. Maggie Gyllenhaal is interesting as her younger analogue, but her being "interesting" doesn't go anywhere - playing the black sheep is her role. Kirsten Dunst plays a rather two-dimensional bitch, Julia Stiles the brilliant student with potential that she just throws away. Or was it the other way around? At times they seemed interchangeable.
Actually, come to think of it, every student is brilliant and is about to throw away her future by settling for being a housewife. That's not really a stretch, since this is an exclusive girls school, and the era put a straightjacket (or petticoat) on women's role as active contributors.
Still, if that's all we're going to be show, what's the point? Roberts "makes a difference," then moves on? Okay, but I really didn't need to sit through the whole film for that. A plot synopsis could have told me the same. On the other hand, I wouldn't have gotten to see the backstabbing and yelling sessions (censored for in-flight sensitivities). But those are just as calculated as anything else; the plot moves on, the girls move on, the movie winds to an end.
Airlines calculate everything, down to how much a human life is worth. Given that it's impossible to make a flight 100% safe, how else to determine what is "safe enough"? It's hard to calculate what Roberts's "unconventional and progressive professor" is worth - obviously, it made a difference to some girls. But for those of us in the audience, we're left pretty much in the same situation as when we came into the movie.
This is a well-made, well-acted film. The scripts flows, the cinematography is worthy. But the ideas roll off like a gentle rain, rather than sinking in. Other than managing not waste two hours of our lives, this movie doesn't really make much impact.
2 / 5 - Eh, decent enough. Want to see women really making a difference? Go see Frida instead.
Fait divers
Super Size Me just came out in French theatres this Wednesday. As if by magic (and certainly, pure coincidence), McDonald's is offering "for a limited time" the Big Mac Plus: three patties instead of two for no additional cost.
Of course, this resulted in my getting it for dinner. For two nights. In a row.
Saturday, 10 July 2004
The Cooler
For whatever reason, I seem to have an inversely proportional rule to writing about movies: The more I like them, the less I end up writing in my reviews. This entry definitely breaks that rule.
Fair enough, maybe I was affected from having spent three and a half hours laid over, waiting to board my flight (planned). Or maybe it was the more than two hours that I spent at the gate waiting after boarding the plane (unplanned). Or perhaps it was the nasty couple behind me, or my fatigue - or one of the million other potential reasons I'd have to put me in a bad mood for my eight-hour transatlantic flight.
Or maybe, The Cooler was just complete crap.
William H. Macy has done so much better. As has Alec Baldwin (The Hunt for Red October, Beetle Juice). And I guess Maria Bello was at least acceptable in Secret Window (the only other movie I've seen her in).
But this film seems to have been struck lame by its titular character, a perennial loser whose luck is so far down that his chills every one else's chances. Alternately slow-paced and halting, it only held my attention because I'd seen all of the other films in the seat-back screen's selection. Well, aside from Chasing Liberty - so obviously, it was either The Cooler or sleep.
Unfortunately, I kept myself awake in order to see what the Onion A.V. Club called "the most inexplicably acclaimed movie of 2003." Don't make the same mistake.
1 / 5 - remarkable only in its suckiness; don't bother
Sunday, 11 July 2004
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring
I see a lot of films, that's for sure (nah, ya think?). A good part of these seem to be made up by Asian films - Chinese, Hong Kong cinema, Japanese, even Thai. France, at least in the cinema, is paying more and more attention to Korea.
Having seen, shuddered to, and liked The Isle, I didn't want to miss Ki-duk Kim's latest, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring. The beautiful, saturated colors that filled the previews made it an even easier decision.
Unlike the occasionally shocking Isle, Kim's latest is relatively flinch-free. Playing like a poem, the film moves with a slow grace as it follows a boy learning from a Buddhist monk. Their days seem mostly unstructured, with only occasional guideposts: morning prayer and simple chores (which could double as meditation, I suppose).
But the rhythm is deceiving, just as the actual speed of life. As one simple thing follows another, you come to a point where, looking back, you wonder where the time flew. And so the boy learns and grows.
Just as their days are marked by simple references, the student's life is outlined by events that mark him - first as a boy, then as an adult. Having tormented small animals by tying stones to them, the boy is reprimanded by the monk, who forces his charge to find and release each animal. The boy does so, finding a frog drowned and a snake dead. The monk has taught the wailing boy two hard lessons, put into words to underscore the gravity: One must respect all life. Our actions have repercussions and once done, cannot be undone.
This simple sequence sets the stage for the rest of the film. The boy grows, falls in love with a girl brought to the monk's floating home for spiritual medicine, and runs away with her to be married. Years later, he returns in disgrace, only to be taken away by the police. Upon his release, the now middle-aged student returns to his former master's home. Finally, through convoluted - but nonetheless believable - circumstances, the student becomes the master. A baby has been left in his charge, and the cycle begins anew.
So the poetry of the film is, like a chant, a prayer. Even the title refers to a cyclical view of life. Having reached the end, you realize that the life of the older monk may well have been like that of the now-grown student: Simple, then complicated, then simple again - yet complicated by the responsibility for another. What could have passed for childish foolishness becomes a life lesson, echoing for the rest of the student's days: Treasure life, and be sensitive to your own effects upon others.
Leaving the film, it's easy to see the parallels with your own life. Those simple childhood moments become fundamental building blocks for the rest of your life. The regrets, the accomplishments, the pain and the joy. The sum what we have done and have experienced makes us who we are - which in turn becomes the basis for who we are to become.
But the beauty of the cycle is that it is not closed: Each of us, to some extent, becomes a part of everyone who surrounds us. Kim's masterstroke is in reminding us that, far from being closed loops, our lives are links in a large chain.
4 / 5 - the film's simple beauty and steady rhythms are like the ripples in a pond, the impact being the intricate richness of life
Tuesday, 13 July 2004
À que coucou, Johnny
For the first time in my time living in Paris, over four years, I've actually had a brush with a famous person.
See, Paris (and France in general?) is actually pretty respectful of the private lives of celebrities, at least in comparison to the U.S. I'm not talking about notable exceptions like that which caused the death of Princess Diana. No, I'm simply saying that it's possible to find yourself in line behind Johnny Depp, minding his own business at the grocery store just as you are. (This actually happened to a friend of mine.)
So when I heard the deep, gravelly "merci" from the guy coming out of a store on the place des Petits Pères, I didn't think anything of it at first. But my mind works fast, and it took me no more than a second or two to go from "whaaa?" to having my picture phone at the ready. Once a reasonable distance away, I snapped a couple of shots.
Nothing really worth looking at, just an interesting footnote in my day. In any event, I present to you Johnny Hallyday, his wife Laeticia, and what appear to be two bodyguards (one of which doubled as Johnny's driver).
Johnny Hallyday (in black leather) and Co. in a Beatles-esque moment
Johnny is major rock legend in France, as well as having appeared in a couple of films. He's also something of a running joke. His verbal tic, "à que," was went through same arc of omnipresence ten years before "wazzuuup!" became the battle cry of quickly un-hip hipsters.
Saying (admitting?) that you're a fan of Johnny is almost the definition of uncool. Yet he's so earnest that you wonder whether he's truly serious or simply riding the wave. Explaining the Johnny phenomenon satisfactorily would be a giant task, so I'm not even going to start.
But hey, he has a Mercedes with tinted windows and a personal driver. How cool is that?
Thursday, 15 July 2004
The Rockets Glared Red... and Blue, and White, and Green
So, it's been pretty much a lifetime tradition for me to see fireworks every year. I suppose that would hardly be surprising for most people I know. Not because I know them, but because they're American or French or British or Chinese, and the U.S. and France and the U.K. and China (and thereabouts) celebrate big events with fireworks.
Today just happens to mark the storming of the Bastille, and start of the French revolution - ushering in a reign of terror that eventually led, logically, to the installation of an emperor. Um, wait - that doesn't seem right. Oh, there was a bit of representative democracy in there and a king and stuff. Anyhoo, it was a pretty big deal at the time - at least for those who hadn't had their heads chopped off. Now we're all civilized and everything, and it's the Fifth Republic.
So I spent a goodly amount of time at the airport, celebrating the birth of French populist government by waiting for Heather's plane (and, incidentally, Heather). Then: rush rush, bus, roll luggage - *phew*, she's home. Five o'clock.
Five o'clock! I was supposed to be at my friend Ritu's - all the way across Paris. Her parents are in town, and she invited close friends (may I call myself that?) over to meet them. Fortunately, my tardiness didn't hold anyone up. Very yummy food, and very nice to meet her parents and her friends who move in her other social circles.
Of course, this being the screwed up summer that it's been, the day was perfect until this point: sunny, and even warm (it's been March-like rain and chill up until now). After this point, when it was getting close to fireworks time, the threatening clouds came rolling in.
And Matt and Lauren (remember them?) had received their shipment from the U.S. (finally!) today. So, too tired to come to the fireworks. Totally understandable.
And Heather, who'd taken my suggestion to nap, was more out of it than she ever was before going to sleep. Oops on my part - I'm not a doctor, but I play one in real life. So, she's out - totally understandable.
So that leaves me (Ritu's party people weren't in the picture). And I figure - hey, all these things are a sign that I shouldn't go see the fireworks. Besides, I'd wanted to see my friend John, who tends bar, before he leaves on his summer vacation. It's been since March or so (or is that just the weather playing with my head?) since I last saw him.
So just as the fireworks are starting up, at 10:30, I get into the neighborhood. Walk over to the bar... Aw, maaan! It's closed... John must already be on vacation.
I started walking back to my place, then turned around and headed to the place de la Concorde. (Once home to the macabre theatre of the guillotine, now mostly known for being in between the Louvre and the Champs Elysées - oh, and there's this Egyptian stele/obelisk, too).
the fireworks, as seen from la place de la Concorde (to the right: the stele/obelisk)
See, ever since I was a kid, I've enjoyed the fireworks. I've made a point of seeing them just about every year (this is about where you came in). My birthday being so close to Christmas, my parents came up with the idea that we'd celebrate my "half birthday" on the Fourth of July. Cool: fireworks for me!
I guess there's always been this half-sentimental attachment to seeing fireworks, for me. When I moved here in 2000, my arrival nestled comfortably between two big events: I spent the Fourth in the U.S. and the Bastille Day in France, seeing each holiday's fireworks. Ever since, I've celebrated the French holiday but not much of U.S. Independence Day. John, before. John, after.
I could comment on my spot being a bit too removed from the immediacy of the loud booms (normally, I arrive earlier and get much closer). I could mention the two American boys next to me, obviously bored ("hey, he's spitting again!") and annoying their older sister. I could mention wishing I could have shared it with someone else, for once, at least this year.
the grande finale: the darkened Eiffel Tower starts sparkling again
But none of that will stay with me. The flaring streams of light, they will. The waves of applause after the "fake" finish and the actual grand finale, they will. The unassuming, yet spectacular cap to the event: lighting up the dark-until-then Eiffel Tower with the sparkling lights - that will.
Making my way back to my place, I walked through the lights and the sounds and the smells of the foire foraine that camps out this summer, as every summer, in the jardin des Tuileries.
And that is how I saw the fireworks this year.