Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas

I love Terry Gilliam.
I remember first seeing Brazil at a friend's house for his birthday few years ago (that's the sort of thing my friends and I do for 13th birthday parties), then discovering for myself his earlier antics in Monty Python's Flying Circus, before seeing Twelve Monkeys, Lost In La Mancha, and Time Bandits. I've not seen his more recent efforts, specifically Tideland, which may or may not be worthy of the buzz (both good and bad) it has garnered since its release last year. However, this film is not for everyone, and it certainly does benefit from repeat viewings,
I had bought Fear And Loathing some months ago, but never got around to seeing it, and after mentioning my purchase of it, a friend said, "You need to see it. It's definitely your sort of movie; but you need a day or so afterwards to just be able to look at the world." It was perhaps good timing that I saw it Christmas Day this year.
I had read a few chapters of the book back when I still worked at Barnes and Noble (damn, it's been nearly a year since I'd worked there) and was immensely impressed by every single sentence in those pages. And after seeing the first 5 minutes I felt as if no one could pull off a film like that, in the tone the book described, other than Terry Gilliam.
The story is about Hunter S. Thompson's (here called Duke) attempt to cover a desert motorcycle race in Nevada for a magazine in the early 1970's, and his subsequent adventures in simultaneously looking for America. He and his lawyer, the Samoan Dr. Gonzo, played by Benecio del Toro, experience Las Vegas by following every single rule in the book about living in Vegas: they burn the locals, destroy or steal public property, disrespect and swindle tourists, and, well, live life beyonf the edge of sanity, fueled and fed by a steady diet of hard drugs, liquor, and heavy introspection bordering on insanity.
That's probably the best word to describe the movie: insane. I'm not sure if Mr. Gilliam managed to encapsulate the experience of a bender (I've not used any illicit narcotics at this point in my life), but it seems as if he himself had gone on the craziest bender, saw some of the most insane images the mind could imagine, and decided to film it (after listening to the commentary, I stand corrected: he never took any of the drugs in the film, but his colleagues who have commend him for "getting it right".) This film is less about a "story", and more about the ideas and images tied to living in the moment in drug-crazed America. In the end, the race, the Mint 400, is completely unimportant and carries no weight in the plot.
Duke and Dr. Gonzo spend two days in Vegas, gambling, sneaking into musical shows and casinos, and searching for what America "is". The film is rife with symbolism, both of the drug culture, but mostly of America (notice that there is often an American flag hung in the hotel rooms, or draped on Duke's shoulders), and the Bazooka Circus sequence is a microcosm of the entire country (old people throwing hypodermic needles at tied-up drug addicts? Glimpses of New Orleans? The Vortex of the American Dream being a merry-go-round? A monkey dressed as a ku klux klan member? Perfection!) And there are midgets...lots and lots of them (including Verne Troyer, in one of his first roles). The cameos and bit parts are also inspired casting: Tobey Maguire as a balding hitchhiker; Christina Ricci as Anna, an artist who paints portraits of Barbara Steisand; Woody Harrelson as a lonely highway patrolman. But, again, the show belongs to Depp and del Toro...especially del Toro, who is at turns both frightening, funny, and mesmerizing without ever being likeable. This isn't a man you ever want to meet, much less act as your lawyer. But he owns the world of Las Vegas.
The cinematography and the production design are beyond perfect for the film and become increasingly more unsettling as the film progresses. Canted angles abound in the film, with wide angle lenses being the primary choice, augmenting each angle into grotesque proportions. The production design throws everything at the screen (try taking in every single detail of the final hotel room Gonzo and Duke inhabit...yes, the flooded one with the ketchup smeared around a pinned-up portrait of Nixon). Even when the film is not in the grips of a drug-induced psychosis, one should marvel at how seamlessly Gilliam recreates 1970's Las Vegas, as well as how perfectly Johnny Depp channels Hunter S. Thompson (who himself shows up in a flashback...where his younger self, played by Depp, notices the older, real-life visage).
The film, as with the book, addresses the follwoing question: who are these people that come to Las Vegas? What are these masses with their big cars and nice clothes and pristine manners? Why do they expect instant respect and prestige just for visiting? For being cops? For being lonely? For being mature? For being married? For being a Las Vegas native? For being a tourist? For being American? Who are these people surrounding us in every street, what is their American Dream, and how do they live within the confines of that concept?
Duke's means for living the American Dream, again, is a smorgasborde of drugs, cocktailed and cooked and eaten and drunk in a manner that, in real life, would leave anyone dead in 2 hours. But here Gilliam and Duke use drugs to illustrate to ugly depravity underlying Sin City and, essentially, our way of living. (On the commentary, Gilliam noted that he didn't really know what his film was truly about, but, as the film progressed and he reflected he realized how sickening it was to live in a world that is so politically correct that anyone saying anything must sanitize their words to avoid offending anyone, and that that very act of sanitizing thoughts is a dangerous progression...or regression.)
By sugarcoating one's words, you're hiding exactly what you mean to say, and anyone can take anything away from your comments. You have no say, no opinion, no truth, and once you lost that you lose the very thing that makes you human. This film cuts out all the bullshit and sugarcoating and tiptoeing and gets right to the point: the world is a scary, fucked up place and the only way you can survive within it is to be more crazy and fucked up. You must go beyond fucked up, to a point of depravity so beyond imagining that they ("They" being the cops, the authorities, your friends, anyone) can never bring you down.
That is the American Dream.
That is Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas.





By the by, this is a great short film I worked on back in the early months of 2006:

Killing Killian by Andrzej Rattinger

Killing Killian from Andy Rattinger on Vimeo.

The Adventures Of Buckaroo Banzai Across The Eighth Dimension

I had to let this film simmer and marinate in my head for a few days before actually writing this review, and to figure out exactly where I stand with it. In the end this is a cutl movie where I kept feeling like I should like it, and it certainly is fun...but...it didn't click. And I don't think it's because I "don't get it". I think it's because, well...it's somewhat boring and there are scenes where it feels like the actors are more in on the joke than the audience should be. However, there are several parts that I enjoyed, and the concept alone was fun and easy to accept (and setting it in New Jersey...New Brunswick, which is a few miles from me?! Hilariously perfect.)
In an imagined universe where Buckaroo Banzai is a genius physicist who is also a master neurosurgeon and who headlines a hit band, the Hong Kong Cavaliers (playing the guitar, trumpet, piano, and singing), who has a direct line to the President of the United States (who spends the movie suspended in a chiropractic bed), and is world-famous, featuring in comic books, as well as other media...oh, he's also a samurai. That's right. This dude is the coolest motherfucker ever, so it's obvious that he needs to be played by Peter Weller.
This is pretty much laid out in the opening title crawl, and then we are introduced to Buckaroo, conducting brain surgery with his friend Rawhide (Clancy Brown, who, for some reaosn, I kept confusing with Reno, another character played by Pepe Serna). We then see Buckaroo in the middle of the Salt Flats, testing out his oscillation overthruster, a device that, we learn, was developed by his father and Dr. Lizardo in the 1930's, and allows him to travel through solid matter in his unwieldly supersonic rocket car.
And then...things...start to get really wierd. The Lectroids, a race a space beings from Planet 10, across the galazy, arrive in giant, rock-shaped "spaceship" (if it could be called that) and settle into orbit, and we learn that the Red Lectroids, all named John, are disguised as members of Yoyodyne, a corporation and are trying to obtain his overthruster in order to free their evil overlord, Dr. John Whorfin, who happens to be trapped in the titular 8th Dimension. Oh, and the dudes in the rock spaceship who happen to inexplicably appear with little explanation and sound like Rastafarians? Theyr'e the Black Lectroids, and have arrived to contact Buckaroo and give him this message: stop Whorfin, or the Earth blows up to prevent his escape.
Along the way, Buckaroo tries to woo Penny Pretty, who may or may not be the twin sister of his...wife? Girlfriend? Significant other, I'll leave it at that. Buckaroo's band team up to help him stop the Red Lectroids, defeat Dr. Lizardo (who is possessed by John Whorfin), protect the overthruster, and, in general, just be cool as fuck. The cast, for the most part, seem to be having a blast, and Lewis Smith as Perfect Tommy is, as his namesake suggests, perfectly played, pefectly cool, and perfectly awesome. Jeff Goldblum as New Jersey is my favorite thing in the whole movie, dressed as a cowboy (with 10-gallon hat, and boots) and asking one of the most memorable lines (NEW JERSEY: "Why is there a watermelon there?" RENO: "...I'll tell you later.") Christopher Lloyd appears as evil henchman John Bigbooty (sorry...Bigboote), and has several funny moments playing off the late Vincent Schiavelli as John O'Connor.
However, my biggest cast problems are John Lithgow as Dr. Lizardo and Peter Weller as Buckaroo. Lithgow's insane accent was difficult to follow, and I had often wondered what in God's name he was saying, and his overacting contrasted too much with the straight-laced seriousness of Peter Weller's Buckaroo. The motivation for his flashback (after seeing news of Buckaroo jumping into the 8th Dimension on the news, Dr. Lizardo essentially electrocutes himself in order to relive his 1930's 8th Dimensional leaps) is nonexistant: he has a flashback just because he can. But once the climx (if you can call it that) occurs, he does one another of the best lines in the film (DR. LIZARDO/WHORFIN: "Take her to the Pit! Use-a more honey! Find out what she knows!") The ending airborne dogfight, plagued by cheap 80's effects, also plays very anti-climatically.
Peter Weller...man...I don't know. On the one hand, it's a testament that he can portray a character so cool and awesome that he is almost bored with how cool and awesome he is, but at the same he seems almost lifeless. He speaks in a monotone for the most part, with slow, deliberate movements. The man is the epitome of calm calculating awesome, but he's almost too cool to relate to. His friends and fellow bandmates/adventurers were more memorable and likeable because, well, they had more energy, more zest, more fun. If the story had centered on New Jersey following the main characters around and constantly asking "What...uh...what...what's a Lectroid? Why does that car have a rocket engine on it?" I would have been much more happier. I think maybe New Jersey is exactly the sort of character to reflect the mindset of the audience: completely clueless as to everything that is going on, but still going along for the ride and finding it memorable if not an exercise in patience.
Director W.D. Richter and writer Earl Mac Rauch each obviously enjoyed the story, loved the characters, and tried to create a rich, dense universe for Buckaroo and his friends to roam. It is no surprise that there is a massive cult following for the film, and I can respect that. I can understand the references made within the film (and, later, to the film...even by Star Trek: The Next Generation for God's sake!), and it's great that there is a denser, more complete plethora of books and trivia about Buckaroo Banzai so that I, as an audience member, can get all of the references and jokes.
But, after trudging through the film, I felt like it was too long a journey to get interest, and once outside the film, only now I'm curious simply because I want to know what the fuck it was that I saw. When I watch a movie, I don't want to think "Wow! Now I get to read a book to understand the references! Now I get to do some research! Yeah!" Throw me some hints, pique my interest first. Then I'll give you a shot. Don't give me Ellen Barkin's Penny Pretty tied to a table as a slug slowly slides towards her (was it going to hurt her? Why didn't the Lectroids just put it on her face?). Don't introduce some organic ball attached to Buckaroo's rocket car and then do nothing with it. And don't make Buckaroo a samurai and not show him samurai-ing out.
That said, I loved the side characters, I loved a lot of the one-liners, I loved Vincent Schiavelli and Christopher Lloydd, loved Perfect Tommy, and absolutely loved every scene with Jeff Goldblum. I also love the ambition of the film, a set-up to a later series that, sadly, never came to fuition. After 2 or 3 installments, I think this could have become a much more dense, enjoyable universe that I might actually have been interested enough to follow. Oh...and the last scene, with everyone dancing in the aqueducts...classic classic classic. I love it.
You throw hints out there, with traces of backstory. Don't throw everything on screen and then expect me to track down the point of the film. A film should give at least some explanation as to its intentions. As my friend Rob said to me after I tried to explain the title Quantum of Solace and started my explanation with, "Well, the short story...": "I don't want to read when I see a movie. I want to see the movie. I don't want homework afterwards." Maybe it's worth doing the homework on this...but I'm not excited about it.
Just tell my what that watermelon is doing there and call it a day.

I enjoyed the film. I just didn't love it. And I'm not trashing it either. Over time, and maybe anoher viewing in a few months, I might change my mind. I might love it. I might hate it. But it's worth a shot...just be patient with it, and don't make fun. You shouldn't make fun, because remember: no matter where you go, there you are.

7.5/10

I remember back when I got a certain feeling going into a movie theatre.
I'm not talking about any old theatre. Or, rather ANY ol' theatre. But there are two specifically that I have in mind when writing about this. Both theatres mean something different to me, and at one of them is still standing (for the time being). They're both a five minute drive from my house, and that's the way I like it.
The old Rialto Theatre in Ridgefield Park, a mere two minute car ride from my house, was a single-screen art house theatre, family-owned and -run. It'd been operating since at least 2001 as such, but I didn't "discover it" for myself until 2004, when I saw Farenheit 9/11 therein (not a great movie at all). The auditorium was old, with a single, massive screen and two wide rows of seats (I remember they were scarcely comfortable---not the reclining type with movable arms) and narrow aisles. Faux curtains hung in arrays along either wall, with a massive curtian lining the screen, which was set upon what must have once been a stage. The lights along the walls burned, buzzing with the surge of electrcity, and flickering on the same account. A chandelier hung in the center of the auditorium, not too big or elaborate, but still beautiful.
The ticket office was to the right side of the entrance, inset within the wall and separated by a glass partition. There was no ATM, no automated ticket counter...there was an actual person wearing not a uniform, but simply dress clothes, handing back the tickets. Once you enter the theatre, you were faced with the usher, and then the candy bar directly infront of you, with popcorn, soda fountain, and candy arranged before a wide mirror lining the back wall. To the left were the bathrooms and staircase leading to what I can only assume were the office and projector room. The sinlge entrance to the auditorium was to the right.
I've been to that theatre at least four or five times. Each time was with a friend (female, now that I think about it), or a girlfriend. Each was to see a movie I will never forgot, for one reason or another. Farenheit 9/11. Paris, Je'Taime. The Science of Sleep. Once. The last movie ever shown there was Cinema Paradiso, back in June. Now, why write about a theatre with old carpeting and uncomfortable seating? Well, because it existed (it's since been closed, gutted, and waiting to be torn down, crumbling in quiet indignity). It was the only art theatre in the area, and the only one that caught my eye every night home from the City, when my bus would meander past it, the marquee sign advertising next week's film. And, dammit, I miss the place. I miss knowing that I can go to a theatre that was small, and quiet, and intimate and meet people who appreciated good films (not to say that I'm elitist about my movies....Christ no. I mean, c'mon, my last review was for Punisher: War Zone...a movie I saw twice). But not every movie I see I want to see in a multiplex. And not every movie made deserves or should be seen in a multiplex with the reclining chairs and stadium seating. Sometimes I just want my atmosphere to reflect whatever content I was watching. It's like in Be Kind Rewind, at the end, when the video store is going to be closed up forever, and the community members who contribute to save it put in five bucks, or a dollar, and the contributions fall far short of the million or so dollars the characters need to save it, and by then all they want is to show their film just once, one last time: I feel like now I'm rallying for a cause that has been lost since June. To save the Rialto. To not let that family-owned theatre die. But it's dead. I hope the Teaneck Cinema, in my hometown, fares much, much better (which it has and should: mixing studio fare with independent movies is a great combination).
Another theatre I am witnessing decline is the Ridgefield Park AMC Cinema 12, a theatre in which I have fond memories. That used to be THE Theatre to go to. The big one ,where everyone would go on a Friday and Saturday night to see whatever huge movie was released. I remember seeing Batman Forever on the opening weekend, and that was the only movie (and still is, to date) I went to where the theatre was so packed people were standing along the walls for the entire duration of the film. That was where I saw The Matrix for the first time ever, having no idea what to expect. That's where I saw the first two Star Wars prequels, to packed auditoriums, and the last two Lord of the Rings films, to the same. The theatre is a two-story affair, with an arcade where I would play Time Crisis 3 or The Simpsons Game with my friends while waiting for whatever movie we happened to see. A staircase and escalator lined either side, and the box offices (in its heyday) were along the left and right-hand side of the lobby, and in the center was the snack bar, with another, smaller one further down the first floor in between theatre entrances, and a second, smaller snack bar in the center of the second floor. Today, only the right-hand side box office operates, and only the first floor center snack bar remains open. The arcade is shut down until the evening, and the auditoriums are hardly, if ever, full (I saw Punisher again with my girlfriend on Friday and we were the only two people in the theatre; when I saw Quantum of Solace on Sunday with my dad, we were 2 of only 4 people).
I remember ten years ago, sneaking into theatres with my former uncle, my sister, and sometimes my cousin, and we'd pay for one movie and sneak into another one when the audiences let out; we'd save soda cups and get free refills, and sneak snacks into the theatre. I'd constantly get child prices, as my uncle paid for movies and I waited near the arcade. Movies would play well into the late evening. We would wait 20 minutes to get parking, or wind up driving four stories up in the parking garage next door, since the place was so packed. I remember there were searchlights out front, like it was big event.
Those days are gone. There is a massive, relatively new multiplex in Paramus, a ten-minute drive from my house, that playes the newest movies in stadium, reclining seating, digital projection and surround sound. And I like that. I love seeing a HUGE action film played HUGE with GREAT sound and HUGE image. But even then, for some reason, I don't feel it. I don't feel comfortable in the Paramus AMC as I did in the Ridgefield Park theatre. Ridgefield Park was my heyday, where I'd leave school to see a movie, or spend 30 minutes in line waiting to see a Batman, or a James Bond, or a Matrix, or a Lord of the Rings. Those movies have come, gone, or changed. Ridgefield Park still stands, its customers preferring to pay $11 at Paramus as opposed to the $9 at Ridgefield.
I'll get used to the Paramus Theatre, and will still go to Ridgefield Park to see the smaller movies that play there (like Hamlet 2) or the movies that I'd seen already. But I'm sad to see a great theatre slowly die and seemingly be forgotten when there were so many good times that I had there. That was my high school theatre, my old stomping ground.
I wish I were able to buy it and turn it into a revival/art/current movie theatre, as my girlfriend suggested. I wish.

The Wrestler is playing in Los Angeles and New York City as of yesterday. I implore those of you who read this to watch it. It's really good...and stay for the credits to notice a familiar name...

The Punisher: War Zone

When walking into the theatre to see Punisher: War Zone one should bring along a list of all the different ways the human body can be desecrated, and then proceed to check them off one by one in rapid succession.
Ray Stevenson takes over from both Dolph Lundgren and Thomas Jane in thier respective films (Jane's 2004 The Punisher, also starring John Travolta, suffers from a lot of problems but isn't the abortion others claim...then again, I'm not that big a Punisher fan...or a Marvel fan for that matter). Perhaps it is for the fact that I'm not that big a fan that I thought Punisher: War Zone was a pretty good time. Not a good time as in "wow, I'm glad that movie was made", but good time as in "I've nothing to do for 2 hours, and am bored with a friend of mine and we plan on drinking afterwards, so let's see a movie."
Stevenson does a farily good job here, imbuing Frank Castle with the 1.5 dimensions the action hero seems to embody. Stevenson is imposing enough to look like he can punch a guy through the face (which he does), and stone-faced enough to walk through an entire building full of adversaries shooting at him and not raise an eyebrow, his voice, or even his pulse. In fact, his ragged, gritty voice is probably the single best feature about the character (even though he doesn't even say anything until about 15 minutes in). We get about 2 or 3 minutes of backstory (his family was gunned down after witnessing a mob hit in a park) somewhere about 45 minutes into the movie, and we get a few hints of his past life when the characters of Angela and Grace are introduced to the story (their inclusion in his subway hideout was the butt of most of our wisecracks). Stevenson is probably the best incarnation of the Punisher we've seen onscreen to date, and he rides this movie from beginning to end.
And what a hell of a ride the first 15 minutes are: as my friend and I noted, the movie "just starts". No backstory. No exposition. None of that bullcrap. We are intrduced quickly to gangster Dominc West playing villain Billy Russoti (AKA Jigsaw), with an overly exaggerated Brooklyn mafioso accent and a wicked sneer. Jigsaw is looking to make his way up the mob foodchain, and the Punisher shows up at a birthday party for the head of the family and makes sure that Jigsaw gets his chance. Punisher breaks in and imposes greivous bodily harm on hundreds of gangsters before following Jigsaw to a mob-owned recycling plant to cover a shady business transaction (are there any other kinds?) Punisher shows up, the wrong dude gets killed, and Jigsaw is pushed into a bottle recycling machine, getting horrendously mangled in the first of two fucked-up encounters he has with our titular hero (his final confrontation with Punisher is just too needlessly excessive, but great). And with Jigsaw's mangling, we're reminded just how sadistic the Punisher can be.
The action is really what pushes this movie, with any sort of plot and/or emotions being merely coincidental. And the set pieces are staged with such irreverent camp that the violence is both shocking and amusing at the same time (how many other movies set up the expectation of a character about to get a cocaine tube shoved up his nose, only to end that expectation with a fist through said character's face?) And there is at least one kill that was so amusing literally everyone in the theatre (all 15 of us, myself included) applauded; I won't say what it that kill is...but let's just say Punisher puts his own spin on how to defeat a freerunner. People are horribly mangled but still manage to stay alive, and kills are executed with such a voracious energy that even if they are implausible, they're still fun to watch.
Director Lexi Alexander does a commendable job keeping the pace up for the most part (though the second act did drag slightly), and imbued each and every frame with enough neon and bombastic acting to remind the audience "Yes, this is a comic book movie." This is the sort of movie where Punisher can walk down New York City streets armed with about 12 different guns nad knives, and no one blinks an eye. Where a fat gangster will look down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun and just saw, "Fuckin' perfect". Where NO ONE thinks to shoot Punisher in his head or legs or arms, the places not protected by a flak jacket. This movie is Over The Top, a trademarked creation of Lexi Alexander, who understands the absurdity of it all and just says, "Fuck it" to logic, coherence, and relevance. And though the movie drags for about 45 minutes in the second act, I wasn't ever bored. The inventiveness of the gunfights was also interesting, as it would naturally have to be (there are only so many ways to shoot a gunfight without it all looking the same).
As noted earlier, Dominic West's Jigsaw is played as braod as an eight-lane highway, almost as if Cesar Romero's Joker was playing Jack Nicholson's Joker playing Richard Widmark's Tommy Udo on speed. Doug Hutchison as Loony Bin Jim Russoti (Jigsaw's brother) was genuinely creepy (he eats a psych ward orderly's liver, for Christ's sake), but also quite annoying. I found myself at a paradox with him: he was so in-your-face as to be annoying and distracting, but I couldn't help but get excited when he and Punisher finally face off (although the fight was a bit of a let-down, but not too much of one). The rest of the cast includes Wayne Knight as Punisher's supplier of weapons and information, Microchip, and Colin Salmon (an actor I admire but wish got better American roles) as Paul Budiansky, a CIA agent. Dash Mihok as Martin Soap gets the best last of any movie I've seen in years ("Great...now I've got brains all over my coat") and Stephanie Janusaukas is decent as Grace, the daughter of Julie Benz's Angela Donatelli(although the character makes some abrupt changes in attitude without provocation...which was a blessing really since it added fodder to our riffing). Julie Benz is turning out to be the action-movie-go-to-lady between this and Lionsgate's other ultra-violent movie from earlier this year, Rambo. Unlike that movie, she plays a more active role here, and is perhaps the only "real" person occupying this carnival of a movie.
The production design highlighted Lexi Alexander's over-the-top approach to the story, each set imbued with garish color correction and neon lighting (this is the sort of movie where a neo-classical church, complete with battlements and flying buttresses, will also boast a gigantic, blue neon-lit cross). Each location and set has the familiarity of a place one might have seen in passing, but with just enough tweaking to make it feel slightly other-worldly. Also, the use of Vancouver to double as New York was glaringly obvious: just take a look at the subway cars (no New York trains look like that at all), and the subway stops also (there is no 15th St./9th Ave. stop along the A,C,E). Perhaps it's indicative of how engaging the actual story was that I took the time out to notice such things.
The cinematography was decent, although thankfully the scenes weren't cut in the ultra-fast, 2-frame style that I deplore.
The level of violence is what one comes to appreciate in movies of this sort, and Ms. Alexander doesn't disappoint. The blood and guts fly, and in gallons. It's insane to think that Lionsgate actually wanted to cut this movie down to a PG-13 (what's next? A PG-13 Die Hard...oh wait...), but it's great that they finally allowed the blood to fly. And with violence this cartoonish I didn't mind once (one character gets hacked with a fire axe, and in the next scene is completely alive, his arm cut off, and Punisher walks up and says, "You'll be fine!")
So if you're looking for a way to kill a dull evening (though for maybe less than the $12 my friend and I paid), and are in the mood for some comically over-the-top action, acting, and violence, you could probably do worse than Punisher: War Zone. You don't need to know the character, the history, or his relationship to the Marvel Universe, nor do you need to have seen the previous incarnation (I rescind my previous comment about Thomas Jane's movie...that sucked, aside from the fight with the giant Russian). The movie starts, a bunch of mobster's get mutilated, the Punisher glowers, and Wayne Knight curses a bunch, and you walk out and find a bar and discuss the most ridiculous of the fatalities therein.
The choice was between this movie, or Nobel Son. From what I hear and read, I made the wiser choice.

Not the best comic book movie, but it's no Catwoman, or Elektra. 6 out of 10.

Far Farms and PETA

I woke up today and decided to peruse through my usual websites: Myspace, Facebook, Livejournal, BBC, and the NY Times. I can't tell you how I came across it it was probably on the daily news feed) but I managed to find myself on ,http://www.facebook.com/friends/?ref=tn#/group.php?gid=22974356867&ref=mf. a Facebook group. Curious, I read about it and then watched the video at the website EXTREMELY GRAPHIC/DISTURBING (I'm not joking in the least): http://www.peta.org/feat/chineseFurFarms/index.asp.
Jumping back and forth between the two websites, I noticed that a lot of the people leaving comments on the Facebook pages were making the same sort of statements: "These people are so cruel", "They have no conscience, no morals", and similar type comments.
As appalled as I am by the video (I had to steel myself to be able to watch half of it), I cannot help but feel that PETA is employing the same tactics that I find bothersome with some advocacy groupds. Is it true that what happens in the video occurs in other fur farms? Yes, I don't doubt it for a minute. What can be done about it?
Therein lies the moral/ethical problem. PETA (an organization that has soured on me over recent years: when my dog needed two similar leg surgeries over two years, PETA's pet health insurance refused to cover the second surgery, and after nearly 3 months of getting the run around, they relented after we threatened to tell everybody we knew not to use their insurance program) suggests that we a) boycott stores that sell fur b)donate fur already owned to them, where they give it to the homeless (why not just donate the fur directly to the homeless?) or to animal shelters that use the fur as bedding or c) set up an information booth outside of the stores that sell fur (information and pamphlets provided by PETA, of course).
A and B are noble options, but C is the option I am weary about, because "information" often equates "agenda" with PETA (my sister subscribed to PETA's literature for some years: the experience with my dog's insurance soured our opinions of them, which may make this post biased).
But back to the fur industry. I for one think fur is anachronistic and unneeded in today's society, and that the methods displayed on the above website are reprehensible. I did not need a website to tell me that. But the remedy for such reprehensible behavior is one of what apepars to me to be mild protest, where economic sanctions would be more effective (boycotting stores that sell fur is right up that alley). But the fur farm issue, as I read it, is being viewed as a strictly ethical issue rather than an economic issue.
Those fur farmers live in certain districts of China that suffer from economic hardships, and chances are these are the only jobs they can get, and are probably rushed into employment with little if any training. Do I think fur farming is right? No. Again, it's a pointless, outdated mode of fashion and there is no need for it. Banning work of this sort is likely to infuriate those who are employed therein, and fur farming will continue to operate in black markets.
So, again, what can be done? Government regulations and oversight would be the best course of action for a short term solution to elimnate the suffering of animals. China is not likely to impose this (the fur trade is an unregulated business). I'm not opposed to government oversight. I'm not opposed to ending the fur trade. BUt fur farming is going to continue for the immediate future, unfortunately. The least we can do is make it as painless for the animals as possible (and a calm animal is easier to manage than a scared, stressed one ---a la Temple Grandin).
I hate to play devil's advocate, but I had to realize that this pointless trade is going to continue at least into my lifetime. If it's got to exist, why not make it painless for everyone, including the unfortunate animals?

Remake-O-Rama

Judging from my headline, this is about the current trend within the studio system of remaking movies. http://www.aintitcool.com/node/39314, http://chud.com/articles/articles/17273/1/REMAKERREAH-ARTHUR-THEY-LIVE-ROMANCING-THE-STONE/Page1.html, http://www.comingsoon.net/news/movienews.php?id=51014, http://www.comingsoon.net/news/movienews.php?id=51015, http://www.comingsoon.net/news/movienews.php?id=51013.

Remakes aren't altogether bad. Without remakes we wouldn't have The Maltese Falcon. Or The Man Who Knew Too Much. Or Scarface. Or The Magnificent Seven. Or The Departed. Or John Carpenter's The Thing (itself being remade by Marc Abraham and Eric Newman of production company Strike Entertainment, who are also remaking Carpenter's They Live). These are good to great movies, all of them considered classics in one way or another and that improve greatly on the originals on which they're based (although Scarface is too nihilistic and amoral to really have any more depth than the campy Howard Hawks 1930 original...a point often missed by many of the people who seem to hold it in such high esteem but rarely understand its point: excess for its own sake is death, either physical or spiritual).
But lately a lot of the headlines on film sites are of studios remaking films, often classic films (Rashomon and The Seven Samurai , perhaps the two best films by Akira Kurosawa, are in the works for release in 2010 to 2012; the upcoming Keanu Reeves-starring remake to The Day The Earth Stood Still; the remake to RoboCop, a film just barely twenty years old), but mostly horror films that range from good (Dawn of the Dead) to shit (Halloween, The Hills Are Alive 1&2, ad infinitum). For every good The Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake, we have to endure twenty shitty to mediocre Japanese horror remakes (Ju-On, Ringu, Dark Water, etc. etc. etc.). And with the horror remakes continuing with Friday the 13th, A Nightmare on Elm Street, a sequel to Rob Zombie's panned Halloween remake (is it a remake to Halloween 2?), to a remake of The Crazies, a great, B-grade classic, and the third or fourth remake of The Birds by Hitchcock(!) I often wonder when this remake craze will end.
Is every movie coming out of the studios a remake? No. Not at all. But remakes are the movies that get greenlit the easiest, that get bankrolled, that get the biggest openings and promotions, as studio heads and producers understand that name recognition draws in crowds. It does. Big time, and with cross promotions such as rereleasing the classics on DVD or Blu-Ray, it is easy to capitalize on name recognition.
But is it neccessary (not that filmmaking in general is "neccessary")? I equate remaking a film to rewriting a book by another author. Same concept, same characters, same plot, same story (I am immediately reminded of a Simpsons episode wherein Principal Skinner proposes to write a "science fiction novel where dinosaurs are brought back to life on a futuristic amusement park through the wonders of cloning technology. I propose to call it 'Timmy And The Cloneasaurus'", and his subsequent berating by Apu, over a span of several minutes, of the very idea of doing such a thing: and that is the reaction I would have also), just rewritten by another author. I think that's cheating, a hack job, an egotisitical move that says, "You didn't do it right the first time, here's how you do your characters and story the right way". I don't think it's always grounded artistically to remake a movie, and seems like the kind of hack job I'd equate with Brett Ratner. But sometimes, again, magic happens when a director sees a different side to a story (case in point: The Departed, which is filmed with much more depth, nuance, and character development than the original Infernal Affairs): I'm still trying to wrap my head around Steven Spielberg and Will Smith remaking Oldboy (although, to be fair, they're basing it off the original manga, rather than the Korean adaptatation by Park Chan-Wook) http://chud.com/articles/articles/17097/1/ARGH-ASIAN-REMAKES-GONNA-HAPPEN/Page1.html, http://chud.com/articles/articles/17126/1/HERE039S-HOW-SMITH-amp-SPIELBERG-JUSTIFY-SOFTENING-OLDBOY/Page1.html.
But what different interpretation can be made by remaking Romancing The Stone? Or They Live? Or Red Dawn? These three, for example, are fun 80's flicks, silly and light, B-grade and preposterous. Today they'd be seeped in melodrama and "gritty realism" (and I can already see Red Dawn as being shot documentary style, handheld, etc.). How many different ways can you tell that story? And if you can tell the story a wildly different way, why not just keep the core of the plot and create an entirely new movie? Isn't that a novel idea? Earlier this year I worked on the upcoming remake to The Taking of Pehlam 1,2,3, a film I desperately want to find on tape or DVD, and reading up on the original premise (and cast...man, what a great cast), I couldn't help but wonder what could brought to the table this time out (aside from a car chase, apparently). And that seems to be a catch-22: I can't judge a remake on its own merits, I have to watch the original and compare it to the remake, and that alone (watching the remake) supports the very idea of remking movies. Even the curious filmgoers who know an original and are curious about a remake for the sake of comparison support remakes by the very act of comparing the two (movie tickets aren't cheap, people). The studios will continue to churn out remkaes so long as the numbers stay high on the first two opening weekends (why else would drivel such as Disaster Movie and every other unfunny "parody" by those two directors get financed?).
So again I find myself coming full circle: I'm sick of the remakes, but every once in a while there is a really really good remake. But those are few and far between. The classics being remade (and I use the term "classic" in a slightly loose sense: They Live is no more a classic than are Commando or Cobra) are classic because they can't conceivably be bettered, they're fun for what they are, or timeless in their message, or important as a look at the era in which they were made. They Live could be remade successfully and be "serious", as could Red Dawn. But I don't want those movies to be taken seriously. They're ridiculous. And that's what makes them memorable, for better or worse.
What is the point of this rant? I'm sick of remakes. I'm sick of remakes getting the easy funding and releases where genuinely films (The Wrestler, Slumdog Millionaire, Let The Right One In (itself in the works to get remade for NO REASON), Where The Wild Things Are, etc. etc. etc.) need to struggle for funding and/or promotions to be seen by the public (Hell, it wasn't even until the Toronto Film Festival that Aronofsky found a distributor for his latest film). It's safe to go with brand recognition. But it's artistically bankrupt (for the most part) to do so.
To be honest, I'd rather go see twenty more Die Hards or Rambos or Indiana Jonseseses before I get excited about another remake for anything. At least then I'd know what to expect. And who knows, a sequel might actually be better than expected (I'm not going to lie, this year's Rambo was a lot better than it had any right to be, and I had shitloads of fun watching a 62 year old Rambo exploding the shit out of an evil battalion of Burmese soldiers with a truck-mounted .50-calibre muchine gun).
Give me more of that. Leave Romancing the Stone and Arthur and those other movies alone. They were made already. They were already banked on before and made their money. Move on, evolve, and get those smaller gems funded already, please (or just give me about $5,000 and I'll make something just as good, I promise).



I'm going to go see Punisher: War Zone tomorrow. Expect a review of that over the weekend.

Also, I am nearing completion of the first cut of my newest short, Wake Up Call.

P.S. --- All is not lost in the realm of ridiculous movies:



And check out this short directed and edited by a good friend of mine:

Behind the Scenes of an Indie

The Wrestler (FINALLY)

This is the trailer for The Wrestler. This is the first film I worked on, and it is directed by on of my favorite directors currently working (and, well, EVER), Darren Aronofsky. I will try to keep this as free of bias as I can, keeping my details on the film itself, and not really about the making of it, my experiences therein, nor about the details of my trip to Toronto with my special ladyfriend (which I shall actually detail in my livejournal shortly).
In the early evening of Sunday, September 7th, I waited in line outside the Elgin Theater with my girlfriend. We waited for about half an hour, the line growing thicker and more dense, and then when the limos and black, tinted SUV's started to arrive we knew that it would soon be showtime. We were led through the glass and gilded doors that led into the massive, carpeted lobby, warmly decored in red carpeting and gilded panelling lining the doorways. We passed Darren, giving interviews to cameras nad journalists.
We walked to the auditorium, a massive, tiered affair in the back of the building. On the stage, backed with a large, closed black curtain, was a lone podium illuminated in spotlight. We found our seats, up on the balcony, which too was massive, and I admired the intricate design of the ceiling, deftly designed in Roman arches and a fresco, a giant gold chandelier (electric lights, naturally). Below and to the the sides were private booths with one or two seats arranged in the wings: for the most part these were reserved, but empty. I saw Darren walk in, and after few minutes there was a half-hearted rendering of "Happy birthday" as Evan Rachel-Wood entered the auditorium.
Befroe the movie began the preseident of the Toronto Film Festival gave an introduction, and then Darren and his producer, Scott Franklin, walked onstage. Darren chit-chatted, poking light-hearted fun at Mr. Franklin's new dress shoes, and then began to praise the crew, the film, and, in particular, Mickey Rourke. He introduced Mickey, who suantered onstage just like the coolest motherfucker ever: his hair was considerably shorter than during filming, and slightly dissheveled. He said little to nothing, but just chew on a toothpick and smile, putting a hand up in greeting. He wore a comfortable looking casual outfit (still expensive, I'm sure), and no tie: his collar was unbuttonned. He oozed cool. The cool he had in Diner. The cool he had in The Pope Of Greenwich Village. He had that subltly sad look from Spun. But damn did he look cool. Evan Rachel-Wood was invited onstage, and she was wearing a long black dress, very sporty, and seemed slightly tipsy and unprepared for a speech, instead wondering when she can get to party as it was her birthday. Finally, Darren introduced the film, after quipping if anyone would want to release it, and the auditorium darkened. After a few promos, the film started.
The film starts witha Quiet Riot song playing over a pan over newspaper clippings and posters showcasing Randy "The Ram" Robinson, Mickey Rourke's titular character. After the credits roll, we get a hard cut to Randy cleaning up after a match in what appears to be an elementary school, his back to the camera. And I quickly came to realize how different, stylistically, this was to any other Darren Aronofosky film.
The cinematographer, Maryse Alberti, spent a lot of her time following Randy rather than embracing him. The camera lets him lead its movements: Randy looks left, the camera pans left; Randy walks up stairs, the camera follows him, etc. The look is evocative of the theme of the movie: a man slightly behind in the times, over his prime, looking back to his glory days. This can also be applied to the actor himself, who has heretofore been referred to as a "has-been" (when I met him he was pretty nice and inviting). The camera is is looking back at him, like a weight tied behind him, slowing down his movements. However, once in the ring, the camera swerves and dances along with the wrestlers, playing the ring along with them.
What was most surprising is how deft Mickey seems in the character, as if he were playing him for years: Rourke is built like a man who has indeed spent the past 20 years doing physically punishing work, and the make-up on his face reflects that as well: hear a scar, there a pock-mark, there another scar. I had seen him nearly every day for 3 motnhs and was still impressed and surprised and moved by how subtle he is in the film. When his character is walking along Asbury Park (itself a run down attraction much past its prime) with his daughter Stephanie (played by Evan Rachel-Wood), and he talks about how he was never around, and how he deserves to be alone but he just doesn't want her to hate him, you can hear that it is no longer Randy talking, but Mickey. Often in the film I felt that it was Mickey speaking, not Randy. All the class and playfulness and fun warmth that Randy exhibits is really Mickey, the man, letting his guard down after 15 years of building up defenses. The final fight, the final twenty minutes or so, play so emotionally compromising that I couldn't help but root for the man even though I knew how it would end. The last shot of the movie...man. That gave me goosebumps I never thought I'd experience.
The other actors fared differently. Marisa Tomei is beautiful as Cassidy, ne' Pam, Randy's stripper friend who spends much of her time topless (no mind there) and fighting her barely-hidden feelings towards Randy, her only "real" friend (and vice versa). This is a very different role for Ms. Tomei, and she plays it very well, and she is very beautiful, even when bundled up in a thick winter coat in the middle of Elizabeth. Her face conveys a subtle sadness about not only her life, but Randy's: they reflect each other's failures.
Evan Rachel-Wood could have fared a lot better if she weren't cranked up to 11. But in her quiter moments (the aforementioned Asbury Park scene) she really shines. There are a few other scenes that I know were left on the cutting room floor that really developed her relationship with her estranged father, but I guess they slowed the film down a bit. Her final scene with her father is so small and pivotal, so final, her words so quiet and deliberate, it's hard not to feel what Randy feels.
The supporting characters are a surprising lot: Todd Barry shows up as the supermarket manager Wayne, a hard-ass on Randy's case; Aronofsky regulars Mark Margolis and Ajay Naidu (so nice in person, both of them, and both understated in this film); Wass Stevens as a fight promoterdoes his thing well; but much kudos goes to all of the wrestlers, especailly Mike Miller and Ernest Miller, each playing the first and last opponents to Randy in the film respectively. A particularly brutal fight against the hillbilly wrestler Necrobutcher is one of the highlights of the film in terms of action, but not the most emotionally rewarding of the film.
Again, Aronofsky changes gears completely, presenting an extremely down-to-earth, restrained, subtle, emotionally human affair, without the visual flairs he utilized in Pi, Requiem For A Dream, or the surprisingly unpopular The Fountain. Ms. Alberti, the cinematographer, allows the camera to flow freely in and out of scenes, constantly moving. I am otherwise not a fan of hand-held shots, but here I got used to it extremely quickly, as sometimes the camera is so smooth you fail to realize it is not on a tripod at all.
The production design is also effective here, and that becomes evident no where else as effectively as Randy's trailer, a decrepit affair that is dirty, dank, and trapped in the 1980's, a reflection of his crumbling life. The scenes in the strip club are also top-notch (in terms of production design...you should have seen the place before we shot). THe locations used also reflect the Ram's lifestyle and situation: the Acme supermarket where he works; the sad trailer in which he lives; the community centers he highlights for the few faithful fans; the empty, sad conventions where he makes about five bucks signing autographs; the decrepit ruins of Asbury Park, once a beautiful attraction, now left to slowly die in quiet indignity.
The music is the most understated aspect of the entire film. I didn't notice Clint Mansell's score (aside from the climax), as Mr. Aronofsky chooses hit 1980's songs to populate his soundtrack (to great effect --- when you hear "Sweet Child O'Mine" tell me you don't get excited, especially now that Guns N'Roses themselves are attempting a comeback of sorts with Chinese Democracy.) The highlight of the soundtrack though is Bruce Springsteen's original, acoustic song, "The Wrestler", which plays over the closing credits, a beautiful, quiet, sombre ballad.
The script (the first Aronofsky film not scripted by him as well) though sometimes bordered on pretentiousness and cliche. Robert Seigel, the writer, obviously has a deep understanding and respect of wrestling as a sport and "Art" (take that as you will), but in reading the script I felt that some scenes would be borderline boring simple due to the fact they've been done before in multiple movies. Thankfully some of these scenes were cut out of the final film. But there are moments where he shines and the emotion is genuine. Oddly, some of these scenes are cut as well...maybe for pacing or technical reasons). The Asbury Park sequence, and when Randy and Stephanie confront each other for the last time are heartbreakingly genuine. Kudos to Mr. Rourke also...the speech he gives before his final fight was all him...and, according to an interview he did with Entertainment Weekly, all true in terms of his life. He hasn't watched that scene yet...and I don't blame him. Todd Barry's scenes, while humorous, might've been funnier if the actor were left to his own devices; and I think the film suffers slightly from a lack of comedy...but that's not the point with this film: Randy isn't a man enjoying himself, he's a man obsessed with the glory days, the glory days long and gone, and coming to face that fact is a painful affair. The film has many moments of being fun...just not many of being funny. (Although that neon-lime-green jacket had everyone laughing, as well as Randy's playing Nintendo with a young neighbor: "Call of...Call of what? Doody? Call of Duty?") You root for the man, so charismatically and likably played by an actor finally respecting the medium, the art, and, finally himself. It's hard not to like a man who tosses potato salad as effortlessly and playfully as the Ram does.
Was I satisfied with the final product? Yes. Does Mickey Rourke desrve all the praise he is getting? Yes. He is no longer a badass. He is no longer a prima donna. He is no longer a loner. He is no longer the tough-guy playing tough-guy roles. He's back to his roots, an actual actor again. We've missed him for the past decade and a half (I'm 22 and looking back to his old films...and now looking forward to his new ones). If Sylvester Stallone can ressurect his career and regain respect with his Rocky and Rambo codas, and simultaneously force the studios to acknowledge the worth of their older actors, then Mickey Rourke deserves this chance at a comeback. He's worked damn hard for it in this film alone, and seems humbled by the experience to actually attempt to work seriously again.
I welcome his return.
Darren Aronofsky may have made The Wrestler, but Mickey Rourke made The Wrestler mean something. And sometimes that's the difference between a good movie and a great movie.
This is the latter.

Comes to New York December 19th, and in wider release January 17th.

http://movies.nytimes.com/2008/12/17/movies/17wres.html?ref=movies

Quantum of Solace

It was okay.
I was really, really hoping to enjoy this movie. And, to an extent, I did. I'm a James Bond fan. A huge James Bond fan. I've seen each movie at least 40 times each. I've listened to each of the commentaries, seen most of the documentaries, and read each book at least twice. I've listened to the soundtrack and can even hum some of the tunes. I can recognize each movie by the opening gunbarrel logo. So I found myself asking why James Bond was in a Jason Bourne movie.
The latest installment in the series, Quantum of Solace, derives its title from the 1958 short story, but little else in the movie is evocative of the James Bond we've grown up with. That was a good thing with Casino Royale, which introduced the world to James Bond. Again. That time he was in the guise of Daniel Craig, a more-than-capable actor who suffered a lot of criticism that was promptly silenced as soon as his debut Bond film was well-received by both the critics (who nominated him for a BAFTA, the only Bond actor presently to be nominated for his portrayal ofthe secret agent) and the fans (who responded to the tune of nearly $600 million worldwide, the most successful fim in the 46-year-old franchise).
But I digress.
Casino Royale is already considered a classic of the series, and one of the best action films of the past 10 years, and was highly influenced by the new world political order: one of fear, paranoia, and untrustworthiness (ah, the Bush Years have given us some of the best movies of the past 15 years). Action movies seemed split into two categories: dense, loud MTV-styled escapades, instantly forgettable; and serious-down-to-earth affairs. But its influence, the Jason Bourne series of films, has clearly reached far in reshaping the Bond series. Dan Bradley and his stunt team, veterans of the Jason Bourne series, were hired to helm the second unit footage for Mr. Bond this time around, and I'm afraid to say I wasn't impressed at all. The opening car chase would've been effective in pumping the adrenaline if I had known the geography of Bond's Aston Martin or the Alfa Romeos that pursued him. Several times in the chase the camera was so close to Daniel's face I was waiting for an internal monologue to start playing. Instead we get few establishing shots, a bunch of close ups, and an editing style that required me to use the opening title sequence to figure out in my mind what just happened. It like my action films fast paced, but I also like to know what the hell I was watching. That said, starting the movie in the middle of the car chase (itself an extension of the last scene of Casino Royale) was inspired, and worked to segue the last film with this one. The chase ends, Bond reveals Mr. White, one of the villains from the last film, in the boot of his car, makes a quip, and the titles start.
I am not a fan of MK12's work here. Nor of the title song, "Another Way To Die", by Alicia Keys and Jack White, whose jagged vocals do not complement that of his duetist (this being the first duet in the franchise's history, one would expect two artists who complement each other's vocals). Chris Cornell's "You Know My Name" was infinitely better than this, and Amy Winehouse's aborted effort (thank you Mark Ronson, you ass) would've been so much better I'm sure. The title graphics themselves (right down to the font) just didn't feel like Bond at all (a friend of mine sitting next to me leaned in during the titles and commented, "This feels like a college student's parody of a Bond title." And he was right.) Daniel Kleinmann, the man responsible for every title sequence since 1995 (the titles for GoldenEye and Casino Royale are classic and are worthy complements to Maurice Binder, who designed the originals titles for all but two of the original 16 films) is sorely missed, and I hope he decides to return for the next installment. Or that the producers remember to hire him that time out. David Arnold's score was decent, but I really REALLY wish he'd use the James Bond Theme a bit more with Daniel. If I'd at least heard that I could believe I was watching a Bond movie.
The next sequence finds M, again played by Dame Judi Dench, the only actor held over for Pierce Brosnan's tenure, interrogating Mr. White in Siena, Italy, during the Palio Horse Race, an annual race held in the streets. But we wouldn't know that, as there are no shots connecting the interiors of the safehouse to the streets of Siena aside from the few wide shots once a foot-chase ensues between Bond and a doubel-agent. And this chase was exciting...at least it would have been if Dan Bradley had used a tripod or the editor had incorporated shots that lasted more than 12 frames. In fact, I was hoping to love the scaffolding fight, to finally feel like "Okay, this is definitely a Bond moment". But I didn't feel that at all: the fight was shot in medium shots and close-ups, instead of the camera hugging the geography (I have a credo when shooting a movie, including my own stuff: If you need to shake the camera or or use handheld to generate a feeling of suspense, you should not direct an action scene. Tension comes from the director, not the camera.) The scaffold fight should've been typically Bondian in style, it should not have felt like an imitation.
And that's what I kept thinking on my second viewing of the film: I know this is a James Bond movie, but it just didn't feel like it. It felt like a James Bond movie that was trying so hard not to be a James Bond movie that it felt soulless. A serious lack of fun was also evident, as even in Casino Royale, the heretofore darkest Bond film, Bond himself was at least allowed some comedy, a chance to enjoy himself and his lavish-if-improbable lifestyle. In this film the only fun came in Gemma Arterton's character of Fields, and she suffers from an all-too-short appearance (I did love the Goldfinger homage though). Bond's quip to most of the members of Quantum, the evil, secret organization (that's where the title comes from!) was also great, as was that entire sequence in the Tosca Opera House.
But the dogfight in the desert? Man, that would've been incredibly better had there been at least 3 wide shots in there (I am amazed that there were actually not one, but THREE close-ups of Bond from outside the flying airplane looking into the cockpit. WHY?) The manuevers were amazing, the use of prop planes original in this day of high-tech jet fighters and such...but the camera didn't let the scene breathe at all, and in cramping the action the film cramped the tension.
The only scene in entire film that felt organic and real and fleshed-out was the coda in Kazhan. And even that lasted about 5 minutes.
Everyone in the film does the best they can with what they're given. Dame Judi Dench is given a much larger role here, and it's clearer in this film that she's very much the maternal figure to Craig's Bond, the only authority figure in his life (compare this to Brosnan's Bond, who was always seen as smarter than M, and who answered to no one). She's icily decisive (although her decision to start trusting Bond at the end and to let him get away to stop the villain is completely unexplained and unprompted. She spends the film trying to bring Bond in, and then relents at the end for...? I thought I'd missed something there first viewing. I hadn't. It just wasn't explained.) Olga Kurylenko does her thing and she doe sit well: a beautiful woman out for revenge. Like in the last two movies she was in: Hitman and Max Payne. Only here she's wearing considerably more. Her character, Camille, is one of the few truly interesting Bond girls...but I can't help thinking that her character is derived from so many similar movies. I don't think her character is a memorable addition to the cast, nor to the Bond girl lineage. Gemma Arterton, mentioned earlier, is one of the highlights of the film, and she definitely feels as if she's not only truly enjoying herself, but that she knows how to play within the Bond universe. It also helps that she's also undeniably cute, even when wearing a giant, brown raincoat. Anotle Taubman, as the henchman Elvis, is forgettable, nonthreatening, and does little here, which is a shame because he's apparently a very good actor. Either he had little to work with or what was in the movie got cut out. Jeffrey Wright, one of my favorite actors, once again does a good job as the new Felix Leiter, although it isn't really explained what Felix is doing in Bolivia. Giancarlo Gianni returns as Mathis, and what a welcome return it is. His final scene with Bond felt genuine, and it was apparent that Mathis was a character he had spent a lot of time making "real". But there are two characters that just didn't work for me.
First off is the villain, Dominic Greene, an eco-terrorist (get it? "Greene"? Clever...) with zero menace outside of his widely bulging eyes and Roman-Polanski demeanor. Greene reflects the current trend of "living green", but his scheme is considerably more sinister (cause a drought, allowing a deposed dictator to return to control in Bolivia, and then use Quantum to act as utilities provider for that entire country). Clever. Original. But not really "Bond". The final confrontation between him and Bond actually did work for me, as Greene doesn't look like he'd know how to fight, and that is exactly how Mathieu Almaric played it: fire axe in hand, Greene throws Bond off adn actually, for a few minutes, does apepar menacing. Perhaps all of Greene's more menacing scenes (as well as a less-abrupt introduction to him) would up on the cutting-room floor.
Oddly, the thing that also didn't work for me was Bond himself. Don't get me wrong, Daniel Craig does an amazing job, as he did last time out, but his Bond is even less classy and suave than he was in the first few scenes of Casino Royale. Bond here is too cold, too unemotional and too brooding to be likable (just view his sendoff to Mathis for an example). He's also unstoppable in the John McClane in Live Free or Die Hard or Indiana Jones in that last movie way. He falls out of a plane without a parachute and in the next scene he gets up like nothing happened. He chases a dude through a horese race and fights him on collapsing scaffolding and doesn't have a mark. He gets dirty and bruised, but even in Casino Royale he got beat up pretty badly, and wore scars following the parkour chase and airport sequence. Here, nothing stops him. He knows how to get out of any situation and knows that he's going to make it. Yeah, yeah, that's Bond. That's how Bond is played. Except for when it's played completely seriously. There is no quip, no matter how half-hearted or ironic (as Timothy Dalton, who also played a very serious, jaded Bond). And that's sorely missed. Craig growls his few quips as if he's annoyed. You shouldn't be annoyed to be Bond. You should be having the time of your life.
And the director, Marc Forster. His previous films have ranged from artsy to artsy. He never handled an action movie, much less a franchise film, much less THE franchise film. Relying too much on his second unit, he cuts the action much too fast, adhering to second-long shots, handheld cameras, and jarring angles (there were at least two canted angles...for NO reason). The "quiet" more character-driven scenes, oddly, didn't amount to much for the most part, and it felt as if he were just working furiously to push the story. Casino Royale allowed the characters to breathe and develop: here that's not the case, and it's surprising, given Forster's pedigree. If Forster had worked on even a small-scale action film he might have fared better...but here he seems to be winging it, throwing everything possible at the audience and hoping that something sticks. It was an interesting experiment, but it just didn't work.
So now Craig's Bond is fully formed (suggested by the use of the familiar gunbarrel logo at the end...finally!). Hopefully the producers will start to inject some fun into the series again, as well as a director who is adept with action, now that they've managed to inject some fresh blood and life into it. I'll still be in line to see the next one. A slight step down after stepping up the game by about ten storeys is no need to weep.
I'll just view this entry as an "in-between missions" movie.