Encounters at the End of the World (2008)
Rating ... B- (56)
Werner Herzog goes characteristically batshit with Encounters at the End of the World, narrating / rasping to his heart's content over Antarctic adventure. Herzog's journey is inspired by images of pristine beauty in nature and although promptly marred when he arrives in "an ugly mining town with caterpillars and noisy construction" he saves face when his trip metamorphoses into a casual study of human alienation.
Herzog's images are beautiful enough to qualify as nature porn a la Planet Earth but they're also the first step in Herzog's quest to understand isolation. In typical fashion, Herzog depicts nature as heavenly by sprinkling choral music over the proceedings and likening the footage from under-ice diving to being in a cathedral, though others share his opinion. Herzog's talking heads, described figuratively as untethered folks who've fallen apart from society to the bottom of the Earth, often pontificate about rugged spirituality found in nature. (There is obvious favoritism shown to these individuals versus those who venture to Antarctica seeking fame in the civilized world for temporarily braving the elements.)
If you can withstand Herzog's cantakerous bellyaching and hand-wringing about the extinction of obscure languages, technology eliciting vulnerability in the world (why?), and men robbing natural landmarks of their dignity by exploring and conquering them, the remaining commentary is quite poetic. Residents of the south pole are self-described as a group of outsiders unified by their inability to coexist within the societal groups they fled. Herzog interviews them not merely for the nuts and bolts of their job duties in Antarctica but also to discover personal motivation. Seen collectively at a safety training course, Herzog observes visionless participants preparing for no-sight conditions. Because they are linked, when one falls astray it becomes the group's shared fate. In equally pessimistic contrast, Herzog stumbles across surprisingly poignant footage of Psycho Penguin, a penguin suffering from a bout of instinctive mania presumably from prolonged exposure to his peers. The penguin willfully and seemingly for no reason undertakes a headlong trek away from his homeland to certain suicide; Herzog explains scientists have observed the phenomenon before and if apprehended and returned to his colony, the penguin will begin again. Finally, scientists celebrate as they prepare a hi-tech weather balloon capable of detecing neutrinos that appear to be "on another plane" for a solitary journey into the heavens.
As if to further his portrayal on social rupture, unreliable narration seems to play a role in Herzog's film. Herzog could very easily be mistaken for an internet troll as he bashes "fluffy penguin" movies and supercedes the subjects whose stories he deems "go on forever." In one hilarious scene Herzog encounters a Timothy Treadwell-esque recluse and penguin afficionado who graciously permits him an interview. His brief introduction reveals he's not entirely comfortable around other people and not exactly a conversationalist at heart, which makes Herzog's opening salvo all the more inane and priceless. ("DR. AINLEY ... I READ SOMEWHERE THAT THERE ARE GAY PENGUINS. WHAT ARE YOUR OBSERVATIONS?") Call Herzog's experiment at the south pole what you will, but I'm pretty sure this one is double blind.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Your Lack of Faith Disturbs Me!
Doubt (2008)
Rating ... C (40)
An Exclusive Interview with THE DIRECTOR
ME
I really appreciate you sitting down to speak
with me today about Doubt. Opportunities like
this don't usually just fall into my lap.
THE DIRECTOR
It's the least I can do in exchange for you
lending me your Junkyo Bell.
ME
Just for the record, I don't own a Junkyo Bell.
No seriously.
THE DIRECTOR
Maybe not in IRL.
ME
(nervously)
Before we continue, I feel I should clarify a
few things about the plot and the title for the
sake of those who have never heard of this film
before.
THE DIRECTOR
Spoilers in the keywords.
ME
Just by looking at the title I'd wager there are
a lot of people who would assume Doubt is a film
concerning faith and spiritual uncertainty.
THE DIRECTOR
And those people would be complete idiots! I
have absolutely no intention of exploring such
trivial and outdated topics! This isn't the Dark
Ages, it's the mother- [ EXPLETIVE DELETED ]
2000's!
ME
What do you mean?
THE DIRECTOR
This is a film about how Catholic priests rape
little boys.
THE DIRECTOR (CONT'D)
To clarify, the term Doubt is relevant as in "I
doubt you didn't molest that young black boy!"
THE DIRECTOR (CONT'D)
(offended)
What?
ME
Wow, he's black too?
THE DIRECTOR
You bet.
ME
Doesn't that seem like overkill, really? I mean,
is child molestation not controversial or
ostentatious enough by itself?
THE DIRECTOR
The fact that he's black TOTALLY MATTERS. If
he wasn't black, how could Amy Adams confront
his overwrought black mother?
ME
I was just hoping directors had given up topical
sensationalism. In other words, you can lead a
nun to water but you can't make her drink.
THE DIRECTOR
Well, even if that part is a tad over the top,
it balances out my discretion about Phillip
Seymour Hoffman's character!
ME
You mean that he's gay?
THE DIRECTOR
Only those with intuition most sage shall reveal
such a truth.
ME
I thought it was obvious given the whole gym
period fingernail sermon. Or the two sugar cubes
debacle. Or when Meryl Streep was in the atrium
collecting sticks to form a fagot for literally
no discernable reason. Or also--
THE DIRECTOR
Okay, fine. But when you've got a film that's
THIS important, it's acceptable to sacrifice
subtlety.
ME
Given the nature of the subject matter and
your last statement, this film suggests to me
that you think tabloids are mighty important.
THE DIRECTOR
I don't think you understand the significance
of the situation. I'm chronicling serious stuff
right here. It actually happened!
ME
So you're saying this concept alone provides
Doubt with irrefutable heft, regardless of
how little filmmaking techniques and story
telling are used to convey meaning?
THE DIRECTOR
You bet! People may indulge themselves with
fantasies about ancient warriors, starships,
and the Bovarian [sic] Illuminazis [sic...],
but those trifles just can't compete with real
life.
ME
And your embellishment of the "personal stories"
behind this nigh-overblown incident constitutes
reality?
THE DIRECTOR
If Doubt isn't completely authentic, I don't
know what is. I mean sure, I take an artistic
liberty here and there, kind of like 300, but
it's all in the name of truthfulness.
ME
I just feel all these subpar semi-biographies
that defer to "based on a true story" when
confronted with fault is kind of like beating
a dead nun here.
THE DIRECTOR
Why do you intertwine nuns and idioms? What
did nuns ever do to you?
ME
I don't know. I think it's purely factual. I've
never beat a dead horse, but I have beat a dead
nun before.
THE DIRECTOR
For real?
ME
Yeah.
THE DIRECTOR
Can I make a movie about your experiences? It's
guaranteed to garner the same Oscar praise as
Doubt. Your character is going to have to be a
tortured soul though. The killing will just be
an unfortunate misunderstanding because the
nun is actually a prostitute with a heart of gold.
THE DIRECTOR (CONT'D)
That, or she's black and the film will take place
in the south.
ME
Well, I totally agree with you there. Awardsy
organizations go nuts for that kind of thing.
THE DIRECTOR
Damn straight they do! The way I see it, my
only competition for Most Real Picture is the
film where that poor kid gets the chance of a
lifetime to earn his way out of those lurid
ghettos on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? and
he takes a bathroom break mid-question. Holy
[ EXPLETIVE DELETED ] I am simply in awe!
THE DIRECTOR (CONT'D)
The name escapes me, however.
ME
I think you're referring to Quiz Show. If I'm not
mistaken, that guy who played the tyrannical
nazi in Schindler's List is the protagonist, and
his plight tragically comes to an end when John
Turturro's character beats him to death with
his pimp cane.
THE DIRECTOR
What magnificent, top-notch drama! It certainly
proves that true-to-life stories are great in any
medium! What a cash cow! It sure is great to be
milking this nun!
THE DIRECTOR (CONT'D)
(confused)
What?
ME
Milking this nun?
THE DIRECTOR
What?
ME
A nun metaphor. You just used one.
THE DIRECTOR
(awkward silence)
ME
You too?
THE DIRECTOR
[ EXPLETIVE DELETED ]
-
Rating ... C (40)
An Exclusive Interview with THE DIRECTOR
ME
I really appreciate you sitting down to speak
with me today about Doubt. Opportunities like
this don't usually just fall into my lap.
THE DIRECTOR
It's the least I can do in exchange for you
lending me your Junkyo Bell.
ME
Just for the record, I don't own a Junkyo Bell.
No seriously.
THE DIRECTOR
Maybe not in IRL.
ME
(nervously)
Before we continue, I feel I should clarify a
few things about the plot and the title for the
sake of those who have never heard of this film
before.
THE DIRECTOR
Spoilers in the keywords.
ME
Just by looking at the title I'd wager there are
a lot of people who would assume Doubt is a film
concerning faith and spiritual uncertainty.
THE DIRECTOR
And those people would be complete idiots! I
have absolutely no intention of exploring such
trivial and outdated topics! This isn't the Dark
Ages, it's the mother- [ EXPLETIVE DELETED ]
2000's!
ME
What do you mean?
THE DIRECTOR
This is a film about how Catholic priests rape
little boys.
THE DIRECTOR (CONT'D)
To clarify, the term Doubt is relevant as in "I
doubt you didn't molest that young black boy!"
THE DIRECTOR (CONT'D)
(offended)
What?
ME
Wow, he's black too?
THE DIRECTOR
You bet.
ME
Doesn't that seem like overkill, really? I mean,
is child molestation not controversial or
ostentatious enough by itself?
THE DIRECTOR
The fact that he's black TOTALLY MATTERS. If
he wasn't black, how could Amy Adams confront
his overwrought black mother?
ME
I was just hoping directors had given up topical
sensationalism. In other words, you can lead a
nun to water but you can't make her drink.
THE DIRECTOR
Well, even if that part is a tad over the top,
it balances out my discretion about Phillip
Seymour Hoffman's character!
ME
You mean that he's gay?
THE DIRECTOR
Only those with intuition most sage shall reveal
such a truth.
ME
I thought it was obvious given the whole gym
period fingernail sermon. Or the two sugar cubes
debacle. Or when Meryl Streep was in the atrium
collecting sticks to form a fagot for literally
no discernable reason. Or also--
THE DIRECTOR
Okay, fine. But when you've got a film that's
THIS important, it's acceptable to sacrifice
subtlety.
ME
Given the nature of the subject matter and
your last statement, this film suggests to me
that you think tabloids are mighty important.
THE DIRECTOR
I don't think you understand the significance
of the situation. I'm chronicling serious stuff
right here. It actually happened!
ME
So you're saying this concept alone provides
Doubt with irrefutable heft, regardless of
how little filmmaking techniques and story
telling are used to convey meaning?
THE DIRECTOR
You bet! People may indulge themselves with
fantasies about ancient warriors, starships,
and the Bovarian [sic] Illuminazis [sic...],
but those trifles just can't compete with real
life.
ME
And your embellishment of the "personal stories"
behind this nigh-overblown incident constitutes
reality?
THE DIRECTOR
If Doubt isn't completely authentic, I don't
know what is. I mean sure, I take an artistic
liberty here and there, kind of like 300, but
it's all in the name of truthfulness.
ME
I just feel all these subpar semi-biographies
that defer to "based on a true story" when
confronted with fault is kind of like beating
a dead nun here.
THE DIRECTOR
Why do you intertwine nuns and idioms? What
did nuns ever do to you?
ME
I don't know. I think it's purely factual. I've
never beat a dead horse, but I have beat a dead
nun before.
THE DIRECTOR
For real?
ME
Yeah.
THE DIRECTOR
Can I make a movie about your experiences? It's
guaranteed to garner the same Oscar praise as
Doubt. Your character is going to have to be a
tortured soul though. The killing will just be
an unfortunate misunderstanding because the
nun is actually a prostitute with a heart of gold.
THE DIRECTOR (CONT'D)
That, or she's black and the film will take place
in the south.
ME
Well, I totally agree with you there. Awardsy
organizations go nuts for that kind of thing.
THE DIRECTOR
Damn straight they do! The way I see it, my
only competition for Most Real Picture is the
film where that poor kid gets the chance of a
lifetime to earn his way out of those lurid
ghettos on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? and
he takes a bathroom break mid-question. Holy
[ EXPLETIVE DELETED ] I am simply in awe!
THE DIRECTOR (CONT'D)
The name escapes me, however.
ME
I think you're referring to Quiz Show. If I'm not
mistaken, that guy who played the tyrannical
nazi in Schindler's List is the protagonist, and
his plight tragically comes to an end when John
Turturro's character beats him to death with
his pimp cane.
THE DIRECTOR
What magnificent, top-notch drama! It certainly
proves that true-to-life stories are great in any
medium! What a cash cow! It sure is great to be
milking this nun!
THE DIRECTOR (CONT'D)
(confused)
What?
ME
Milking this nun?
THE DIRECTOR
What?
ME
A nun metaphor. You just used one.
THE DIRECTOR
(awkward silence)
ME
You too?
THE DIRECTOR
[ EXPLETIVE DELETED ]
-
You Just Ran Over Some Poor Feller's Dog!
Marley & Me (2008)
Rating ... F (7)
In one of 2008's more dubious accomplishments, Hollywood has implicitly acknowledged the limited potential and diminishing returns of cinematic canines; after all, how interesting do studios really consider man's best friend if they feel obligated to transpose the social dilemmas of humans onto dogs not once, but twice? Beverly Hills Chihuahua was a smug paean to celeb culture, dog-related only to the extent it envsioned them as a new dimension of privilege and Tinseltown trend-setting, while Marley & Me returns the favor to the masses because here, a dog is not merely a dog, but rather a guardian angel sent to shepherd proles along the white picket-fenced path to happiness and fulfillment. How abhorrent is that conceit, exactly? Let's just say after this year, Air Bud moved up a couple notches.
If the Air Bud franchise's sweeping stupidity could be summarized in one line, "Ain't nothin' in the rules say dogs can't play basketball / football / baseball / soccer / volleyball!" then Marley & Me's sole defining feature - unassuming yet incredibly offensive sincerity - could also fit the mold, presumably "Ain't nothin' in the rules say dogs can't function as rancid metaphors for Life Itself - more specifically how we should learn to love one another, value what we have, and excuse ignorance and inadequacy on the grounds of doing the best one can."
Tripe like the aforementioned is only the tip of the iceberg of Marley & Me's reprehensible sentiments, all of which come shackled with a full nest because once again a dog is not merely a dog, but rather a blueprint for familial construction, a foot in the door for inevitably having a baby, then another baby, then ANOTHER baby because at this point might as well keep trying until we get one of each gender. I mean, what could be more wonderful really? In any case, Marley & Me is so frequently and pervasively obnoxious in its portrayal of ideal American living that it's difficult to find a good starting point. Of course it goes without saying that the film is tailor-made for blind followers of dogs, the kind who would never tire of Marley's bland cycle of cute disobediance, absent reprimand on account of his novelty or fuzzy-wuzziness. (When Wilson and Aniston disrupt traffic by stopping in the fast lane to corral Marley and other drivers voice their discontent, guess who's in the wrong?) At first the film simply denies punishment - a first person scene of spray from a hose hitting the camera implies castigation after Marley eats a valuable necklace but it's merely Wilson watering down some dog poo - but then altogether praises his unchecked destruction, because who else but Marley could tear through obstructive packaging so easily? In the film's incessant man-dog parallels Marley & Me upholds outdated social standards by cheerfully equating a neutered Marley to a married male, and then never bothering to elaborate or qualify the stance, while on the only occasion the movie contests the otherwise unquestioned awesomeness of full family living it resorts to stereotypical gender roles and household drama. Aniston throws a bitchfit about the stress of taking care of her brood while Wilson predictably counters with how he's the family's sole provider; in the eyes of Marley & Me this constitutes legitimate malaise, and not the indulgent whining of two brats bemoaning their lack of peace and quiet in spite of choosing to raise three children and an unruly animal.
To make matters worse, when Marley & Me ventures into territory outside the homestead it comes across as phony and abusive - an underhanded device designed to ruffle Wilson's feathers and send him scurrying back to the terra firma of family living. The film opens with overly fanciful notions of employment - Wilson's boss is just waiting for him, the naturally talented individual, to request a better position so he can double his salary - before revisiting the subplot when Wilson turns forty, whenst he puts on an insufferable woe-is-me, world-crumbling-around-us act about the impurities he's uncovered as a star columnist. Naturally this necessitates an emotional release he's unable to assuage as a part of society (though it's acceptable Marley shut down Boca Raton's only dog-friendly beach while trying) but easily overcomes in the retreat to his close-knit family.
If any of this sounds remotely appealing, director David Frankel (surprisingly responsible for 2006's infinitely more balanced and nuanced The Devil Wears Prada) manages to stoop even further during the film's final moments when it becomes opportune to overdramatize Marley's eventual demise - who could have seen that coming? - and enunciate once more the profound meaning of this simple dog's existence. Wilson solemnly narrates about their marvelous relationship - the unequivocal way in which he loved Marley and Marley loved him back - and Frankel plays it po' faced, as though there wasn't the slightest bit of incredulity present in the concept of a dog's reciprocation of human love. Then again, at this point why not also celebrate self-delusion? Ain't nothin' in the rules say we have to stop at close-mindedness and banality.
Rating ... F (7)
In one of 2008's more dubious accomplishments, Hollywood has implicitly acknowledged the limited potential and diminishing returns of cinematic canines; after all, how interesting do studios really consider man's best friend if they feel obligated to transpose the social dilemmas of humans onto dogs not once, but twice? Beverly Hills Chihuahua was a smug paean to celeb culture, dog-related only to the extent it envsioned them as a new dimension of privilege and Tinseltown trend-setting, while Marley & Me returns the favor to the masses because here, a dog is not merely a dog, but rather a guardian angel sent to shepherd proles along the white picket-fenced path to happiness and fulfillment. How abhorrent is that conceit, exactly? Let's just say after this year, Air Bud moved up a couple notches.
If the Air Bud franchise's sweeping stupidity could be summarized in one line, "Ain't nothin' in the rules say dogs can't play basketball / football / baseball / soccer / volleyball!" then Marley & Me's sole defining feature - unassuming yet incredibly offensive sincerity - could also fit the mold, presumably "Ain't nothin' in the rules say dogs can't function as rancid metaphors for Life Itself - more specifically how we should learn to love one another, value what we have, and excuse ignorance and inadequacy on the grounds of doing the best one can."
Tripe like the aforementioned is only the tip of the iceberg of Marley & Me's reprehensible sentiments, all of which come shackled with a full nest because once again a dog is not merely a dog, but rather a blueprint for familial construction, a foot in the door for inevitably having a baby, then another baby, then ANOTHER baby because at this point might as well keep trying until we get one of each gender. I mean, what could be more wonderful really? In any case, Marley & Me is so frequently and pervasively obnoxious in its portrayal of ideal American living that it's difficult to find a good starting point. Of course it goes without saying that the film is tailor-made for blind followers of dogs, the kind who would never tire of Marley's bland cycle of cute disobediance, absent reprimand on account of his novelty or fuzzy-wuzziness. (When Wilson and Aniston disrupt traffic by stopping in the fast lane to corral Marley and other drivers voice their discontent, guess who's in the wrong?) At first the film simply denies punishment - a first person scene of spray from a hose hitting the camera implies castigation after Marley eats a valuable necklace but it's merely Wilson watering down some dog poo - but then altogether praises his unchecked destruction, because who else but Marley could tear through obstructive packaging so easily? In the film's incessant man-dog parallels Marley & Me upholds outdated social standards by cheerfully equating a neutered Marley to a married male, and then never bothering to elaborate or qualify the stance, while on the only occasion the movie contests the otherwise unquestioned awesomeness of full family living it resorts to stereotypical gender roles and household drama. Aniston throws a bitchfit about the stress of taking care of her brood while Wilson predictably counters with how he's the family's sole provider; in the eyes of Marley & Me this constitutes legitimate malaise, and not the indulgent whining of two brats bemoaning their lack of peace and quiet in spite of choosing to raise three children and an unruly animal.
To make matters worse, when Marley & Me ventures into territory outside the homestead it comes across as phony and abusive - an underhanded device designed to ruffle Wilson's feathers and send him scurrying back to the terra firma of family living. The film opens with overly fanciful notions of employment - Wilson's boss is just waiting for him, the naturally talented individual, to request a better position so he can double his salary - before revisiting the subplot when Wilson turns forty, whenst he puts on an insufferable woe-is-me, world-crumbling-around-us act about the impurities he's uncovered as a star columnist. Naturally this necessitates an emotional release he's unable to assuage as a part of society (though it's acceptable Marley shut down Boca Raton's only dog-friendly beach while trying) but easily overcomes in the retreat to his close-knit family.
If any of this sounds remotely appealing, director David Frankel (surprisingly responsible for 2006's infinitely more balanced and nuanced The Devil Wears Prada) manages to stoop even further during the film's final moments when it becomes opportune to overdramatize Marley's eventual demise - who could have seen that coming? - and enunciate once more the profound meaning of this simple dog's existence. Wilson solemnly narrates about their marvelous relationship - the unequivocal way in which he loved Marley and Marley loved him back - and Frankel plays it po' faced, as though there wasn't the slightest bit of incredulity present in the concept of a dog's reciprocation of human love. Then again, at this point why not also celebrate self-delusion? Ain't nothin' in the rules say we have to stop at close-mindedness and banality.
We Need Time ... For Some Things to Happen!
The Girl Who Leapt Through Time (2008)
Rating ... A- (88)
The second funniest factual serve I've encountered on Wikipedia is called the euphemism treadmill. Essentially the manner by which euphemisms replace supposedly pejorative terms of original definition before being declared pejorative themselves and receiving the boot for new, less offensive euphemisms, the best example is probably that given, where folks pointlessly reclassified the nomenclature of permanent injury from "lame" to "crippled" to "handicapped" and so forth, up through "differently abled" and the unlisted "handicapable," which doesn't sound like the brand name of your extra-helpful tool kit.
As misfortune would have it, the American public's response to animation is undergoing a similar process of changing connotation. Walt's domain materially christened the filmmaking style with tales steeped in wonderment and unconventionality (e.g. Pinocchio, Fantasia) but since then the domestic role of animation has been gradually reinterpreted from its more mystical roots. Wikipedia might plot the trajectory as so:
Magical => Fanciful => Unrealistic => Immature => Cartoonish
No offense to cartoons, the best of which prove to be incisive commentary on human behavior, but the proclivity of today's post-Shrek fare to cater to the brood de soccer mom crowd with cartoonish exaggeration, easy humor, and underdeveloped pathos marks an all-time low in American animation. There exist some superlatives - non-Pixar even - but only as statistical outliers. Of course, you can hardly blame the purveyors of modern American animation for completely nailing the hierarchy of tastes and preferences within their geographical market, even if it does create one heck of a feedback loop between mediocre filmmaking and undemanding consumers. After all, animation in the states has never had the same privilege as Japan where demand for manga adaptations has cultivated the medium into an industry leader, which is a shame because other than the Lasseter/Disney-backed, hugely deserving Hayao Miyazaki Japanese animation has never achieved any degree of critical or box-office renown.
Thus arises a sort of cross-cultural irony considering this needle-in-a-haystack release in America was actually received as more of a chick-flick in Japan. Far as I can tell the meaning isn't necessarily analogous to our definition; it could just be code that you won't find any giant robots or samurai during the film. In fact, The Girl Who Leapt Through Time is more indebted to the style of Miyazaki, beginning with the point-of-view of the YFP (young female protagonist) about the town and/or daily living ... who in this case discovers the amazing ability to traverse backwards through her own chronology when she undertakes foolhardy physical jumps in the present - needless to say this feat comes in pretty handy navigating high school's various social conundrums. As you've probably surmised this retracing of time (Makato can't leap forward - it's always a way to revise past events) is a pretty intoxicating maneuver, but director Mamoru Hosoda has his sights set higher than wrist-slapping agents of power. When The Girl Who Leapt Through Time examines life at public school, Makato's ability is used to demonstrate social complexity and her desire to engineer situations to her perception of harmony. When it plays out like a love story, her leap back in time to restore her partner's squandered leap (which he used to rectify one of her many screw-ups) isn't treated like a dramatic device or contrivance but rather a wonderful evocation of the cycle of trangression and restitution within relationships. And when the film finally has its heroine on the brain we're rewarded with sharp moments of characterization such as the instances when she confides with her aunt, whose character is ostensibly a future dimension of the protagonist where passion has worn away into devotion, her profession as an art restorer indicative of the acknowledgement that some feelings are momentary as well as a method of encapsulating them into something permanent. Disappointingly, the ending is a direct nod/steal from Miyazaki's Porco Rosso, though you certainly can't fault the pedigree of the borrowed goods or the earnestness of their implementation. Still, based on our cotton candy rom-com standards and the film's deflating insights on romance and maturity, The Girl Who Leapt Through Time is probably the world's most sadistic chick-flick - and that's no euphemism.
Rating ... A- (88)
The second funniest factual serve I've encountered on Wikipedia is called the euphemism treadmill. Essentially the manner by which euphemisms replace supposedly pejorative terms of original definition before being declared pejorative themselves and receiving the boot for new, less offensive euphemisms, the best example is probably that given, where folks pointlessly reclassified the nomenclature of permanent injury from "lame" to "crippled" to "handicapped" and so forth, up through "differently abled" and the unlisted "handicapable," which doesn't sound like the brand name of your extra-helpful tool kit.
As misfortune would have it, the American public's response to animation is undergoing a similar process of changing connotation. Walt's domain materially christened the filmmaking style with tales steeped in wonderment and unconventionality (e.g. Pinocchio, Fantasia) but since then the domestic role of animation has been gradually reinterpreted from its more mystical roots. Wikipedia might plot the trajectory as so:
Magical => Fanciful => Unrealistic => Immature => Cartoonish
No offense to cartoons, the best of which prove to be incisive commentary on human behavior, but the proclivity of today's post-Shrek fare to cater to the brood de soccer mom crowd with cartoonish exaggeration, easy humor, and underdeveloped pathos marks an all-time low in American animation. There exist some superlatives - non-Pixar even - but only as statistical outliers. Of course, you can hardly blame the purveyors of modern American animation for completely nailing the hierarchy of tastes and preferences within their geographical market, even if it does create one heck of a feedback loop between mediocre filmmaking and undemanding consumers. After all, animation in the states has never had the same privilege as Japan where demand for manga adaptations has cultivated the medium into an industry leader, which is a shame because other than the Lasseter/Disney-backed, hugely deserving Hayao Miyazaki Japanese animation has never achieved any degree of critical or box-office renown.
Thus arises a sort of cross-cultural irony considering this needle-in-a-haystack release in America was actually received as more of a chick-flick in Japan. Far as I can tell the meaning isn't necessarily analogous to our definition; it could just be code that you won't find any giant robots or samurai during the film. In fact, The Girl Who Leapt Through Time is more indebted to the style of Miyazaki, beginning with the point-of-view of the YFP (young female protagonist) about the town and/or daily living ... who in this case discovers the amazing ability to traverse backwards through her own chronology when she undertakes foolhardy physical jumps in the present - needless to say this feat comes in pretty handy navigating high school's various social conundrums. As you've probably surmised this retracing of time (Makato can't leap forward - it's always a way to revise past events) is a pretty intoxicating maneuver, but director Mamoru Hosoda has his sights set higher than wrist-slapping agents of power. When The Girl Who Leapt Through Time examines life at public school, Makato's ability is used to demonstrate social complexity and her desire to engineer situations to her perception of harmony. When it plays out like a love story, her leap back in time to restore her partner's squandered leap (which he used to rectify one of her many screw-ups) isn't treated like a dramatic device or contrivance but rather a wonderful evocation of the cycle of trangression and restitution within relationships. And when the film finally has its heroine on the brain we're rewarded with sharp moments of characterization such as the instances when she confides with her aunt, whose character is ostensibly a future dimension of the protagonist where passion has worn away into devotion, her profession as an art restorer indicative of the acknowledgement that some feelings are momentary as well as a method of encapsulating them into something permanent. Disappointingly, the ending is a direct nod/steal from Miyazaki's Porco Rosso, though you certainly can't fault the pedigree of the borrowed goods or the earnestness of their implementation. Still, based on our cotton candy rom-com standards and the film's deflating insights on romance and maturity, The Girl Who Leapt Through Time is probably the world's most sadistic chick-flick - and that's no euphemism.
Maximum Overdrive Hyper Blast ... to the Max!
Max Payne (2008)
Rating ... C- (30)
Far be it from Hollywood to attempt much of anything that would qualify as original composition, and as a result Max Payne boasts box-office drawing, name-brand recognition. Video-game-to-movie may seem like a stretch as a pitch for drawing in dollars but the film's target audience is appropriately specific (PG-13 anyone?) and it's substantiated by Max Payne's place in video game history. For the uninitiated, back in the early 2000's, the gaming industry undertook steps to become more mature, and even though the transition accomplished nothing of the sort it nevertheless qualified as a success because video games now featured more gratuitous violence (not necessarily graphic, rather more colloquialized) and badass protagonists, i.e. elements that would make any thirteen year-old boy feel more mature. This trend also had the added bonus of expanding the product's marketability because let's face it - video games are fun, and nobody in the schoolyard can justifiably shit-kick you for playing something where you got to - I dunno - violently dispense justice on everybody directly or indirectly responsible for your family's death. Few were troubled by the fact this sort of narrative was incredibly generic and morally reprehensible to boot; in fact, to America it was the mark of maturity. Video games were becoming socially acceptable to the masses, and tripe like Halo and Max Payne spearheaded this shift with a modicum of anything you might desire from a game, such as engaging gameplay, complex level design, or sound stories. Far-reaching prolies then repaid the favor by claiming the titles to be the first-ever instances of art in the gaming community, neatly bypassing deserving morality tales like Fallout and StarCraft or the extraordinary lyricism of Link's Awakening. (In cinematic terms, the omission is akin to skipping straight from silent films to Lord of the Rings.) Those games required actual scrutiny and rewarded attention to detail (as partial attestation, UC Berkeley currently offers a class for StarCraft) while with Max Payne, well - you get to assault the punks that assaulted you first, guilt-free and significance-free. Who could turn that down?
Of course, if your prior experience with Max Payne is limited to this review, right now you're probably thinking this is something that validates The Simpson's amusing skewering of masculinity and empowerment where Homer changes his name to Max Powers. And more importantly, you're not alone. The simplicity of Max Payne the game transfers cleanly into Max Payne the movie. Ruffians fueled by Valkyr - a failed drug designed to boost the combat prowess of Army soldiers now used to hallucinogenic ends - kill Payne's loved ones. He kills them and follows their trail to the higher-ups responsible for the product's distribution. In fact, he disposes of them with such overwrought machismo he's rewarded with heavenly imagery for his heroic, law-bypassing deeds to society. It shouldn't surprise you, then, that Max Payne's high-contrast, black and white cinematography reflects the film's myopic moral outlook, and that even the film's joyous splotches of color still wind up rote and predictable. (Orange during a flashback? No way!) Never mind the plot particulars - Max has to see the same winged tattoo over and over to realize it signifies a Valkyr abuser and the film's ragged script fails to develop the characters beyond their po' faced bid at justified revenge - they only get in the way of the bullet-time. If that sounds slight, just remember: Max Payne is artistic achievement if an adolescent male ever saw it.
Rating ... C- (30)
Far be it from Hollywood to attempt much of anything that would qualify as original composition, and as a result Max Payne boasts box-office drawing, name-brand recognition. Video-game-to-movie may seem like a stretch as a pitch for drawing in dollars but the film's target audience is appropriately specific (PG-13 anyone?) and it's substantiated by Max Payne's place in video game history. For the uninitiated, back in the early 2000's, the gaming industry undertook steps to become more mature, and even though the transition accomplished nothing of the sort it nevertheless qualified as a success because video games now featured more gratuitous violence (not necessarily graphic, rather more colloquialized) and badass protagonists, i.e. elements that would make any thirteen year-old boy feel more mature. This trend also had the added bonus of expanding the product's marketability because let's face it - video games are fun, and nobody in the schoolyard can justifiably shit-kick you for playing something where you got to - I dunno - violently dispense justice on everybody directly or indirectly responsible for your family's death. Few were troubled by the fact this sort of narrative was incredibly generic and morally reprehensible to boot; in fact, to America it was the mark of maturity. Video games were becoming socially acceptable to the masses, and tripe like Halo and Max Payne spearheaded this shift with a modicum of anything you might desire from a game, such as engaging gameplay, complex level design, or sound stories. Far-reaching prolies then repaid the favor by claiming the titles to be the first-ever instances of art in the gaming community, neatly bypassing deserving morality tales like Fallout and StarCraft or the extraordinary lyricism of Link's Awakening. (In cinematic terms, the omission is akin to skipping straight from silent films to Lord of the Rings.) Those games required actual scrutiny and rewarded attention to detail (as partial attestation, UC Berkeley currently offers a class for StarCraft) while with Max Payne, well - you get to assault the punks that assaulted you first, guilt-free and significance-free. Who could turn that down?
Of course, if your prior experience with Max Payne is limited to this review, right now you're probably thinking this is something that validates The Simpson's amusing skewering of masculinity and empowerment where Homer changes his name to Max Powers. And more importantly, you're not alone. The simplicity of Max Payne the game transfers cleanly into Max Payne the movie. Ruffians fueled by Valkyr - a failed drug designed to boost the combat prowess of Army soldiers now used to hallucinogenic ends - kill Payne's loved ones. He kills them and follows their trail to the higher-ups responsible for the product's distribution. In fact, he disposes of them with such overwrought machismo he's rewarded with heavenly imagery for his heroic, law-bypassing deeds to society. It shouldn't surprise you, then, that Max Payne's high-contrast, black and white cinematography reflects the film's myopic moral outlook, and that even the film's joyous splotches of color still wind up rote and predictable. (Orange during a flashback? No way!) Never mind the plot particulars - Max has to see the same winged tattoo over and over to realize it signifies a Valkyr abuser and the film's ragged script fails to develop the characters beyond their po' faced bid at justified revenge - they only get in the way of the bullet-time. If that sounds slight, just remember: Max Payne is artistic achievement if an adolescent male ever saw it.
Told You Guys I Was Hradcore!
Death Race (2008)
Rating ... C- (32)
How do you ruin a B-movie? Paul W.S. Anderson's (Resident Evil, Mortal Kombat - yes, the man's rivaling Uwe Boll at this point) Death Race seems to indicate that time will do the trick. Used to be B-Movies were simply low budget, high entertainment productions with less regard for classical elements, which isn't inherently shameful, even if its moniker suggests otherwise. Now, mired in the age of self-help, therapy, and psychiatry, Death Race presents an updated definition that strays from pointed satire and disposable entertainment into belligerent self-actualization. (Yeah, I'm a B-Movie! What of it? You don't know me!)
It's this mindset that makes Death Race nearly unwatchable. Led by the reliably awesome Jason Statham, everyone in Death Race is an insufferable badass intent on proving audiences can't just write off their macho personas. Statham is so incredibly manly he breaks opposing strike-breakers himself while the film's other males all find time to emit guttural noises towards the camera (usually as they approach it in slow motion), even if their function is purely to be defeated by Statham. This rampant badassery extends to women as well, from Joan Allen's scenery-chomping stern, matriarchal warden to Natalie Martinez's generic busty sidekick whose mere presence elicits lame metaphors, i.e. the release of a bottled up oil slick. Whenever Death Race stumbles upon a mildly creative action sequence, its effect is always flagrantly diminished because it must always be prefaced with a snide victor/victim exchange where the winner offers anticipatory gloating while the loser says something along the lines of "OH SHIT!"
Death Race offers little by way of a rewarding narrative, meaning it was much better when it was called Mario Kart and you were able to perform all the swift driving and car-to-car attacking yourself. Coincidentally, Death Race was also far more entertaining when it was called Death Race 2000 and it was created in the 70's with Roger Corman's gleeful unadornmant and blatant subtext, which didn't exactly make it good, but at least made it amusing, which in turn made it a reasonably successful B-movie of old. Death Race occurs in the near future of sensationalized economic ruin and draws obvious parallels to 2007's WWE shlockfest The Condemned in its depiction of bloodthirsty prolies savoring internet-streamed broadcasts of graphic sporting competitions. Where The Condemned essentially ripped of Kenji Fukisawa's Battle Royale, the sensibilities of Death Race remain closer to its predecessor, even if it's stripped of the former's underlying commentary in favor of rousing violence. (What is this, Dawn of the Dead?) In Corman's Death Race 2000 the racers mowed down ordinary citizens and scored bonus points for those less economically contributing, including women, children, and old people, with the overall joke likening the viewers of such a program to the folks killed during it. Here the carnage is completely car to car with no third parties, no real chaos, no apprehension, and no bite. That Statham's crowd favorite racing persona Frankenstein is one in a long line of Frankensteins is no longer a twist that comments on the American public's gullibility and infatuation with icons but merely an excuse for him to don a mask that badassishly intimidates his opponents. Of course, when you're the only guy who actually navigates the track's shortcuts and you have the ability to drive backwards around the course for a spell and still come out on top, do you really need intimidation on your side in the first place? Like the relationship between most originals and their remakes, the existence of Death Race in the presence of Death Race 2000 is simply excess.
Rating ... C- (32)
How do you ruin a B-movie? Paul W.S. Anderson's (Resident Evil, Mortal Kombat - yes, the man's rivaling Uwe Boll at this point) Death Race seems to indicate that time will do the trick. Used to be B-Movies were simply low budget, high entertainment productions with less regard for classical elements, which isn't inherently shameful, even if its moniker suggests otherwise. Now, mired in the age of self-help, therapy, and psychiatry, Death Race presents an updated definition that strays from pointed satire and disposable entertainment into belligerent self-actualization. (Yeah, I'm a B-Movie! What of it? You don't know me!)
It's this mindset that makes Death Race nearly unwatchable. Led by the reliably awesome Jason Statham, everyone in Death Race is an insufferable badass intent on proving audiences can't just write off their macho personas. Statham is so incredibly manly he breaks opposing strike-breakers himself while the film's other males all find time to emit guttural noises towards the camera (usually as they approach it in slow motion), even if their function is purely to be defeated by Statham. This rampant badassery extends to women as well, from Joan Allen's scenery-chomping stern, matriarchal warden to Natalie Martinez's generic busty sidekick whose mere presence elicits lame metaphors, i.e. the release of a bottled up oil slick. Whenever Death Race stumbles upon a mildly creative action sequence, its effect is always flagrantly diminished because it must always be prefaced with a snide victor/victim exchange where the winner offers anticipatory gloating while the loser says something along the lines of "OH SHIT!"
Death Race offers little by way of a rewarding narrative, meaning it was much better when it was called Mario Kart and you were able to perform all the swift driving and car-to-car attacking yourself. Coincidentally, Death Race was also far more entertaining when it was called Death Race 2000 and it was created in the 70's with Roger Corman's gleeful unadornmant and blatant subtext, which didn't exactly make it good, but at least made it amusing, which in turn made it a reasonably successful B-movie of old. Death Race occurs in the near future of sensationalized economic ruin and draws obvious parallels to 2007's WWE shlockfest The Condemned in its depiction of bloodthirsty prolies savoring internet-streamed broadcasts of graphic sporting competitions. Where The Condemned essentially ripped of Kenji Fukisawa's Battle Royale, the sensibilities of Death Race remain closer to its predecessor, even if it's stripped of the former's underlying commentary in favor of rousing violence. (What is this, Dawn of the Dead?) In Corman's Death Race 2000 the racers mowed down ordinary citizens and scored bonus points for those less economically contributing, including women, children, and old people, with the overall joke likening the viewers of such a program to the folks killed during it. Here the carnage is completely car to car with no third parties, no real chaos, no apprehension, and no bite. That Statham's crowd favorite racing persona Frankenstein is one in a long line of Frankensteins is no longer a twist that comments on the American public's gullibility and infatuation with icons but merely an excuse for him to don a mask that badassishly intimidates his opponents. Of course, when you're the only guy who actually navigates the track's shortcuts and you have the ability to drive backwards around the course for a spell and still come out on top, do you really need intimidation on your side in the first place? Like the relationship between most originals and their remakes, the existence of Death Race in the presence of Death Race 2000 is simply excess.
Hitler on the Roof?
In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale (2008)
Rating ... C (42)
Uwe Boll may the greatest universal punching bag since Dan Quayle but his four English language films have each taken baby steps away from his D-grade debut with House of the Dead (a technical travesty by any standard but at least among the funniest bad movies in recent memory until The Wicker Man stole its thunder) and in his most recent, In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale, Boll continues the trend. The guy may still need marked improvement when it comes to coaxing performances out of paycheck-collecting cast members (Dungeon Siege is unintentionally its own spoiler because the weakest actors fail to obscure that they're also the most treacherous), creating legitimate drama, or deriving narrative significance but his newest movie is once again his peak, meaning that even if the hopelessly generic is best he can offer, his pinnacle is now less pathetic than that of Michael Bay (during The Island, there were actually moments that did not contain overwrought histrionics or the effects of incendiary devices), M. Night Shyamalan (also putting on his best show in his most recent The Happening - too bad he's yet to elevate himself from unintentional comedy), and Todd Solondz. (The most tolerable and least offensive part of each of the three movies I've seen by him continues to be the darkest part of the ending fade-out.)
In the eyes of Boll, the world needed another lackluster post-LotR, or he needed more funds. (His movies are still German tax shelters, and he comes out ahead whether or not the film does at the box office. To be clear, unlike the American versions of the 80's, this isn't illegal - just indicative of his laughable inadequacy.) Like House of the Dead and Bloodrayne, the video game source material (I don't have any first-hand experience with Dungeon Siege, though reputedly it's a Diablo clone with an added "bonus" of an autopilot setting) is thematically thin, allowing ample opportunity for amateur screenwriting clichés to fill in the gaps. Jason Statham plays a guy simply named Farmer (a case of easy abstraction - Vault Dweller this isn't), a pacifist patriarch who asks nothing more than his hometown doesn't get pillaged by not-Orcs. It does, and he journeys cross-country with a couple pals to track down his kidnapped wife. Numerous Lord of the Rings hand-me-downs occur including inexplicable magic, passive forest dwellers, and extreme long shots of the group in transit while when the inevitable battles arrive Boll opts for irritating mid-sequence wipes that suffocatingly emphasize the two-dimensionality of his shots and refuse the viewer the privelige of spatial navigation. Also present of the director's trademarks are his momentary flashbacks, which are still amusing in their convenient punctuality but nevertheless more smoothly woven into the narrative fold because the dialogue doesn't explicitly set them up. Unfortunately the film's clunker plotline (the parochial Statham doesn't give a flip about his country, only his wife ... until it's forseeably proven to live peacefully with his wife he sort of requires a country, and not an evil dominion) heavily outweighs what few decent scenes exist (Boll's first use of imagery - Leelee Sobieski gazes into a pulsating reflective surface predictably to signify emotional dubiety ... from her point of view though, it's probably better than getting kicked into one a la the aforementioned The Wicker Man), and in vain compensation Boll turns to Peter Jackson and Lord of the Rings for aid. While House of the Dead was a product of post-Matrix-ism, In the Name of the King is similarly post-Lord of the Rings (this was Alone in the Dark's one defining attribute - it felt like a failure all Boll's own) to no avail, other than the wildly metaphorical. Is the reluctant-to-fight Farmer a stand-in for Uwe Boll, content to dispense schlock for personal and financial gratification, only stooping to challenge his critics to boxing matches when justly provoked? If you believe that, I'd be willing to sell you some tickets to Boll's upcoming Broadway smash: Hitler on the Roof.
Rating ... C (42)
Uwe Boll may the greatest universal punching bag since Dan Quayle but his four English language films have each taken baby steps away from his D-grade debut with House of the Dead (a technical travesty by any standard but at least among the funniest bad movies in recent memory until The Wicker Man stole its thunder) and in his most recent, In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale, Boll continues the trend. The guy may still need marked improvement when it comes to coaxing performances out of paycheck-collecting cast members (Dungeon Siege is unintentionally its own spoiler because the weakest actors fail to obscure that they're also the most treacherous), creating legitimate drama, or deriving narrative significance but his newest movie is once again his peak, meaning that even if the hopelessly generic is best he can offer, his pinnacle is now less pathetic than that of Michael Bay (during The Island, there were actually moments that did not contain overwrought histrionics or the effects of incendiary devices), M. Night Shyamalan (also putting on his best show in his most recent The Happening - too bad he's yet to elevate himself from unintentional comedy), and Todd Solondz. (The most tolerable and least offensive part of each of the three movies I've seen by him continues to be the darkest part of the ending fade-out.)
In the eyes of Boll, the world needed another lackluster post-LotR, or he needed more funds. (His movies are still German tax shelters, and he comes out ahead whether or not the film does at the box office. To be clear, unlike the American versions of the 80's, this isn't illegal - just indicative of his laughable inadequacy.) Like House of the Dead and Bloodrayne, the video game source material (I don't have any first-hand experience with Dungeon Siege, though reputedly it's a Diablo clone with an added "bonus" of an autopilot setting) is thematically thin, allowing ample opportunity for amateur screenwriting clichés to fill in the gaps. Jason Statham plays a guy simply named Farmer (a case of easy abstraction - Vault Dweller this isn't), a pacifist patriarch who asks nothing more than his hometown doesn't get pillaged by not-Orcs. It does, and he journeys cross-country with a couple pals to track down his kidnapped wife. Numerous Lord of the Rings hand-me-downs occur including inexplicable magic, passive forest dwellers, and extreme long shots of the group in transit while when the inevitable battles arrive Boll opts for irritating mid-sequence wipes that suffocatingly emphasize the two-dimensionality of his shots and refuse the viewer the privelige of spatial navigation. Also present of the director's trademarks are his momentary flashbacks, which are still amusing in their convenient punctuality but nevertheless more smoothly woven into the narrative fold because the dialogue doesn't explicitly set them up. Unfortunately the film's clunker plotline (the parochial Statham doesn't give a flip about his country, only his wife ... until it's forseeably proven to live peacefully with his wife he sort of requires a country, and not an evil dominion) heavily outweighs what few decent scenes exist (Boll's first use of imagery - Leelee Sobieski gazes into a pulsating reflective surface predictably to signify emotional dubiety ... from her point of view though, it's probably better than getting kicked into one a la the aforementioned The Wicker Man), and in vain compensation Boll turns to Peter Jackson and Lord of the Rings for aid. While House of the Dead was a product of post-Matrix-ism, In the Name of the King is similarly post-Lord of the Rings (this was Alone in the Dark's one defining attribute - it felt like a failure all Boll's own) to no avail, other than the wildly metaphorical. Is the reluctant-to-fight Farmer a stand-in for Uwe Boll, content to dispense schlock for personal and financial gratification, only stooping to challenge his critics to boxing matches when justly provoked? If you believe that, I'd be willing to sell you some tickets to Boll's upcoming Broadway smash: Hitler on the Roof.
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