Southland Tales (Kelly)

Where to start? First of all, Southland Tales is the second film by Richard Kelly, the director of Donnie Darko. I liked Donnie Darko, but not as much as most people did. I didn't really understand the point. Sometimes that doesn't bother me, but with Donnie Darko I felt like Kelly actually thought his film had a point but he didn't really know what it was. It seemed like one of those movies people liked because it was different enough from most other movies and because it received no hype. Then I heard that Southland Tales was screened at Cannes and everybody said it was terrible. But it sounded like it might be terrible in a Fellini Satyricon/She Hate Me/Inland Empire sort of way. I decided that if I ever got the chance to watch it for free, I would give it a try. So I'd like to give a big shout-out to my former co-worker for loaning me the DVD.

Richard Kelly is a very ambitious director but not, I'd say, a particularly intellectual one. He seems to have a (slightly more geeky than usual but) essentially normal American alpha male mentality. I get the impression he watched Fight Club and Three Kings and figured, "Hey, I could make movies just like these!" But he didn't really pick up on the subtle attention directors like Fincher and Russell tend to pay to cinematography, editing, set design, etc. As a result, Southland Tales has a bit of an amateurish, TV movie quality; Kelly basically points the camera at the action and doesn't bother with the rest. His writing also lacks the wit and coherence of his contemporaries. Some sample lines of dialogue:

"The fourth dimension will collapse upon itself...you stupid bitch."

"We're a bisexual nation living in denial. All because of a bunch of nerds. A bunch of nerds who got off a boat in the 15th century and decided that sex was something to be ashamed of. All the Pilgrims did was ruin the American Indian orgy of freedom. "

"Join us for an in-depth discussion of the penetrating issues facing society today. Issues like abortion, terrorism, crime, poverty, social reform, quantum teleportation, teen horniness and war."

It's like, "My dialogue doesn't need to be particularly insightful, just as long as it's weird." He may have a point. Kelly's ultimate idea of cinema is probably The Usual Suspects or Rocky III, but hey, at least he's got enthusiasm. It's not everyday you see Justin Timberlake hulking behind an offshore gun turret with an ungainly scar on his face quoting ponderous passages from the Book of Revelation, is it? Or Wallace Shawn ranting and raving from the ballroom of a zeppelin about the new brand of "fluid karma" he's invented? If you don't even know who Wallace Shawn is, then I'm afraid you may not find Southland Tales quite as appealing as I did. Truth be told, I've never seen a more stellar assembly of quasi-famous character actors in my life: Curtis Armstrong, Nora Dunn, Cheri Oteri, John Larroquette, Jon Lovitz...the list goes on. Not to mention Sarah Michelle Gellar as a porn star/political activist and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson as a political heir/time-traveling scientific specimen. I'm not sure if Kelly deliberately wanted to cast the film with B-level actors or if these are simply the only actors who were willing to say yes. Either way, the end result is the same.

So if you adored Donnie Darko and were actually expecting Southland Tales to be a "good" movie, then I'm sorry for you my friend. But for me, watching Southland Tales was a bit like reading one of those really wacky and entertaining short stories you might come across in a Fiction Writing college class: it's not the work of a true professional, but it sure beats the hell out of that treacly semi-autobiographical love story written by the self-absorbed girl to milk some cheap sympathy from her classmates after her latest meaningless break-up.

"Film critic" rating: *1/2
"Little Earl" rating: ***

The Diving Bell And The Butterfly (Schnabel)

Sickness will surely take the mind
Where minds can't usually go
Come on the amazing journey
And learn all you should know

- The Who, "Amazing Journey"

And you thought your life was tough!

I'd say the main philosophical essence of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly can be boiled down to this: it doesn't take much to live a meaningful life. Here is a man who can only blink his left eye, and yet he does more in that condition than most people ever do in a lifetime.

On a basic level, Jean-Dominique Bauby's life is tragic. One day he's a handsome, talented, wealthy fashion editor, the next day he's a a victim of "locked-in syndrome," unable to move anything other than his two eyes, one of which becomes infected and is quickly sewn up. Not exactly the most pleasant situation to be in. But come on! His pre-stroke life was absurd. Imagine if he simply lived his fancy French fashion editor life, slept with beautiful women, raised a nice, loving family, ate delectable French cuisine in a luxurious chateau, and then died? Who would've cared? Sure, his life would have been nice, but it would also have been unexceptional. He would have missed out on the endless beauty of inner experience. So, in a sense, I feel bad that he had this horrible stroke, blinked his left eye for a couple of years and then caught pnuemonia and died. But on the other hand, it was the only thing that made his life truly interesting and memorable. Without the stroke and the memoir, he would have been just another rich French sleazeball.

Occasionally the film flashes back to moments in Jean-Do's pre-stroke life. And every time the film does so, you realize that you don't really relate to pre-stroke Jean-Do at all. Pre-stroke Jean-Do is callow and boring. But Jean-Do as Left Eye Man? Now this guy I like. This guy I can relate to, because his condition places him on the fringes of human experience - a more interesting place from which to dwell.

Do you ever get the feeling that you're just going through life as though you really have no control over the world around you, and all you can do is watch the world go by while you're left to deal with your own inner reactions? In some sense I often feel like I'm paralyzed - not physically, but emotionally, as though the safest thing to do is to simply step back from the flames and observe life from a distance. On some level that is the modus operandi of the film geek. Jean-Do experiences his life in much the same way as a film geek does, except he has no choice. Film geeks have a choice, but due to certain psychological problems perhaps they don't feel as though they do. I came out of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly realizing that I still have a lot of choice, and that I still have some autonomy over my body, and that I should exploit that autonomy in the here and now because it may not always be with me. It's the rare film that can make you feel grateful you're still able to move your cheekbones.

Indeed, not since possibly Memento has a film so completely taken me inside the experience of another person; it's like it cuts into the very spirit of consciousness itself. When the movie was over it took me a couple of hours before I could fully accept that I was not Jean-Do and that I could move my hands and legs just fine. Of course, with an inner life like his, Diving Bell doesn't even necessarily make "locked-in syndrome" seem all that bad half the time. As he says, "Other than my eye, two things aren't paralyzed: my imagination and my memory." There are scenes here that are wild and transcendent: shots of birds flying, or of glaciers crumbling in slow motion. I mean, this movie is a trip.

It's also a bit of an apology. For example, there is a moment in this film, around the one quarter mark, that packs the proverbial wallop: Up until a certain point, Jean-Do has only been able to answer yes or no questions (by blinking once for "yes" and twice for "no"). A speech therapist comes in and explains that she's devised a special alphabet that arranges letters by order of usage frequency, and that what she will do is recite letters until Jean-Do hears the one he wishes to use, and in this way he will be able to write full sentences. She is very enthusiastic and excited about this technique. Jean-Do, in voice-over, thinks to himself that this is the stupidest thing he's ever heard of and that she's reciting the letters way too fast. He finally begins to cooperate and the therapist begins spelling his sentence out loud. When she realizes, out loud, that he is spelling "I want death," she begins to cry and she starts insulting Jean-Do for his undiluted pessimism and complete lack of appreciation for her efforts. She steps out of the room, gathers her composure, and then cheerfully sits down to start again.

You see, Jean-Do's condition isn't just about Jean-Do, but also about the therapist. And what right does Jean-Do have to take away this opportunity from the therapist, who very much wants to help him communicate? And what right does he have to take away his personality and his perfectly functioning thoughts and emotions from his family, his friends, and those who still wish he remain a part of their lives? The scene made me realize what he must have realized: that even after a massive stroke, his feelings are not the only feelings that matter. And so, because the stroke does not ultimately kill him, he has the chance to reevaluate his womanizing ways and atone for his karmic sins, whatever they may be.

No, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is not necessarily an easy watch. Indeed, I found the film so powerful that although I enjoyed it, I quickly felt as though I wanted to take my mind as far away from fancy French countrysides as I possibly could (which is partly why I began listening to rap). But powerful is not the same as depressing. Jean-Do does not ask for anyone's pity. He simply takes the hand that he's been dealt and he embraces that shit. Or the eye, rather.

"Film critic" rating: ****
"Little Earl" rating: ****

Margot At The Wedding (Baumbach)

When evaluating Noah Baumbach's Margot At The Wedding, at least one must make this observation: he's sure not concerned about making a hit. After the relative success of The Squid and the Whale, Baumbach could very well have moved a little closer to the mainstream with his follow-up. Instead, Margot At The Wedding is even more uncompromising. There is no obvious plot to speak of. The most likeable character is, at best, not a spoiled, arrogant, egotistical bitch. This is a film with a target audience of about three people. Fortunately for me, I am one of those three people.

Here are review excerpts (courtesy of Rotten Tomatoes) from some of the people who are not one of the three people mentioned above:

"Humourless (though supposedly a comedy) and pretentious, almost a parody of the self-indulgent Sundance festival film, right down to the washed-out colours, droning dialogue and the title in big sans-serif capitals."

"Dramatically and visually, there's no relief to be had in this self-indulgent downer. "

"With few laughs and much whining, Margot takes the fun out of dysfunctional. It’s a damp squib with lots of wail."

"...the characters are so loathsome that you long for a hurricane to sweep away this wedding party."

"This largely po-faced comedy drama has an annoying, self-congratulatory tone. "

I suppose all of these reviewers are correct. You would be perfectly justified in not liking this movie. I would not argue too long. But I enjoyed it. I laughed, I squirmed, I basked in the Schadenfreude. Baumbach is like the new Woody Allen. Maybe not all of his movies are great but even his lesser ones are still interesting (although I've only seen two of his movies so maybe I shouldn't talk yet). I am entertained by neurotic East Coast intellectuals and their family foibles.

Also, Margot at the Wedding just goes to show how different the tastes of Hollywood actors are from the tastes of their fans. It doesn't appear that Nicole Kidman (Margot), at this stage, is much concerned with protecting her vanity. Her character masturbates, vomits, and literally finds herself stuck up a tree. See what a divorce from Tom Cruise can do for your art? Jack Black also does, I think, a more-than-decent job as the slovenly and unrefined fiance of Margot's sister Pauline (Jennifer Jason Leigh). As far as I'm concerned he's a better dramatic actor than a lot of actors who supposedly specialize in dramatic acting. Given the right parts he could possibly hang with the best of them.

In sum, I wouldn't recommend viewing Margot At The Wedding unless you happened to be...me.

"Film critic" rating: **1/2
"Little Earl" rating: ***1/2

Death Proof (Tarantino)

So is this what Quentin Tarantino's life is really like? Lots of hot white, black, Asian and hispanic chicks sitting around all day chatting about Vanishing Point and lap-dancing to obscure '70s soul classics? Or is this just what Quentin Tarantino thinks his life is like? Either way, I can't say I relate.

It's probably unfair and misguided to treat Death Proof as a movie unto itself when Tarantino really intended it to be merely one half of the Grindhouse experience. But he did release it on its own and he did say that he thought it could hold up as a separate film. Tarantino has said a lot of things.

You see, I'm not a Robert Rodriguez fan in particular, and when I heard that Tarantino was collaborating with Rodriguez on his next project, I had the sneaking suspicion that this would be more of a "Rodriguez" film than a "Tarantino" film. Although the concept certainly sounded interesting, as soon as I learned that Miramax was planning to release the films separately on DVD, I figured I'd wait and rent Tarantino's half by itself. Tarantino is one of those directors whose filmography has been so universally strong that even a "genre" movie like Kill Bill is, I'd say, better than most Oscarbait dramas. I feel like if Tarantino releases a movie, I need to see it. But now I wonder if I really might have been better off catching the whole Grindhouse enchilada. Because Death Proof on its own is like a good half-hour idea stretched to two hours. I hear the Grindhouse version is 90 minutes, and hell, that's already 60 minutes too long.

I suppose he's earned the right to do a frivolous throwaway project. But David Lean and Stanley Kubrick never felt the need to do frivolous throwaway projects. I guess what I don't understand is this: if you had the talent, and the resources, and the built-in fanbase that Tarantino has, wouldn't you want to use your power to create something truly beautiful? He can do whatever he wants, of course, but the fact that he's decided to spend his time on something like Grindhouse makes me realize that Tarantino and I do not quite share same idea of cinema's role in human life.

Also, ever wonder what a Tarantino movie without any character development would be like? Here you go. Sure, Tarantino's other movies consist of long periods of dialogue, but I actually liked those characters. The characters in Death Proof are boring. Maybe that was the point. Maybe the girls were supposed to be unlikeable so that by the time Stuntman Mike tries to kill them, we're rooting for them to die. But I think you can have unsympathetic characters who are also interesting. I think Tarantino just half-assed it. That's the problem with Death Proof: it's not bad enough to be out-and-out bad, but it's not actually good either. Those crappy B-movies Tarantino loves so much didn't know they were bad. Here's a question for the world's most noted physicists: can a talented director make a movie that is intentionally bad?

There are a few keepers in here, such the amusingly improbable car crash, in which a tire manages to ride directly over a girl's face. But the movie needed at least five more scenes like that one to really live up to its potential. I'm not saying he's not allowed to make a few fun, side-project kind of movies here and there, but if Death Proof didn't have Quentin Tarantino's name on it, then whoa nelly.

"Film critic" rating: **
"Little Earl" rating: *

Michael Clayton (Gilroy)

There is something to be said for modesty. Michael Clayton does not shoot for the moon, but it also does not overreach. It did not blow my mind, but on its own terms, I found it immensely satisfying.

George Clooney, talented actor though he is, must have a tricky time choosing his roles. After all, there are only so many kinds of characters such a classically gorgeous human being can convincingly play. Philip Seymour Hoffman he is not. Then again, I suppose if he had the inclination, he could "uglify" himself a la Nicole Kidman and Charlize Theron, but why bother? Come to think of it, he did gain some weight for Syriana but did he really look that much worse? No matter. He can play a guy in a suit and he can play it well. There is also something uniquely sympathetic about the cog in the corporate machine who suddenly finds himself thrust into a moral dilemma. My life may ultimately bear very little resemblance to Michael Clayton's, but damn it, I just liked the guy.

Tom Wilkinson is a hoot as a man who is both totally off his rocker and yet utterly sane. Tilda Swinton is memorably icy as the ethically dubious lawyer with perspiration problems. And the late Sydney Pollack ends his acting career in style as the seen-it-all, done-it-all head of the firm. Tony Gilroy, the film's director, wrote the screenplays for the Bourne films, and although I have only seen the first Bourne film, I have to say that as enjoyable as that franchise may be, Mr. Gilroy should direct a few more movies and write a few less Bourne screenplays. Because he can direct a terrific movie.

Also, never underestimate the value of a good last shot.

"Film critic" rating: ****
"Little Earl" rating: ***1/2

The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford (Dominik)

And I feel like a bullet in the gun of Robert Ford
I'm low as a paid assassin is
You know I'm cold as a hired sword
I'm so ashamed, can't we patch it up?
I can't think straight no more
You make me feel like a bullet, honey, in the gun of Robert Ford

- Elton John, "I Feel Like A Bullet (In The Gun Of Robert Ford)"

Come on, it's all about the title. Just as it may be too lengthy and ambitious for its own good and yet still manages to stand out from the pack by sheer dint of its own atypicality, so the film itself fails to go gently into that dark night of the conventional. There are about four different movies here and it seems like the filmmakers didn't bother to decide which one of the four they wanted to make. But when most films are only half a movie, why complain?

The Assassination Of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford is like a strange cross between The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance and The King Of Comedy. In the first film, the titular character is perceived as a hero. In the second film, the protagonist is perceived as an obsessive creep. So what do we make of Robert Ford, then, with his recalcitrant eyes and solicitious demeanor? He's one of those people with low self-esteem, who knows he has low self-esteem, and who'll stand around and talk with you about why his self-esteem is so low, in the hopes that if he talks about it enough, somehow he'll find some self-esteem. Upon first meeting Bob, Jesse's brother Frank observes, "I don't know what it is about you, but the more you talk, the more you give me the willies." Casey Affleck gives a career-making performance as a cringe-worthy loner whose very presence reminds people of their inner Rupert Pupkin.

And yet what in the hell is so great about Jesse James? He's a back-stabbing, two-timing thief, murderer, and unrepentant Confederate rebel. In other words, he's a big piece of shit. And yet somehow or other, Jesse James has become a "hero" in our popular culture, and Robert Ford has become a "coward." Go figure. Again, it all comes back to the film's title. The most jarring word in that verbose appellation, of course, is "coward." It's a pretty harsh judgement to bestow upon a character before the movie has even begun, no? And yet, I think The Assassination Of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford calls into question the fairness of that particular label. If Bob Ford was a coward, then what the hell was Jesse James? A psychopath?

That is the movie at its best. But there is a lot of solemn and ponderous rambling in between. Several minor characters wander in and out of the story and I was barely for the life of me able to understand who these people were or what they had to do with Jesse James and Robert Ford. The film is two-and-a-half hours long, but in a way, the first two hours could have been edited down to one hour without much loss, and it would have saved more time for (what I thought of as) the best stuff: the exploration of why we idolize criminals and demonize assassins. Indeed, the film doesn't really take off until the last half hour, which for reviewing purposes is unfortunate because, although only the most dunderheaded would expect to see Jesse James avoid assassination, there are some delightful surprises I would be remiss to reveal. Let me just say that the assassination of Jesse James by the coward Robert Ford may not be the only assassination in The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford. Ultimately, I wanted to see more of that self-aware, revisionist tone and less of the wannabe Terrence Malick ambiance. Andrew Dominik, after debuting with the memorably schizoid Chopper, is creating a solid body of work for himself, but I can't help but wonder what a Tarantino or a P.T. Anderson would have done with this material. It needed to be more fun.

And yet even though I think the film is disappointing, that's only because it lays so much on the table. As soon as the film ended, I immediately began reading about Jesse James and Robert Ford on Wikipedia and it seemed to me that there were a number of fascinating aspects to this story that the film does not explore. The movie definitely underplays the unrepentant Confederate rebel business, for example. I mean, Brad Pitt is very good as Jesse James, but I get the impression that the real Jesse James was a smelly, sickly, repugnant son of a bitch. In fact, the more I learned about the real Jesse James, the higher Robert Ford rose in my estimation.

So although with a little pruning the film could have been a modern Wild Bunch or McCabe & Mrs. Miller, as it is, it knocks 3:10 To Yuma out of the water. And at least now Bernie Taupin won't have to keep explaining to everybody what "I Feel Like A Bullet (In The Gun Of Robert Ford)" is all about.

"Film critic" rating: **1/2
"Little Earl" rating: ***1/2

Persepolis (Paronnaud/Satrapi)

Now here's an animated feature I can get behind. No Pixar anthropormorphic rodents for this movie. Hell, in Iran, they catch you talking to a rodent and they'll chop off the arms of one of your uncles.

You know, I take that back. Because actually, I've always been surprised by what I hear about Iran. I have met people who claim to have family there, and who have even visited, and they insist that the vast majority of Iranians want to be young and have a good time and watch American movies and get drunk and live exactly like the rest of us. In fact, a couple of years ago I heard of a survey gauging the popularity of the United States throughout the Middle East. The only country with a strongly favorable opinion of the United States, this survey concluded, was Iran, because since Iranians automatically distrust every single piece of information their government provides them, they believe the United States is wonderful and that George W. Bush is the greatest leader of our time. I suppose no one's informed them of this whole "Axis of Evil" business, but hey, let's keep it between you and me.

At any rate, Marjane Satrapi hit the jackpot with her life story, because not only did she have a crazy childhood, but she had a crazy childhood...in Iran! I mean, all she needed to do was to hit all the key points and not make anything up and inject just the right amount of humor in there, and presto: the funny Iran movie with heart. It seems so easy, but I suppose in the wrong hands it could have gone dangerously awry.

In his review of The Squid and the Whale, A.O. Scott wrote, "Coming of age, with its attendant thrills and traumas (generally summarized under the headings school, sex and parents), is an inexhaustible subject because no two people go through it in exactly the same way." And I often ask myself if I could ever truly tire of the genre. Sometimes I am of the persuasion that if every suitably intelligent person simply sat down and wrote about his or her own childhood in a way that was clear-eyed and honest and free of sentimentality, I would be up for it. In some ways it is a mystery why more artists refrain from doing so. Maybe instead of trying to stretch and contort in order to generate some mind-blowingly original storyline (which nine times out of ten is full of cliches anyway), filmmakers could stick to the storyline than never fails: their own. Most likely it is because it's about as fun to think about as giving Madeleine Albright an enema. But perhaps there is more to this coming of age gig than merely having the guts to write about it, i.e, it helps to be from Iran.

It also helps to be able to draw. Persepolis solves the visual problem by having lots of pretty pictures with clean lines and arresting shapes rolling across the screen. In this age of generic cinematography I don't know why more movies don't go for the animated option. It is an easy way to make a film visually pleasing. I guess optical originality is not high on the priority list of the producers. Or when they do go for animation, they go for high-budget Pixar cheese. But I like the look of Persepolis more than I like the look of Ratatouille. Why is that? Ratatouille must have cost a lot more money to make. But the animation in Persepolis has personality and character. It feels unique, harder to come by. Any studio with Pixar's money, I feel, could animate like Pixar. But not any studio could animate like Satrapi, Paronnaud & co. And it makes me like their movie more.

"Film critic" rating: ****
"Little Earl" rating: ****

Ratatouille (Bird)

Rave reviews for a Pixar film induce more and more yawns from me with each successive release. I understand why their films are so highly praised. Pixar movies, given their built-in audience of younger persons with not-so-discriminating taste, could afford to be so much worse than they really are. Let's face it: as long as a movie has bright colors and talking animals, a child will watch it. The critic, given these low expectations, is then simply blown away that such a big-budget marketing apparatus is also so thoughtful, so intelligent, so witty.

If only I were so easily satisfied.

You see, many times I have come away at the end of a well-crafted Pixar film, and thought to myself, "Wow, that's going to be a classic." But then a little time passes, my initial impression begins to change and I develop the hunch that for whatever reason, although the film seemed to have all the elements of a perfect family feature, it would not become a classic in the sense that Snow White and Pinocchio have become classic. Toy Story, A Bug's Life, Finding Nemo - immensely enjoyable, all. And yet they have not stayed with me, the way that even some of the lesser animated Disney films have stayed with me. Perhaps it is because I am no longer a child. Or perhaps it is because the Pixar movies are not as good. As an adult I have returned to almost all of the Disney films and they strike me as better - as an adult. So I take that as a sign.

Speculate for hours on this topic as you wish. Are the Pixar films too cute? Too calculated? Too snarky? Too hegemony-reinforcing? Valid points, all. But for me, what's really lacking in the Pixar movies is a sense of risk. Cheesemeister he may have been, it nevertheless could not be said of Walt Disney, in his first few years at least, that he was a man who played it particularly safe. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was roundly predicted to be an embarrassing flop. "Who's going to sit in a movie theater and watch a cartoon for 80 minutes?," they all proclaimed (Oh, but he had the last laugh, my friends). Fantasia? Walt did not sit around and preview Fantasia for focus groups. He just freakin' made it. In fact, Disney did not achieve financial security until the opening of Disneyland in 1955. The point is, sure, Walt was a master of marketing, but he took chances, God damn it. Whereas Pixar's attitude seems to be more like, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." And that is why I have ceased becoming too excited about any of their films.

I have also tired of the CGI look. It may be the world's most labor-intensive process, but at this point it no longer feels that way to me. Disney animators literally spent years drawing every ripple in a pond in Bambi or Pinocchio, and it shows. Also, Disney altered its look from film to film (at least until the cheap-o years of 101 Dalmations and The Aristocats, that is). In "making-of" documentaries, Pixar animators will gush about all the "new techniques" and "state-of-the-art" technologies" they use, but I'm sorry, it's all starting to look the same to me. And in the end, at least 50% of a movie is its look, and if I don't like the look, then I'm lukewarm on the movie, no matter how gripping the storyline may happen to be.

So with a fortress of skepticism standing there to greet it, how did Ratatouille fare? Little could I have anticipated that the very subject of Ratatouille happened to be the struggle of the artist in a hostile world and the skepticism of the snobby critic. So by gummit, I'd say it fared well. The storyline, slave to such a well-oiled marketing apparatus as it needed to be, was rather esoteric and unconventional given the circunstances. I mean, if Little Earl starred in a Pixar film, he would have starred in Ratatouille. I don't know how many kids are really be able to grasp the plight of the creative mind and the longing that is buried in the heart of the icy intellectual. I thought the whole business with the rat controlling the young chef's body by tugging on his hair was contrived. But the final scenes, in particular, I found surprisingly moving. Hell, like Anton Ego, I was ready to come at this flick with all my might, and in the end it won me over.

But by how much, really? As with all the others, it seemed terrific at the closing credits, but the day after I barely even gave it any thought. So what gives? Do I just have it out for Pixar because I'm a rat bastard? Grant me a sliver of humanity at least. No, ultimately Ratatouille did not resonate with me on quite the level I wanted it to because I did not feel the connection between the beautiful sentiments of the story and the sentiments, and the experience, of the filmmakers who tried to imbue it with life. Ratatouille is an extremely individualistic story shaped by committee. Brad Bird may be the legitimate auteur of Ratatouille, but it does not show. More likely, the story was sliced and diced by a million different hands until every target demographic was included, every focus group appeased. No, Walt himself did not lovingly hand-paint every frame of Pinocchio, but those movies smacked of his personal vision. And until Pixar can learn to match a personal story with a personal approach, I'm sticking to my guns.

"Film critic" rating: ****
"Little Earl" rating: ***

Zodiac (Fincher)

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.

I'd been eagerly anticipating Zodiac but in retrospect I'm not quite sure why. Maybe it was because Sharon Waxman had included David Fincher as one of the six young late '90s Hollywood auteurs she chose to highlight in her sleazily informative study Rebels On The Backlot, along with Quentin Tarantino, Steven Soderbergh, P.T. Anderson, David O. Russell, and Spike Jonze. Back when I read that book I would have said that Fincher was probably my least favorite of the six, although I still felt that the talent on display in his first five movies did make him worthy of inclusion. Even so, since then I've bought at least one movie by the other five directors, but none of his.

Well, my Fincher movie has arrived.

Because while Tarantino was busy indulging himself in his B-movie fixation and Russell was busy making sure no one would ever want to work with him in Hollywood again, Fincher snuck up behind them all and made the film that a part of me always knew, deep down inside, he was capable of making. Maybe a non-fiction story was the trick. If so, he should try it more often.

In Rebels, Fincher professed his love for '70s cinema, and with Zodiac, he has made a perfect '70s movie. I don't just mean a movie about the '70s (although it is that too), but a movie that shares the same spirit as the movies from the '70s. It has a firm grasp of time and place. It is deadly serious and delightfully funny at the same time. Most of all it is just plain...good.

Back in January Yoggoth was making fun of one of the film critics in Slate's Movie Club for referring to Zodiac as "deeply cinematic and slyly post-so." "Oh gimme a break," he said to me over the phone. "I'm sure if it's good, it's good for all the same reasons every other good movie is good." Little did he know how right he could be. For what makes Zodiac good is the same quality that's made so many of those other movies from the '70s good: a sense of effort. Fincher simply put a shitload of effort into the movie. I remember reading about the constant release date delays and the endless post-production tinkering and the studio begging Fincher to shorten the running time and the rumors that they had a big fat dud on their hands, and after seeing the movie, I just have this to say: Could these people please just shut the hell up? Because Fincher knew exactly what he was doing. Every little second he spent tinkering with the editing in post-production is up there on the screen for you to enjoy. Every line of dialogue that he sweated over is there to enhance the viewers' enjoyment of the story. Just as Kubrick and Lean couldn't do with their best films, I don't think Fincher was able to rest until he knew that every scene was as effective as it could have possibly been. So in the end I'm glad the studio finally took a chill pill and just let him finish the damn movie. Because there's hardly a false note in the entire 160 minute running time.

The movie is worth it just for the dialogue alone. When we first meet Robert Graysmith (Jake Gyllenhaal), he's showing his cartoons to his editor, who serves up a withering analysis: "Horrid... horrid... not so horrid... horrid. I'm thinkin' we go with not-so-horrid." Later Graysmith approaches a character named Shorty. "Doesn't it bother you that people call you Shorty?" he asks. Shorty replies, "Doesn't it bother you that people call you retard?" Graysmith does a doubletake. "Nobody calls me that." Shorty adds, 'Right," and walks away. Graysmith then saunters over to the desk of Paul Avery (played with intoxicating abandonment by a well-cast Robert Downey, Jr.) and asks, "Does anybody ever call me names?" Avery quickly responds, "What, you mean like retard?" "Yeah." "No." The characters in Zodiac are the kind of sharp, intelligent characters I wouldn't mind meeting in real life. Except for the title character, perhaps.

Indeed, the only serious misgiving I have about the film, actually, is its rather disturbing subject matter. I did not catch Zodiac in the theater because I have to admit I was not exactly in a big hurry to watch a movie about a serial killer who roams around the Bay Area and kills random strangers and, oh yeah, they never found the guy! Just what I needed, right? I mean, there really isn't too much that you can do about serial killers. Either they kill you or they don't. Why dwell on what you can't control? That said, Zodiac has so much going for it that I would recommend it despite the troubling nature of the first couple of murder scenes (troubling precisely because they are so realistic and convincing). Let's just say there's a time and a place for Zodiac's hypnotic menace. One would have to be in the mood for some relatively dark subject matter. Maybe you're getting over a break-up. Or maybe you've just been laid off. Hey, pop in Zodiac and forget all about it!

Besides, with defenseless murder at its core, Zodiac doesn't really have to spend too much time hunting around for a hook or a gimmick (unlike some other award-season favorites I could name). I mean, it becomes pretty clear pretty quickly that something genuinely critical is driving the story. Imagine All The President's Men, except instead of the integrity of our nation being at stake, it's our lives. But Zodiac is two steps ahead of us anyway, because it is not particularly interested in the blood and guts of the serial killer but rather it's interested in our interest in the blood and guts of the serial killer. Why is it that a relative statistical anomaly (random murder) strikes such a powerful chord within us? As Avery says at one point, "Do you know that more people die in the East Bay commute every three months than that idiot ever killed?" But unsolved murder mysteries sting because they poke at our very notions of a just society, and of scientific omnipotence. Robert Graysmith is like many of us in that he believes any mystery could be solved if only someone simply looked hard enough. We have all these incredible tools at our disposal, so how can it be that after all these years, and after all these clues, we can't just find the guy? What Graysmith gradually realizes, of course, is that even in our seemingly foolproof modern detective world of fingerprints and handwriting experts, sometimes the truth is simply beyond our grasp. And we have to learn to live with that.

Which is where Zodiac truly moves beyond being simply a good murder mystery and a police procedural and rather finds itself heading into startingly unique territory. The last half hour in particular, as Graysmith progressively becomes more and more thwacked out by the endless minutia of the case, is terrifically amusing and almost reassuring. When he begins receiving phone calls featuring the Zodiac's patented heavy breathing, Graysmith comes off as mostly annoyed rather than frightened. And there's a scene in a stranger's basement that's like the absurd cherry on top of Graysmith's (and our own) paranoia. At this point it's been years since the Zodiac has struck. In other words: dude, it's over. But Graysmith is still running around with a crazed gleam in his eye as if the world can't wait another second without knowing the identity of the Zodiac. Hey, life goes on. People live and die. Sure, some die at the hands of a brutal serial killer. Most don't. At some point we just have to let it go. "I need to know who he is," Graysmith states. "I need to stand there, I need to look him in the eye and I need to know that it's him." Well don't we all?

At any rate. I know I can be tough. I know I can gripe about the shortcomings of a film that most other critics are already willing to place on their "10 best of the year" list. I know I always talk smack about every heavily-hyped, highly anticipated movie that ultimately disappoints me - even just a little bit. I always complain that these movies may have a lot of good ideas or are well-intentioned but are missing that intangible whatever it is - a sense of urgency, memorable cinematography, a grasp of detail, a sureness of execution, a healthy dose of humor even. Well for once I'm going to have to shut my trap. I haven't seen every movie released in 2007, but I doubt any of them will be better than this one.

"Film critic" rating: ****
"Little Earl" rating: ****

There Will Be Blood (Anderson)

Paul Thomas Anderson has admitted that he began working on the script for There Will Be Blood as a sort of writing exercise, to help snap the writer's block he'd been stuck in since trying to come up with a follow-up to Punch-Drunk Love. And after seeing the film, I have to say that this little piece of information sounds about right. The finished product certainly has an aggressive, off-kilter charm, but I still can't escape the feeling that for all its grandiosity and fire, There Will Be Blood was not a story particularly close to Anderson's heart.

To compare Anderson to one of his filmmaking idols, Blood perhaps finds him in his Gangs of New York/Aviator phase. He wants to make great movies, he knows he's made them before, he doesn't want to repeat himself, and yet he doesn't really know what else he wants to say. My favorite film of his so far is Boogie Nights, which may be messy but skates by (oh Roller Girl) on Anderson's pure enthusiasm for the subject. He approaches his characters with a simultaneously satirical and affectionate eye, a balancing act that he milks for all it's worth. We laugh at Dirk Diggler, but we love him, because deep down he is just like us (except for the...you know). Both there and in Magnolia, I really got the sense that Anderson had a personal connection to the characters.

Punch-Drunk Love was the first sign, I thought, of a director who was running out of burningly urgent ideas and was instead relishing the opportunity to show off his film school knowledge. It was a strange movie, and also more distant than his previous work. At the time I remember thinking, "OK, that was cool, but hopefully next time out he'll get back to something more immediate." And now, five years later, we've got There Will Be Blood, which I liked about as much as Punch-Drunk Love.

With Boogie Nights and Magnolia, I had the feeling that Anderson was making movies about the people he knew, the people he liked, the people he rooted for. Daniel Plainview, on the other hand, is more like an idea than a fully conceived character. He is Greed with a capital G, Conquest with a capital C, but human with a lowercase h. OK, sure, so maybe some turn-of-the-century oilmen were actually like this, but my hunch is that most of those guys were decidedly more mundane. They probably sat in their offices and balanced the checkbooks while the immigrants went out and got their hands dirty. Plainview is more fun, but also less plausible.

I'm not saying Anderson should stick to the same kinds of stories with the same old San Fernando Valley lowlifes and losers. But if he wants to make another great movie, I'd like to see him dive a little more into his own soul and really share something personal with us again. Writing exercises are fun but also low risk. I'd like to see him do his Adaptation., his I Heart Huckabees - you know, his "God am I gonna look like an idiot when this is over?" movie. Some have called Blood risky, but for me it was too safe.

Of course, I came in with high expectations, so let's be real here and admit that there's a lot to enjoy. It's never predictable. It's funny and odd. Most of all it never begs for the audience's sympathy. Anderson juggles several provocative themes throughout the storyline: the emptiness of religion vs. the emptiness of capitalism, the way our absolute quest for progress can ultimately ruin the lives of our children, and probably plenty of others if you care to fish for them. But still, I felt like I could actually see Anderson sitting there at his desk cramming all these ideas into the movie, rather than just letting the movie flow through him. It's hard, people. Just ask Scorsese.

Nevertheless, every time Anderson sits down to make a movie, he is trying to make a great one. And for that reason alone, I am still curious to see what he will be making next.

"Film critic" rating: ***1/2
"Little Earl" rating: ***

I'm Not There (Haynes)

I'm wondering if it would be possible to evaluate the quality of I'm Not There without simultaneously becoming bogged down in a lengthy discussion on my rather mixed feelings toward Bob Dylan himself, for that is an essay of a more thorough nature. Perhaps I'll just keep it brief and say that I like him more than the average pop music listener does, but I don't like him as much as most rock critics do. If someone starts ripping on him, for example, I almost feel like a fan. But when hardcore Dylan nuts start going on and on about the pure transcendence of "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands," I just scratch my head in befuddlement. Occasionally I've been inclined to think that decades of effusive praise for Dylan's work is a case of the Emperor having no clothes; as John Lennon once said, "Dylan got away with murder." But when someone like Yoggoth tells me that he thinks Dylan is at least as good and possibly better than the Beatles, I just have to shrug and say "De gustibus non est disputandum."

And so it is that I came into I'm Not There with a mixture of excitement and skepticism. Excitement because I admired Todd Haynes' previous film, Far From Heaven, and because it seemed that the premise of having several different actors represent Dylan (even of different races and genders) was delightfully off-the-wall and ridiculous. Skepticism because I only like Dylan so much, and this seemed like a film geared almost exclusively toward those who speak of Dylan in that hushed, reverential tone I tend to reserve for the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. "How good could it be?," I told myself. "Even if Haynes has made the world's greatest Dylan movie, it's still just...you know...a Dylan movie."

And although that evaluation is ultimately not too far off, I enjoyed I'm Not There immensely. Yes, maybe Haynes has made "just a Dylan movie," but he really went balls to the wall with his "just a Dylan movie." For what he set out to do, he did splendidly. The problem with most biopics, I think, is usually a lack of effort. Most filmmakers figure that since people already know their subject's basic story, they don't need to try very hard to make the actual film itself entertaining/dramatically convincing/educational/aesthetically adventurous/evocative/weird/etc. I'm Not There does not have this problem. Haynes has submerged himself in a big ocean of Dylan: he packs the movie with so many knowing references and bizarre snippets that you feel like you're almost swimming around in an artist's work. If every biopic of a classic rock musician were made with the level of enthusiasm that Todd Haynes brought to I'm Not There, then I would be a happy man.

But when the credits rolled, I didn't feel as though my life had been enriched in any way. I had a good time, but didn't discover anything new about Dylan, Haynes, myself, or life in general. And this is where Haynes' approach arguably falls short. The standard critical word on I'm Not There is that "at least it's not another cliched, pseudo-uplifting Oscarbait biopic" along the lines of, say, Ray or Walk The Line. Not being an admirer of Walk The Line, I do not mind such an insult. But I bristle at the insinuation of Ray being "Oscar cheese" while I'm Not There is held up as a work of great artistic integrity. Ray, I feel, was the perfect example of a musical biopic that worked, and it worked because the film's director, Taylor Hackford, submerged himself in a big ocean of Ray when he made it. Hackford's enthusiasm and grasp of even the smallest details of Ray Charles' career came through. When Ray was over, I felt like I had learned something about Ray Charles that I hadn't known before. Hell, I felt like I learned something about myself. By contrast, Walk The Line was disappointing precisely because I was hoping to be submerged in an ocean of Cash, but instead I was only lightly doused with a squirt gun of Cash.

My point is, splitting Bob Dylan into eight different people was not necessarily the only way to make a great Bob Dylan film. In fact, I think one could make a great Dylan biopic featuring the same actor playing Dylan. I might actually enjoy such a movie more. There is this awkward veneration of "Dylan the shape-shifter" that I don't really understand. It seems like Dylan fans have continually re-written the script of their own fandom in a way that seems a little forced to me. It's like, "Oh, so he's not the folkie hero, he's the guy that constantly wants to change, so...um...you know what the best part about Bob Dylan is? It's that he's the guy that constantly wants to change!" Sure, yeah, I guess so. My favorite work of Dylan's might actually be his Chronicles book, because there he seems to admit that he's basically been a normal guy who's never really changed in any profound way throughout his career and that his fans have probably read too much into his artistic choices. Maybe so and maybe not. But I don't think Dylan is "above" the standard biopic format. It would just have to be done with care.

Maybe every great musician deserves two biopics: the standard one and the crazy one. I wouldn't complain.

"Film critic" rating: ***1/2
"Little Earl" rating: ***1/2

Juno (Reitman)

Considering that it's supposed to be a feel-good comedy, I knew that when I walked out of Juno feeling slightly depressed, the film had probably not been created with me in mind. Apparently I was supposed to be charmed, touched, and tickled by its deft balance of wit and pathos, but mostly I was just resentful of people who seemed to have had happier childhoods than I did. The film critic in me liked what he saw, but the morose misanthrope in me cringed. Instead of thinking, "Oh, so this bright young teenage girl accidentally got pregnant? How cute!," I was thinking, "Wow, so these people actually had sex lives in high school? God how depressing."

As documented here and here, Juno is now facing the year's nastiest cinematic backlash. Many feel that the dialogue is unrealistic or too cute by half. Haters have expressed their disdain for the movie's pseudo-scribbled credits, overcooked pop culture references, and suffocatingly twee soundtrack. To be honest, I didn't mind those things all that much. Some have said that high school girls don't actually talk like this. Personally, I recall the people at my high school being a pretty sharp bunch, and yes, they coined random catchphrases and deployed them in conversation at almost every chance they could find. Besides, who wants to watch a movie where all the people talk like idiots? It's OK for dialogue in a film to be smart as long as it brings you closer to the characters and doesn't distract from the story. And I don't think Juno fell into that trap, as much as it seemed it was about to do so.

The bottom line is, I just didn't relate very much to these people, given the jaded state of my urban existence. Except, that is, for the potentially adoptive couple, played by Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman. This couple flew in from another movie - you know, the one with the characters that Little Earl could actually care about. Their story is the melancholy soul of this film. And every one of their scenes managed to sidestep all of the potential pitfalls and wrong turns their narrative could have so easily wandered down. There is a moment, after it's clear that Juno is spending way too much time with the Jason Bateman character, where we think, "Ah, yes, the wife's going to come home and think Juno and her husband are doing the jailbait dance." But the movie takes that scene to a totally different, and much more interesting, place. For the couple's plotline alone, the movie deserves respect and admiration.

But the rest of it? I dunno. I caught Juno early on and was not surprised when it became the monster hit of the awards season. But it's not a movie that spoke to me. And I'd like to think that a truly great movie would be able do that, no matter how jaded and misanthropic I might be.

Hell, she should have just gotten the abortion.

"Film Critic" rating: ****
"Little Earl" rating: ***

No Country For Old Men (Coen)

Dear Coen Brothers,

I do not understand you guys. We're just not on the same page I guess. Can you just tell me: why do you like making movies? What drives you to create? What do you hope to achieve with your art? I mean, you're two very talented hombres but at the end of the day all your skills are in the service of...what exactly? I must have seen at least eight of your films, and while they were all enjoyable, even highly enjoyable to some extent, none of them really blew me away the way I want a great film to just blow me away. It's like you creep up on greatness, and then smother it with silliness or implausibility because you're not comfortable really going for those moments of transcendent truth. The closest you came was The Big Lebowski, but...what was the John Goodman character all about? I mean, sure, you're consistent and quirky and when you see a Coen Brothers movie, you get what you pay for. But I'm willing to get less than what I pay for if sometimes there's a chance I'll get way more. And you guys just never give me that chance.

Like No Country For Old Men. Even though the critics were going gaga over it, by now I've seen enough of your guys' movies to know that it would probably disappoint me...and I was right. What in tarnation was that movie all about? How was that movie supposed to aid me on the great journey of life? OK, so some guy runs around and shoots people, and some sheriff can't do anything about it, and some other guy tries to steal some money, but so what? What was the point?

Many reasonably intelligent people might interject here and say, "Does a great movie always have to have a point, Little Earl?" Well, no, not every great movie has to have a point. But 90% of them do. And the other 10% percent better be damn good. I am told by Yoggoth, who read the book but has not seen the movie, that this time you guys are really just agents of author Cormac McCarthy, and that any pointlessness found in the movie is really the author's fault and not you own. But you guys pick the movies you want to make! What was it about this book, as opposed to a thousand others, that screamed out at you, "That's it, that's what we'd like to say to the world."

I mean, there was a moment in this movie (I swear, it happens with every one of your guys' films) where I thought, "Hmm, wow, maybe this is it, maybe this is the Coen Brothers movie that finally breaks the mold and goes to that special place where great films reside." But then...(possible spoilers) it just becomes totally implausible. Nobody is actually like Anton Chigurh. Nobody just wanders around and kills people by flipping a coin and parsing out some coolly enigmatic dialogue. Nobody does it. And if a guy was wandering around Texas killing that many people, I mean hell, the FBI and a whole SWAT team would be on his ass. And what's the deal anyway, is he after the money or does he just want to kill people? It seems like half the time he's a legitimate hired hand and the other half of the time he just wants to kill people. Now compare this film with Zodiac, which was 100% plausible with the added bonus of actually having a point. Was No Country entertaining? Yes. But when a movie is about to win the Best Picture Oscar, it better be damn well more than just entertaining.

In sum, I really don't get you guys.

Sincerely,
LE

"Film Critic" rating: ****
"Little Earl" rating: **

3:10 To Yuma (Mangold)

Ebert's been getting a little too generous with the four-star reviews lately. Why just last week alone, he bestowed the four star treatment upon Eastern Promises, In the Valley of Elah, Across the Universe, and Pete Seeger: The Power of Song. Now, granted, I have not seen any of these films. But my hunch is that none of these films are really four star films, in the sense that Pulp Fiction is a four star film. That is why I am not in a particular rush to see any of them. If they generate enough buzz, or Oscar nominations, then yes, I suppose I would check them out. But based on what I know, I will save my money for the time being. Eastern Promises is the new film by David Cronenberg, whose last film, A History of Violence, I thought was an odd, confused, and mostly ridiculous crime drama. Critics everywhere thought it was a masterpiece. So what do I know? In the Valley of Elah is the new film by Paul Haggis, director of Crash and screenwriter of Million Dollar Baby. Ebert gave both four stars. I thought Million Dollar Baby was maybe a three star movie and Crash maybe a two-and-a-half star movie. Across the Universe is a musical drama told entirely through the lyrics of Beatles songs and featuring characters with names such as Jude and Lucy. Now, I am the biggest Beatles fan in the entire Western Hemisphere, but as Beatle-related projects go, this was not the one I was clamoring for. And finally, Pete Seeger: The Power of Song is a documentary film about the life of legendary folksinger Pete Seeger; something tells me I'm not going to be getting a Pulp Fiction-esque experience with that one. Hey, if all of these films are four star masterpieces, then fine, strike me down with lightning. But I doubt it.

I doubt it because Ebert also gave four stars to 3:10 To Yuma, which I saw last weekend, and wich I did not think deserved four stars - although it was enjoyable and not completely without its merits. I did not see 3:10 To Yuma because Ebert gave it four stars. I saw it because my roommates and I had all agreed to go out and see a movie together last Saturday night, and the female in our party objected to our first choice, Superbad. The reason why I was skeptical that 3:10 To Yuma deserved four stars was because I've not been impressed by its director, James Mangold. The two films by Mangold that I had seen previously were Girl, Interrupted, a mildly interesting if slightly generic coming-of-age film with an over-the-top Angelina Jolie performance (which somehow won her an Oscar - that's right, you can officially refer to her as "Oscar-winning actress Angelina Jolie"), and Walk The Line, a competently entertaining Johnny Cash biopic that I disliked with such a personal fervor that it will be necessary to avoid great detail here. Needless to say, as far as I was concerned, James Mangold had proven himself to be a master of middlebrow Hollywood fare and nothing more.

Coming in with that bias, I have to say that 3:10 To Yuma is better than those other movies, and is possibly James Mangold's best film yet. Not the highest praise in the world, I suppose, but he better take it. He better take it because, in a world where my idea of a great western is The Wild Bunch or McCabe & Mrs. Miller, 3:10 To Yuma probably didn't have much chance of cutting it. Here is a director, after all, who was of the opinion that Joaquin Phoenix (an actor whom Yoggoth feels he could not help but punch in the face if he ever happened to see him in person) was the most fitting choice to portray Johnny Cash in a biopic. I didn't think this man was going to be too capable of making a Wild Bunch/McCabe type of western. He clearly was trying to make a more "interesting" western than the usual, however, but I think his idea of "interesting" was "more interesting than Gunsmoke." The film tried to thread deeper moral issues into its plot, in a way that I think other generic Hollywood movies might have shied away from, and for that it should be admired. By the end, however, it seemed to me that most of the attempts at moral epiphanies were eventually muffled under a haze of one too many plot twists and one too many bullets missing the very easily woundable main characters. I could only suspend my disbelief for so long. But at least it had some ambition.

Formally, the film was about as generic as was to be expected. The music and cinematography was suitable but not particuarly notable. Christian Bale was solid but perhaps ill-matched in such a simple role; I kept getting the feeling that he was trying to "get into it" really hard. Hell, this guy played Batman like he was playing Hamlet. In fact, I spent half of the movie slightly thinking that Christian Bale was actually Joaquin Phoenix. Not a good sign. Russell Crowe was charming and wily, but since he was playing a violent criminal, how much of a stretch was it, really?

All in all 3:10 To Yuma was a consummate three star movie. Unless you've been desperate for a western, save your money. But if it happens to be playing as an in-flight movie, then check it out.