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Youth in Revolt: Wes Anderson’s Moonrise Kingdom

Written by . Posted on May 29, 2012. Filed under Reviews. Tagged , , , , , , , , , . No comments.

Wes Anderson’s cinema seems to exist on a grid, and this has never been more apparent than in the opening shot of Moonrise Kingdom, in which the camera moves along a strict path in a household, introducing us to its rooms and inhabitants. Very quickly we already have such a strong sense of the character’s environment, in this case the young Suzy (Kara Hayward), whose pleasant looking home—a life-sized diorama of what should be the habitat for a happy family—is broken, but as Anderson lets on, only quietly so. No more than a couple minutes into the film, Anderon’s best qualities as a filmmaker are on display: his ability to build character through every facet of expression (mise en scène, framing, colour, performance, camera gesture), and his ability to reveal the flaws within what seems to be perfection. Anderson, known for his precision, exemplifies it here, but at the same time Moonrise Kingdom is his most free film since Bottle Rocket. He has developed a wonderful sense of when to depart his rigid aesthetics for simplicity and naturalism, and in the two young leads has found a subject more attuned to his form than ever before.

The two lead actors, Hayward, and Jared Gilman, who plays the orphaned Sam, each make their screen debuts in the film. Anderson seems to have cast them carefully, looking for slightly awkward, very normal looking children, whose performances would be far from perfect, and are all the better for it. In other terms, Anderson avoided a “Haley Joel Osment”, specifically choosing the kid who Shyamalan would have discarded. The choice is an intelligent one, that results in a relief from the tightly mannered performances that permeate Anderson’s work. Both Hayward and Gilman’s deliveries come wrapped in an apt naivete, one that clashes with the surprisingly mature way that they conduct themselves—a clash between their youth and their taste of independence. They act older than they are, like many children do, but the adults seem to be just as dishonest and fragile. Anderson renders the emotions of his characters on the same scale, be they young or old, as all of them struggle with similar issues of love and abandonment. It is in the film’s respect for children that its most potent beauty is found.

The most distinguishing feature of Moonrise Kingdom is its portrayal of children: their emotions, intelligence, validity and, most of all, their sexuality. It wouldn’t be something worth singling out if this were a French film, but to have a twelve-year old girl remark that she likes a boy’s erection in a mainstream, PG-rated American film is a big deal. That sort of frankness towards youth sexuality is an unusual occurrence on American screens—and a welcome one. Anderson’s honesty and tenderness towards his young subjects is something that would make Truffaut proud, and is rivaled in recent years only by Richard Linklater, whose gentle, naturalistic approach to direction in School of Rock also evoked the great French auteur’s name—and his allegiance to the young. The children in Moonrise Kingdom are more than happy to mange themselves without the meddling presence of adults, and are more than capable of doing so. Sam and Suzy make their way to each other and take off into the wild, where, with Sam’s boy scout skills, they use pulley systems for transporting their stuff, catch food, cover their tracks, fight off unwanted attention, and set up a camp on the shore (the best he’s ever seen, Edward Norton’s Scout Master Ward will later confess)—a utopia wherein they discover how to give voice to their feelings, and dance in their underwear. I’d venture to argue that such an image, one of two lovestruck twelve-year olds shaking it on a beach half-naked, is probably one of the best American images of youthful expression. This movie is theirs, before it is Anderson’s, and that’s what makes it one of his best films.

As for the adult cast, which includes a sidelined Bill Murray and Jason Schwartzman, they are vital as contrast to the central couple. We see adults try to organize themselves but are mostly inept at dealing with their own problems. Alone, we witness them as being confused, insecure, and sad. None more so than Scout Master Ward, whose lonely nightly recording of the day’s camp activities, with one session that ends with him breaking down, is not given a solution—something Anderson usually likes to provide, even in his strongest works like The Royal Tenenbaums and The Darjeeling Limited. Wes Anderson has always interrupted his pop fantasies with real, affecting darkness. Doing it in a film of storybook compositions—Moonrise even more closely resembles the look of a children’s book than The Fantastic Mr. Fox—makes it all the more complicated, a children’s universe plagued by adultness. The film’s negotiating lightness and heaviness lend it a depth and authenticity of emotion, giving a weight to the otherwise cutsey Roald Dahlesque silliness. No interruption is more startling than when Walt (Murray) and Laura Bishop (Frances McDormand), the estranged mother and father of Suzy, are shown sleeping in separate beds. Walt stares up, and miserably states “I wish the roof would blow off and I’d be sucked into space”, to which Laura replies “stop feeling sorry for yourself”. Coupled with a crippling shot of the ceiling, its mundanity profound and its stubbornness relentless: it will not budge.

Combining this portrayal of failed adult romance—again, without solution—with such a lively, lovely portrayal of youthful romance is bittersweet. To what end will their love survive? Anderson gives us no indication, of course, but instead celebrates the discovery of romantic feeling, and, moreover, the discovery of another person’s mutual suffering and alienation as a means to find solace. In a flashback montage of letter-exchanging between Sam and Suzy, the momentous nature of such a discovery is captured splendidly. It is, after all, a film about how and why people find each other—perhaps all of Anderson’s films are. When Moonrise arrives at its climax, Sam is asked to accept an adult as his guardian, an establishment of trust that the film has been working toward. Set on a church roof against a mise en scène of dark blues on a stormy night, in an uncertain world, Sam reaches out his hand. The agreement will be on his terms. It’s a beautiful movie moment, a gesture not easily forgotten.

Post-Script: To think, I mentioned nothing of Anderson’s clever narration, delivered in direct address by Bob Balaban. Anderson has always tried to develop interesting ways to frame his stories with narration, but this may be his most ingenious way to situate the narrative in a reflexive context. One unforgettable shot: A beach at night, completely dark, Balaban switches on a light so he can be seen on camera, narrates in direct address, switches light off, the characters arrive on shore by boat.

Something Worth Avenging

Written by . Posted on May 5, 2012. Filed under Reviews. Tagged , , , , , , , , , . No comments.

The world always seems to be ending. Always a go-to plot device for countless works of fiction, it is relied on to help create an epic scale, a do-or-die intensity, but it usually seems so tired, unconvincing—too often unaccompanied by smart storytelling. The world always seems to be ending in the work of Joss Whedon, but it always feels like it actually will, the stakes always feel high. It’s because he creates worlds worth saving—ones that reflect our own, no matter how cartoonish they appear. It’s because his characters, his heroes, always have to make a decision. One has to choose to save the world. It is in grand, pop-operatic gestures that Whedon imbues all his work with something real, something serious, even existential. You wouldn’t know it at first, not from seeing the pulpy, CGI-laden mise en scène of The Avengers, but it’s something you feel, that you recognize in the big moments—and Joss has always been a master of moments. Moreover, it’s something you rarely, if ever, feel when watching movies of the mega blockbuster variety (certainly not other superhero films). I’m not going to argue that The Avengers is a high work of cinema, or without its flaws—which from both the perspective of a Whedon disciple and a cinephile, it does—but that doesn’t mean it’s not a little-giant miracle of a movie.

Logic would not dictate that The Avengers would be this good, it has no right to be. The preceding Marvel movies of the franchise have ranged from bad to average, with the possible exception of Thor, thanks mostly to Chris Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston. But The Avengers is not the sum of those parts, but its own whole—one guided by a filmmaker who understands the art of the ensemble. All of Whedon’s great works are founded on character interaction. Whether in Buffy, Angel, Firefly or The Avengers, everything comes from the characters. They create meaning with each other, which is what creates meaning in the film. The arc of the film is a simple one. At first, these disparate heroes clash egos, until the game gets real, and they set aside their pride for something bigger than themselves. Simple but effective, the film is at its best when all of the personalities are mingling together with either corrosive or productive results. Whedon’s token banter permeates the dialogue, but only in such a way so as to carve out the uniqueness of each character, and to create a battle of wits to punctuate the bigger battles. Hawkeye is the character mostly left on the sidelines, but the screen time amongst the rest of the team is remarkably well balanced. Even Nick Fury and Agent Coulson have their moments, and actually feel like characters, unlike in the previous films where they felt more like expositional statues. There is a hierarchy of character arcs, perhaps, with Iron Man coming along the furthest in this regard, shedding his individualism in a powerful climax. The most fascinating is probably Loki, who almost acts as a composite of The Avenger’s shortcomings, representing a psychopathic reflection of their pride—he is also graced with the most memorable dialogue, a twisted monologue in particular. In the other Marvel films, the characters, with few exceptions, were never all that interesting or well-rounded, but here their motivations and behaviour are all part of an organic mold. It is because of this strong sense of character that we actually care about the action. At all times something emotional and moral is guiding the action.

The film’s impressive villain, Loki (Hiddleston), unleashes an alien race unto to New York. The government and S.H.I.E.L.D., led by Nick Fury, have a couple strategies prepared. Aside from their team of superheroes, they have nuclear weapons, something that becomes a topic of debate within the film. When the heroes discover S.H.I.E.L.D. have been building weapons, the team really starts to come apart. Later in the film, authority figures that Fury must answer to—talking heads on giant screens, ominous military men—opt to use weapons. Fury’s refusal to abide, and the actions of The Avengers, represent a resistance to the imperialist impulse that often drives alien invasion films, which typically serve to affirm America’s arrogant nationalism. Any thematic ideas Whedon plays with, are dealt with more subtly than we’ve recently seen in other Hollywood heavyweights, like Avatar, and The Dark Knight. The Avengers acts as an antidote to the heavy-handed and unsustainable serio-comic universe of Christopher Nolan. Whedon eagerly embraces the silliness of comic book style, creating what is probably the most authentically comic-booky adaptation so far. In not taking the universe too seriously, Whedon turns The Avengers into exactly what it should be, a seriously fun, but funnily serious work of escapist pop art.

I referred earlier to the big moments of the film, of which there is no shortage, and most should go unmentioned, but I must divulge one, at least. The Hulk has a generous amount of show-stealing moments, one of the most memorable being one wherein Whedon’s devout atheism makes a proud appearance. Loki mocks The Hulk and asks him to recognize his status as a God, to which Hulk responds in the way he knows best: smashing. It’s a startling moment, as the film’s intimidating antagonist is turned into to a rag-doll and slammed repeatedly into the ground. A God is nothing next to a very angry man. It’s moments like these that only Whedon concoct, like the wonderfully hilarious last shot that subverts the trend of post-credits plot development (if you can avoid having this spoiled, do so).

Though the competition isn’t exactly chock-full of great films, The Avengers probably stands as the best superhero film Hollywood has produced. Not only that, it is one of the most supremely entertaining blockbusters in recent memory. I can’t remember having this much fun at a movie since seeing Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (Edgar Wright, 2010). Joss Whedon is primarily praised as a writer, and rightly so, but between this and Serenity (2005), he has proven adept at creating momentous, thrilling action sequences that retain their coherency while generating spectacle awe. The epic third act showdown is pure escapist exhilaration, and there is something oddly moving about Whedon’s long, single takes that track each Avenger, first in that circular shot of them standing united, and again in a sprawling, digitally assisted take of each hero involved in their own individual battle—individual, but they’re fighting for each other—and for a world worth saving.

Viewing Diary – Haywire, The Artist, Mulberry St.

Written by . Posted on January 22, 2012. Filed under Reviews, Viewing Diary. Tagged , , , , , , , . No comments.

Haywire (2012)

Dir. Steven Soderbergh

With Haywire, Steven Soderbergh continues to push the boundaries of popular narrative form. He has always been interested in experimenting with how to tell a story, but more recently has really tested just how far he can go with making his films as efficient as possible, oftentimes challenging rules of continuity, while still holding the film together. Soderbergh condenses character development and narrative information, walking a fine line between tightly constructed filmmaking and an almost avant-garde evasion of convention. Many of his stylistic ambitions from Contagion (my favourite of his films) can be found here, but in a different context, and ultimately in a more rigorous exercise—it is often difficult to locate Soderbergh’s interest in content (assuming he has any), and Haywire may be one of his more elusive works. His efficiency does find its match though, in the film’s protagonist Mallory (MMA fighter Gina Carano); She’s smart, quick and nearly devoid of sentimentality (but, like the filmmaker, she may have a tiny soft spot). In all of her one-on-one combat scenes, Carano’s strategy is all about technique, her form is as precise as Soderbergh’s. Mallory is seemingly built up to be an unstoppable weapon, but a point is made to reveal her fallibility. The action sequences feel entirely authentic (the other actors do a marvelous job trying to match Carano’s ability), although their real-world feel may not be sensational enough for the common moviegoer, and indeed people may be turned off by Haywire, as some were with Contagion, as both films feel like Trojan horses when viewed at the multiplex (a special pleasure, from my point-of-view). Soderbergh employs natural sound during these considerably long sequences, which among other things gives the impression of exhaustion as each fight is drawn out. The result is a palpable sense of physicality, an element all but absent from action films.

Speaking of the film’s use of sound, Haywire seems to have two modes. The first is in natural sound, which aside from the fight scenes emphasize real-world ambiance in more mundane moments. One hears the creaks of a wooden floor, the light buzzing of an air conditioner, and in the case of dialogue scenes a sense of the environment’s impact on voices (open vs. closed spaces etc.). The second mode is when the film’s soundtrack completely gives in to its very cool poppy/jazzy musical score by David Holmes. The range of settings is noticeably atypical: a desolate airport, flat boring hallways and rooms, an upper class home in darkness (not unlike The Limey), a villa, and a climactic battle on a sunny beach (where the sounds of waves overpower those of the fight). Soderbergh seems driven to defy the filmmaking status quo as much as possible while delivering a seamlessly told story. Cross-cutting between locations all over the world (as he did in Contagion) within a non-linear structure, he plays with spatial and temporal possibilities more than any other Hollywood director. As this pre-(quasi)-retirement phase of the self-described uninspired filmmaker’s career develops, it is quickly becoming his most fascinating period.

The Artist (2011)

Dir. Michel Hazanavicius

At first glance, The Artist may seem like an ideal companion piece to Hugo—Scorsese’s film integrates history of silent cinema into its story, and even appropriates silent film footage in several sequences, and The Artist is a modern day silent (for the most part) film—but ultimately these two thematically linked works are opposed to one another in how they view cinema. Scorsese emphasizes how movies transcend time as well as their technology and materiality, even sharing his “stage” with Georges Méliès as if to say that films that are worlds apart can stand right next to each other as equals. In Scorsese’s universe, cinema is immortal and of a cyclical design, in which past and future work together. The Artist couldn’t get more linear-minded. It is a film about (it’s a stretch to say it’s really about anything, but I’ll humour it) progress, and evolution. Its final statement (which comes in an awkwardly staged abrupt happy ending) is that as cinema transitions into different technological phases (silent to sound, black/white to colour, film to digital), it will find something new that keeps the art form rejuvenated. This view point doesn’t really revere the past, but rather sees the progress of the medium as a means of survival. Indeed, cinema’s ability to adapt and survive (through the great depression and two world wars, for example) as a strong economic institution is fascinating, but this seems to be The Artist‘s sole message. Boiled down to its essence, The Artist is a film about cinema as a business, and Hugo is about cinema as art. As love letters to the movies, the distinctions are obvious. Hugo‘s means of homage are intricate and deeply felt, The Artist rips off narrative pieces, music, and makes confusing references. Confusing in that it poses as a silent film homage, yet its references are all over the place. Why quote Citizen Kane? There is no contextual reasoning or thematic justification. It’s just easy and obvious. Worse is taking Hermann’s score from Vertigo and borrowing (to put it nicely) its power in the cheapest of ways (and for the sake of shallow, fluffy melodrama?).

There are things to like in The Artist, and it is “well-made” (whatever that means). Jean Dujardin is very good as the protagonist, he has the right physicality and gestural range. He resembles Gene Kelly, and evokes Douglas Fairbanks rather effectively. The film is fun at first, with moments of whimsy and charm, but it quickly throws that out in favour of dull (over-serious, even) melodrama. The last two-thirds of the film are needlessly whiny and somber. Singin’ in the Rain‘s spin on the coming of the sound era was a joyous celebration of modern cinematic technology that didn’t pretend to lament the silent era’s demise. The presence of Uggie the dog in the film, the protagonist’s talented, adorable companion, is symbolic of the film’s attitude towards old movies, which can be summed up with the phrase: “isn’t it cute?” Such reactions were certainly had by my fellow audience members, who chuckled mildly (no real laughs are to be had at this surprisingly “straight-up” film) at The Artist‘s demonstration of silent-silliness. The Artist adopts silent aesthetics, but its referential style is a superficial demonstration of cinephilia. A film like Hugo says infinitely more about silent cinema (and cinema in general). Hugo is tribute; The Artist is parody, and it’s not quite clever enough to realize it.

Mulberry St. (2010)

Dir. Abel Ferrara

Everyone is welcome on camera in Abel Ferrara’s Mulberry St., a documentary that explicitly reveals the warmth behind the underrated auteur’s gritty, crude exterior. The film has no guiding narrative. It drifts from encounter to encounter with different personalities, many eccentric, in New York’s Little Italy during the Feast of San Gennaro. Not since Martin Scorsese’s Italianamerican has there been such an intimate portrayal of the Italian New Yorker experience, and together in a double bill the films complete one another. Scorsese’s film is about history and family while Ferrara’s gives you a sense of the streets, the people—both cover the food.

Mulberry St.’s free-flowing feel is its most endearing quality; like Ferrara himself, there‘s something chaotic and disorganized about the film, but that’s just in his/its nature. We often see the initial exchange between Ferrara and his subjects and occasionally witness as he asks for permission to film (something most any other filmmaker would cut, but tidiness is not one of Ferrara’s concerns). The peak of the film’s nonchalance comes when Ferrara actually begins to review footage he shot earlier in the doc—and complains about how it fails to capture the colour of his girlfriend’s (Shanyn Leigh) red hair. The richness of the film comes from the people we get to meet: vendors, restaurant owners, China Girl bit-part cast members, random people on the street, and genuine locals (we also get to meet Abel and Shanyn’s three cats!). There are also some “celebrity” cameos, including chance encounters with Matthew Modine and Danny Aiello (Sal from Do the Right Thing). Modine comically enters the film via segway like Gob in Arrested Development. Shanyn takes a spin, and then Ferrara attempts to give it a shot before being stopped by his girlfriend, while Modine nervously says “I’m afraid the wheel’s coming off”. Aiello talks acting with Ferrara, and shares a nice anecdote about working with Spike Lee, who he says allowed him to rewrite his own lines.

Throughout the film, we get personal moments with Ferrara, as he recounts filming 9 Lives of a Wet Pussy (his porno), complains about lawsuits and the failed distribution of Go Go Tales, shares artwork that interests him (“Ever seen this Van Gogh painting? Check it out”), and, as it seems to be getting increasingly difficult to catch him without a guitar, we also see him perform. He is often seen with a beer in his hand (in one moment his manager Frankie Cee reveals that Ferrara is drinking upwards of 30 bottles of beer a day), but, notably, has since gone sober. We see that, like his cinema, Ferrara is rough but artful. The camera intuitively weaves through hallways, stairways and up and down Mulberry St., guided by its search for anything interesting to film, which for Ferrara is just about anyone. Show me another documentary so filled to the brim with life—I doubt there are many out there.

Viewing Diary – A Dangerous Method, Fallen Angels, Gamer

Written by . Posted on January 14, 2012. Filed under Reviews, Viewing Diary. Tagged , , , , , , , , . 3 Comments.

A Dangerous Method (2011)

Dir. David Cronenberg

It’s no wonder that A Dangerous Method has divided critics; the film is alternately obvious and subtle. Moreover, it could be said to represent a sort of culmination of David Cronenberg’s increasingly mainstream period (A History of Violence, Eastern Promises), which is characterized by a more traditional approach to narrative, and a less explicit (but still explicit) investigation of his usual themes. This partly has to do with the fact that Cronenberg hasn’t written his own screenplay since 1999′s eXistenZ (although this is to change with his next film, Cosmopolis, scheduled to be released later this year). In abandoning Cronenberg’s “arthouse” and “b-movie” sensibility, he has subsequently been abandoned by some fans and critics alike, who see this embrace of more widely appealing material as selling out. But Cronenberg has not abandoned his obsessions, and even if we can no longer look forward to grotesque animatronics and wound-fucking, the dark pleasures of his cinema remain intact, and (don’t shoot me) is it not possible that perhaps this a legitimate maturation, and one which sees Cronenberg more concerned with form than ever before? Surely A Dangerous Method is a testament to this—it is easily one of his greatest formal accomplishments—as was Eastern Promises, which contrary to popular opinion, is one of his better films. In the past, his films could be too clinical and didactic, and were always best when they retained a mystery (Crash, his indisputable masterwork) rather than feeling like a purely psychological exercise. A Dangerous Method achieves this balancing act, and the film’s more veiled intents are difficult to uncover. Towards the end, it becomes clear that in addition to its interest in establishing the film’s historical figures as confused obsessives with their own limited perspectives, Cronenberg is concerned with Jewish/Aryan relations (Cronenberg, it should be noted, is Jewish) and illustrating a larger portrayal of European consciousness before the dawn of World War. The film’s post-script, clearly tongue-in-cheek, points out that Freud (Viggo Mortensen) and Sabina Spielrein (Keira Knightley), both Jewish, were victimized by Nazism—Freud fled the Nazis and died of cancer, Spielrein was shot by Nazis in a synagogue—while the Aryan Jung “lived peacefully” until his death in 1961. Cronenberg portrays Jung sympathetically, as he butts heads with Freud and struggles with his desires, but at the same time takes great pleasure in defining his flaws and ambiguities. Ultimately, Freud is not really examined in comparison, shown as a stubborn but mild man, mostly restricted to his office, alone, and shown in vulnerable moments, collapsing at one point in humiliating fashion in front of his rival. Jung’s quest to further psychoanalysis comes from an ambition to better the human being, an all-too Aryan idea. The birth of modern psychology is articulated as a time of self-investigation and uncertainty, and in its two primary figures, Cronenberg finds a self-destructive quality in the European consciousness as the turbulent first half of the 20th century approaches.

Fallen Angels (1995)

Dir. Wong Kar-Wai

I like most of Wong Kar-Wai’s films, but since being introduced to the popular auteur, I have had a bit of a “so what?” attitude towards him. At first I surrendered to the beauty of In the Mood For Love (I now think it to be overrated), and the ambition of 2046 (even more-so), but an indifference has been growing inside me. In the last while, however, I finally got around to seeing Happy Together, and more recently, Fallen Angels, and I may be changing my tune. The latter is now my favourite of his films, and I would argue, his most complete (incompleteness being an unfortunate quality attached to much of his work). In articulating the urban alienation of Hong Kong living, Wong’s most dominant theme, he has, as many filmmakers do, restated the same idea in different ways. In the Mood For Love‘s careful, ornate approach is to hone in on the tragic inability to connect with another person, and the impossibility of romance to exist as anything but a silent wish. Fallen Angels isn’t so ostentatious, opting to use fast-paced, overtly fun framing and editing to articulate this serious syndrome that In the Mood For Love essentially turns into a fetish. The film is divided into two stories, which overlap quite subtly. In one story, that of a hit-man and his female “partner” whom he never works with directly, two characters are, in a sense, living the same life simultaneously, separately but co-dependently. Both are completely alienated from society, existing in their own outsider world of canted angles and jump cuts. Their process is detailed by Wong in poppy fashion, but there is tragedy in how his characters revolve around one another. Through these characters we imagine a Hong Kong full of the detached and lonely whose perfect matches are just around the corner, but always out of reach. In the other story, a mute, also resigned to a life of relative solitude, is detached from society but exists in a distorted version of its system of living, compensating by working in random shops he breaks into after hours, forcing unwilling customers to participate in his comical fantasy. When the mute’s life intersects with the hit-man’s, it is brief and anti-climactic. Wong’s characters are magnets who expose to each other the wrong side, repelling, not attaching. The energy of the filmmaking makes for an interesting contrast with the themes, perhaps increasing the poignancy of this vision of a world defined by its recurring image of a dark tunnel with a single guiding light, in which one is either alone, or not—and how rarely the latter is the case.

Gamer (2009)

Dir. Mark Neveldine & Brian Taylor

 The manic brilliance of Neveldine/Taylor reached its highest point (so far) with Gamer, which, if not as fun as Crank: High Voltage, is more cohesive and focused. The confusing satiric notes of the Crank films make it difficult to affirm just what, if anything, Neveldine/Taylor want to say, but that’s part of their appeal—meticulously crafted, vulgar “trash”, that puts other contemporary action films and filmmakers to shame with few exceptions. Gamer is also less funny, dishing out its spoonfuls of sugar with equal components vinegar and cyanide, but it finds the duo at their most articulate. Its seemingly most obvious target is that of the vicarious violence of video games, but Neveldine/Taylor aren’t cynical here—they clearly love sensationalistic violence and often celebrate it (they love it the same way Verhoeven loves SFX, an almost purely technical admiration). Instead, their focus is on the avatarism of 21st century life, or, the disassociation of realities from living. The universe of Gamer is one where cyberspace and physical space have collided so as to be difficult to distinguish, and where ignorance and immorality are the dominant forces. Everyone lives at the expense of others—as, essentially, people must do in a consumerist society—and control is capital. Some amazing sci-fi touches outdo most middle/highbrow films, such as a bedroom/digital interface in which Simon (the young man who controls Gerard Butler’s character) contently relaxes amidst a cyber-abyss. Another clever moment features a shot/reverse shot between Michael C. Hall’s villainous Ken Castle and a news program, both shots featuring digital backgrounds, the presence of reality completely eradicated between the forces of media and technology. The unification between Neveldine/Taylor’s form and content is at its most comfortable in Gamer. I can’t think of other filmmakers more concerned with NOW, amongst the mainstream or amongst festival approved auteurs, and these guys are a great deal better at articulating it, anyhow.

Viewing Diary – Tintin, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Zodiac

Written by . Posted on December 22, 2011. Filed under Reviews, Viewing Diary. Tagged , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment.

The Adventures of Tintin (2011)

Dir. Steven Spielberg

There is a lot to like about Spielberg’s first animated film. It’s gorgeous to look at. The environments are stunning, and the film’s movement (Spielberg’s primary obsession in the film) is at once limitless but bound to Spielberg’s cinema. 3D makes all these things all the more pleasing. Oftentimes, Tintin is exciting and fun—but something is missing. In some ways, it is most similar to the Indiana Jones films, which I also have problems with, and partly for the same reasons. As a protagonist, Tintin (like Indy) is an intelligent, assured hero, so accustomed to adventure so as to be completely prepared for all its surprises. Think of Spielberg at his best. His protagonists have a naivete and a vulnerability (maybe the most important quality) and it is when these characters are confronted with the strange and wonderful, that his films are at their most moving—in most cases his characters are confronted with situations beyond them, that are either frightening or awe-inspiring, or both. Thus, from Tintin a key element is absent, the one that raises Spielberg films from being just expertly crafted to having an intangible magic. That being said, all else is intact, and at its best Tintin is among Spielberg’s best adventures. One chase sequence is among the best of its kind and may even be Spielberg’s highest accomplishment in crafting action. Spielberg’s ambition seems to be to do what he couldn’t quite do with a camera—in some ways Tintin is ideal Spielberg, where his camera can keep up with his instincts, and it is when this ambition is realized that the film at least approaches greatness. Snowy, Tintin’s dog, is a more ideal character for Spielberg in this universe, one that evades characterization and yet has the most personality—a purer vehicle for what is a successful exercise in extreme fluidity, if nothing else.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)

Dir. David Fincher

How is Fincher so blunt and subtle at the same time? The straightforwardness of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, like Zodiac, is almost a smokescreen. Fincher’s fixations are so complexly realized that it is difficult to pierce the simplicity of their appearance. This is, of course, precisely what makes him one of the most interesting contemporary filmmakers working in Hollywood. Not as obvious with its obsessions with technology as The Social Network, but just as invested in the integration of tech into its narrative, as part of its own process, though not as its subject. The punk CGI explosion of the opening credit sequence (truly one of Fincher’s shining moments) reveals explicitly what Fincher is concerned with in the film. The coming together of two characters, and the intervention of technology as an underlying element. The relationship between Rooney Mara’s Lisbeth Salander and Daniel Craig’s Mikael Blomkvist is surprisingly moving, and what makes the film work. How Fincher develops the characters on their own for what must be the first hour of the film is all in service of what is a fast-moving but arresting portrayal of a sincere connection. The used and abused Lisbeth gives herself to Mikael because he asks of nothing from her, and although the matter-of-fact nature of their coming together is about as unromantic as one can imagine, it is seriously affecting. This effect is possible because of how Fincher has laid out these characters lives (not in a typical characterization sense, we don’t know them so deeply, but we know them as Fincher likes to know his characters, through routine, demeanor, etc.) and especially because of how the film portrays sexuality. Quick, pleasure seeking sex—not “making love” but fucking—is actually rendered as the film’s most human gesture (note one sex scene where Mikael, distracted, begins to talk, but Lisbeth insists he shush while she climaxes).

Defining this relationship is the film’s most important element—Fincher disrupts the comfort of the whodunnit narrative, shifting the structure so as to make plot’s natural peak just a bump on the road, and removes the emphasis from the mystery, and extending the prologue-esque early portion of the film beyond what other filmmakers would be willing to—the real arc of the film lies in Lisbeth and Mikael and how they change each other. Fincher ends on a deceptively quiet shot (as he has done before), so modestly tragic, and in retrospect, rather beautiful. In some ways, this is his most evasive great film, and the one that most fervently demands for a repeat viewing, for a chance not to penetrate the mystery of the plot, but the mystery of the narrative—this distinction being the one that classifies Fincher’s digital cinema, where his stories are no longer collaborators with his style, and the telling of them is all that remains. Seven/Fight Club/etc. Fincher vs. Zodiac/Social Network/etc. Fincher = stylized stories vs. stories swallowed whole by their telling.

Aside: A fun train of thought; contrast Fincher’s investigation of character via sexuality with Cronenberg’s—Fincher doesn’t care about psychology, or deep inner-workings, but cares just as deeply, but about the surface. Cronenberg wants to know what makes people tick but Fincher is a better listener.

Zodiac (2007)

Dir. David Fincher

I initially thought this was a great film back when I saw it on 2007, but upon revisiting it in preparation for Fincher’s new film, I’d say it’s more like a masterpiece. One of the most fascinating Hollywood films of its decade, Zodiac is a maddening experience. If you’re not careful, you can find yourself as obsessed as the characters—but the trick is not to—Fincher isn’t, he’s just mapping out time as it unfolds relentlessly. Like with The Social Network, this is about characters alienated by obsession and driven from real life by their intelligence. Watch as each character crashes and burns, with the biggest brain left standing, satisfied with himself above all else, but alone. Fincher’s suspense here is completely singular, separate from anything we’d simply associate with whodunnit plots of the past. The driving force of the film is the friction between the investigators and time as they subtly become separate from reality. Watch how Fincher quietly shows the cracks of real life as small moments between large momentous stretches of “cracking” the case. Also, note the lack of synchronicity between the characters’ obsession and the filmmaking. Fincher holds the film steady, refusing to crack like his characters, he even films a murder (in what may be cinema’s most effective stabbing since Psycho, I kid you not) with little cutting (no pun intended), in some ways amplifying the real horror of it but also refusing to sensationalize what takes place. He takes his time and is more like the killer than his pursuers. He doesn’t give into their obsession—though he does chart it meticulously—but perhaps that’s a different type of obsession, the one that has made Zodiac, The Social Network and now The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo into fascinating charts of information, and brilliant exercises in narrative form.