Review # 7: Brazil

Above: Jonathan Pryce attempts dangerous yoga moves in his cubicle.

My tears have finally dried, I have finished watching the paltry DVD bonus features (a theatrical trailer), and now it is time to review... Terry Gilliam's Brazil. Let me start by saying, "Hm, what was that movie I called 'the best movie I've seen in months and months'?" Jules et Jim? Bluebeard? Pah! Brazil is better. I will go out on a limb and call this the best movie I have ever seen. Sorry, Wes Anderson (ouch, that hurts my soul a bit); sorry, Tim Burton; sorry, Martin Scorcese, et al. Brazil is officially my new favorite movie.

Here I sit, listening to a freshly downloaded track of Geoff Muldaur performing the title track, writing by the light of the DVD menu. The song, which many will recognize as being that song that goes, "Brazil, la la la la la la la la," plays in stark, cruelly ironic contrast to the dystopia in which Gilliam sets his story. In a blatantly Orwellian setting toils Sam Lowry (Jonathan Pryce), a number-crunching office drone, a stickler for paperwork, who has unsettlingly lovely, escapist dreams in which he (with voluptuous pouf to his hair, a suit of armor ostensibly made of tin foil, and majestic wings) constantly pursues and attempts to save a flaxen-haired maiden. One day, at work, he sees his dream-woman and tracks her down, endangering the two of them by going against the deadly grain of authoritarianism.

I don't want to spoil any more of this movie for anyone who hasn't seen it. It bleakly combines elements of the surreal (one might call it Gilliamesque) with acerbic social satire: seeing how inoculated people in the film have become to the atrocities committed by the government is disturbing, yet the tongue-in-cheek treatment allows the film to dabble in flagrant absurdity without disrupting the flow.

Often, however, I find that satires fail because they don't have a realistic human element, they don't have heart. This film quickly dodges that particular bullet through Pryce's ecstatically emotional performance as Sam. Sam is quietly an iconoclast at the beginning of the film, refusing to move from his lowly department to a more prestigious one with more violent dealings. He calls to mind a charming, slightly buffoonish Winston Smith. And it doesn't hurt that he is precisely the kind of good-looking that I love: manic-eyed, sharply dressed and rather Kafkaesque.

And yet don't dismiss my adoration of this film to mere girlish fancies! Brazil builds a complete world-- such that my sister appropriately said, "This would be better as a book." (She was, apparently, bored. Sad face. ) Every shot establishes the dank, gritty atmosphere to which humanity has against all odds acclimated itself. The undercurrent of humor, the ability to see a bright side in such a horrid world, reminds viewers of the strength of the individual, the power to find happiness in the most destructive of places. And while the leitmotif* of the song "Brazil" may seem to be there just to jar the senses of viewers, while jabbing them forcefully in the ribs, it hints at that pointless hope that somewhere beyond the strictures and smog, someplace beautiful still exists.

Grade: A+

*I always wanted to use the word "leitmotif" in a sentence!

PS: I love this movie

Review # 6: Rocky (and Review # 6.5: Paul Blart: Mall Cop)

Above: A proud wearer of a Rocky Balboa Wig™ and black and yellow bathrobe.

Next in our Netflixian orgies of cinema, we decided to rent Rocky, mostly because I was hoping to scoff at it and say, "How did this cheesefest beat Taxi Driver for Best Picture at the 1976 Oscars?" (My ability to feel shock at the Academy's foolish and incoherent awardees is, perhaps, unfounded; I can remember Crash winning Best Picture like it was last week, and Slumdog Millionaire's win over more deserving films like Milk, Wall-E and The Wrestler is a wound that won't stop infecting.)

Let's bask a moment in my slack-jawed surprise at discovering that Rocky wasn't, in fact, bad: nay, it was actually ... a good movie. When I discovered that Sylvester Stallone himself wrote the screenplay, my respect for the man gracefully burgeoned from fallow soil. And it was quite a well-written film; unlike most sports movies, it didn't feature montages of Rocky vs. random opponents, winning or losing and building up false suspense in viewers. Fighting plays a small role in Rocky, which is what made it so enjoyable- it had more time to believably develop characters, and introduce problems only tangentially related to The Big Fight.

You know the story, of course. (I think I might be the only person in the universe who hadn't seen Rocky.) Small-town boxer has a strange friendship with Jason Schwartzman's mom-- er, I mean, with a local pet shop employee named Adrian. With one-in-a-million odds, he gets to compete against champion wrestler Apollo (Apostles'?) Creed. I love how iconic this movie has become-- I could hardly believe that Rocky invented a.) punching meat, b.) yelling "ADRIAN" in an obnoxious slur, c.) running up steps, d.) that great dun-nuh-nuh, dun-nuh-nuh song and e.) running with your dog. Among other things.

So who cares if we had to put on subtitles to make out what Stallone was slurring? This film is a solid Grade A-.

As a side note, watched most of Paul Blart: Mall Cop today. Almost sickening; it was hard to believe someone actually thought it would be a good idea to make a movie about the most depressingly pathetic guy ever. I didn't laugh, and I stopped cringing about thirty minutes in, once I decided that Paul Blart truly deserves to be sterilized. When I started falling asleep, though, the film seemed to take on an interesting Luis Buñuel quality. Grade: C-.

Also, was in an eighth grader-poet kind of mood today, which meant I wrote a note to no one in particular featuring sweeping statements ("I hate everyone who has tasted the ambrosiac elixir of success. Feeling old and bitter") in felt-tipped pen.

Reviews 3-5: Mulholland Drive, Taxi Driver and TiMER

"You talkin' to me?"
-Travis Bickle

Thanks to my finally giving in to Netflix's eternal pop-up supplications offering ONE MONTH FREE NETFLIX! CANCEL ANY TIME, I've jumped onto the bandwagon at last. As a result, my sister and I have watched three streaming movies in the two and a half days since I signed up for Netflix. Yes, I'm aware that some people have social lives.

Anyway, let's get down to business. We saw some of the highest-browed movies (Mulholland Drive), an upper-middle-brow movie (Taxi Driver), and a film with Lifetime Network-level brows, brows dangling somewhere below the kneecaps (TiMER). And now to rate and review them!!

Mulholland Drive:

Directed by David Lynch, known for his Rubik's cube filmmaking (Eraserhead, Twin Peaks), this movie promised to puzzle. Which it did, in its own way: two separate narratives rife with deja vu, either the result of an alternate dimension or an escapist coping mechanism, or whatever explanation you choose to believe. Naomi Watts steals the show, by far, as Betty (happy)/Diane (sad). Her lesbian lover, Rita/Camilla (Laura Elena Harring) makes do with blank looks and dull lines, as she is the damsel-in-distress eye candy of the film, later a stunning portrait of Hollywood heteronormativity. Ok, so maybe I have to mull over the themes a little more.

But a warning- this movie will freak you out. It builds up tension like people build up resistance to Advil: very, very slowly. Seriously, it is a legitimately scary film.

Pros: thought-provoking thematically, soulful acting from Watts, fun to piece together, seriously spooky.

Cons: some of the editing techniques were a little too "Hey look at my new camcorder it can invert colors!", excruciatingly slow at times, Mr. Winky (you'll know when you see him) is really far too ineffably frightening.

Grade: A-


Taxi Driver:

This wasn't the first time I've seen this film; I just enjoyed it so immensely my first time around that I couldn't resist watching it again. Where to begin? Robert DeNiro (as disturbed cabbie Travis Bickle) is exceptionally good-looking in this film, with tender eyes that could tenderize the heart of any child prostitute or political volunteer. Martin Scorcese's deft direction, notably in his penchant for long, complex shots, overhead shots, and gesture shots, makes the film a visual treat, and his ability to luxuriate in a scene makes it easy to slip into that dream state where you forget yourself, where for a moment you are living in a much dirtier New York City in the 1970s.

Bickle is a veteran who takes to the wheel, as he can't sleep at night anyway. He falls hard for a marginally attractive blonde (Sybill Shepherd) who humors him despite bright-flashing signals that Travis is about forty cards short of a full deck. Although honestly, DeNiro really was sexy back in the day, and with the tortured soul routine, replete with eyes of soulful obsidian, I'm sure he could score a date or two with any girl.

Of course, the film deals with complex things like racial tension, heroism, extremism, and post-Nam jitters, but the great thing about Taxi Driver is that it doesn't make up its mind and shove its opinion in your face; it's a tangle of moral ambiguities that make the internal debate after the film quite rewarding.

Grade: A+

TiMER:

Talk about a good concept gone awry. The conceit of TiMER is this: a device (called a TiMER) that accurately predicts when you will meet your One True Soulmate has been installed into the wrists of the masses of lovesick, commitment-prone men and women. Una, a woman whose dumb-obvious name is matched by her dumb-obvious personality ("My timer doesn't have a time on it! Waaah!") meets a cheesy hipster stock character. He is a paper-thin "quirky" indie comedy composite of hunky leading man: low-paying job? Check. Long, careless hipster hair that has actually been coiffed into perfectly careless stringlets? Check. In a band? Check. Wow. Anyway, some people in this movie have timers and others don't, and the film tries to convince us to care about any of it. A little subplot about the cleaning lady's daughter being the soulmate of Una's little brother provides bland, racist insight into our heroine's privileged world.

One highlight: Detective Quinn from Dexter (the guy who was dating the Trinity Killer's daughter, etc.) has about ten lines, but he plays one of Una's many love interests, one of many men ostensibly queueing up to date or marry this twiggy, desperate control freak.

Grade: C

Review #2: The Kids Are All Right

Above: Mark Ruffalo romances his hot girlfriend, who has very little to do in the film other than look hot and GET IT ON WITH MR RUFF!

This weekend I finally saw the film that Entertainment Weekly (or as it's known in my circle, the Bible) has been buzzing about: The Kids Are All Right, an indie starring Julianne Moore and Annette Bening as a middle-aged lesbian couple living a cozy suburban life with two teens. The twist is: Mark Ruffalo is their scraggle-faced sperm donor, whom their daughter Joni (Mia Wasikowska, aka blankfaced girl in this year's Alice in Wonderland) opts to contact. All hell breaks loose! Or at least, a tiny bit of discomfort seeps into their idyllic suburban lives.

Perhaps I had too-high expectations because of the glowing, drooling praise I had been subjected to; I thought the movie fell into the same tropes and traps of any domestic drama. My boyfriend said it perfectly: the movie was like an extended edition of the trailer. But formulaic plot aside, there was some stellar acting from Moore, Bening, and Ruffalo. A lot of funny lines, too, made even funnier by the actors' delivery. Keep an eye out for a part in the beginning where they're watching some strange Nat Geo special. Pretty funny.

In one scene, Julianne Moore's nipple appears above the surface of the bubble bath in which she's soaking-- this was easily the most shocking point of the film.

Grade: B+

Wilkommen! Review # 1: Jules et Jim

Hello, empty abyss of the internet. I'm Kristen, film buff.

Yesterday's movie was Jules et Jim, directed by Francois Truffaut.

The film asks the question, 'How can I get two men to fall disgustingly hard for me?' and provides the answer, as well (quite helpful): be a total psychopath.

Funny how this movie was longer than Truffaut's 400 Blows, but seemed to slip by so quickly. This WWI-era masterpiece is romantic, tragic, funny, and thought-provoking in the Kate Chopin kind of way. So if you like the idea of women struggling against traditional roles, you'll love Jeanne Moreau as Catherine, a femme fatale with a whole lot of je ne sais quoi-- the titular characters, best friends Jules and Jim, are both slavishly in love with her.

This movie is the best movie I’ve seen in months and months. (The last really good movie I saw was Bluebeard, and this one was… gasp! BETTER?!) Truffaut's directing is, of course, splendid in its understated and stylish way. But let's not give him all the credit, nor dole heaps of praise on the simple yet beautiful theme, "Le Tourbillon". Let's lavish deserved credit, instead, on the glorious acting of Oskar Werner. Basically, I have an eternal hard-on for Jules (Werner), the incredibly sexy and yet tragically overlooked sacrificial lamb of the film. As Catherine's oft-cuckolded husband, Jules' motto is, "As long as she doesn't leave me forever, I'll take whatever pain comes my way." And yet with his faraway eyes, you wonder how she doesn't melt into pudding every moment she sees him... But seriously. That man can act. Let's be fair, though-- he got the best part: resigned romantic, smile-through-the-pain kind of empty-souled guy. I am officially in love.

PS: will try being a total psychopath for the next few days, see if droves of men fall in love with me.

Grade: A+