Self-Quarantine Mini Reviews Volley 4

In this ongoing series, we will be sharing brief micro-reviews of all the films i’ve been watching/re-watching since the country went full clusterfuck. Because aside from staving away weight increase, and cabin fever, what else is a die hard film geek to do?

ON WITH THE SHOW!

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Adore (dir, Anne Fontaine 2013) Clearly a piece of work that sounded much better on paper, only to endlessly trip over itself upon release to a moviegoing public. Anne Fontaine’s often listless exploration of the complicated lifelong friendship between two women (Naomi Watts & Robin Wright), tries desperately to visualize Doris Lessing’s The Grandmothers, and only ends up muddying waters at every opportunity. The tale of these mothers, now reaching middle age complete with marital blanding, attempt the unthinkable and reach for one another’s attractive sons (played here with occasional skill by Xavier Samuel, and James Frencheville) as the four spend their days near the lakes and oceans of New South Wales. And while the source material apparently goes a long way toward exploring the connections between the two childhood friends, the film never figures its way out of the sheer icky surface of what’s really happening. Fontaine never seems to find the propulsive power necessary for us to better understand, even as the inevitable consequences begin landing like emotional bombs. And as a result, the final product is a pair of truly good performances by Watts & Wright, but no real pull beyond the melodramatic. And we’re talking the kind that borders on turning this meditation into nothing more than a travelogue with a daytime soap hitched onto it. There’s definitely an intent for more to be exposed, but the film only just occasionally rises above its tawdry premise. And no amount of the always fun Ben Mendelsohn can save it.


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The Right Stuff (dir, Phil Kaufman 1983) Not sure if one would call this a grief watch, or perhaps a simple need to be reminded of a time when our differences were a strength. And with this Reagan-era piece of heartfelt nostalgia for the early days of the U.S.’s space program and the subsequent Mercury missions, we not only get that reminder, we are also presented with a level of romance and lack of flattery we often forget was possible in cinema circa the early 1980s. Written and directed by the often overlooked Philip Kaufman after hiring William Goldman, and deciding he had to go it alone. It remains something of a jaw dropping epic that spans the late 1940s through the early 1960s, the men who flew those world shifting missions, and the people on the ground, often unsure how far was ever too far. The sheer murderer’s row of talent to come out of this (Sam Shepard, Ed Harris, Fred Ward, Dennis Quaid, Scott Glenn, Barbara Hershey, Veronica Cartwright, Pamela Reed, Lance Henriksen, Jeff Goldblum, Harry Shearer) alone speaks to the magnitude of ambition that continues to radiate.  Fantastic performances complimented by all the still awe inspiring miniature and special effects work culminating in what great cinema does best; transports us. 

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Sing Street (dir, John Carney 2016) A musical coming of age story set in mid-1980s Dublin doesn’t seem to be at the offset to be the kind of energizing charmer it ends up becoming. When Conor’s pop decides to move him to a cheaper Catholic school, his troubles seem to only be growing as his family’s stresses have begun to mount. But upon arriving, it isn’t long before Conor finds himself ready to take his passions to another level, by starting a band in hopes of impressing the girl of his dreams. In less skilled hands, such a premise might have made for something a bit more sleight, but what Carney does here with his cast, is create a genuine community of outcasts who are ready to represent a new and changing face of not only rock n’ roll, but of their own community. There is a sincerity about breaking beyond your elders, and defining the kind of adult on your own that is super welcome. Ferdia Walsh-Peelo, is an immediately relatable lead, and Lucy Boynton is incredibly charming. Hell, the entire cast is game for what is far more about what fuels art, and what makes it all so important. Oh, and the songs are terrific. What more could one want from the mastermind behind 2007’s Once?

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Murder Party (dir, Jeremy Saulnier 2007) There’s something so liberating about making your debut feature on our own terms where you can take such bally potshots at the life you’ve chosen, only to come out the other end..well..moderately successful! Jeremy Saulnier’s 2007 Slamdance winner, is on one hand hopelessly no-budgeted, resembling the shot on video antics of one Red Letter Media. While the other half is pure Saulnier, which means stories that are perpetually concerned about genre mechanisms, only to run them through terribly flawed, hopelessly real creatures. Plans are made, but we cannot help but do ourselves in. Especially when confronted by dumb, seemingly random, silly chance. A lonely regular guy, finds an invitation to what he thinks is a Halloween party taking place in a funky part of town, only to realize that he’s be tricked into his own murder as art project at the hands of a group of desperate students. Self financed at a price tag of a little under 300,000 dollars, this messy comic horror farce, for all its resourcefulness, pretty much tells us everything we need to know about the lifelong team of Saulnier, his wife Skei, and Macon Blair, who have gained traction and acclaim for exploring the universe’s complete disinterest in human pose. And here, it’s equal parts horrifying and hysterical.


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Portrait Of A Lady On Fire (dir, Celine Sciamma 2019) There are moments when watching something for the first time, and it hits you on a molecular level. To the point that like a live dance performance, there are moments that a part of your mind anticipates, only to witness the filmmaker/storyteller hit those same beats straight from your thoughts. Fused with your DNA. That’s the rare feeling I get when cinema truly connects on an almost heart to heart level. Celine Sciamma’s latest is that very rare moment for me. Set in late 18th century France, Portrait tells the tale of painter Marianne, who was once tasked with capturing the image of a woman who is soon to be married to a nobleman from Milan. Working near an isolated beach where only nature’s light, coupled by the sounds of wind and waves, creates a wholly immersive landscape where Marianne, over the course of her time working with subject, Heliose, begins to realize a great deal more about herself than she perhaps thought possible. In fact, both do as they bond over Orpheus, and push back and forth regarding the reality of the way we perceive ourselves and each other - best illustrated by the moment that inspires the final painting. The entire film is a sensuous, sensitive, and almost overwhelmingly powerful experience that succeeds in letting nature be that force. Sciamma’s faith in the very real circumstances of the time, along with some of the most painfully beautiful cinematography imaginable courtesy of Claire Mathon, spins a story that both could only have been fashioned in its time, and yet told right this very moment. Stars, Merlant and Haenel help create something here that again makes me forget that there’s a camera, a director, or a crew. You aren’t simply watching a film, you’re bearing witness. 

Self-Quarantine Mini Reviews Volley 3

n this ongoing series, we will be sharing brief micro-reviews of all the films i’ve been watching/re-watching since the country went full clusterfuck. Because aside from staving away weight increase, and cabin fever, what else is a die hard film geek to do?

ON WITH THE SHOW!

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Embrace of The Serpent (dir, Ciro Guerra 2015) Every once in a while, a work grabs you the second it begins to unspool. This international co-production by Colombian director, Guerra explores the endless tension between ancient tradition, and inevitable progress based upon the very real travel diaries of Richard Evans Schultes and Theodor Koch-Grunberg. Seen through the eyes of a man who would grow to become a shaman, his encounters with a European ethnographer and a botanist within a span of three decades etch deep what it means to see your world grow smaller as colonization begins to make its mark down the Colombian Amazon. Stark in its intense black and white cinematography courtesy of David Gallego. Plays almost like a more melancholy and humane inversion of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, we are given ample evidence of the effects encroaching civilization leaves upon the land, the river, the people. We are made privy to the mystical and psychological challenges brought upon by white men, and their preconceptions of an ordered universe upon the indigenous peoples of early America. It is also a brilliantly weaved hybrid of old and new school filmmaking that takes hold deep, refusing to let go long after the credits end.

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Crawl (dir, Alexandre Aja 2019) Sometimes, you just know. Having been out of the Aja loop for some time, imagine my inner surprise upon catching the trailer for this in theaters, and being genuinely excited. Another creature feature by possibly the best post French Horror Wave to have crossed over into the H-wood ballgame? Having just recently traveled to Miami last year, I now deeply regret having seen this during its initial release. Definitely a thinly veiled analogy for the self destructive rot of the American South by way of killer gators invading your home during a Category 5 hurricane, we get a super simple premise where a would-be swim champion(Kaya Scodelario), heads straight for her estranged dad (Barry Pepper), as his home is on a lake in direct path of the storm. And while flooding is definitely a major concern, that’s only the first of their concerns; not only do they wind up trapped in the old house’s crawlspace, they do so SURROUNDED by hungry gators. And since this is an Aja joint, you’d better believe you’re getting some prime gore with your tension. And what remains is a pretty solid, well- executed little monster/disaster pic with some really effective physical effects work. This must’ve been rough to make even with all the necessary CG for the storm and the gators, because seriously, those things do whatever the hell they want. 

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Cold War (2018) Brilliantly composed and acted tribute to the director’s parents, this quietly intense and lean tale of embattled love set amidst the backdrop of post-WWII Poland achieves in ample doses what cinema so often forgets to do; move with imagery. The duo of Tomasz Kot and Joanna Kulig, shake the soul with merely their body language and sheer expressiveness as two hearts caught in a seemingly endless emotional and political storm. Not every path is a straight line, and yet both know within their deepest marrow, something is indeed there. Perhaps the kind of existential romantic epic that might have gone headlong into more than three hour territory in the past, goes for a shorter run time and an emphasis on maximum iconographic impact. Director Pawel Pawilkowski and cinematographer, Lukasz Zal aim for highs that are unmistakably personal and complex, and land a majority of their most potent punches by way of their incredible stars, particularly Kulig, who’s a genuine force of nature. 

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Blue Thunder (dir, John Badham 1983) Well enough with the heavy duty stuff, how about some retro popcorn chompin’ with Roy Scheider? That’s right, I hadn’t seen John Badham’s ultra busy police chopper saga since cable around 1985, and let’s be real here; I miss a cinema landscape where such concepts were the fodder for potential blockbusters. Especially with such a perfectly tuned everyman in Scheider leading a fun cast. So when the LAPD’s veteran helicopter team is introduced to the possible future of airborne law enforcement, all while politicians are murdered under mysterious circumstances, it’s a race against time before clandestine forces unleash a dark era of high tech survei- (looks around in 2020) Oh boy..We are in trouble, aren’t we? Malcolm Macdowell, Warren Oates, Candy Clark, and Daniel Stern turn this cool little “dad thriller” into something that continues to charm despite its very dated concerns. Oh, and about that bit where they “silently” (in a helicopter) oggle a naked woman through her window? 1983, WTF.

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Elysium (2013) It seems that every decade presents to me the occasionally ambitious yet flawed piece of filmed science fiction that hits me in all the sweet spots despite their large problems. Blomkamp's major studio lunge and miss from 2013 remains the kind of blunt force effort that speaks to my personal dreams and nightmares of daily living, and carries with it the kind of roaring fire in the belly that speaks directly to my lizard brain in ways years of literacy and education cannot shake.I see the problems, and yet they connect. ELYSIUM, remains a bit of an imbalanced mess. But it serves as a cold, righteously enraged warning of where we are headed should we fail our collective test come the end of this year. I love a great deal of ELYSIUM, simply because I do not want to live in a world where there is a fucking ELYSIUM.

Self-Quarantine Mini Reviews Volley 2

In this ongoing series, we will be sharing brief micro-reviews of all the films i’ve been watching/re-watching since the country went full clusterfuck. Because aside from staving away weight increase, and cabin fever, what else is a die hard film geek to do?

ON WITH THE SHOW!

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You Were Never Really Here (dir, Lynne Ramsay 2017) Ramsay adapts a short story by Jonathan Ames about a troubled ex-soldier (Joaquin Phoenix) who’s life as a hitman and retriever of trafficked children goes up against a terrifying network after a job that goes off a little too easily. A case of a brilliant director working in material that on the surface seems to be on a separate planet from their usual work. And yet somehow, there is a grizzled poetry to the way the film portrays manmade monsters as possibly the only ones capable of confronting true monstrosity. In a way, the film hews a little too close to our political reality right now, which is perhaps why I had a harder time sitting through it. Phoenix, is desolate and at times deeply frightening as a man hollowed out and haunted by what he has seen and done, yet may see new life on the other end - fraught with terrible visions as he may still be. Ramsay seems ready to confront the evils that persist long after corporeal evils have long been vanquished from the Earth.


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Opera (dir, Dario Argento 1988) A legendary diva loses her ability to perform a wildly avant garde production of Verdi’s Macbeth, which allows young up and comer, Betty (Cristina Marsillach) to take her place. And what follows is gialli and horror legend, Dario Argento’s last truly effective fever nightmare as murder begin taking place around Betty’s world. With a twist; she is often tied up and forced to watch as each murder takes place. Daria Nicolodi’s final film for Argento, makes for some inventive images, and genuine shocks. It’s an Argento piece, which means strange tangents, and the occasional plot mechanism that doesn’t really connect in any functional way. But to hell with sense, this is the stuff of bad dreams. Wait until the killer decides to amp up the kills, making for a final third among the best of his varied, yet indelible career.

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Delirium (dir, Lamberto Bava 1987) Why, Lamberto Bava, why? Not quite a horror film. Not quite softcore porn. By this point, it is so clear that Bava isn’t interested at all in giallo films, and is just going through the motions as long as some skin could liven up the shoot. He wants out, and it’s obvious. And it’s only made worse by way of some seriously dated sexual politics. Sure, it’s 1987. But give us something that feels like an inevitable conclusion. As it is, it simply reinforces the worst of the era’s impulses, and does little to recover the sheer invention Bava displayed when he directed DEMONS (1985) just two years before. And no, no amount of Serena Grandi can save this catastrophe from the pile as it never lands on what kind of film it really wants to be. It’s almost unwatchable despite some truly striking creature hallucination effects.


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Blood And Black Lace (dir, Mario Bava 1964) Sometimes you have to go back to your roots to understand what made a particular movement so powerful to so many. Based on the classic run of yellow jacketed mystery novels, the gialli pretty much movement found its footing in Italian cinema with this gorgeously filmed descent into murder, mayhem, and bizarre twists galore as murders surround a fashion studio and its many statuesque models continues to mount. Well established story backbones, and bare minimum characterization do wonders for a genre that later descended into bizarre mechanisms, and often superfluous experimental camerawork. Here, it all feels like a hellbent three strip technicolor nightmare that is surprisingly brutal for its time. Worth digging up the most recent restoration to watch on the biggest screen possible should such subject matter not bother anyone. I don’t remember Cameron Mitchell ever looking this cool. 


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Love Letters (dir, Amy Holden Jones 1984) Holden Jones’ personal request from Roger Corman after the mild success of her Slumber Party Massacre (1982) is a dramatic hard left centering on a young college radio DJ (Jamie Lee Curtis, in a career changing role) about to repeat history by having an affair with a married man (James Keach) It’s a Roger Corman production boldly breaking away from the usual genre fare he usually bankrolls for this small, challenging drama that seeks to more than reinforce arguments for traditional morality, it also highlights how hard emotions are to keep out of even the simplest excursions away from it. There is a murkiness here that turns this into a fascinating little character study. Curtis does a great job as a person unable to back away from a flame she herself imagined couldn’t spread. Matt Clark, is also great as her long suffering father. Perhaps the only real pained element here is the stipulation that the film required nudity. It’s pretty clear Jamie Lee, isn’t terribly comfortable. Thanks, Corman.


More to come soon!




Self-Quarantine Mini Reviews Volley 1

In this ongoing series, we will be sharing brief micro-reviews of all the films i’ve been watching/re-watching since the country went full clusterfuck. Because aside from staving away weight increase, and cabin fever, what else is a die hard film geek to do?

ON WITH THE SHOW!

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The Nightingale (Dir, Jennifer Kent 2018) Squirm-inducing honesty is the order of the day with Kent’s bold follow-up to her post-horror classic, The Babadook where a young wife and mother(Aisling Fanciosi), indebted to a monstrous British lieutenant in 1825 , loses everything, only to embark on a voyage of revenge and soul discovery when she enlists the help of an aboriginal man( Baykali Gamanbarr) with his own scars to tend to. Set in the early days of Australia’s colonization by England, Kent’s story makes zero bones about the misplaced cultural invective history has often laid out for nations overtaken by the white man. Pitting a young Irish woman alongside one of the many indigenous lives impacted by the encroachment of entitled patriarchy, we are given an unforgiving portrait of the cost history tends to accrue. Definitely not the easiest film to sit through, which seems par for Kent’s personal filmic course. And yet, there is a feral beauty to it all as both leads come to realize their place in this larger story, even if it means neither of them may live to see the climax. Unsparing beauty that is not for the faint of heart.

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Macabre (Dir, Lamberto Bava 1980) About as goofy as a half lucid italian retelling of a true american story about a woman who kept her lover’s head in a refrigerator could hope to be. Worth it if only for the utterly bugnuts opening “origin” sequence, as well as the final stinger scare. Bernice Stegers of XTRO fame gives another performance from outer space, and does so knowing that the entire film is about pushing shock to absurd places everywhere possible. Recommended only to those interested in the younger Bava (Demons)’s other work, as well as people who get a kick out of straight up, “did that just happen?” cinema. Bring a six pack and some friends, and you may get a twisted kick out of this one.

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Nighthawks (1981) Hadn't really seen this Stallone, William's, and Hauer action favorite since it was released, meaning I was way too young to fully digest it. And catching it with older eyes certainly makes me wonder how this ballsy piece of R-rated action succeeded despite going through several directors before reaching final cut. In the days before the easily corruptible Department of Homeland Security, international counterterrorism units were harvesting local police to help in what was rapidly becoming a new battlefield. Now hot on the path of a globetrotting mass killer for hire in Wulfgar, played deliciously by a pre-Roy Batty Rutger Hauer, "decoy" detective DeSilva and pals are tasked with cornering and stopping his reign of terror on his local NYC turf. Billy Dee Williams also dishes out some memorable work as a fellow cop who's the voice of reason as matters begin heating up. What makes Nighthawks so effective in its pre-911 bombast, is its willingness to expand 1970s grit into the more nasty, borderline slasher 1980s. In fact, the final product does feel very much like a French Connection sequel, which the project did begin life as. It's a good reminder of when Stallone's career was defined by more grounded characters, even as the world was on the verge of spinning out of control. And Hauer makes for a hard to forget monster.

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Starstruck (Dir, Gillian Armstrong 1982) Armstrong’s second narrative film (Her debut is the classic, My Brilliant Career) remains a criminally underseen early 1980s wish fulfillment musical. Packed with memorably quirky moments and characters, the story centers on an aspiring singer on the way to the top with the help of her bright, scheming cousin. The roles played with effortless charm by both Jo Armstrong and Ross O’Donovan. A colorful relic of the early “new wave” era, and an infectious time capsule of Sydney in the very early 1980s. A true discovery.

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The Parallax View (dir, Alan J. Pakula 1974) It's shocking how much life and experience can alter one's views on art. Once upon a time, I remember being wildly enamored with this made during the Watergate hearings tale of sheer paranoia as suspicion of the U.S. government was at an all time high. And now, a part of me wonders what it was back then that permitted such feelings. Helmed by the legendary Alan J. Pakula, the tale of one reporter's stumbling upon a deadly conspiracy after several witnesses of a politician's assassination begin turning up dead, feels like half of a great film and a great finale, without that pesky careful laying out of story beats before setting off the fireworks. As it is, the film feels as if it's missing some crucial information in order to better earn what is a deeply distressing finale. Warren Beatty, seems more than game. But the film seems unwilling to go the lengths Pakula would later delve with William Goldman's words a few years later. That said, Gordon Willis' cinematography for that finale is unforgettable. 

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Destroyer (Dir, Karyn Kusama 2018) I am a total sucker for propulsive, existential neo noir and Karyn Kusama’s turn face first into an industry legend aching for a disheveled makeover, does it with signature grit and at times even grace. Exploring the physical and emotional nuclear aftermath that is the film’s central detective character, Kusama and Kidman explore what it is to redeem oneself in a world that seems completely rudderless and without accountability. Her voyage to at last righting a wrong that took place fifteen years prior when she was a young, idealistic undercover cop, takes her back into hell in hopes of some light toward the end. But what a pitch black place to begin from, as time shifts back and forth where her present self resembles that of a seething, undeterred ghoul eager to retain some semblance of humanity, law be damned. The script by Hay and Manfredi, while feeling underdone in some respects, is enhanced by Kusama’s tense, thoughtful direction. And true to intent, Kidman’s performance is equal parts frightening and heartcrushing as a woman determined to leave this world having done one good thing for those she loves.

Just Because We Are Indoors..

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