Film Freak Central

Sundance '06: Adam's Apples

Adams æbler
*/****
starring Ulrich Thomsen, Mads Mikkelsen, Nikolaj Lie Kaas, Nicolas Bro
written and directed by Anders Thomas Jensen

by Alex Jackson Adam's Apples begins with a Danish skinhead (Ulrich Thomsen) getting off a bus at a halfway house out in the country and keying the vehicle as it drives away, immediately telling us that this isn't going to be a movie that seriously considers the economic origins and social ramifications of the Danish white-supremacist movement. The skinhead, whose name is Adam, meets the other inhabitants of the halfway house, which include an Arabic stickup-man (who speaks in adorably broken Danish and only robs stores he has a political beef with) and an obese, bearded, childlike sex offender just so the film can unfairly invite comparisons to Samuel Fuller's Shock Corridor. The halfway house is run by Ivan (Mads Mikkelsen), a widowed minister who may very well be crazier than his flock! He's kind of out of it, refusing to believe that his brain-damaged son isn't able to walk or talk and always firmly turning the other cheek whenever Adam confronts him with the obvious or beats him up in frustration. Ivan requires Adam to think up a short-term goal and follow through on it. Adam rebelliously wisecracks that he would like to bake an apple pie; Ivan, the good-natured idiot, assigns Adam to take care of the church's lone apple tree. Adam's Apples is a combination of the "Loveable Crazies" and "The Reformation of Grumpy Bear" sub-genres of pandering middlebrow pap. To tell you the truth, I'm not automatically opposed to these kinds of movies, insomuch as I count One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Rain Man among my all-time favourites. But what makes those films special is that they're understated, and so our emotional response to them is an honest one. Adam's Apples is glib: the apple tree symbolizes Adam's heart and it's afflicted by crows, maggots, and, after a particularly cruel episode with Ivan, a bolt of lightning. (This is all so obvious that even the characters pick up on it.) I'm puzzled about how the violence is ultra-graphic yet leaves little lasting damage (onscreen or off), while the snickering deus ex machina ending must be seen to be believed. The whole film--skinheads, bloody beatings, unhappy endings, the casual attitude towards the Holocaust, rape, and racism--is just so dishonest: writer-director Anders Thomas Jensen (The Green Butchers) wants to shock you but then pull back and say, "Just kidding." Adam's Apples is patented crowd-pleasing pap: neutered, cowardly, and sure to be a big hit among grandmas and pseudo-punk teenagers alike.

In Her Shoes (2005) [Widescreen] - DVD

**½/**** Image B Sound B+ Extras B-
starring Cameron Diaz, Toni Collette, Shirley MacLaine, Mark Feuerstein
screenplay by Susannah Grant, based on the novel by Jennifer Weiner
directed by Curtis Hanson

by Walter Chaw It looks like exactly the kind of formula chick-lit/chick-flick I detest, and not just because, for the most part, when you call something a "chick-" anything, you're doing it at the expense of the "Sex and the City" bimbos you imagine flock to this garbage like a swarm of Jimmy Choo shoe-flies. But Curtis Hanson, with In Her Shoes, overcomes (for an hour or so) that pigeonholing the same way he survived working with Eminem and Brittany Murphy--the same way he brought an adaptation of James Ellroy's un-adaptable L.A. Confidential to the screen and managed to tremor the delicate, carefully-sheathed grace nerve of Michael Chabon in Wonder Boys. His protagonists are worried about their weight, their bank account, and their shoes, of course, but Hanson (whose biggest accomplishment may be in disguising screenwriter Susannah Grant's propensity to pander to her audience in nasty, hypocritical strokes) makes those worries seem important in dissecting the psychology and interpersonal dynamics of his feuding sisters and wizened grandmamma. He shoots Philadelphia as though it were a blight and Florida like a shimmering summer daydream (or a Coppertone commercial)--and I thought that the moment that I would lose respect for it would come around the corner of every single epiphany, but it didn't arrive until admirably late in the game. It's a chick-flick, no question, but it's one with half a brain. Not much, but half a brain is half more than expected.

Pickpocket (1959) [The Criterion Collection] - DVD

****/**** Image A Sound A Extras A+
starring Martin La Salle, Marika Green, Jean Pelegri, Dolly Scal
written and directed by Robert Bresson

by Walter Chaw Manny Farber described the films of Robert Bresson as "crystalline," and it's hard to argue with the singular idea of purity represented by that word: they're all of gesture and implication, reduced down to the purest grist so that the powder of dramatic movements, rubbed together, might hum in miniature perfection. Diderot, Tolstoy, and especially Dostoevsky are sent to the kiln in Bresson, emerging at the end as a distillation thick with the observation that human behaviour, winnowed down, is only as mysterious as the mechanical motions of insects. When you use a term like "crystalline," you evoke clockwork--the inner workings of music boxes, say. It's wilfully, damnably, emotionally inscrutable, of course, and if it also calls to mind a watchmaker and his intricate art, then find another explanation for Bresson's fascination with, and eroticizing of, the secret life of hands.

Sundance '06: Thin

**½/****
directed by Lauren Greenfield

by Alex Jackson Everybody hates the anorexic/bulimics. It's a disease exclusive to spoiled white girls with "negative body image"--a pseudoscientific catchphrase of the pseudoscientific psychiatric community that dominated in the diagnosis-happy 1970s. While people in the rest of the world--the rest of the country, even--starve from hunger, these rich brats "restrict" themselves or "purge." Not helping matters any for Thin, the rare documentary to revolve around something other than Iraq or exotic animals, is that it's a film about an upper-middle-class disease targeted at an upper-middle-class audience. This is an easier subject for them to give their attention to, as well as an easier subject through which to vicariously enjoy victimization. In light of all that, I was very excited to see Thin: as a major in Family, Consumer, and Human Development, I'm fresh off studying the stage of adolescence where one of the chief obstacles is establishing order and direction in your life. Eating disorders are the purest form of achieving this--it's adolescence distilled to its very core. The anorexic/bulimic has a direction and a means of achieving order in her life. She wants to lose weight and will readily abuse her body in order to achieve that. Photographer-turned-documentarian Lauren Greenfield has made a compulsively watchable (and certainly professional) film, but I'm not sure that it really tells us anything about eating disorders. She's one of those objective observers, standing on the sidelines filming the girls doing their thing, which includes, yes, purging. No gory close-ups of the chucking, just an icy and tasteful medium shot through the doorway. Greenfield sidelines saying something about eating disorders by getting obsessed with the minutiae of disorder-centre politics, facilitating lots of good storytelling but little in the way of great art. It's not the lack of velocity or passion that gets to me, it's Greenfield's naïve idea of Truth. She seems to think that Truth is achieved by absolving yourself from a perspective, whereas I believe it's achieved through taking on multiple perspectives. I kept wanting to hear something like West Side Story's "I Feel Pretty" on the soundtrack, or see anorexic/bulimics equated with the monks who forgo worldly pleasures and flog themselves. I wanted something a little nutty, something that would charge me up and get me thinking, but the film is unilateral and unblinking.

Sundance '06: Cinnamon

*½/****
starring John Bowles, Erin Stewart, Ashley Bowles, Larry Bowles
written and directed by Kevin Jerome Everson

by Alex Jackson Taking my cue from the official description in the Sundance Film Festival Film Guide, I've been referring to Cinnamon as "the black race-car driver movie." Depiction of race in the movies is a real dilemma: being black is either meaningful or meaningless. If it's meaningful, that means that the black identity is distinguished from non-blacks and is more or less alien and incomprehensible to non-blacks. If being black is meaningless, well, then why make a racing movie with an all-black cast? You see the problem. I don't know what "black" is, but whatever it may be, Cinnamon isn't black enough. The actors (despite the digital cinematography, laggard pacing, and lack of score, it's not a documentary) were cast at best out of convenience and at worst in an attempt to artificially beef up the film's esoteric quotient. (It's not just a Sundance movie about race-car drivers, it's a movie about black race-car drivers.) It doesn't really matter, though: in addition to not being black enough, Cinnamon isn't human enough. This is a film with tunnel vision: Cinnamon and everybody in it are interested in racing cars and little else. The distinct personalities of the characters blur into one another until they're one big cipher reciting shoptalk about how they need to shorten their time. Director Kevin Jerome Everson offers no psychological, sociological, or philosophical motivation for why these people race, they just do. Cinnamon is a nothing movie, and not even a particularly well-made one. Scenes don't build, individual moments don't build, and the film is disjointed and messy. What heat it has is generated by its cinéma vérité format--it's unprocessed and raw and the intentional emptiness fools you into thinking you're purging all the impurities of a diet of popular cinema from your body.

Mr. Frears Presents: FFC Interviews Stephen Frears

January 29, 2006|My first glimpse of lanky British director Stephen Frears was in passing as he took shelter from a frigid early-December wind in a doorway in front of Denver's historic Brown Palace Hotel. Iconoclastic at the least, Frears turned his back on a career in law and began his tutelage in the arts at the Royal Court Theatre under Karel Reisz and, eventually, Lindsay Anderson, on whose fantastic If... he worked before making his feature debut with Gumshoe in 1971. A two-film partnership with playwright Hanif Kureishi later yielded My Beautiful Laundrette and Sammy and Rosie Get Laid, and they, along with the magnificent Joe Orton biopic Prick Up Your Ears, brought Frears to the attention of Hollywood, where he's since had his share of ups (Dangerous Liaisons, The Grifters, and High Fidelity) and downs (Hero and Mary Reilly, high-profile flops made back-to-back for the same studio).

Sundance '06: The Ground Truth

The Ground Truth: After the Killing Ends
**/****
directed by Patricia Foulkrod

by Alex Jackson Too often I feel that critics and audiences place documentaries at the kid's table, refusing to critique them on the same level they do fiction films. Narration from the director, sit-down interviews with the subjects--in terms of filmmaking, we let documentaries get away with a lot of really primitive shit we probably wouldn't otherwise. Patricia Foulkrod's The Ground Truth is a pretty good rant, but not much of a movie; Foulkrod made it because she had a burning desire to say something, not because she had a burning desire to make a film. There's no excitement or joy in the aesthetics, it's all dreadfully utilitarian--just enough to illustrate her thesis without unduly affecting the audience. In part because there's no narrative, The Ground Truth doesn't have any dramatic high points, either: for the entire duration, it rumbles on the same low growl. Still, the film gets you good and angry, and because it's in that emotionally and cinematically vacant tradition of documentary-making called "objectivity," you know that you're getting angry off the ideas in it. The film is about how post-traumatic stress disorder is undiagnosed and untreated among veterans of the second Gulf War and how the media's whitewashing of the war's civilian casualties only exasperates the situation. If we were to truly "support the troops," we would have to acknowledge the damage they have caused the Iraqi people as well as the toll this has taken on their minds, hearts, and souls, to say nothing of their support for the actual war. To suppress the evil (necessary or otherwise) of the second Gulf War is an act of wilful naivety and a deflation of our troops' sacrifice. It's pitiful that a film like The Ground Truth had to be made, but it did.

Sundance '06: Jewboy

***½/****
starring Ewen Leslie, Naomi Wilson, Saskia Burmeister, Leah Vandenburg
written and directed by Tony Krawitz

by Alex Jackson Following his father's death, Orthodox Jew Yuri quits his rabbinical training and applies for a job as a taxi driver. He's mad at God, mad at his Jewish faith, and eager to experience a world that has been denied him all his life. Jewboy is perhaps the best Martin Scorsese film Martin Scorsese never made--and by that I mean, of course, the Scorsese of Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, and The Last Temptation of Christ rather than the more imitated (and imitable) Scorsese of Goodfellas or Casino. This is a serious film about existential despair obviously borne of a deep religious conviction, though whatever his similarities to the prototypical Scorsese-ian protagonist, Yuri's angst is a distinctly Jewish one. With his dead father a rabbi and his grandmother a Holocaust survivor, the weight of keeping the tradition is far too heavy a burden for Yuri to carry, particularly since his Jewish identity now only touches dead nerve-endings--he no longer finds any solace in the old rituals--and is retained (as illustrated in a scene where he pulls a prostitute out of his cab while covering his hands with his coat, careful not to violate Jewish law) solely by honed instinct and a fear of the unknown. Particularly remarkable--and a testament to the talent of Aussie writer-director Tony Krawitz--is that while the 52-minute film maintains a perpetually subjective perspective, Yuri's mindset is never externalized onto his surrounding environment: Yuri's Sydney is far from the Hell on Earth of Travis Bickle's New York. It's banal and ordinary, of particular interest to Yuri and Yuri alone. When he goes into a pornography store, the sex worker is breastfeeding under a blanket; it's just an ordinary workday. Hardly a Scorsese wannabe, Krawitz proves himself a kindred spirit working in the same key.

Sundance '06: The Proposition

*/****
starring Guy Pearce, Ray Winstone, Danny Huston, John Hurt
screenplay by Nick Cave
directed by John Hillcoat

by Alex Jackson In his review of Rene Cardona's exploitation quickie about the Jonestown Massacre Guyana: Cult of the Damned, Roger Ebert describes how Cardona ends the film with photos of the real-life victims while the audience is solemnly reminded "that those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it," prompting Ebert to crack, "So remember, don't drink cyanide." I only wish that John Hillcoat's The Proposition were that lucid in delivering its Important Lesson. This is a movie at least as gory and brutal as Eli Roth's Hostel, the highlights being an exploding head and an extended, Gibson-esque flogging of a prisoner. And Hillcoat loves flies: they're always buzzing over the carrion, the human corpses, the gourmet meals, and the sweat of the film's grotesquely hairy Australian men. I don't have a problem with gore per se, but I do have a problem with the self-important joylessness with which it's depicted here--and frankly, The Proposition hasn't any justification for its austere tone. The proposition of the title is offered by Captain Stanley (Ray Winstone) to Irish criminal Charlie Burns (Guy Pearce); Stanley has captured Charlie's 14-year-old brother Mike and is prepared to hang the two of them for the murder of a family that included Stanley's pregnant sister-in-law. If Charlie can find and kill his second brother, the truly evil Arthur (Danny Huston), then both he and Mike will be absolved of their crimes. This sounds like a fairly standard western plot, but Hillcoat treats the material like Schindler's List. While I can't readily identify who we're meant to sympathize with, the characterizations aren't particularly nuanced: Mike is a victim; Arthur is a bastard; Stanley believes in justice; and Charlie, as played by straight-arrow Guy Pearce (a persona cultivated in L.A. Confidential and subverted in Memento), is a reluctant hero. The violence is moralistically ugly and we derive no vicarious pleasure from identifying with the anti-heroes, though in light of the equally moralistic finale, violence is shown to be just, too. The Proposition, then, can't be called either anti-violence or particularly nihilistic in its viewpoint. Good guys die horribly, bad guys die horribly, neutral guys die horribly--yet the ending shows that some deserve to die horribly more than others.

Thumbsucker (2005) + The Chumscrubber (2005) - DVDs

THUMBSUCKER
**/**** DVD - Image A- Sound B+ Extras B
starring Lou Pucci, Tilda Swinton, Vincent D'Onofrio, Keanu Reeves
screenplay by Mike Mills, based on the novel by Walter Kirn
directed by Mike Mills

by Walter Chaw With the brief reprieve offered the Sundance imprint by Junebug now smelling a lot more like "fluke" than "trend," find Mike Mills's underwhelming Thumbsucker, another Sundance sensation so familiar in its affected suburban quirk that its peculiarities seem like formula and its attacks on middle-class perversity and malaise seem all too comfortable. There simply isn't much heart left in this pursuit, this punching of holes into the façade of planned communities and their plastic citizenry--this central conceit of broken people leaning on psychic crutches as the apocalypse of the day-to-day cascades in on them in blue, stylized waves.

The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada (2005)

*½/****
starring Tommy Lee Jones, Barry Pepper, Julio Cesar Cedillo, Dwight Yoakam
screenplay by Guillermo Arriaga
directed by Tommy Lee Jones

by Walter Chaw Crash by way of Cormac McCarthy, Tommy Lee Jones's "fuck you" of a mouthful The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada is another fairytale salvo from the race divide, fired from that good place that results in cultural artifacts so unbearably cheesy and proselytizing that any potential heat is lost long before the second reel has finished unspooling. It's about serendipity, this elegy for the American West, hence no transgression is left unredeemed in its long, rambling, "it's good for you, so swallow it" narrative, with blame going in equal portion to Jones--whose smug, smarter-than-you are attitude has shoehorned him into prestigious position as the resident asshole of Man of the House, Men in Black II, and The Missing--and screenwriter Guillermo Arriaga (21 Grams, Amores Perros), who paints every Mexican in the film in the same shade of saintly. (All the gringos, on the other hand, have a lot to learn about the grand mystery of being human.) It's tedious, unsurprising stuff, this picture--the kind of thing that gets the Right in a bunch about how Hollywood is a tool of the subversive Lefties while making smart folks on both sides of the Culture War cringe before its condescension.

Flightplan (2005) [Widescreen] - DVD

*½/**** Image B- Sound A Extras B+
starring Jodie Foster, Peter Sarsgaard, Erika Christensen, Sean Bean
screenplay by Peter A. Dowling and Billy Ray
directed by Robert Schwentke

by Walter Chaw The bad guys have a plan and to pull it off they need only total omniscience and omnipotence, putting Robert Schwentke's Flightplan in the company of hysterical caper flicks like Arlington Road--though it's also the kind of hysterical estrogen melodrama à la Mildred Pierce in which Jodie Foster specializes these days. Between this and Panic Room, it almost seems as if Foster is taking tough maternal roles to protect the over-exposed, maybe-exploited child actress she used to be, to the point where the quality of the project itself comes second.

Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World (2006) + Why We Fight (2006)

LOOKING FOR COMEDY IN THE MUSLIM WORLD
*/****
starring Albert Brooks, John Carroll Lynch, Sheetal Sheth, Fred Dalton Thompson
written and directed by Albert Brooks

WHY WE FIGHT
**/****
directed by Eugene Jarecki

by Walter Chaw The most frustrating thing about Albert Brooks's crushingly boring, infuriatingly unfunny Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World (hereafter Comedy) is the possibility that such was the intention all along. 'Lost in Arabia' (well, India and Pakistan--let's not get crazy, here) finds Brooks doing a high-wire act with post-modernism--the same one he's been doing his whole career, as it happens. At some point, though, it's fair to wonder how long you can push self-awareness before it finally flies apart in a storm of narcissistic deconstruction. Mull over, if you will, a moment where Brooks (as Brooks) recreates one of his classic gags--involving the world's most ironically-tragic ventriloquist--in the middle of an interminable stand-up routine staged in a New Delhi auditorium, closing his act with the dummy (the wooden one) drinking a glass of water. It's Brooks, and Brooks's film, in microcosm: a man who returns the term "mortification" to ritual and religion while being incapable of subsuming the belief that he's still the smartest guy in the room. The trick of Comedy is that in making a movie that isn't very funny about a man who isn't very funny in the middle of a gulf of cultural misunderstanding that's especially not very funny, Brooks hopes to draw a corollary between how the troubles of the world boil down to everybody's inability to communicate. As revelations go, it's not earth-shattering. Guess it goes without saying that it's also not worth the effort to get there.

The PianoTuner of EarthQuakes (2006); Mutual Appreciation (2006); Unknown (2006)

THE PIANOTUNER OF EARTHQUAKES
*½/****
starring Amira Casar, Gottfried John, Assumpta Serna, César Saracho
screenplay by Alan Passes and The Quay Brothers
directed by The Quay Brothers

MUTUAL APPRECIATION
***½/****
starring Justin Rice, Rachel Clift, Andrew Bujalski, Seung-Min Lee
written and directed by Andrew Bujalski

UNKNOWN
½*/****
starring Jim Caviezel, Greg Kinnear, Bridget Moynahan, Joe Pantoliano
screenplay by Matthew Waynee
directed by Simon Brand

by Walter Chaw The Quay Brothers, Stephen and Timothy, are marvellous animators, having shepherded stop-motion and a disquieting biomechanical ethic into a series of notably discomfiting shorts, more than one of which pays tribute to their hero/mentor Jan Svankmajer. I met their 1995 transition to live-action features (Institute Benjamenta) with equal parts excitement, curiosity, and trepidation--I believed they'd be a little like either fellow animator-turned-director Tim Burton or those masters of a form who overreach by switching to a different medium, à la Michael Jordan. The truth is somewhere in-between, as the Quays have retained a bit of their glacial patience and a marked affection for created environments but have miscalculated the extent to which our fascination with animate clockworks translates into a commensurate fascination with people sitting around, staring at a wall. The former inspires existential thoughts on the nature of sentience; the latter generally inspires boredom. No question in my mind that something's lurking in the Quays' underneath, but it's important to mark that fine line distinguishing fascination from obtuseness for the sake of itself. Exploring the waking/dreamlife divide is interesting--but it's neither original nor terribly useful when the main tactic seems to be to conjure up pomposity-inspired sleepiness.

Two for the Money (2005) [Widescreen] - DVD

**/**** Image B+ Sound A- Extras B-
starring Al Pacino, Matthew McConaughey, Rene Russo, Armand Assante
screenplay by Dan Gilroy
directed by D.J. Caruso

by Travis Mackenzie Hoover Finally, a movie as loud and incoherent as Al Pacino himself. He's the resident corruptor of Two for the Money, and the film gives him massive monologues of dubious insight just so the Duke of Hambone can do his thing. Sadly, he's not the one running the show--that honour belongs to the perpetually-ripped Matthew McConaughey, whose role requires him to look mesmerized as Pacino talks of things that "pucker your asshole to the size of a decimal point." Two for the Money sure has that effect: the experience is assaultive in so many ways that you're likely to be riveted even as you wish it would all go away.

Transamerica (2005) + Mrs. Henderson Presents (2005)

TRANSAMERICA
**/****
starring Felicity Huffman, Kevin Zegers, Fionnula Flanagan, Graham Greene
written and directed by Duncan Tucker

MRS. HENDERSON PRESENTS
*½/****
starring Judi Dench, Bob Hoskins, Will Young, Christopher Guest
screenplay by Martin Sherman
directed by Stephen Frears

by Walter Chaw Duncan Tucker makes his hyphenate debut with Transamerica, one of the first pictures distributed by the Weinsteins under their new aegis. Predictably, all the earmarks of the earnest indie genre Miramax blazed are cemented into place: it's over-written when it's not overreliant on a soundtrack of ethnically-cued melodies (the wood flute marks the appearance of an Indian, for instance) and folksy ballads (I challenge you not to 'pit up when a tune about a rose blooming accompanies our hero swapping his "outie" for an "innie"); narratively creaky; and hangs its hopes on its star, Felicity Huffman, to impose nuance where there is none. Huffman's performance being the sort of stunt in a minor independent film that plays fast and loose with smug liberal paternalism should guarantee her an Oscar nomination--and it can't hurt that another Leonardo DiCaprio doppelgänger arrives post-Michael Pitt in the form of Kevin Zegers, trailing a little pathos and a little inappropriate titillation on his thin shoulders.

The Scalphunters (1968) - DVD

**/**** Image A- Sound B
starring Burt Lancaster, Shelley Winters, Telly Savalas, Ossie Davis
screenplay by William Norton
directed by Sydney Pollack

by Alex Jackson In that glorious blow-job-thinly-disguised-as-a-documentary Stanley Kubrick: A Life in Pictures, director Sydney Pollack claims to remember Pauline Kael's pan of 2001: A Space Odyssey "very well." A decade later, he says, the film was considered a classic--suggesting that Kael was seriously out of touch when she reviewed it, I guess. Pollack fails to mention the punch line, though: in the same piece, a notorious essay called "Trash, Art, and the Movies," Kael exalts Pollack's own The Scalphunters! 2001 is pretty lousy art, she decided, while The Scalphunters is pretty great trash. Between the two, she frankly prefers The Scalphunters.

Match Point (2005)

***/****
starring Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Scarlett Johansson, Emily Mortimer, Matthew Goode
written and directed by Woody Allen

by Walter Chaw Match Point is a quasi-Patricia Highsmith flick about a rudderless Ripley cruising like a shark amongst England's polite society, and the extent to which it works has to do with the degree to which its philosophy of chance and living with ghosts attaches itself to the zeitgeist. The picture opens with a shot of a tennis ball lobbed low and in slow-motion into the top of a net, an image that has as its echo a key moment where a wedding ring tossed towards a river rebounds against a fence into the street. The voiceover talks about the common fear that our lives are governed by happenstance and entropy, transforming the ball going forward into a metaphor for winning--and back into one for losing. Using this as gospel, it's interesting to wonder what it means that, when push comes to shove, our hero's victory is defined by his defeat. Match Point is Woody Allen's best film in some time, which is a left-handed compliment at best; better to say that it's another decent millennial fable about class, the vicissitudes of fate, the reptilian hunger of infiltrating the social strata, and living with ghosts.

Glory Road (2006) + Last Holiday (2006)

GLORY ROAD
½*/****
starring Josh Lucas, Derek Luke, Emily Deschanel, Jon Voight
screenplay by Christopher Cleveland & Bettina Gilois and Gregory Allen Howard
directed by James Gartner

LAST HOLIDAY
*/****
starring Queen Latifah, LL Cool J, Timothy Hutton, Gérard Depardieu
screenplay by Jeffrey Price & Peter S. Seaman, based on the screenplay by J.B. Priestley
directed by Wayne Wang

by Walter Chaw There are two big laughs in Disney/Jerry Bruckheimer's African-American Hoosiers, Glory Road. The first comes when some white guy says derisively, "Can you imagine what basketball dominated by Negroes would look like?", while the sight of defeated Kentucky coaching legend Adolph Rupp (Jon Voight), vilified by history perhaps unfairly (though there's no question that he's vilified unfairly by this film), mourning the loss of the National Championship Game to an upstart team prompts the second. Both moments speak to the biggest problems in a film riddled with little ones: the former because it makes the audience complicit in--and comfortable with--the picture's callousness and casual blanket racism, and the latter because everything that happens in the film is already a foregone conclusion. The only appeal left is rooted in seeing the black players put on exactly the kind of degrading sideshow the picture suggests they're too human for. Glory Road is smug, offensive, and ignorant in the way that films with no self-awareness are ignorant--wrapped in a story designed specifically to make people cheer and believe that this one game in 1966 changed peoples' attitudes towards African-Americans in sports instead of simply bolstering the idea that the black athlete was advantageous and alien rather than just merely alien.

Tristan + Isolde (2006)

*/****
starring James Franco, Sophia Myles, Rufus Sewell, David O'Hara
screenplay by Dean Georgaris
directed by Kevin Reynolds

by Walter Chaw After bravely transforming the Robin Hood legend into a case of thirtysomething love jones with Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, Kevin Costner's well-known ex-best friend Kevin Reynolds turns the Tristan + Isolde legend into a WB/TIGER BEAT-friendly, mouth-breathing bodice-ripper indicated by lots of backlighting, orgasmic slow-mo, and dialogue purple enough to blind a Bronte sister. It's shot like a perfume commercial and written like a florid creative-writing exercise, one packed with such AM Gold, Luther Ingram treasures as: "Why does loving you feel so wrong?" Well, it might have something to do with said love being the basis for the Guinevere/Lancelot adultery story in which a woman comes between a king and his most trusted knight, leading to the ideological and literal collapse of a kingdom. Or it might have something to do with the fact that the actors playing the lovers in question never for a moment manage to spark the soggy tinder packed beneath the story. This allows a great deal of time for the sentient beings left in the audience after the ten-minute-mark exodus to suss out why this thing was delayed, then dumped in the middle of the January dead zone. It also, incidentally, caused me to fantasize about somehow harnessing the ability of films like this to make 125 minutes feel like six days for youth-giving effects and racing box scores.

Dark Water (2005) [Unrated Widescreen Edition] - DVD

***½/**** Image A Sound A Extras C+
starring Jennifer Connelly, John C. Reilly, Tim Roth, Dougray Scott
screenplay by Rafael Yglesias, based on the novel by Koji Suzuki
directed by Walter Salles

by Walter Chaw Dahlia (Jennifer Connelly) is having a nightmare. Dark water's flooding into the ramshackle apartment she's been forced to rent with young daughter Ceci (Ariel Gade) now that husband Kyle (Dougray Scott) has left her for another woman, where she encounters the visage of her spiteful alcoholic mother. Connelly's performance throughout, but especially within these few seconds, is so complex, so almost-physically wrenching, that the knowledge that Dark Water was badly-marketed, critically-savaged, and largely-ignored stings all the more. Specifically, the moment in question underscores how far from the usual supernatural thriller this picture aspires to be: a ghost story in which the hauntings are golems of the soul instead of ectoplasm, cold spots, and rattling chains. In many ways, Dark Water works as an update of Jack Clayton's The Innocents, another story of a single woman in a strange place, beset by children and other reptiles of the spirit. And in return, that image of corrupt water invading a woman's place of sanctuary with her daughter, already laden with archetype, gets a bracing shot of genre smarts.

Film Freak Central's Top 10 of 2005

January 9, 2006|After a year, 2004, wherein we indulged in the fantasy that we could forget our recent past in favour of better tomorrows, 2005 finds us obsessed with the things we've lost (especially children), the things we deny, and the difficulty of living with ghosts. It was a reflection of our political landscape split starkly into a Yeatsian twain between the worst, with their passionate intensity, and the best, lacking all conviction--the ultra-conservatives producing more of the same old tired, divisive hate (The Island showed that even Old Scratch could be predictable and boring) and the ultra-liberals producing high-minded garbage that either studiously avoided a point-of-view (The Interpreter, The Constant Gardener, Kingdom of Heaven, Syriana) or was so clearly left-wing proselytizing that it jettisoned context and energy in favour of bland political allegory (Good Night, and Good Luck.). The reason Bush Jr. won a second term is that he ran unopposed--and after the disastrous year the Grand Old Party had under him as their fearless leader, the real tragedy is that there's still no strong message in any opposing party to fill the void. Which explains, I guess, why the most ambivalent, overtly politicized films of the year were not only ultimately mediocre, but also made by a guy who taught himself how to finally direct an almost-passable film on the trial-and-mostly-error backs of three of the most highly-anticipated films of all time (George Lucas and Revenge of the Sith) and the king of everything for everyone (Steven Spielberg and his War of the Worlds and Munich). The blatant exceptions were Christopher Nolan's genre Munich (Batman Begins) and David Cronenberg's A History of Violence, a film that says volumes about vengeance and the delusions of the righteous while trapped in the body of a good old American, sexy dames and guns-a-blazing, neo-noir.

The Flesh Eaters (1964) - DVD

*½/**** Image A Sound A Extras B-
starring Byron Sanders, Barbara Wilkin, Rita Morley, Martin Kosleck
screenplay by Arnold Drake
directed by Jack Curtis

by Alex Jackson When I pan Jack Curtis's The Flesh Eaters, I want you to know that this isn't code to go see it anyway. Watching it, I found myself wondering from time to time if I was no longer capable of appreciating movies like The Flesh Eaters. Comparing my happy memories of Night of the Creeps and the collective work of Ed Wood to this, I've decided that they really do have something that The Flesh Eaters does not. This isn't a "good" bad movie, friends, it's just a bad one.

Broken Lizard's Puddle Cruiser (1996) + The Dukes of Hazzard (2005) [Unrated - Widescreen] - DVDs

Puddle Cruiser
½*/**** Image C- Sound C- Extras C
starring Jay Chandrasekhar, Kevin Heffernan, Stephen Lemme, Paul Soter
screenplay by Broken Lizard
directed by Jay Chandrasekhar

THE DUKES OF HAZZARD
ZERO STARS/**** Image B Sound B+ Extras C
starring Johnny Knoxville, Seann William Scott, Jessica Simpson, Burt Reynolds
screenplay by John O'Brien
directed by Jay Chandrasekhar

by Walter Chaw The first film from what would become the comedy troupe Broken Lizard, Puddle Cruiser was completed and released in 1996 on a budget of a quarter of a million dollars and enjoys the dubious distinction of being irrefutable evidence that Jay Chandrasekhar and company are as funny now as they always were. Something about Chandrasekhar's Adam Corolla-on-quaaludes persona rubs me exactly the wrong way: it isn't the delivery, really, so much as the pervasive sense of smug superiority, not to mention the hostility and, while we're at it, the fact that he's just not funny. With Puddle Cruiser, he's created a film best described as a carbon copy of Noah Baumbach's debut pic Kicking and Screaming--the key difference between them that Chandrasekhar and co-writers Kevin Heffernan, Steve Lemme, Paul Soter, and Erik Stolhanske are woefully out of their element as scenarists, gag writers, actors, you name it. That Broken Lizard has attained a level of popularity now with garbage like Super Troopers, Club Dread, and The Dukes of Hazzard is astonishing, if not as astonishing as Chandrasekhar having helmed a handful of episodes from the brilliant "Arrested Development"'s first season. Goes to show that even a glib asshole can't ruin a gifted cast, pitch-perfect script, or ironclad premise.