Movie Musings

Bring on the Robert Downey Jr. snark, I’m jonesing for my fix. “Haven’t we had enough?” you ask, after three prior films and who knows how many forthcoming sequels. Possibly. But Tony Stark’s off-the-cuff remarks and sharp-tongued sarcasm are still the best thing about this series in my opinion.

In this film, Stark waxes lyrical about how we create our own enemies. To hammer home the point, the film immediately begins with a flashback to New Year’s Eve 1999—the genesis of one such foe. Guy Pearce’s Aldrich Killian is effectively introduced, and a comicbook-esk dolly shot gives us all the villainous backstory we need. At this Eifel 65-scored party we also meet Tony’s bodyguard, Happy Hogan, who’s played by former director Jon Favreau. Though sticking around as an actor and executive producer, Favreau has handed off the directorial reins to Shane Black.

Black, who also co-wrote the screenplay, seems well-fit with the franchise. After establishing a rapport in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005), it was Robert Downey Jr. who suggested bringing Black on for the next Iron Man installment. His and Drew Pearce’s screenplay coherently balances Stark’s personal struggles with Iron Man’s larger-than-life celebrity, though Black’s greatest directorial competency is perhaps his willingness to step aside and let Downey Jr. do his thing.

That said, there is another self-imposed enemy for Tony Stark. It is a personal vulnerability, a foil to his egotistic persona. He lives with a post-Avengers awareness. His memories of NYC destruction and invading aliens and black holes induce debilitating anxiety attacks. Isn’t this a ham-handed plot device, an obvious attempt to inject personal conflict that fits within the self-created enemy theme? Yes, it is. But then, this is a comicbook film, and we don’t ask for much more.

We do ask for thrilling setpieces and sustained bouts of action, and Iron Man 3 faithfully delivers. There is a breathtaking sequence involving Air Force One and a sort of skydive routine. It’s quite the stomach-in-your-throat spectacle, managing to impress in spite of our heightened expectations. There are a handful of other tense action sequences, and the fact that Stark spends so much time out of the suit undoubtedly adds to the anxiety.

Most of the film’s problems—stemming from the superficial screenplay—are minor. The first act doesn’t insinuate the forthcoming drama as well as it hopes, plotlines are drawn with machine-like prescription, and a couple character motivations come off disingenuously. We accept these flaws without reservation, for again, this is a comicbook film. But the genre as a whole faces a deeper dilemma.

I had a hard time remembering whether or not I’d seen Iron Man 2 until a friend brought up the Mickey Rourke character and the Grand Prix scene. In a way, my murky recollection reveals one of the most pervasive symptoms of the superhero genre. We remember the heroes, but not their stories. The plotlines are throwaway, but the one-liners stick with us.

This is how I feel about Iron Man 3. Even if I’ve forgotten the narrative details by the time I’ve left the theater, I’m still laughing at the witty dialog and relishing the Robert Downey Jr. charm. He is a superb entertainer, and this is a damn fine piece of entertainment. In fact, Iron Man 3 proves that, if done right, maybe we haven’t had enough of the Tony Stark snark just quite yet.

3/4

Derek Cianfrance is a very talented young director. I thought that after Blue Valentine, and his latest film—an ambitious saga about fathers and sons, nature and nurture, death and destiny—has me convinced he’s capable of great things. Take the opening moments. We get anxious knife-play shots of a shirtless Luke Glanton (Ryan Gosling), somewhat of a small-town celebrity who performs motorcycle stunts for a traveling circus. As Glanton leaves his trailer, a lengthy handheld shot follows him to his performance. The opening credits flash over this incredible continuous take that eventually circles around to reveal Luke’s face. “Welcome to the cinema,” it seems to announce, “now sit back and enjoy the show—you’re in good hands.” (It’s also worth noting that this shot continues—without a cut—through the beginning of the three-motorcycle performance. Of course, in this day and age, it may have been achieved through any number of digital manipulations; but still, the sustained shot is arguably as impressive as the motorcycle ball of death stunt itself.)

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Christopher Kenneally’s Side by Side—produced and narrated by Keanu Reeves—contrasts a number of digital and analog techniques used in the film industry. Although primarily focused on image acquisition (that is to say, the cameras themselves), the documentary also addresses editing (Moviolas vs Avids), special effects (practicals vs CGI), color correction (timings vs grades), distribution (film vs digital projection), and archival (hard drives vs, well, film). It’s wonderfully technical, and film nerds worldwide should enjoy what it has to offer.

Also contrasted are the opinions of a number of prominent filmmakers. It’s interesting to hear where some of the greatest living directors and cinematographers fall on the topic of digital cinema. Early digital champions like George Lucas and James Cameron weigh in, as do revolutionary early adopters like Danny Boyle and Robert Rodriguez. Some filmmakers lament film’s decline, while others downright fear the digital takeover (Christopher Nolan and his DP Wally Pfister, for example, come off as stubbornly defiant). Most, however, seem to have embraced the opportunities the new medium affords. Even iconic auteurs like Martin Scorsese and David Lynch appear to have thrown in the celluloid towel.

If Side by Side deserves commendation for examining historic digital revolutions and comparing eclectic modern-day sentiments, it could probably use some criticism for its surface-skimming presentation. A few platforms go unrepresented, and many feel barely exposed. Still, Side by Side’s provocations are downright fascinating, its unanswered questions the most intriguing. Even if we can map out film’s demise as an image acquisition medium, there are still so many unknowns. What impact have Netflix and Redbox had on traditional theatrical distribution? What about the prevalence of smartphone- and tablet-delivered content? What about the possibility of in-home 4K? And what should we make of large-budget television dramas like Breaking Bad and Boardwalk Empire? And what about Netflix’s House of Cards? Will the two-hour feature film even be a valued artform by the end of the century? Is it even now?

3/4

It’s probably not fair to draw comparisons to Citizen Kane and The Third Man, but Baz Luhrmann’s The Great Gatsby shares so many narrative similarities that it’s hard not to go there. Of course Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jay Gatsby doesn’t live up to the mystique of Orson Welles’s Charles Foster Kane or Harry Lime, but comparisons nevertheless may reveal where this film fell short.

To be clear, DiCaprio’s performance isn’t really an issue—in fact, it’s one of the best things going for Gatsby (although, perhaps, nothing more than we expected). Instead, it’s Baz Luhrmann and Craig Pearce’s screenplay that most fails the film. Take the first act, by far the weakest stretch. Speaking to his psychiatrist, Tobey Maguire’s lackluster Nick Carraway recalls his years as an aspiring bond broker in 1920s New York, setting up a trite frame narrative. He catches up with his cousin Daisy (Carey Mulligan) and her husband, Tom Buchanan (Joel Edgerton). He does this and he does that, and to be honest, I’m not sure why we care. (I’d make a great shrink, wouldn’t I?) There are pacing issues, both within and without the scenes, and—especially when compared to the aforementioned masterworks—there’s no real anticipation, mystery, or dramatic weight.

When DiCaprio’s Gatsby finally appears—charismatic Cheshire cat grin and all—the film gets a much needed sense of direction. Like Welles, DiCaprio’s presence alone brings gravity to the film. Nick is drawn to his intrigue, and Gatsby’s uncharacteristic neighborliness peels back layers of extravagance to reveal his surreptitious past—including an unlikely vulnerability.

Carey Mulligan is adequate as Daisy, Gatsby’s long-lost love, the object of his desire and the covetable green beacon of his envy. Again, the role as written doesn’t aspire to Oscar-caliber evocation. Also, that Mulligan fails to convey Daisy’s irresistible charm is less a fault to her performance and more an insight to Gatsby’s character.

The film continues to pick up steam as it heads into its third act, and it’s here that a tension finally builds to a point of noteworthy culmination. A J-cut of an ice pick chipping away at a frozen block leads into this scene. The fact that it was my favorite moment of The Great Gatsby says a lot about the film as a whole.

The frozen mass of narrative that came before finally loosens up. Luhrmann finally creates dramatic tension and gives his cast the opportunity to flex their chops. As Edgerton and DiCaprio exchange blows, we realize that Maguire’s character is intentionally passive. His observant acquiescence throughout provides a contrast, a middle ground between two titans of masculinity—Gatsby’s childishly insecure self-made man and Buchanan’s recently cuckolded adulterer. The pillars of Fitzgerald’s novel are arguably some of the film’s best attributes. This is arguably its best scene.

When the narrative spits and sputters (as it often does), Luhrmann injects lavish production design and period-contrasting music. Both worked well for me, and the director’s sensibilities seem fairly well suited to the material here. Furthermore, Simon Duggan’s cinematography is beautiful throughout, and the 3D is tastefully employed. If you can ignore the labored narrative, there’s enough here to enjoy.

2.5/4

This piece is a little long. Hopefully you’ll forgive me. I had a hard time letting go.

Toy Story 3 opens with a Wild West action piece that borders on flamboyance. Boldly announcing the improved animation Pixar has developed in the 11 years since the previous installment, it nevertheless stays true to the playful and inventive introductions that have been there from the start.

In fact, this is a key competency of director Lee Unkirch’s Toy Story 3. Well aware of its roots, it not only wraps up one of the most revered animated series of all time, but does so with respect and authenticity. The resulting trilogy of films is one for the (and all) ages. Where the first film reveled in the creation of toy life and the second film pondered its meaning, Toy Story 3 gives it a satisfactory conclusion, even if it tearfully toys with its audience on the way there.

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Where the first Toy Story succeeds as a creation story, bringing life to a collection of inanimate playthings, the second installment works to define their lives. And for these toys, just as it is for humanity, the single most defining characteristic of life is that it must someday come to an end.

Our first encounter with toy mortality comes after Woody succums to a ripped stitch and is relegated to a shelf. We meet Wheezy—an old penguin with a conked-out squeaker—and, like Woody, come to realize that a toy’s life is not everlasting. Eventually you’re put on a shelf; and someday—if your worldview is as morbid as the Prospector’s—you may end up in a landfill. If you’re lucky, you’ll be tossed in the 25¢ bin at a yard sale, finding secondhand life reincarnate with a new child.

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You really have to admire the playfulness that comes through in the opening scenes of Pixar’s (also, the) first feature-length foray into digital animation. Just as Andy brings life to his toys with his cardboard cityscape and childhood imagination, Pixar animates them with an innovative eye and equally youthful creativity. Even seeing Toy Story a full childhood later (it’s been 18 years?!), the opening scenes are remarkably fresh—as marvelous and playful as ever.

Look at how animate these characters are! The facial expressions and the range of emotion that comes through their plastic faces is astonishing. Revel in the technical details too, as Pixar shows us they’ve nailed motion blur by sending Andy and Woody spinning around in a recliner.

But Toy Story is so much more than superficial fun and games with new technology. After my latest viewing, I was perhaps most impressed by the quality of the writing (and equally surprised to see Joss Whedon’s name attached). The second act conflict that emerges between Woody and Buzz resonates with genuine humanity, not to mention Woody’s internal conflict and the existential crisis that Buzz faces. There’s also tension between Woody and the rest of the toys back at home. As if the perfect contrast to its revolutionary animation, Toy Story’s writing is entirely by the book, screenwriting 101.

The spot-on casting and voice acting are also keys to Toy Story’s charm. For an entire generation of moviegoers, the voices of Tom Hanks and Tim Allen will be most associated with Woody and Buzz. This is perhaps even more true for the perfectly cast supporting players, including Don Rickles as Mr. Potato Head, Jim Varney (of Ernest fame) as Slinky Dog, John Ratzenberger as Hamm the piggy bank, Annie Potts as Bo Peep, R. Lee Ermey as Sarge the toy soldier, and (my personal favorite) Wallace Shawn as Rex, the cowardly green dinosaur. The combination of their pitch-perfect inflection with the animation’s affecting strokes transforms these trademark toys into polymotive characters.

I also admired how eloquently the script addresses prejudice and xenophobia. The “mutant” toys from Sid’s room are prejudged to be evil, terrifying creatures simply because of their appearance and relationship to Sid. In a poignant reveal, Toy Story teaches and reminds that one’s actions and character are what really count.

If Pixar were an adjective (Pixarian?), that would be its defining significance. Their films have an ability to transcend age, simultaneously teaching children and reminding their parents what’s really important in life. Often poignant, but never preachy, Pixar films have somehow managed to continually meet and exceed the high standard set by their first film, all the while staying true to the childlike playfulness that so clearly animates its opening scenes.

4/4

There’s a really telling moment about halfway through Harmony Korine’s Spring Breakers. It takes place during a heavily-armed montage set to Britney Spears’s “Everytime.” It’s funny, the juxtaposition of early 2000s pop ballad with bikini-clad robbery, and the use of indulgently overcranked slow motion really takes us along for the ride. The euphoria hits us much as it would our protagonists. Then there’s a close-up of James Franco with this shit-eating grill-grin on his face—I lost it, unable to keep myself together, bent over with hysteria. But then, before I can even finish my laugh, Korine cuts to a brutal shot of a gun coming down on a victim’s face with blood dripping onto the floor. I stopped laughing. Our spring break bandits didn’t.

It’s as if Brit and Candy (Ashley Benson and Vanessa Hudgens) have no conscience. The inner switch that flipped and told me, “this isn’t funny anymore,” doesn’t exist in them. They’re on a self-serving crusade, seeking out the next big thrill with a thirst for pleasure and an ignorance of consequence.

The same cannot be said for their two friends. Though it takes awhile for Cotty (played by the director’s wife, Rachel Korine), a brush with death finally flips her switch. For Faith (Selena Gomez), it comes much earlier. Gomez is surprisingly emotive as she convey’s Faith’s discomfort and unease with the way the group’s spring break is turning out. It’s an identifiable feeling, having one’s conscience kick in, and she’s instrumental in voicing what the audience has likely already begun to suspect.

Underneath cinematographer Benoît Debie’s glamorous, neon-hued representation of spring break runs an ominous undertone. Douglas Crise and Adam Robinson’s context-defying editing also suggest a propensity for peril. And it’s quite possible that the combination of these two elements best define Spring Breakers. It’s a provocative and hypnotic experience.

Still, there’s more at work beneath the surface. (Korine himself has mentioned the concept of “surfaces” being integral to Spring Breakers.) By bookending the film with gratuitous shots of spring break debauchery, one gets the sense that Korine is taking a derisive shot at the college-aged generation. Brit and Candy and their unbridled pursuit of selfish fun are analogous to today’s YOLO-mantric youth.

Note the pseudo-philosophy Korine has written in. In a phone call to her mother, Brit contemplates, “I think that’s the meaning of life, to just be happy and have fun.” In contrast with Faith’s earlier wish of pausing life and living in the moment forever, Brit’s ideology seems downright ludicrous. While Faith was aware that she was wishfully thinking, Brit genuinely believes that her philosophy is sound. She’s convinced that the way of life she’s discovered is sustainable. Korine’s commentary is scathing.

By the film’s conclusion, it’s plainly obvious that Brit and Candy have no misgivings. Even Franco’s Alien, fearless and feral throughout, reaches a point of humane doubt. “Are we really going to do this? Are we really going to do this?” His invitation to exit the highway of decadence repeats like a well-advertised rest stop. For Brit and Candy, there’s no getting out of the fast lane. From Korine, the suggestion might be, “grab a map.”

3/4

I realize we’re well into 2013, but I’ve been sitting on this mostly finished list for awhile now and have finally had enough time to put on the finishing touches. For the first time, I feel that I’ve seen enough movies in a year to put together a reasonably competent list of my 10 favorites. Without further ado, here it is. (Full musings linked where available)

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Michael Haneke is my kind of filmmaker. After watching Amour and now The White Ribbon, I’ve got a strong sense of not only the level of thought he puts into his work, but also the clarity with which he communicates those musings. His technique is arresting, but it’s the substance beneath the style that’s most rewarding.

Such is the case with The White Ribbon, a film that spawned a vigorous post-credit debate and called for immediate replay.

No doubt, much of the discussion stems from the mysterious whodunit plot that appears to be at the base of the film. It’s a worthy debate, given it’s the gravity of the narrative, but I have a feeling the specific source of the violent acts in the film is more of a MacGuffin for wider discourse.

Given its setting (a small village in northern Germany just before World War I), one could make a strong case that The White Ribbon is an allegorical examination of the origins of the Nazi Party (as Michael Phillips has pointedly done). Nevertheless, I feel the film raises even wider, more universal questions about the origins of evil and the depth of depravity found within the mirage of humanity. (Haneke himself has said that the film is about “the origin of every type of terrorism, be it of political or religious nature.”)

To a large degree, the urge to immediately revisit the film arises from the immense number of characters introduced in the first act. It’s a struggle just to keep up, and we spend most of the time trying to get our bearings straight. (So this child belongs to that person, and she’s his daughter, and wait, who’s this?) Throw in a foreigner’s reliance on subtitles and it’s not hard to see how telling details go unnoticed. Still, I have to wonder if this difficulty wasn’t an intended challenge raised by Haneke. If we are to have any chance of even beginning to understand the source of evil in this world, we must acknowledge the complex facts and circumstances from which it has arisen. And so it is in Haneke’s microcosm.

One of the most haunting effects to emerge from this encouraged analysis is our rationalization of the acts. In deducing the likely instigant, we reason out their motivations and choices until the acts of violence become logical. Can it be just the same with genocide? Is it really possible to logically deduce and rationalize the unthinkable act of murder, whatever the scale? Maybe it’s best to stick to the strait-laced retelling that our narrator employs, with hopes of casting new light on an age-old question. His opening voiceover is one of the telling details that I failed to fully appreciate the first time around:

“I don’t know if the story that I want to tell you reflects the truth in every detail. Much of it I only know by hearsay, and a lot of it remains obscure to me even today, and I must leave it in darkness. Many of these questions remain without answer. But I believe I must tell of the strange events that occurred in our village, because they may cast a new light on some of the goings-on in this country…”

3.5/4