(Gilles Carle, 1983)
For a period piece literary adaptation set in pioneer Quebec, this displays a fair amount of artistry and wit. Beautiful, for sure, but especially in the early scenes there's a surprising touch of irreverent energy, and the film takes an active interest in the outside world, whose technology and ideas only reach this remote outpost in occasional and partial driblets. There's also a lot of idle talk of 'savages', though, and that aspect of the outside world gets a much less considered hearing, with a few initial overtures to irony quickly overwhelmed and abandoned, and not a single native Canadian on screen. Instead, Nick Mancuso's freewheeling trapper is supposed to represent the so-called wild side while Donald Lautrec's snooty city slicker stands in for civilization, and the through line of the film involves Carole Laure's Maria Chapdelaine deciding whether to cast her lot with one of these extremes or with Pierre Curzi's featureless, lunkheaded settler. Alas, the game is rigged, as Mancuso is eliminated from contention by Darwinian means and Lautrec's straw-man antics cheat the themes in a way that the other urban incursions do not. But even if the contest was fair you'd hardly be on the edge of your seat, because Laure has zilch to do except stand around and look pretty; her character is so overridden with diaristic voiceover that she eventually starts to recall Christopher Lee in "Starship Invasions". The cliched Third Act Tragedy Cluster is no doubt attributable to Louis Hemon, but it's Carle who suffers the consequences, as the fragile and peripheral virtues of his version get buried in the snow.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Luther
(Guy Green, 1974)
This is one of those movies where the camera pivots at scene's end to a guy in a helmet who stares straight at you and spells out what's going on. This kind of alienation has nothing to do with Brecht - the whole stagebound ordeal lies frozen like a bug in amber, and while the camera pokes around despondently the quite estimable actors are often reduced to declaiming over its shoulder. Stacy Keach's monastery freak-out provides the only burst of energy, and what scant wit remains gets swallowed up by the Protestant history lesson, skipping from one Important Event to the next like a textbook. Godless cad that I am, I expect some razzle-dazzle with my theology.
This is one of those movies where the camera pivots at scene's end to a guy in a helmet who stares straight at you and spells out what's going on. This kind of alienation has nothing to do with Brecht - the whole stagebound ordeal lies frozen like a bug in amber, and while the camera pokes around despondently the quite estimable actors are often reduced to declaiming over its shoulder. Stacy Keach's monastery freak-out provides the only burst of energy, and what scant wit remains gets swallowed up by the Protestant history lesson, skipping from one Important Event to the next like a textbook. Godless cad that I am, I expect some razzle-dazzle with my theology.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Meatballs 3
(George Mendeluk, 1986)
Arriving well past the peak of its generic cycle, this candid piece of crap actually appears to be aiming at self-critique - convoluting the 80s sex comedy the way "Wes Craven's New Nightmare" went meta on the slasher movie. By sending Sally Kellerman's dead porn star to offer the geek (Patrick Dempsey!!) her purposefully dubious romantic advice, the movie bids to hold the shallow moral code of the entire genre up to the light. Without suggesting any positive alternative beyond its tauntingly limited critique of 'no means yes', it gently nudges its core audience to examine those values while throwing a lifeline to outsiders willing to pay attention. Unfortunately, the approach lends no additional resonance to the typically multitudinous boob shots and sun-and-surf montages scored to Loverboy songs. At least they netted some solid thespian support for their efforts - George Buza is a riot as Mean Gene, Shannon Tweed has fun earning her Love Goddess title, and Al Waxman and Maury Chaykin enliven their disappointingly fleeting bits. But just as the first Meatball triumphed by marginalizing the deluded creeps, the third one stumbles by shunting aside the one likable human being in the entire narrative. We want Isabelle Mejias! We want Isabelle Mejias!
Arriving well past the peak of its generic cycle, this candid piece of crap actually appears to be aiming at self-critique - convoluting the 80s sex comedy the way "Wes Craven's New Nightmare" went meta on the slasher movie. By sending Sally Kellerman's dead porn star to offer the geek (Patrick Dempsey!!) her purposefully dubious romantic advice, the movie bids to hold the shallow moral code of the entire genre up to the light. Without suggesting any positive alternative beyond its tauntingly limited critique of 'no means yes', it gently nudges its core audience to examine those values while throwing a lifeline to outsiders willing to pay attention. Unfortunately, the approach lends no additional resonance to the typically multitudinous boob shots and sun-and-surf montages scored to Loverboy songs. At least they netted some solid thespian support for their efforts - George Buza is a riot as Mean Gene, Shannon Tweed has fun earning her Love Goddess title, and Al Waxman and Maury Chaykin enliven their disappointingly fleeting bits. But just as the first Meatball triumphed by marginalizing the deluded creeps, the third one stumbles by shunting aside the one likable human being in the entire narrative. We want Isabelle Mejias! We want Isabelle Mejias!
Meatballs
(Ivan Reitman, 1979)
Summer comedies about teenagers trying to get laid usually appear to emanate from amoral Martians with three Y chromosomes, and the ones that measure in sentimental subplots to balance the humour usually only underline their innate douchebaggery. So it's a shock and a delight to discover that the movie that started it all is something else entirely. His eye on the brass ring, Reitman is no fool; he knows that depth of characterization and tonal control are hard Hollywood currency. But in the light of all that followed, I found his deployment of these questionable conventions not just deeply pleasurable but deeply moving. No jocks and no tits, but it's not just mercies of omission: without neglecting the usual hormonal absurdities, this film shows amazing affection and admiration for kids of all genders fumbling their way through the minefields of intimacy and consent. Riding on top of this business is Bill Murray in his first showcase, and already his caustic non-sequiturs are inseparable from his modest humanism: the "it just doesn't matter" speech is definitive. His scenes with sad outsider Chris Makepeace are a confidently integrated case study in the morality of irony, and Reitman's handling of the climactic foot race is the final proof that he's ready for the big leagues.
Summer comedies about teenagers trying to get laid usually appear to emanate from amoral Martians with three Y chromosomes, and the ones that measure in sentimental subplots to balance the humour usually only underline their innate douchebaggery. So it's a shock and a delight to discover that the movie that started it all is something else entirely. His eye on the brass ring, Reitman is no fool; he knows that depth of characterization and tonal control are hard Hollywood currency. But in the light of all that followed, I found his deployment of these questionable conventions not just deeply pleasurable but deeply moving. No jocks and no tits, but it's not just mercies of omission: without neglecting the usual hormonal absurdities, this film shows amazing affection and admiration for kids of all genders fumbling their way through the minefields of intimacy and consent. Riding on top of this business is Bill Murray in his first showcase, and already his caustic non-sequiturs are inseparable from his modest humanism: the "it just doesn't matter" speech is definitive. His scenes with sad outsider Chris Makepeace are a confidently integrated case study in the morality of irony, and Reitman's handling of the climactic foot race is the final proof that he's ready for the big leagues.
Melanie
(Rex Bromfield, 1982)
Working a straight romantic drama, Bromfield's penchant for caricature becomes agonizing, his sentimentality toxic, his leisurely tendencies definitively turgid. You sit there scouring the lingering closeups of Glynnis O'Connor for anything resembling information - did this really need to run 109 minutes? He does find occasional outlets for his low-key wit, but no one has ever described Burton Cummings as 'low-key', and of course his central presence is the movie's fascinating focal point. Playing an egotistical, booze-and-coke fueled, writers blocked creep of a rock star is not much of a stretch for the man - they even steal his real-life album cover. For a while, on counterpoint to O'Connor's inspirational quest for love and literacy, plunking away at his piano and acting obnoxious, he gives the movie what energy it has. But he can't navigate the treachery of the romantic narrative - their convergence is not just unlikely, it's inexplicable, and he's no less obnoxious afterwards. Paul Sorvino is too good for the movie so it makes sense that he just disappears, and I demand a sequel explaining exactly what that black maid has been doing with herself as she sits unpaid in that empty shack for the middle 100 minutes.
Working a straight romantic drama, Bromfield's penchant for caricature becomes agonizing, his sentimentality toxic, his leisurely tendencies definitively turgid. You sit there scouring the lingering closeups of Glynnis O'Connor for anything resembling information - did this really need to run 109 minutes? He does find occasional outlets for his low-key wit, but no one has ever described Burton Cummings as 'low-key', and of course his central presence is the movie's fascinating focal point. Playing an egotistical, booze-and-coke fueled, writers blocked creep of a rock star is not much of a stretch for the man - they even steal his real-life album cover. For a while, on counterpoint to O'Connor's inspirational quest for love and literacy, plunking away at his piano and acting obnoxious, he gives the movie what energy it has. But he can't navigate the treachery of the romantic narrative - their convergence is not just unlikely, it's inexplicable, and he's no less obnoxious afterwards. Paul Sorvino is too good for the movie so it makes sense that he just disappears, and I demand a sequel explaining exactly what that black maid has been doing with herself as she sits unpaid in that empty shack for the middle 100 minutes.
Middle Age Crazy
(John Trent, 1980)
For about a half-hour this exceptionally well-acted, technically impeccable film looks like it is going to perform a miracle - a narrative about the plight of the upwardly mobile husband that is not only sufferable, but dazzling. Bruce Dern feels trapped by his meaningless job and needy family, and over the course of a chaotic 40th birthday party we enter his head in a series of fantasies/rants that capture his dilemma with exceptional wit and vigor. The critique may center on the plight of the breadwinner, but the film's condemnation of suburban values is comprehensive and convincing, passionate and prescient. And having set this high bar of insight and energy, the film then runs smack into it. It kinda makes sense that Dern's philandering cowboy fantasy is the only out he can come up with, but when this doesn't work out so good the film takes that as proof that aspiring for something better is an exercise in futility. And because this conclusion is reached via a long slide from the inventive exuberance of the initial critique, the effect is doubly oppressive and wholly unconvincing: no shallower than the hit-the-road Easy Riderism it reacts against but a lot less fun. Welcome to the 80s! Also, Dern's 'son' looks older than he does.
For about a half-hour this exceptionally well-acted, technically impeccable film looks like it is going to perform a miracle - a narrative about the plight of the upwardly mobile husband that is not only sufferable, but dazzling. Bruce Dern feels trapped by his meaningless job and needy family, and over the course of a chaotic 40th birthday party we enter his head in a series of fantasies/rants that capture his dilemma with exceptional wit and vigor. The critique may center on the plight of the breadwinner, but the film's condemnation of suburban values is comprehensive and convincing, passionate and prescient. And having set this high bar of insight and energy, the film then runs smack into it. It kinda makes sense that Dern's philandering cowboy fantasy is the only out he can come up with, but when this doesn't work out so good the film takes that as proof that aspiring for something better is an exercise in futility. And because this conclusion is reached via a long slide from the inventive exuberance of the initial critique, the effect is doubly oppressive and wholly unconvincing: no shallower than the hit-the-road Easy Riderism it reacts against but a lot less fun. Welcome to the 80s! Also, Dern's 'son' looks older than he does.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The Masculine Mystique
(John N. Smith, 1984)
I think this was Smith's first effort at combining documentary material with dramatic techniques, and it's a real and unique fusion. Four NFB filmmakers describe their relationships with women, then act out scenes from these relationships, and then harangue each other over what they're doing wrong. In spite of what you'd fear, the balance between these elements is very well handled - the dramatics lead the chatter instead of the other way around. All manner of real-life kids, mothers and wives are given as much screen time as their charisma will sustain; Stefan Wodoslawsky's vexed dating life generates the most textured drama - in part, I suspect, because his opposite number does seem to have some training in performance. Of course, the sausage-party format can get annoying, as is ultimately the point: this is a narrow cross section addressing a doggedly finite range of personal dilemmas. But as someone from that side of the table I was struck not just with how universal emotional incompetence and egotism seem to be, but that candor, introspection, and insight are just as pervasive. These people are all volatile and unpredictable works in progress, and the camera really lets us into their lives - and then, all praise to the magic of cinema, lets us back out again.
I think this was Smith's first effort at combining documentary material with dramatic techniques, and it's a real and unique fusion. Four NFB filmmakers describe their relationships with women, then act out scenes from these relationships, and then harangue each other over what they're doing wrong. In spite of what you'd fear, the balance between these elements is very well handled - the dramatics lead the chatter instead of the other way around. All manner of real-life kids, mothers and wives are given as much screen time as their charisma will sustain; Stefan Wodoslawsky's vexed dating life generates the most textured drama - in part, I suspect, because his opposite number does seem to have some training in performance. Of course, the sausage-party format can get annoying, as is ultimately the point: this is a narrow cross section addressing a doggedly finite range of personal dilemmas. But as someone from that side of the table I was struck not just with how universal emotional incompetence and egotism seem to be, but that candor, introspection, and insight are just as pervasive. These people are all volatile and unpredictable works in progress, and the camera really lets us into their lives - and then, all praise to the magic of cinema, lets us back out again.
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