(Nardo Castillo, 1989)
This salvage job sat on the shelf for five years waiting for Kevin Costner to get famous, and the doctors mainly applied themselves to the surface - it's so smooth and tidy it seems pasteurized. Too bad about the content. A period tale of a commie-sympathizer with family troubles - who does more rum-running than gunrunning and not too damn much of that - its vast problems inhere in its absences. The jarringly discontinuous narrative tilts at themes of justice and honor in its spare time, but scene follows scene without the slightest sense of purpose, let alone momentum. Those secondary characters that don't vanish outright are as remote and unreadable as the camerawork, which is maddeningly reliant on master shots - this is one of the least cinematic pieces of cinema I've ever seen. While Costner's incongruously modern, cool blandness does nothing to jolt the movie out of its torpor, even he fares better than poor Sara Botsford, saddled with a halloween flapper costume and Esperanto accent. Her usual clipped murmur almost disappears entirely beneath the street noise and foot-shuffling of the awful location sound, and her big reveal at the end is embarrassingly stupid and perfunctory.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Groundstar Conspiracy
(Lamont Johnson, 1972)
This psychological espionage flick has a great sneering turn by George Peppard as the bad cop, persecuting amnesia victim Michael Sarrazin for a murder he can't remember committing. George's passion for surveillance results in a variety of multimedia eavesdropping scenes, adding to a generally angular, percussive production - from the crisp television-style shooting to Paul Hoffert's unpredictable score to the funky flashbacks, things keep on moving, and there's a reasonable amount of wit to the dialogue. But the big reveal at the climax is nothing memorable, and after that the movie screeches to a halt before it has really ended.
This psychological espionage flick has a great sneering turn by George Peppard as the bad cop, persecuting amnesia victim Michael Sarrazin for a murder he can't remember committing. George's passion for surveillance results in a variety of multimedia eavesdropping scenes, adding to a generally angular, percussive production - from the crisp television-style shooting to Paul Hoffert's unpredictable score to the funky flashbacks, things keep on moving, and there's a reasonable amount of wit to the dialogue. But the big reveal at the climax is nothing memorable, and after that the movie screeches to a halt before it has really ended.
The Grey Fox
(Phillip Borsos, 1983)
1901 as seen by a time traveller from the 1860s - stagecoach bandit Bill Miner emerges from 33 years in jail to find a world of gadgets that peel apples, trains that lumber across the landscape, and film shows that immortalize great train robbers. And so Phillip Borsos layers his tale of humanity outside the law with the self-conscious countertheme of movies interacting with history, an apt concern for what has got to be the most physically gorgeous film ever produced in this country. Its endless panoramas quickly become glowing demonstrations in the construction of mythology, only the dramatics are so intimate that it never becomes grandiose; every character and every extra radiate a deep, unknowable humanity. And the preoccupation with mythology is shared by Miner himself - as played by the lovable Richard Farnsworth, he's a mad artist, a 'nobody' with an eye on immortality. His ramblings take him from clam farming to a mining refuge to a surprisingly moving tryst with Jackie Burroughs' countercultural photographer, punctuated by train heists of varying fortune, and it's all majestically understated and penetratingly droll. Borsos even sneaks in a visit to his beloved cooperage, tangible evidence of how close this one feature was to his own heart. That he was subsequently devoured by the hack machine is why people hate Canadian movies.
1901 as seen by a time traveller from the 1860s - stagecoach bandit Bill Miner emerges from 33 years in jail to find a world of gadgets that peel apples, trains that lumber across the landscape, and film shows that immortalize great train robbers. And so Phillip Borsos layers his tale of humanity outside the law with the self-conscious countertheme of movies interacting with history, an apt concern for what has got to be the most physically gorgeous film ever produced in this country. Its endless panoramas quickly become glowing demonstrations in the construction of mythology, only the dramatics are so intimate that it never becomes grandiose; every character and every extra radiate a deep, unknowable humanity. And the preoccupation with mythology is shared by Miner himself - as played by the lovable Richard Farnsworth, he's a mad artist, a 'nobody' with an eye on immortality. His ramblings take him from clam farming to a mining refuge to a surprisingly moving tryst with Jackie Burroughs' countercultural photographer, punctuated by train heists of varying fortune, and it's all majestically understated and penetratingly droll. Borsos even sneaks in a visit to his beloved cooperage, tangible evidence of how close this one feature was to his own heart. That he was subsequently devoured by the hack machine is why people hate Canadian movies.
The Great Land of Small
(Vojta Jasny, 1987)
There's something deeply dislikeable about this movie; it's over-projected, desperate, with loud, glazed performances. With several blatant overtures toward The Wizard of Oz, this distinguishes itself by having the least colorful entourage imaginable - the sullen and grating little Fritz, the twinkling-hobo of your nightmares Mimmick, and a big guy in a beard with a repulsive human dog. The kids look like they've been drugged and threatened, but are fun to watch in a circusy way; and I admit that the Oz-like Land of Small itself is pretty trippy, especially when a series of wire-work butterfly dances give way to an icky, globular beast named Slime-O that is a direct ancestor of Ed Hunt's Brain. But Fritz's quest to retrieve his gold dust from the dusted-out hunter is a pretty thin motivator, and the intensely familiar family scenes subtract additional interest.
There's something deeply dislikeable about this movie; it's over-projected, desperate, with loud, glazed performances. With several blatant overtures toward The Wizard of Oz, this distinguishes itself by having the least colorful entourage imaginable - the sullen and grating little Fritz, the twinkling-hobo of your nightmares Mimmick, and a big guy in a beard with a repulsive human dog. The kids look like they've been drugged and threatened, but are fun to watch in a circusy way; and I admit that the Oz-like Land of Small itself is pretty trippy, especially when a series of wire-work butterfly dances give way to an icky, globular beast named Slime-O that is a direct ancestor of Ed Hunt's Brain. But Fritz's quest to retrieve his gold dust from the dusted-out hunter is a pretty thin motivator, and the intensely familiar family scenes subtract additional interest.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The Jerk
(Carl Reiner, 1977)
Steve Martin's first feature embeds a pretty much unretouched wild-and-crazee-guy character into a stock Hollywood rags-to-riches scenario. While he's overplaying to the hilt, the camera is deadpan, and so are the other performers; this gives it a classic feel. But it's also got random bursts of absurdist energy that keep you on your toes. The plot is such a foregone conclusion that all the substance comes from the random yet somehow obvious jokes they scatter about the surface, and these are a lot of fun. Bernadette Peters is great as the primary love interest, especially when she faces off with the secondary love interest, a hilariously butch circus performer. The racial comedy of the setup is impressively controlled; the joke is always on this dumb white guy. And while Martin knew all too well that his loud moron act had its limits, here he's milking it for all it's worth instead of gesturing nervously at the strange world of good taste.
Steve Martin's first feature embeds a pretty much unretouched wild-and-crazee-guy character into a stock Hollywood rags-to-riches scenario. While he's overplaying to the hilt, the camera is deadpan, and so are the other performers; this gives it a classic feel. But it's also got random bursts of absurdist energy that keep you on your toes. The plot is such a foregone conclusion that all the substance comes from the random yet somehow obvious jokes they scatter about the surface, and these are a lot of fun. Bernadette Peters is great as the primary love interest, especially when she faces off with the secondary love interest, a hilariously butch circus performer. The racial comedy of the setup is impressively controlled; the joke is always on this dumb white guy. And while Martin knew all too well that his loud moron act had its limits, here he's milking it for all it's worth instead of gesturing nervously at the strange world of good taste.
All of Me
(Carl Reiner, 1984)
You can understand why Steve Martin wanted to escape from under his crazed hipster act and upgrade to romantic leading man status. But this career goal should have been sat on for one more movie, because what's wrong with what on paper must have been a farce is that Martin is all it has. To get to his brilliant half-possessed business in the second act you have to endure a painfully miscalculated first half hour where Martin stands there reacting to all manner of silly goings-on around him, and gets all the laughs anyway. It was smart to push Martin's flailing antics up front, but the decision to do this by lowering everyone else's energy level creates great dips whenever the supporting players get their turns. Lily Tomlin's deadpan snoot routine as the dead heiress is remarkably lifeless and miscalculated - stuck in her mirror, not once does she draw a smile. Aside from Richard Libertini's dum-dum swami, the rest of the movie is an infestation of straight men, often at direct odds with the needs of the script. When, for instance, they underplay the whirlwind-of-wacky-reversals climax, they are burdened with the expectation of making sense, which is a non-starter. The absolute low point in directorial judgment is allowing Steve to go "Excuuuuse me!" at Tomlin; pretty desperate.
You can understand why Steve Martin wanted to escape from under his crazed hipster act and upgrade to romantic leading man status. But this career goal should have been sat on for one more movie, because what's wrong with what on paper must have been a farce is that Martin is all it has. To get to his brilliant half-possessed business in the second act you have to endure a painfully miscalculated first half hour where Martin stands there reacting to all manner of silly goings-on around him, and gets all the laughs anyway. It was smart to push Martin's flailing antics up front, but the decision to do this by lowering everyone else's energy level creates great dips whenever the supporting players get their turns. Lily Tomlin's deadpan snoot routine as the dead heiress is remarkably lifeless and miscalculated - stuck in her mirror, not once does she draw a smile. Aside from Richard Libertini's dum-dum swami, the rest of the movie is an infestation of straight men, often at direct odds with the needs of the script. When, for instance, they underplay the whirlwind-of-wacky-reversals climax, they are burdened with the expectation of making sense, which is a non-starter. The absolute low point in directorial judgment is allowing Steve to go "Excuuuuse me!" at Tomlin; pretty desperate.
Wild in the Streets
(Barry Shear, 1968)
This is a cynical film whose attitude toward the alienated youth it lampoons suggests that it was really aimed at the kind of stodgy geezers they send to the concentration camp (like AIP's Jim Nicholson for instance). The generation gap and a bit of alienated Vietnam commentary for the kids are the only real issues of substance that come up, and if you want evidence that the comedy is not fully developed just look at how they waste Richard Pryor. But watch it with an audience and its camp value comes front and center: the burlesque is so single-minded that it takes on some real momentum as it goes on. Christopher Jones, with his talk show hair, is nothing special as the rock star, although the Mann-Weil songs he gets to sing are surprisingly good. The biggest laughs were for Diane Varsi's acid casualty, although Shelley Winters also hits the right notes as Jones' hyperactive mother, and Hal Holbrook does a great Martin Sheen as the governor.
This is a cynical film whose attitude toward the alienated youth it lampoons suggests that it was really aimed at the kind of stodgy geezers they send to the concentration camp (like AIP's Jim Nicholson for instance). The generation gap and a bit of alienated Vietnam commentary for the kids are the only real issues of substance that come up, and if you want evidence that the comedy is not fully developed just look at how they waste Richard Pryor. But watch it with an audience and its camp value comes front and center: the burlesque is so single-minded that it takes on some real momentum as it goes on. Christopher Jones, with his talk show hair, is nothing special as the rock star, although the Mann-Weil songs he gets to sing are surprisingly good. The biggest laughs were for Diane Varsi's acid casualty, although Shelley Winters also hits the right notes as Jones' hyperactive mother, and Hal Holbrook does a great Martin Sheen as the governor.
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