An (Unfair) Comparison of Fight Club and Up In The Air

Up In The Air was Jason Reitman's latest campy romance, another decent story told the wrong way. And the more I watched, the more I realized Up In The Air was the exact opposite of Fight Club.
It's a bizarre, almost unfair comparison, but stay with me. I think I can use David Fincher's masterpiece to point out the flaws in Air's philosophy. I could do this with a lot of movies by just comparing them to better ones, but I think Fight Club and Up In The Air have a lot in common.
Well, first we have to admit that Fight Club's central themes are accurate. For the sake of argument, we will.

Another Movie Review This Week: Frost/Nixon - Boring/Lies

Anyone can become Richard Milhous Nixon. They mass-produce the little masks and sell them during Halloween. In 2008’s Frost/Nixon, Frank Langella becomes the notorious ex-president almost as well as Nixon himself, complete with a prosthetic nose and several pounds of Hollywood makeup. But it wasn’t just a mask – Langella captured the core of Nixon, a broken-down old man who feels remorse for the Watergate scandal. Only, what actually happened is much different.
The fallen president has recently resigned from office. He’s old, fat and discouraged about retiring until David Frost (Michael Sheen) baits Nixon with a surplus of cash in return for an unscripted interview. Nixon takes the money like a greedy child.
Frost, with his sculpted hair, plastic smile and oblivious attitude can’t get anyone to take him seriously, not even the audience in some cases. Because Frost had just been canned from his popular talk show, the Nixon interview was just a way for the unemployed man to make himself famous and meaningful again, but even Frost doesn’t seem incredibly concerned with the outcome.
For months, Frost’s team of investigators prepared hard-hitting questions to “take Nixon down,” implying that this vendetta is what America needed to move on. Frost picked some intelligent companions who uncover some damning evidence, but Frost also chose boring and two-dimensional people. Sam Rockwell plays the underdeveloped James Reston Jr. who’s only personality trait is getting angry about the former president. Executive editor Bob Zelnick (Oliver Platt) sits in the back, quietly sulking, occasionally angry about Nixon. Even John Birt (Matthew Macfayden) only defends Frost’s every boneheaded move and again, gets angry about Nixon.
The rest of the cast are forgettable, including whatever chick Frost was boning and Nixon’s uptight aides. Director Ron Howard truly only invested in Frost and Nixon, pitting them against each other to make the interview seem of extreme importance.
Historically, the interviews were insignificant in the sense that they didn’t change anything and were mostly forgotten. And watching the original tapes is little more than two boring people talking candidly. Unlike the drama on screen, Nixon almost never raised his voice and Frost’s stoic face never cracked.
The movie doesn’t mention that Frost interviewed Nixon almost ten years prior to the big one. In 1968, Frost visited the White House with his mother, celebrating Christmas with the Nixons for a campy fluff piece on how great America is. The interview was bland and lifeless, and that attitude didn’t change much by 1977.
Even what the interviews were supposed to signify was lackluster. Ford had already pardoned Nixon, so admitting guilt in Watergate would have done nothing. Besides, Nixon never did admit guilt, unlike what the melodrama in the film suggested.
All the interview did was line the pockets of an old, retired thief. All the movie did was make an unimportant debate seem like a justice was finally brought forth. It wasn’t.
But Ron Howard’s creation came out just after Obama was sworn into office, which wasn’t mere coincidence. In interviews and DVD featurettes, Howard compared Nixon’s abuse of power to President Bush’s similar administration. Howard was hoping to encourage a repeat in history, perhaps with a different ending.
So far this hasn’t happened, but if it does, one can expect the same results. Why would anybody expect a president, let alone anyone, admit to felonies and treason on national television? The Frost/Nixon interviews weren’t exactly Judge Judy. Bush would make the same excuses for his civilian-bombing wars, wiretapping and abuses of power that Nixon did. And Bush would also get away with it, several million dollars richer.
Broadcast journalism employs a lot of theatrics, but the leaps and bounds Frost/Nixon makes in the fact department are absurd. First of all, what’s with all the pseudo-documentary interviews with characters in-between scenes? It’s as if the drama couldn’t speak for itself, so Howard gave his spiritless supporting actors a couple more lines to explain the plot, all while inaccurately representing the real people they were based on.
The tension-building phone call between Nixon and Frost never happened, but from the screenwriter’s point of view, it makes sense to include it. It made the final interview seem like a bloodthirsty fight to the finish, pumping up the action so the climax was more rewarding. But one question remains: if they original story didn’t have enough action to begin with, so much that you have to falsify history to include excitement, why make a movie about it at all?

Entre Les Murs (from NAU's French Film Festival)

Entre Les Murs (Between The Walls and known as The Class in America) is a 2008 French docu-drama based on the real-life experiences of an inner-city school teacher named François Bégaudeau (played by himself under the name Mr. Marin.)

So you write this autobiographical account of problem kids in your (presumably) underfunded public school and then play yourself in the movie adaptation with a different name? Already this movie seems a little bizarre.

And it is. Hundreds of movies have been made about classroom settings, where screwed up kids are somehow made normal and educated by some random teacher. In fact, most adult movies about high schools make them out to be prisons (an accurate description if I say so myself) and every example from Sister Act 2 to Notes On A Scandal to the more recent release Precious just seem to up the ante. Make the kids as dark and troubled as possible.

Give a fat black girl an AIDS baby with Down syndrome and another on the way, impregnated by her rapist father. Make the girl stupid as hell and make her mother abusive and make it seem hopeless. Bam! Send in a lesbian teacher named Blu Rain and then, everything is better.

Which is why The Class is so out of it’s own league. None of the “problem” kids have any serious issues with drugs, sex, violence or even rock and roll. Their main issue is they’re a bunch of lazy teenagers. It’s a little more realistic and easier to relate to when the story isn’t bogged down with melodrama that most people don’t see in their high school experience. Drugs, death, etc, happens, but it’s not omnipresent.

As far as I can remember in high school, it blew as bad as being incarcerated. You couldn’t leave when you wanted, there were cops everywhere and the teachers didn’t care what you learned, so long as you passed the AIMS test (a type of educational parole) and didn’t complain. There were plenty of kids killing themselves with guns, razors or needles, but otherwise it was mostly boring. It wasn’t some kind of twisted soap opera. School is prison, sure, but it’s not exactly Oz.

In the end, the teacher in The Class really doesn’t change much in the attitude of the kids. He does a helluva good job compared to American school teachers, but he still can’t influence them deeply. So if even awful French education systems are better than American’s and can’t push this boulder uphill, maybe public school isn’t the answer.

No Understanding for Old Men

I rewatched No Country For Old Men and remembered all the confusion the movie caused two years ago. I wanted to write an explanation for those who "don't get it", but I've completely forgotten what I had to say. So I'm going on a tangent and maybe I’ll hit something.

Expect spoilers.

The Coen Brothers aren't inclined to explain the symbolism in their movies, which is why sometimes they confuse an audience. By the end of Barton Fink, Burn After Reading, Fargo and especially No Country, a lot of folks asked, what was the point of watching that?

You're not gonna find an explanation from the directors, but luckily No Country was their first adaption, so we can look to the book.

Wait, Cormac McCarthy is nearly as reclusive and ambiguous as the late J.D. Salinger. Oh well, you can read the book anyway and have a much closer guess.

It helps to note that the main character is Sheriff Bell, not Llewellyn Moss (played by Josh Brolin, the guy who dies in the middle). Here is a man caught in a vast wasteland overflowing with unspeakable violence and according to him, it didn't use to be this way. Now everything he ever understood is in chaos.

Still, the story centers around Moss, who stole $2 million dollars and let greed ruin his life. Everyone he knows or cares about is dead by the end of the film. It’s kind of a metaphor, so don’t look at it straight on.

Moss has the ultimate showdown with Anton Chigurh, more than once. This is because, really, Anton Chigurh represents the Grim Reaper. Anton, dressed in all black, carries an unusual weapon made for killing cattle instead of a scythe because in 1980 Americans reaped a much different crop. With few exceptions, anyone who meets or "sees" Anton meets a violent and untimely demise. One minor character asks, "Are you gonna shoot me?"

"That depends," Anton replies. "Do you see me?"

He says this with a wide, sadistic grin. He enjoys killing because he has nothing to lose. And undoubtedly, few people have met the Grim Reaper and lived to tell the tale (except for Bill and Ted).

Then there's his weird coin flipping habit, made to prove that death is all chance, but in every way it's inevitable. Everyone, from Moss to Sheriff Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) to Carson Wells (Woody Harrelson) deeply fears Anton (or should). He's the ultimate, formidable enemy and no one can stop him. They can only accept his existence.

Bell deals with Anton differently than everyone else, who get their heads blown off. He quits his job, finally “outmatched” by his environment. On his first day, Bell has nothing to do but sit quietly, muse over depressing dreams and wait for death to come anyway.

Somehow the ending is the most hated part of the film, but Bell's dream is the whole point of the movie. He describes it as his father traveling far ahead, starting a fire and keeping the cold, surrounding darkness warm. That's what death means to Bell -- being taken out of disastrous circumstances and into warmth with long lost relatives.

Only Carla Jean, Moss's wife, understands and doesn't completely fear Anton (Death). When she is confronted by Anton in the end, she calls him out on his insane nature. But arguing with Death doesn't get her far. It is only implied that she dies, but that implication is best. Here, she accepted her fate and fought for her life, if only using words. Out of all the characters in the film/book, she made her life the most meaningful.

But it all ends. Blah blah blah. The point of watching No Country for Old Men is to remind yourself that the world is violent, cold and dark and one day, it'll catch up to you. So it asks you, how do you face the callous cattle killing of Anton?

If you look at No Country for Old Men (even the title is directed at Sheriff Bell) this way, maybe you’ll appreciate the film a lot more. I suggest you rent it again and see if the message rings a little more true.

Spike and Mike's Sick and Twisted Animation Festival

When you hear the title, Spike and Mike's Sick and Twisted Animation Festival, you may think it's just a gaudy, violent and crude occasion for low-lifes who laugh at poo poo jokes to come out in public and scare the normals. I was hoping for that more than anything when Spike and Mike came to Flagstaff's Orpheum theater and it more than delivered.

But more than just inappropriate humor, Spike and Mike have aimed to showcase short animation that is foreign or independent, the type of artistic sweat that you may never see otherwise. The aim of the hosts may just be to act indecent, but they also warm the artistic heart.

It's also a throwback to a forgotten culture. I remember growing up that there used to be short animations before feature films. Now what do you get? Bradford fucking Howe, the Screenvision guy trying to sell you a damn cellphone or shell your soul over to the Navy. Unless it's Pixar, you don't get an appetizer before the main event. You get commercials and that's disgusting, not to mention soulless.

The 70's and 80's were full of independence: independent theaters, film fests, underground comics and animated shorts. These days, everything is a cookie-cutter chain store selling you shit from China. Things like Avatar and Wall*E should have big stickers that say MADE IN TAIWAIN all over it. Our entertainment is fake and boring and it's always been this way, but at least thirty years ago we had other options.

Spike and Mike (and little theaters like the Orpheum) are keeping ideas of independence alive. Their festival is brilliant, inspired and above all, controversial. It's not some bullshit, wiped-up and glossed over film about how we all need to be nice or save the environment. It's a feeding frenzy for those feverish primal urges everyone gets and a damn good excuse to get drunk while enjoying "the simple pleasures" in life.

It began with the eerie "Who's Hungry?" by David Oochs, which luckily I have found on YouTube. It's an eerie, dark retelling of Hansel and Gretel, perhaps the way it should have been told, but with some strong imagery invoking Hostel, a hand reaching from a blender, grabbing at a little girl's skull.

There were a lot of zombie flicks, such as Chainsaw Nurse and Touchdawn of the Dead. Zombies are just so easy to film, yet (as Shaun of the Dead proved) so good for humor. There were also rambunctious owls, dogs with electric collars and all the things you can dream of.

There were the occasional penis cartoons, satisfying the most primal desires, and maybe it's mindless entertainment. It's still beautiful and funny and important. Animation is an art that modern audiences are losing, Pixar nonwithstanding. Spike and Mike's Sick and Twisted Animation Festival is a celebration of an unappreciated, underground culture. We need more things like this in the world.

Sensationalism!

Say it with me: senSATIONalism! Really emphasize it.

[1.]

We live in a period of sensationalism. I don't want to say if that's good or bad, I just want to be in control of it, not the other way around.

But I'm discovering the limits of my mind and my memory, running up against too many walls. I have to write everything down, or I'll forget to do it. Sometimes, I take on a third persona (besides me and I) and almost treat my mind like a child. It's hard to explain, but maybe you know what I mean.

Why am I always so busy? Why have I started fast-forwarding to the best parts of everything? Why do I never have time to watch movies? Why is it, if I'm doing something, I immediately want to be doing something else? And why does nothing bring me happiness like it used to?

I can barely find the time to write these days. I only read on the toilet. I never take little museful walks like I used to. I'm always tired.

I really want to disconnect myself from the world. I guess I'm blaming the internet for my poor time management skills. But what else is there that's causing this? School may be part of it. But I know I will still be forever stuck like this even if I had a 9-5 job.

Whatever it is, I want answers to these questions. Many of my friends are probably going through this, but they don't have the time to even read this. As they say, TLDR. Good for them.

Like most of my solutions to problems, I want to take the drastic way out. I want to smash my cellphone, delete (deactivate) Facebook, Twitter and MySpace and uninstall Firefox. I'd be free! And it would feel excellent!

But I can't. This is possibly the only way I communicate with most of my friends these days -- through a motherfucking screen. As much as I loathe screeangers, I've become one.

It's a choice between mental health and freedom or friendship. I really can't decide. Finding a balance has been difficult and distracting.

I'm being pessimistic, exaggerating a little and it's possible no one cares. But I'm doing that to really put the problem in focus. These are sensationalist times we live in.

I want out.

[2.]

I have 40gbs of music. For some people, that's nothing. They have libraries of music bigger than entire generations created. That's cool. I'm happy with my 40gbs and every week, it increases, little by little.

The problem is, my mind could never, ever contemplate this entire library. I'm always forgetting bands or songs that I used to listen to for weeks. Whenever I go on trips, I try not to bring along an iPod and "fast" from music awhile. During that time, songs play in my head that I never recognize. It's agonizing, yet refreshing.

So what's the point of having all this music? It's not to show some kind of muscle. Most of it was paid for, so I'm not just taking it just to take it. I hate digital downloads because if my computer crashes, I will lose everything. Why am I afraid of losing something I can't fully understand or fully use?

I can never give equal attention to a band or album as I usually do, so when friends tell me a band I haven't heard is good, I usually just agree. Minus the Bear is a perfect example. I have all their albums, I've listened to three songs once and I went to their show two weeks ago. I told everyone how excited I was and talked up the band and when Minus came onstage, I was disappointed. All of Minus's songs sound the same, emo and kind of boring.

Does this make me a poser? I hope not. I can't stand the idea of being inauthentic, which is why I'm being so honest here. I think I'm just overwhelmed.

I would have to listen to my entire library for 22.8 days in order to hear every single song I own. This is (personally) impossible -- I've tried so many times. My computer is not a radio station and I am not a computer. I don't want to be either.

So what's the point?

[3.]

When a Bookman's first opened in my neighborhood, I was 14 and overwhelmed by the size and variety and volume of their used books, music, movies and video games. I actually became depressed for a day, because I was 14 and I became depressed about anything and everything. Moreover, I realized I would never be able to read all the great books in the world, never be able to hear all the great albums and never be able to see all the great movies.

Even if I live to 70, there isn't enough time.

So I immediately resolved to ONLY enjoy quality things. Yes, Bookman's turned me into a hipster. I became volatile about my opinions. They were the best! You can't argue!

If something was wasting my time, I would reject it. Which explains why I have about 25 books on my shelf that are half-read, probably 100 albums I've listened to once (if at all) and dozens of DVD's on a list that I will never, ever see.

Lately, since the spring, I've just been indulging in stupid things on purpose. B-movies and vintage comic books and shit like that. Trying to sabotage myself. I want to break away from this idea I gave myself that being properly entertained was the best way to live.

So, no, I really don't give a fuck anymore what the greatest movie is. Is it Citizen Kane or Citizen I-Have-Better-Things-To-Think-About? I haven't seen it. I won't see it. And so I haven't seen a lot of excellent films. Maybe I wasn't born having already seen every fucking thing Robert Ebert gave two thumbs up.

And are The Beatles the greatest band in history? I don't care. Half of them are dead anyway, so it does them no good. It does no one any good. I don't care if I only own the White Album. As Scroobius Pip said, "Thou shalt not put musicians and recording artists on ridiculous pedestals, no matter how great they are, or were. The Beatles were just a band. Led Zeppelin, just a band . . ." etc.

I'm over all the hype we give artists. Over it, over it, over it.

Don't even get me started on books.

Anyway, NPR, Spin and hundreds of other publications are riding on the last wave this decade has, really dragging it out and making all kinds of lists. The Best This of the '00s or The Best That of The New Millenium.

I was going to do my own list, but really? Does it matter? Furthermore, isn't it a little early to tell? A best of the '60s TODAY is a hundred times more practical than one that was released in '69. Or maybe it's the other way around, but I think it depends on what people are STILL listening to.

I've noticed something else. Some bands like Radiohead, The Velvet Underground and tons of others market their music by saying (literally or figuratively, it doesn't matter) "If you don't understand this album, you are stupid." But then, almost everyone instantly likes their album (honestly or dishonestly, it doesn't matter). Some people just don't want to seem stupid.

Well, fuck that. It's worse than being pretentious or wrong or whatever. It's inauthentic for an artist to have that kind of attitude. It means your fans don't give a shit about you, they just show up to your shows to look intelligent. But now I still don't understand Minus the Bear and I also don't care.

Unfortunately, nearly every band is inauthentic for one reason or another, isn't it? Besides, that's the point. Music, movies and books give you false hope. And false hope is very, very entertaining.

So unfortunately nothing in section [3.] really changes what I like or how I interpret art.
I know what I like, I don't care if you disagree (but I appreciate it) and I'm not ashamed and so there you go.

[4.]

Have you noticed, that whichever band's album you listen to first tends to be your favorite? This is the case with myself and at least three other people I know, even if it's not technically the band's greatest cut.

For example, I adore The Mars Volta's 2006 release Amputechure way more than Frances the Mute. I know a lot of fans were disappointed with Amputechure and everyone raves about Frances, but that's how I feel and that's how I'll probably always feel. Obviously, I heard them in that order.

Personally, I can't think of any real exceptions to this rule except Nirvana, Muse and Franz Ferdinand. That's not the point.

The point is, this is the power of precedence. That first album sets the precedent for how you think that particular band should act. This is why you will nearly always hate a band's latest album. Or at least be disappointed.

The power of precedence is sensational. It carries over to everything. I hate it.

For your father, it sets the precedence for what a man should be. And most people know what happens to people who don't have fathers.
For your mother, it sets the precedence for what a woman should be.
For the first person you fall in love with, it sets the precedence of love and that's why every single one of your relationships are gonna be the same. Different face, but not a different person, same problems.
Etc.

I feel trapped by these precedents and I want to break free, but I don't know how. I don't even know if I should. I just don't want to seem wrong.

That's it. That's the whole thing. The whole point of this ranting, disorientated, too honest writing.

I feel very, very wrong.

Law Abiding Citizen / This is It: Two Movie Reviews

I've been trying my muscle at more precise, thoughtful movie reviews. Someone, somewhere, may one day give a fuck.

This Is It starts with tears. It’s the story of Michael Jackson’s months of rehearsal planned for his last world-tour. Unfortunately, as we all know, Jackson died eight days before the tour launched. Here we have a tragic behind-the-scenes glance at what that concert may have looked like.

The final result melts the eyes. Jackson has never looked so bad, almost needing no make-up to play a “Thriller” zombie. Claiming he was doing the whole rehashed shtick “for the fans” (also the intended audience of the movie), Jackson reimagines his classic tunes alongside a line-up of break dancers, a cover band and bikini dancers. This Is It blends between live and rehearsed acts with jarring levity, stopping and going with unending schizophrenia.

Jackson’s new tracks, yelping for world peace and environmental justice are preachy, sappy and overshadowed by the violence, sex and glamour, perhaps as it should be.

But all this asks, is this really a proper tribute to the King of Pop? Will fans really enjoy the surrealist manufactured feel throughout this unending outtake reel? Something always feels missing here and it isn’t just the eerie feeling of watching a dead man prance about again. It plays more like a DVD featurette than a biopic.

This Is It really isn’t it. It comes off as a way to make money on a dead man’s ticket, not a reminder of how great that man was.

-----

Law Abiding Citizen at first bows to America's love of brilliant killers, the typical genius murderer one step ahead of the authorities, but it soon lends to the ridiculous and trite.

Gerald Butler plays Clyde Shelton, a victim of a home invasion that resulted in his family slaughtered by two thugs. When Shelton's power-hungry lawyer, Nick Rice (Jamie Foxx) refuses to take the case to court, our victim turns vigilante not only against his aggressors but the entire court system of Philadelphia.

He's got valid reasons, as the holes he pokes in America's justice system actually exist. Many guilty criminals are let off with lesser sentences through plea bargaining or the like, so the idea of taking law into his own hands is fresh and gripping.

Immediately, Citizen grabs viewers by the balls, playing out like a cross between Se7en and Fracture with the pacing to match, but the treads in the story wear out midway.

The first half is acceptable and there isn't a moment you don't feel caught in the grasp of Shelton's antics yourself. Shelton utilizes Saw-like torture to kill the thugs responsible for his family's death, setting off a cat-and-mouse game with the District Attorney's office. Shelton admits guilt (sort of) in return for some petty favors, but even within prison he's right where he wants to be. With chess-like precision, he manipulates and threatens the D.A.'s office and commits several more gruesome murders remotely from his prison cell.

Plot isn't weakened by pacing but by plausibility. By the second half, it's difficult to believe anyone can procure military grade missiles that can be launched at a carefully chosen cemetery just to threaten one lawyer. Some of Shelton's actions (such as mailing a DVD of a man being chainsawed in half to a ten-year old)

become so bizarre, brazen and out-of-line with his original intent that the concept is almost lost.

Citizen is finally toppled by an anti-climatic, clichéd ending. Justice (or Shelton's view of it) is served to a select few and everyone else gets off with a saturated warning. But it all goes back to Law Abiding Citizen's real intent -- to be a crowd pleaser.

The constant, building tension; the gut-wrenching violence; the ingenious killer whose stand is his downfall -- it all equals a formulaic story-line with few rewarding plot twists or meaningful character development. But if the popcorn is fresh and buttery, it'd be worth a sit through.

My Oscar Picks 2008

I found this in my drafts, finished. I wish I had posted it, but it's kind of funny that I am now, 10 months late, just because I'm a little bored.

MY OSCAR PICKS

I believe the Best Picture Award should go toward a film that brings new cultural understanding, breaks taboos and adds cinematic value to American culture. For example, between There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men, No Country deserves the win, no contest, because while Blood was commentary on oil dependency and human corruption, No Country was a unique version of what could be a cliché story, told with metaphor, symbolism and tragedy (it also mused on human corruption; no one in either Blood or No Country were good guys, not really).

But the Oscars suck. They rarely pick movies that do bring cultural significance. For example, 2006 was between The Departed and Children of Men, both incredible movies. Departed won, yet Children was the obvious pick. It was an example of cinematic excellence, with its masterful tracking shots and immersion in a world gone mad. It's story was a commentary on the Bush administration's fearful scare tactics, America's racism and totalitarianism. The best example, is the scene in the prison camps. In the background, you can barely make out a man wearing all black, arms out stretched and attached to electrical wires. Yes, the movie was saying, America, this is you.

That, of course, is why it didn't win. I really don't think there's a point in making "Oscar Picks" because it's a stupid organization that doesn't bring anything to the table, except on accident.

That said, here are my Oscar picks for this year.

FROST / NIXON

Didn't actually see it, but I know the story, a bit. This film acts as a thin veil for the lynching of W. Someone tried to prosecute Nixon for crimes, which should remind people that Bush committed war crimes and he should also be tried. But that's too bad, because anyone knows Bush won't and if he does, they should also execute Obama and any other senators that approved the legislation allowing W. to commit those acts of inhumanity. BUT THAT'LL NEVER HAPPEN. So this movie's entire point is lost and does not deserve an Oscar. Which brings me to . . .

W.
Does the W stand for WASTE, as in "waste of time"? This was the first film I ever snuck into, and I'm glad I didn't pay for it. It's terribly long, irrelevant to actual truth about the bastard elect and comes so late in the administration it's ineffectual. Occasionally, the movie tries to be objective, but it comes across as contrived. There's only one motivation for this film and that is to tarnish the reputation of Bush, only it won't do that. It won't do anything. Speaking of which:

MILK
Yet another blatantly motivated political film. Yay. This one is wedged between Obama, MLK and the gay rights movement up in arms over Prop. 8 and Prop 102.
Great, I agree, give the gays rights, but this movie? Seriously? Melodramatic (like when Milk's boy toy commits suicide), sappy and irresponsible. Historically accurate, yes, but that exposes how Milk was a corrupt, power hungry beast. What he did for gays he only did for himself, and he did it by bending the law, making slimy deals with another crooked politician, the guy who eventually killed him. Ha ha ha. Irony.
But this film doesn't matter, it doesn't impact the gay rights movement and it doesn't make any politician a saint. A film for our time it's not.

CADILLAC RECORDS
Speaking of minorities, here's another of those nearly-all black films. See also: Dreamgirls, and all those Tyler Perry films. The problem with this film is its historical accuracy; it barely has any. It takes too long a period of time, speeds it up and tries to view it too easily. Like a bullet train tour through Chicago, you don't see anything.
The music is great, the acting is great, but the story isn't an impact on society.

SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE
A smooth mix of cool, exciting and dramatic. It opens a brand new world, the spectacular country of India. It has a tale of hope, desperation and a gentle perspective on a very negative issue, namely poverty. As India rises as a world power, many Americans despise the competition, but this film shows our neighbors are human and just want what we have.

THE WRESTLER
Didn't see it, but damn, I wish I had. I don't think it has a chance, however, but wouldn't mind if it did win something. At least best actor. From what I can decipher from trailers, this is a Rocky of our time. Speaking of Rocky, it won best picture in 1976, pushing out Network, which was another terrible Oscar snub. Fuck Rocky, it's a terrible film, especially the sequels.

THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON
Clearly the most beautiful, poignant film since Requiem for a Dream in terms of existensial angst. I cried, a lot and I'm not embarassed by that. It's a film that has a message for me: embrace life, embrace it hard and do the best with it. My personal favorite film of the year, but I'm still not sure it's "The Big One".

CHANGELING
I think Angelina Jolie should win something for being the most anorexic housewife of the twenties. But seriously, her acting was something else. The rest of the film, however, just isn't up to standards of significance.


THE DARK KNIGHT
Just kidding. This isn't nominated, although perhaps it should be, so I don't think I should mention anything, except this: one dead actor is not enough to make an entire blockbuster film worthy of social impact. At least, not in this case. If Robert Downey, Jr. dies before the making of Iron Man 2: The Subpar Sequel that won't make the film Oscar gold.

WALL•E
*snort*.
This should have been a silent film. The first several minutes acted that way, but then it turned into this boring, melodramatic moral tale. Soulless machines telling us how to run the planet and condemning consumerism? And then having Disney place Wall•e's ugly mug on every cereal box, dinette set and condom dispenser? That's not irony, kids. That's hypocrisy. All this film teaches is to be blind to actual issues and whine like a bitch.

MAN ON WIRE
An indie documentary about a man who did a trapeze act between the Two Towers, creating the single most incredible art crime in history. The film was inspiring and riveting (I can't think of better words) and it didn't once mention the 9/11 attacks, which was an interesting touch. It doesn't deserve best picture, but best documentary or something.

CONCLUSION
So, I've filtered it down between SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE, BENJAMIN BUTTON and THE WRESTLER. I can't pick one, because I haven't seen the Wrestler and I have a personal bias for Button (If you can guess why, I'll give you a dollar). I actually don't think any of those will win. It'll probably be something lame. Anyone want to place bets?

Basterds

I've been meaning to write a review of Quentin Tarantino's latest, but don't expect a lack of spoilers. Go see the movie and come back. You won't regret it.





It was perfect. It was certainly the best movie in the last ten years (since Fight Club, obviously, exactly). A crowded theater, midnight showing, everyone cheered and groaned perfectly.
But it was awful. Awful in the literal sense, full of awe and full of what's terrible.
There are five chapters, each one built upon a beautiful scene of dialogue ending in revolting violence. Tarantino has a real muscle for language, any language, French, German, Italian, especially English. Every dripping word is spectacular, every verb builds up tension like a game of Jenga using the Sears Tower. And then it explodes. It explodes in the most horrifying, beautiful, awesome, awful way possible.

There is more symbolism than I probably caught, but it spoke deeply of the nature of man. First, the trivial, how Bridget von Hammersmark gave a gift to Wilhelm's son, a napkin, yet it ended up being the death of his father.
How, Shosanna Dreyfus, in the scene of her death, became the "Woman in the Red Dress" quite literally by betraying Fredrick Zoller.
The milk.
The meta-ness of the theater burning (for a moment, I thought Harkins was actually aflame and I should bolt for the nearest exit).
The propaganda film that twists Zoller's facts, likewise Tarantino shamelessly twists the facts of World War II, making himself the propagandist.

This alone, Tarantino has created a film that people will use a yardstick for the future of cinema. That's no small feat.

Yet, there's a moral cavity here. The greatest irony in the film is that the Jews become Nazis. They get revenge and mercilessly destroy human life, as judge, jury, executioner. It doesn't have to be right, I'm not asking for anyone to be kind, but there's something darkly eerie when a room of 300 people are applauding these sickening acts.

Does that mean we are softened? Will we be easier to draft, to be flown across the sea to kill others? What will historians think when they view our film history and discover we never had any true heroes. The protagonists in most popular films of this past decade (too many to list!) have no clean-cut morals. I prefer this, but is it right?

The whole thing, an audience clapping when a head is scalped, seems inhumane, but it instantly reminds one of the scene in Chapter Five of Hitler chuckling as Zoller executes American soldiers. I don't think Tarantino is making any solid moral statements here, but you're not exactly supposed to desire them from the man. But calling out violence in film is like spoiling fun or guilt-tripping people for nothing. Party pooper. But I'm not calling it out. I too, am not making any foundational argument here. Just noting.

On the other hand, the movie doesn't only act as a twisted revenge film; it acts as an anti-grace film. Any character that shows mercy instantly goes to Hell, such as Dreyfus pulling up the bleeding body of Zoller, such as the French dairy farmer, such as Landa who gets his skull carved into. Even Landa's murdering of Hammersmark was unneccessary, since he had already planned to betray his country at that point.

But maybe it's just war, then. Maybe there are no excuses.

In the end, adding this whole thing together, it's either the most sickening reflection of inner humanity, like shining a light down the filthy orifice to see how far it reaches. Or maybe it's the most beautiful image of depravity. I like to think it's both.

Existentialism Diaries: Part One: There is Still Time ... Brother

When I was 12, I had this strange habit of watching ancient black and white films just to make fun of them. Until, I saw On The Beach and it completely changed my life.

I was young, so maybe I didn't understand the deeper meanings, but at the time it was one of the most beautiful films I'd ever seen. To say the least, I was surprised there was so much meaning packed inside.

On The Beach is a 1959 film set in 1964, right after World War III, right after all the bombs fall, atom bombs blossoming in the sunset. Gregory Peck, Anthony Perkins, Ava Gardner and Fred Astaire are four people living in Austrailia, awaiting huge clouds of radiation to float down and suffocate the world's only survivors. The film focuses on the last scraps of humanity, slowly being eaten away, the extreme existential emotions of expecting the inevitable.

A lone submarine journeys to America to investigate a strange Morse code signal and find survivors, but upon arrival in San Francisco the crew realizes their worst fears. The end really came.

And so they submarine returns to Austrailia and the characters wait. They go to the pharmacy and the government gives them suicide pills if they wish, and everyone waits.

A few people fulfill their lifetime dreams in quiet desperation. Fred Astaire races a vintage Ferrari. Ava Gardner and Gregory Peck have a romantic fling. Old men sit in their country clubs and complain about the wine. A waiter plays pool. Everyone goes fishing and they sing, "Waltzing Matilda".

They do meaningless, stupid things because they want to. Because they can. They want to add some last-minute purpose to their doomed, pathetic existences. And then the power flickers out.

For years, the poignant imagery in the film has been stuck in my mind. The empty streets of San Francisco, the empty Golden Gate Bridge. The S.O.S. Coke bottle in the window. The banner, waving in the wind, proclaiming, "THERE IS STILL TIME. . . BROTHER." Few plot lines fascinate me as much as the inevitable.

I realize that my introduction to On The Beach was my first experience with existentialism. And I am an existentialist as well as a follower of Christ. They don't always contradict. My existentialist views can be good because of the retarded anxiety they produce. I am constantly trying to accomplish the goals and dreams I have, as if I'm already a decapitated chicken.

To the rest of the world, On The Beach was a warning to the world, a promise more poignant than The Day The Earth Stood Still (1951) (another film I saw merely to make fun of and ended up loving). And perhaps the message of OTB was not entirely a don't-blow-yourself-up plea. Maybe it was a reflection of humanity. At this moment in time, we humans aren't facing imminent extinction, at least that we know of (global warming aside), but we all have the same anxieties. We all have these dreams and awkward motivations to somehow make our eating, sleeping, shitting, breathing MEAN something.

Only, because, since we don't fear death as much as the Australians watching the skyline from the Beach, we suppress our desires. Procrastinate. We never worry about that next breath.

I always come back to this, because I believe life has the meaning we give it: life means nothing unless we recognize our Creator and more so, realize brokenness is the only way to survive. In that sense, On The Beach completely changed the way I look at life and got me closer to God. At least, in an "eat, drink and be merry" sorta way.

It's kind of terrifying to be so open about that belief, but I'm not trying to belittle anyone who doesn't agree with me, only it can come across that way.

Still, I hope to live life with the helpless anxiety portrayed in the doomed eyes of Anthony Perkins as he serves his wife and child cyanide laced tea. Or maybe without that gaze. I can't decide.

I leave off with what Yeoman Swain said in the film, right before he jumped ashore in San Francisco, essentially committing suicide, "I have a date on Market Street, Captain. I'm going home."

'Valkyrie' is a Joke

I rented 'Valkyrie' because 'Synecdoche, New York' wasn't in stock. Forgive me.

The history behind the whole event interested me enough, but the story didn't make up for the terrible filmmaking. It was kind of like 'The Fellowship of the Rings' as directed by Michael Bay. Yech. How can you take such a beautiful, poignant thriller and dissolve it into such trash?

In fact, the whole movie was presented almost as a joke, a joke without a punchline. Since most people going into this film have an idea that this isn't how Hitler actually dies, they know how the film ends. Just like how everyone knew Obi-Wan couldn't fuck up too much in the Star Wars prequels; no matter what, he'll end up as a hermit on Tatooine. Which is to say, it's boring. With this type of movie, don't focus on plot tension, don't focus on the history so much as the drama, the paranoia and the general emotion of the characters.

Well, maybe that's what you get for hiring Bryan Singer to do the job stiff, dry story-telling and unmemorable dialogue. And placing Tom Cruise in the role of Germany's greatest hero wasn't the wisest choice either.

Despite being generally accurate historically, Valkyrie is an insult to the true conspirators.

Leathery Goodness

George Clooney steps behind the camera for the fourth time in Leatherheads, a screwball comedy in which Clooney also stars. The plot revolves around the early days of professional and college football, loosely based on actual events. After working with the Coen Brothers on at least three of their films, its easy to see where Clooney picked up some of his directing skill. Leatherheads is almost as good as Burn After Reading in terms of laughs, sharp dialogue and a tangled plot.

Set in the mid-1920's, when college football was incredibly popular and professional football was still "underground" (and muddy), Leatherheads is the story of Dodge Connelly (Clooney) and Carter "The Bullet" Rutherford (John Krasinski a.k.a Jim from the Office) who try to make football a legitimate sport and win the heart of Lexie Littleton (Renee Zellweger) in the process.

Does it sound like you've heard this story before? Yet even when Clooney is serving up something cliché, he adds a personal, Coen-esque twist to it. Even tackling on the plot of (yet another?) football film, Clooney takes us into the world of prohibition, down-and-dirty sports and nasty politics. The attention to detail, including the leather helmets the players wear (from which the movie gets its title), add more life than your average football/inspirational blah like We Are Marshall or Remember the Titans.

Sure, the Duluth Bulldogs are an underdog team (no pun intended) up against an insurmountable football team, and sure, they win in the end, but the movie is so wrapped up in story that by the ending, you really don't care about the grand finalé, you care about the people. That's more important.

Considering the intended audience for this film would be hipsters or mature members of the Facebook generation, the vein of this movie's message, in all likelyhood, could be that once football was rough, surprising and actually interesting, unlike today. This decade's breed of teenager cares less and less about sports (unless you count the XBOX 360 versions) and more about Guitar Hero and Zelda. Games where participation is often more rewarding. Watching football is overly formulated and predictable to the average member of the 21st century. In fact, most people watch the Super Bowl just because of the commercials.

Perhaps the main point of this movie is that the government decided to govern the rules of football, which instantly made it boring. Leatherheads is almost promoting a view that says "keep government out of professional sports" because 90 years ago, they dehumanized it. The government added a shitload of rules making it nearly impossible to score, making every play the same and lulling audiences to sleep. If only, Leatherheads suggests, football was the same, we'd have more of a human element in one of our national pastimes.

The Last King

If you like long, boring historical dramas like I do, you may want to skip the Last King of Scotland. Its forced dialogue and weak plot failed and made a tragic historical event humorous instead. Which I did not appreciate in the long-run. Forest Whitaker did an excellent portrayal of a paranoid, insane dictator but that didn't save this mediocre film. I don't know how you can screw up a historical event; it's right there in front of you.

It didn't help that the main character was an asshole. He only cared about himself and his sex drive and did a lot of foolish things that killed a few people. While the dictator Idi Amid killed 300,000 people under his regime, Nicholas killed about five people, albeit indirectly. He ran one over and caused about three to be gruesomely executed by his insane boss. The fifth is in there somewhere.

Anyway, that's my review. I've been trying to experiment with some new forms of writing, including writing accurate (decent) movie reviews. It takes practice and so far these leave much to be desired, especially with my random tangents (like this one). However, I am mostly analyzing this film for the objects used in it.

I've been reading Chuck Palahniuk's writing tip essays on his site. They come out once a month and you have to pay to read them, but every time a new one comes out you can read them for free, once you register. They're important to me so I wait and read them.

This month's was on objects used in fiction. It describes how personal effects in a story can have personality and change meaning and progress action. For example, the ring in the Hobbit is a nice, magical trinket but by the Return of the King it is a device of complete wretched evil. I want to start doing this in my fiction, making items a part of the story but it takes practice. Noticing the items in movies is a good way to start.

In the Last King, there is a medicine bottle with poisoned pills instead of aspirin and a bag with the ingredients for an abortion. These items are used to build tension that Nicholas may be caught and executed by the raving dictator he works for.But that's all I can think of.

I can apply this to my day-to-day as well. A couple of days ago I bought a silicon head from a thrift store. It is incredibly creepy, it has real human hair and you can remove the face. I have no idea what it's used for. I named the head Cirby. I wish I could show you pictures, but my camera mysteriously broke. I've been using this cheap, crap one my mother owns.

I went to the zoo today with Dave and brought the head. I took pictures of myself next to random animals, posing with this creepy head. It freaked an antelope out and it grunted at me and lowered its head, about to charge. Several monkeys were so interested they stuck their grubby hands through the wire and groped the head. I whispered to the monkeys, "Yes, yes, yes! Touch it my precious!" I got plenty of weird stares from single mothers pushing strollers and trying to avoid having their kids ever run into people like me.

The peacocks were especially not amused by my antics with the head. They were running around in the mud and squaking at me. I found two eggs sitting by a fence, which I assumed were peahen eggs. I put them in my backpack and have them now. I plan on eating them later. I also found a fake ID.

The pictures we took were amazing. However, I somehow accidentally deleted all the pictures on the camera. It made me very frustrated but not frustrated enough. With this and my camera breaking I should be really angry at the universe. Yeah yeah yeah. But somehow I'm not.

I think the lesson I learned is that art is about living. It's about doing. It's not about showing off. That's the best compensation I can come up with. You don't need to see those pictures and I don't need to show them to you, no matter how amazing they are.

Now I just look at the head as a new opportunity. I have to top whatever I just did. And I will.

How was that for implementing objects into my writing?

Requiem for a Dream

16 Sep 2007

Current mood: I am Jack’s Addled Addictive Enthusiasm

I really suck at writing reviews. Possibly because I am always late on what is great.
I was going to write a review of the movie Requiem for a Dream. The movie came out seven years ago. I just watched it tonight. No matter how well I write, it won't give anyone the incentive to see it, it won't interest anyone, it's patently irrelevant.

So screw it. Let's talk about me.

The only interesting thing I did today was walk around downtown for a while. It was kind of a trip. I listened to music, so I wasn't paying attention and nearly was hit by a car more than once. I kept seeing people I thought I recognized, but wasn't sure. Their faces blurred up against the windows of cars, laughing at me, or eyes on the road. That man who played with fire, not so popular now. And the soundtrack was just poetic enough, the way in film, towards the ending when they do a big silent montage of all the characters with sad music playing in the background. You know what I mean.

I began to feel paranoid. I tried to get lost, but it wasn't working. I get so weird around large groups of people.

One the way back, a storm cloud was covering the sun just right that the light sung out over the edges and you could literally see the prisms, shining out for miles and miles and miles. The eyelashes of the sun.

It was a peaceful moment for me and I felt amazing. I felt like dying young and smoking and living life to death.

The movie? It was kind of like that.
It made me ache deep inside at times, similar to being heartbroken, realizing your past is behind you and dead . . .
It made me want a girl who I can into real trouble with. . .

Not many things I know of can do that to me. . .