Not since the Jacques Tati's triumphant triumvirate of visual splendors featuring Monsieur Hulot have I seen such a tightly executed, meticulously studied and skillfully integrated sequence of subtle, ironic visual meta-indicators. In one dynamic and efficient shot, filmmakers Garfield and Yonaitis have fashioned an incisive study of comedic understatement and concealment in the modern cinema of socialized terror and repression, symbolically refracting the most uniquely American apparatus of mortality, the Electric Chair, through the optical structures of a new regime of reactionary post-ironic tension, and in doing so simultaneously critiquing both their subject of behavioral evaluation and their own necessarily inadequate methods of penetrating the barriers of moral comprehension in Cold War era Georgia. Invoking the persistent physical oppression of Krzysztof Kieslowski's cinema of doubt, the filmmakers subject the elements of their mise-en-scène to rigorous competition with their own stylistic and cinematographic forms. The action culminates in a feverish and irreconcilable clash between mental and physical machineries of eradication and the circumstances of artistic sublimation both on and off the screen, the perplexed humor of which will not be unnoticed by astute and perceptive viewers.
Reviews
6 Reviews
Human Remains
(1998)
...but there was liver in the dumplings, and chicken stock in the nudelsuppe...
31 July 2007
The film contains five segments separated by the recurring image of a man shoveling through smoldering black ashes. The segments profile Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Franco and Mao. An ominous hum persists through much of the film, but disappears for Mussolini and Franco. Cute. First person voice-overs posing as the translated words of the dictators themselves offer intimate details of their habits, physical conditions and private affairs. Meanwhile, archive footage of the dictators relaxing with family and colleagues, or performing routine functions devoid of passion or ideology provides some visual evidence to complement the monologues.
The effect is engrossing and mildly comical, especially with the very casual style of the English 'translations'. Think Dr. Evil telling his life story. Those who didn't already know will learn that the great dictators were human beings with insecurities and unsavory habits like everybody else. The rest of us can enjoy the stream of interesting facts, the carefully sequenced, but certainly familiar footage, and the smooth delivery of the 'translator'. Don't expect anything too challenging or ground breaking, however.
The effect is engrossing and mildly comical, especially with the very casual style of the English 'translations'. Think Dr. Evil telling his life story. Those who didn't already know will learn that the great dictators were human beings with insecurities and unsavory habits like everybody else. The rest of us can enjoy the stream of interesting facts, the carefully sequenced, but certainly familiar footage, and the smooth delivery of the 'translator'. Don't expect anything too challenging or ground breaking, however.
Marjoe
(1972)
A benchmark in American documentary
24 May 2007
This is of the finest documentaries I've seen, and I've seen quite a few at festivals in recent years. Not only is Marjoe Gortner as intriguing as any of the great charismatics and eccentrics of documentary cinema, but the documentary technique is top notch. The cinematography in the church scenes is dynamic yet sharp and focused, and the editing keeps the momentum with a steady stream of insights and revelations, culminating in the more honest and confessional final act. It's a relatively long movie, and the goings-on inside the church take up a large proportion of the runtime, but they're shot so expertly, with brave intimacy and varying points of interest, that they never become unbearable. The music, while painfully dated, is totally authentic.
The strange interplay and connectivity between the mainstream youth counter-culture, exemplified by the film crew and Marjoe in his interviews, and the Pentecostal subculture provides most of the thematic interest. There's nothing novel about relating fervent religiosity to the kinds of drug use prevalent in the 70s, but Marjoe's embodiment of this cultural duality, and the ease with which he transitions from ecstatic evangelical to a paragon of counter-cultural values, suggests that these two polar inclinations in American culture are not as disparate as imagined. Marjoe would rather have been a money grabbing rock star like Alice Cooper, and might have been given a different upbringing, but this is as close as he can get. That he's manipulating the spiritual passions of his audience is a fact subordinate to the satisfaction of performing and connecting emotionally. And even as he spouts religious rhetoric that means nothing to him, and takes the money of those expecting miracles and salvation, is he not giving the people exactly what they want, performing the spontaneous and charismatic rites of Pentecostal Christianity in a manner that is skillful and respectful of the traditions and expectations of that faith?
I don't think I can find a single glaring flaw in the film, even as it approaches ethically questionable territory on account of its complicity in Marjoe's act and the necessity to mislead those who are being filmed or interviewed. Certainly, more interactivity with the Pentacostal churchgoers would have been welcome. One questions whether Marjoe is being completely honest in his interviews, but for someone for whom performance and chicanery are inseparable aspects of life, do the filmmakers really need to press the question? Even without a narrating voice, the point comes across with the utmost clarity.
The strange interplay and connectivity between the mainstream youth counter-culture, exemplified by the film crew and Marjoe in his interviews, and the Pentecostal subculture provides most of the thematic interest. There's nothing novel about relating fervent religiosity to the kinds of drug use prevalent in the 70s, but Marjoe's embodiment of this cultural duality, and the ease with which he transitions from ecstatic evangelical to a paragon of counter-cultural values, suggests that these two polar inclinations in American culture are not as disparate as imagined. Marjoe would rather have been a money grabbing rock star like Alice Cooper, and might have been given a different upbringing, but this is as close as he can get. That he's manipulating the spiritual passions of his audience is a fact subordinate to the satisfaction of performing and connecting emotionally. And even as he spouts religious rhetoric that means nothing to him, and takes the money of those expecting miracles and salvation, is he not giving the people exactly what they want, performing the spontaneous and charismatic rites of Pentecostal Christianity in a manner that is skillful and respectful of the traditions and expectations of that faith?
I don't think I can find a single glaring flaw in the film, even as it approaches ethically questionable territory on account of its complicity in Marjoe's act and the necessity to mislead those who are being filmed or interviewed. Certainly, more interactivity with the Pentacostal churchgoers would have been welcome. One questions whether Marjoe is being completely honest in his interviews, but for someone for whom performance and chicanery are inseparable aspects of life, do the filmmakers really need to press the question? Even without a narrating voice, the point comes across with the utmost clarity.
Unfortunate misfire
6 March 2006
Warning: Spoilers
The Three Burials of Melquides Estrada brings first-time director Tommy Lee Jones into the conscientious but ambiguous domain of Clint Eastwood, casting shades of Unforgiven in an engaging drama of fear and violence in a West Texas border town.
While this film features strong and passionate performances, well written characters, and a thoughtful awareness of border issues, its second half dispenses with its best virtues and leaves one with the sour taste of dramatic contrivance. For the lengthy journey through the Chihuahuan Desert, Jones's protagonist abducts the guilty border agent, played by Barry Pepper, exposing him to a series of humiliations and sadistic treatments that are regrettably tinged with a sense of humorous vindication. The viewer is asked to forget that the agent is a visibly shaken, paranoid and regretful human being, and accept Jones as the tough but merciful enforcer of moral righteousness. Consequently, both characters become less human and less believable. The film's final exchange, in which Pepper begs for forgiveness under a barrage of gunfire before solicitously asking after the welfare of a departing Jones, reaches the peak of condescension by manipulating the viewer into accepting the legitimacy of the screenwriter's misbegotten fantasy of justice.
While Eastwood's Unforgiven, by all accounts the superior film, is content to leave the viewer with nagging uncertainties about the protagonist's moral choices, The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada finishes too cleanly and decisively for its own good. This is more unfortunate because the earlier parts demonstrate a sensitivity to the conditions of the characters that is uncommon in cinema today.
While this film features strong and passionate performances, well written characters, and a thoughtful awareness of border issues, its second half dispenses with its best virtues and leaves one with the sour taste of dramatic contrivance. For the lengthy journey through the Chihuahuan Desert, Jones's protagonist abducts the guilty border agent, played by Barry Pepper, exposing him to a series of humiliations and sadistic treatments that are regrettably tinged with a sense of humorous vindication. The viewer is asked to forget that the agent is a visibly shaken, paranoid and regretful human being, and accept Jones as the tough but merciful enforcer of moral righteousness. Consequently, both characters become less human and less believable. The film's final exchange, in which Pepper begs for forgiveness under a barrage of gunfire before solicitously asking after the welfare of a departing Jones, reaches the peak of condescension by manipulating the viewer into accepting the legitimacy of the screenwriter's misbegotten fantasy of justice.
While Eastwood's Unforgiven, by all accounts the superior film, is content to leave the viewer with nagging uncertainties about the protagonist's moral choices, The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada finishes too cleanly and decisively for its own good. This is more unfortunate because the earlier parts demonstrate a sensitivity to the conditions of the characters that is uncommon in cinema today.
The Tracker
(2002)
Strong film, not the director's best
16 February 2006
As far as Western films go, the Tracker is nothing groundbreaking or particularly accomplished. I'd compare it to Anthony Mann's Naked Spur, another beautiful looking wilderness bounty-hunter film with a primary interest in psychological tension between morally ambiguous characters. Like Naked Spur, there is a trickster figure, an innocent, a veteran trailblazer, and a sadistic military figure. There is plenty of intrigue between characters as new situations arise, but The Tracker lacks the complexity of the screenplay thanks to the director's political heavy-handedness. Gary Sweet's character is not convincing or particularly well developed, as his simplistically evil nature makes him highly predictable and almost comedic. While I enjoyed the music on its own merits, I agree with another commenter that it leaves little room for the viewer to come to his own conclusions about the characters.
On the other hand, there are some great moments, such as the Tracker's improvised trial of the Fanatic, which causes one question how capital punishment becomes perceived as legitimate. The Tracker's adoption of white traditions and religious rites causes us to view him differently than we would otherwise. The circumstances of the Fanatic's dependence upon the Tracker and the Tracker's dependence upon the mercy of the Fanatic create an intrigue that is again reminiscent of the Naked Spur. Aided by the beautiful scenery of the outback, the cinematography is very nice, and the editing is distinctive as the film maintains a slower pace with spacious musical and visual interludes that are sometimes kitschy but occasionally effective. Overall, this was I film that I thoroughly enjoyed, even if the screenplay wasn't as powerful as I had hoped.
On the other hand, there are some great moments, such as the Tracker's improvised trial of the Fanatic, which causes one question how capital punishment becomes perceived as legitimate. The Tracker's adoption of white traditions and religious rites causes us to view him differently than we would otherwise. The circumstances of the Fanatic's dependence upon the Tracker and the Tracker's dependence upon the mercy of the Fanatic create an intrigue that is again reminiscent of the Naked Spur. Aided by the beautiful scenery of the outback, the cinematography is very nice, and the editing is distinctive as the film maintains a slower pace with spacious musical and visual interludes that are sometimes kitschy but occasionally effective. Overall, this was I film that I thoroughly enjoyed, even if the screenplay wasn't as powerful as I had hoped.
Asylum
(2005)
neeewbs!
20 July 2005
Warning: Spoilers
Asylum is a dreadful, insulting, misogynistic affair unworthy of cable TV. Do not hesitate to avoid it at all costs, and you will be saved the nausea it induces. After a promising start with auspices of campy intrigue, it becomes apparent that the filmmakers are woefully inept and incapable of crafting characters with real, human characteristics, much less any genuine comic value. What we get are one-dimensional figures with no sense of personal dignity or free-will, making the whole thing dreadfully predictable if not always boring. The story is contrived and makes little sense. I have nothing against contrived and senseless stories when accompanied by redeeming qualities in direction or character building, but herein lies not a single grain of inventiveness. The dialog is sometimes witty, and more often sub-par, formulaic banter that advances our plot but allows no greater insights into the motivations of the characters.
By far the most annoying element is the manner in which our wife, played sufficiently by Natasha Richardson, consistently makes the stupidest decisions possible, ruining any semblance of sympathy (absolutely essential for this type of film) she might evoke from the audience, and making a mockery of the central themes and ideas of sexual obsession emerging from female sexual boredom. Imagine Bunuel's Belle de Jour being directed by some fresh-out-of-film-school, Tarantino-fan-boy hack intent on making the next juicy psychological thriller, and you have an idea of what our finished product looks like, with neither legitimate psychological elements, nor any thrills to be found.
In summary of plot: Our respectable bourgeois wife and mother of darling boy Charley falls madly in love with an ax-murdering mental hospital inmate, and devolves into something not unlike that stereotypical impulsive and insecure teenage runaway who keeps going back to her sexy and abusive boyfriend for more sex and abuse. Even if our filmmakers knew how to show the confluence of female love and self-harming obsession in an appropriate light, the premise would still be ruinously goofy. I end up wondering if the filmmakers are even trying to mold a sympathetic protagonist, or rather are out to see how dumb and stereotypical they can make the film's only notable female character. So we get a helpless slave to passions, devoid of reason and self interest, and more easily manipulated than a plastic abacus, and bravo, you make James Bond look like Douglas Sirk in its empathy for sexually 'bored' women.
Ian McKellan is in this movie too, by the way, playing a psych doctor who amusingly devolves into a completely unbelievable Hannibal Lector type engineer of social disaster, routinely treating his patients like white mice by steering them into the most unhelpful situations, like ballroom dances between fiendish wife-killers and vulnerable wives. Only in bad horror films are the circumstances and settings in which characters meet each others for moments of dramatic intensity so embarrassingly contrived and unlikely.
Any time a film brings you to the point where you hope that all the fake and disgusting characters terminate their lives in suicide, you have an indication that the film has achieved nothing of particular value for those who think movies should be about humans. Fortunately, a key character DOES commit suicide, making for a healthy round of laughs from the audience. I won't tell you who, because that would be a spoiler, but if spoiling the ending would save you the price of admission, I'd consider myself a hero.
By far the most annoying element is the manner in which our wife, played sufficiently by Natasha Richardson, consistently makes the stupidest decisions possible, ruining any semblance of sympathy (absolutely essential for this type of film) she might evoke from the audience, and making a mockery of the central themes and ideas of sexual obsession emerging from female sexual boredom. Imagine Bunuel's Belle de Jour being directed by some fresh-out-of-film-school, Tarantino-fan-boy hack intent on making the next juicy psychological thriller, and you have an idea of what our finished product looks like, with neither legitimate psychological elements, nor any thrills to be found.
In summary of plot: Our respectable bourgeois wife and mother of darling boy Charley falls madly in love with an ax-murdering mental hospital inmate, and devolves into something not unlike that stereotypical impulsive and insecure teenage runaway who keeps going back to her sexy and abusive boyfriend for more sex and abuse. Even if our filmmakers knew how to show the confluence of female love and self-harming obsession in an appropriate light, the premise would still be ruinously goofy. I end up wondering if the filmmakers are even trying to mold a sympathetic protagonist, or rather are out to see how dumb and stereotypical they can make the film's only notable female character. So we get a helpless slave to passions, devoid of reason and self interest, and more easily manipulated than a plastic abacus, and bravo, you make James Bond look like Douglas Sirk in its empathy for sexually 'bored' women.
Ian McKellan is in this movie too, by the way, playing a psych doctor who amusingly devolves into a completely unbelievable Hannibal Lector type engineer of social disaster, routinely treating his patients like white mice by steering them into the most unhelpful situations, like ballroom dances between fiendish wife-killers and vulnerable wives. Only in bad horror films are the circumstances and settings in which characters meet each others for moments of dramatic intensity so embarrassingly contrived and unlikely.
Any time a film brings you to the point where you hope that all the fake and disgusting characters terminate their lives in suicide, you have an indication that the film has achieved nothing of particular value for those who think movies should be about humans. Fortunately, a key character DOES commit suicide, making for a healthy round of laughs from the audience. I won't tell you who, because that would be a spoiler, but if spoiling the ending would save you the price of admission, I'd consider myself a hero.
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