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Reviews
Outlander (2008)
Very Solid with Surprising Heart
Despite a few clichés, Outlander is pretty terrific entertainment, even for those of us who are decidedly not the core market for such pictures: If you only venture into sci-fi / fantasy for the best of the lot -- LOTR and the '09 Star Trek, say -- then add this one to your list. The surprise achievement here is the conflating of several genres so successfully, and then adding some real heart and soul to boot. Had there been just a bit more confidence behind this smart, solid undertaking (the momentary theatrical release was a likely indication of doubt), the filmmakers might well have avoided a few of the gratuitous genre elements and produced something quite rare and fine indeed. As it is, the occasional obviousness is easily forgiven for a very satisfying experience.
Adventure (1945)
A Rare Gem in a Seemingly Conventional Package
"Adventure" is an oddly generic title for such a singularly unique motion picture. Its superficial values are appealing enough--the Gable bluster is rarely put to such good use, and Garson is possibly the only actress with enough mettle to match him--but these attributes are hardly unusual and neither, indeed, is the storyline. What makes the effort favorably surprising is the story's aspiration to allegory through the use of poetics, which may occasionally seem overt but which never fail to ring true. It's an ambitious undertaking, and it works.
In its time, the movie was dismissed for being both formulaic and even crude, which in itself betrays either an ignorance of its higher aspirations or, more likely, a reluctance to take them seriously. America in 1945 prided itself on street smarts and industrial might; on its not being taken for a sucker. It had saved Europe from the axis forces and was about to embark on a socioeconomic boom such as the world had never seen: It wasn't interested in philosophical musings about the nature of the soul. The idea that these musings could be given dimension in a simple and often predictable story about a rakish sailor and a repressed librarian drove reviewers to pronounce the script "foolish" and the poetic commentary "gibberish."
But it is these very elements, this oddly ardent coloring, that have somehow deepened and mellowed with time, and which now provide the film with the kind of rich, subtle flavor found in only the most treasured vintages. More unique still is that the movie is less interested in the sentimentality of its story than in the metaphysical questions it poses. Its chief accomplishment is in avoiding any academic exploration of such questions (a choice which parallels the arc of the story itself), and it does so by illustrating with large, colorful brushes. Only the intelligence of the director and the skill of his actors keep the proceedings from veering off into caricature, a tipping point that when straddled with such finesse is delightful viewing indeed.
Marathon Man (1976)
Schlock Flick Masquerading as a Prestige Picture
The high ratings for Marathon Man are no doubt focused on the substantial talent assembled to pull it off, and they succeed as long as one dispenses with every expectation of logic or common sense. Schlesinger builds substantial suspense, and there are plenty of satisfying scenes, but the plotting and story points are ridiculous beyond measure. This might not be a problem if it were any other type of picture, but the progressive unfolding of an initial puzzle to a somewhat sensible (or at least rational) set of revelations is one of the hallmarks of the government intelligence thriller. The story here, however, is so thin that virtually nothing happens for the entire first half of the picture, and the second half is really nothing more than one long chase sequence. The biggest problem is that the central objective of the action is precipitated by a murder that, if contemplated for more than about twenty seconds, reveals itself to make absolutely no sense whatsoever. And the illogical story points are not just structural. There are numerous details throughout that are obviously (and, to my mind, condescendingly) designed as mere conveniences for the the action, regardless of how inane or inexplicable they may be. The veneer of star power and sophisticated production values did not--for this viewer, at any rate--successfully obfuscate the movie's considerable flaws.
Ratatouille (2007)
Pleasing but WAY overrated
With all the raves around this picture it's next to impossible not to have high expectations. Lower them. Unless you are entirely bowled over by visuals alone (which are truly stunning), you will be left wondering what all the fuss is about. This may be a movie about fine cuisine, but the story seems to have been concocted in a Cuisinart--it's a mash-up. Instead of a clear character objective or a distinct plot through-line, the filmmakers have tossed in every possible character type, sub-plot, and chase sequence, with the cumulative effect of holding your attention (for the most part), but leaving you ultimately unfulfilled. It's not that these sequences aren't artfully done (the technique is flawless), but they amount to an obfuscation of the fact that there's not much here but numerous pastry-thin layers of small vignettes (even at that, the filmmakers seem to have missed a lot of opportunities here, especially comic ones). There are also serious problems with suspension of disbelief. This may sound odd considering that this is an animated world, but such worlds hinge on their ability to establish their own parameters of reality. For reasons I cannot quite fathom, Ratatouille goes out of its way to set very specific and highly-realistic parameters, and then proceeds break them. You find yourself literally rationalizing certain plot developments with a conscious determination such as, "well, it is, after all, a cartoon." Great films may indeed be like great meals, but flavor alone doesn't satisfy.
Tous les matins du monde (1991)
Toutes Les Prétentions du Français
First let me say that I am typically very favorable on historical drama in general and music history in particular--The Red Viloin, Farinelli, Topsy-Turvy, Amadeus--fine pictures all, in their own ways. Tous Les Matins du Monde begins auspiciously, and unfolds with such grace and skill that for the first half, at least, one is easily given over to the assumption of being gratefully ensconced in a wise and perceptive story of loss, love, and art. Few films set in the 17th century are as evocative of the period; the music itself is transcendent; and there are moments and genuine epiphany, even if they are a bit more intellectual than emotional. But Tous Les Matins du Monde turns out to be a crafty deceit, one that I find to be so terribly, typically French: the notion that suffering itself connotes importance, that joy is for wimps, and that redemption is embodied in art alone (i.e. the sublime expression of suffering). This is a bit like the notion that being cynical is the same as being smart. It looks a lot like truth, but when you scratch the surface you find only a lazy potential for real insight. Such is the unfortunate scope of Tous Les Matins du Monde. By the last third of the picture, one begins to realize that it has nothing very much more to say than what it had been offering all along. That's not a story, it's a premise. It's a good thing the music contains so much range of emotion, because everything else in the picture is striking a single note. The perfunctory and somewhat ridiculous intellectual exchange at the end about the "answer" to what music is only serves to emphasize the limitations of the exercise. In true French fashion, the pretense of gravity is meant to be taken for the real thing.
Amazing Grace (2006)
Doh! So close.
A beautiful production mounted on a problematic script. Despite evocative settings, marvelous performances (especially Romola Garai, she's brilliant), and highly-engaging historical content, the story structure is inexplicably subverted by way of a flashback from halfway through (i.e. the first part of the story is told in flashback, then moves ahead in real time). This serves only to telegraph the climax of Act I, effectively compromising our interest in its unfolding. Its presentation is also clumsy--at one point the caption "Present Time" was deemed necessary in order to clarify, and at another, poor Romola Garai is forced to sum up twelve scenes of action in a paragraph of drawing-room exposition. I suppose the scheme may have been argued as a context for the evolution of the relationship between Wilberforce (Gruffudd) and Barbara Spooner (Garai), seeing as how the flashback is mostly him telling her the story up until that point, but this hardly seems a worthy trade-off. Plus, it replaces what might otherwise have been a more substantive (and romantic) opportunity to have the newfound relationship be the turnaround needed to propel Wilberforce into Act II (this is implied but never really played). The awkward structure, along with Apted's typically skilled but workman-like treatment, yields a picture that is ultimately gratifying and well worth a viewing, but which never really spreads its very substantial wings and soars.
Brigadoon (1954)
18th Century Scotland by Way of 1950s America
The flaws here have far less to to do with the over-ardent performances and soundstage filming (no one minds Fred and Ginger on soundstages, now, do they?) than with a story that never finds itself. The two main characters haven't the slightest bit to do to with the trajectory of the plot, and the only quasi-dimensional character in the whole piece (Jeff Douglas, played by Van Johnson), not only remains unexplored throughout, but is left with no resolution at the end. If anything, Tommy Albright (Gene Kelly) should have been the boozing, cynical one who, under the spell of Brigadoon, confronts himself and learns to love. The friend could have been the comic foil. There is something very appealing in the central conceit of the mystical village (taken from the German story Germelshausen), but because writer Alan Jay Lerner never found the entree in his meal, we're left with a lot of side dishes, mostly drawn from the sublimated angst of post-war America rather than from eighteenth-century Scotland. An odd mix, indeed.
Hello, Dolly! (1969)
Much maligned film is better than its reputation; still a missed opportunity
As audiences become increasingly inured to discretion and sophistication, this overblown confection tends to look better and better. Because we'll almost certainly never see real sets and actual extras of this magnitude ever again, the sheer impact of the production provides a rare and sustaining thrill. Streisand's oft-criticized performance is, if nothing else, an extremely smart strategy for not getting lost amidst all the frou-frou and falderal. Indeed, without her jokey, fluttering, over-the-top approach to the role, the massive undertaking would have fallen in on itself. Streisand's performance provides essential balance. The young actress (with only one film under her belt at the time) must have realized pretty quick that in the midst of those gargantuan sets, elaborate costumes, and mammoth production numbers, that subtlety was not going to cut it. What's most impressive about her work here, then, is how much nuance she's actually able to bring the role, particularly in the sly, offhanded way she lets you know that she's in on the joke. Like Seinfeld in his sit-com perched on the edge of cracking up, Streisand appears to stop just short of rolling her eyes on occasion, or bursting into hysterics. It's very appealing. The fundamental problem with the film, as many critics have noted, is that Thornton Wilder's story is a bon-bon, not a multi-tiered wedding cake. Bombast is no substitute for charm.
Kiss Me Deadly (1955)
Dissenting Opinion
You are entitled to believe that I am not completely qualified to comment because I did not watch this picture through to the end. That's right, I turned it off. And pretty far in, too. You are also entitled to know that I am a huge noir fan, and agree with virtually everything the articulate reviewers here have had to say about other films. Given the level of rapture about this one, I am naturally forced to question my own assessment (and will no doubt view again at some point), but I also can't help but think I'm on some possibly narrow but pretty solid ground... The fact is, I found this picture both frustrating and strangely dull -- due, primarily, to one overriding factor: For the first 2/3rds of the story (the part that I saw before giving up) there is not one scintilla of additional information provided beyond what we know in the first ten or fifteen minutes. One after another character who may or may not know something gets murdered, and along the way we discover... not a thing. All that the fans of this picture admire is certainly there -- the hardboiled nonchalance, the offbeat characters, the remarkable editing and mis-en-scene, the incredibly modern underplayed performances -- but great noir mystery/thrillers, even if they are packed with blind alleys, red herrings, and dead-ends (think The Big Sleep), hold your attention by giving out just enough to keep you puzzling; one's mind is engaged with an emerging back-story, or a series of incidents, items, and facts that appear to be adding up to something... Kiss Me Deadly provides none of this, and the result is a growing realization that the entire exercise is just one big waiting game; you'll never get anywhere near enough information to try and conceive an explanation, a culprit, or a possible solution, so you might as well just disengage and wait for the end. So, I chose to disengage. Literally. Interestingly, I divine from the commentary here that the ending is a whopper. Well, it had better be, because it's a helluva long journey when the lid on the story is so tightly sealed.