Reviews

Why is it that as a society, the high brow amongst us become giddy with excitement when they discover something they don't understand, but believe that meaning within that something must exist.

Donnie Darko is a film that throws out metaphors, symbolism, iconography, and semiotics like a garage sale. Everything is just thrown onto trestle tables for the neighborhood to pick over,take what they want, and discard the rest.

The major flaw is that the film was written and directed by the same individual. It strikes me that Richard Kelly should have handed the reigns to the adults. Everything had an off kilter cartoony element to it, not quite of our world. It reminded me a little of a Steinbeck novel. Where all the characters are stereotypical constructs of an author who has limited practical knowledge of the world and its base elements. The film seems to be a pastiche of "The seventh sign", "The sixth Sense", and "American Beauty".

What is most galling about films like "Donnie Darko" is that the audience are so dizzy, disoriented, and torqued up that they are frightened witless to admit that they didn't follow many plot points at all. And they are then too unsure of themselves to blame a poor script, or 'happenstance' plot elements for their confusion. The pathetic witless fools try even harder to find 'hidden' meaning and hide behind the mantra "the author has left the film open to individual interpretation". Well I can interpret it for you, it goes something like this "Waffle, waffle, waffle, baffle, red herring, happenstance, twist, waffle, bible, baffle, amateur psychology, half baked scientific claptrap read at doctors waiting room from a dog-earred copy of the American Science Monitor, break in the films time continuum, waffle, more bible, simplistic cultural elements like smurfs, lifestyle gurus, the end".

What if Jackson Pollocks "Blue Poles" was simply a case of an unskilled man flicking drops of paint on a canvas and then attaching method and meaning. What if Bjork really is just an eccentric, borderline manic depressive who has no technical skill and hides behind weirdness and intrigue. And what if "Donnie Darko" is just a rambling anecdote of amateur theatrics, psychology, and philosophy hoping to hoodwink another town into buying its philosophical snake oil.

I couldn't believe what I was reading about this film and decided that I would have to set the record straight somewhat, or at the very least add a little bit of balance to the comments index.

"Strange Bedfellows" is symptomatic of what is currently ailing the Australian film industry at the moment. It is a small film (has the feel of a film school assignment), with underdone production values, and a severely undercooked script. It's a raw, still bloody and pulpy, carrion of a script. The writer, excuse me, writers of this 'piece' would have done well to hire a professional to completely overhaul their basic concept paying special attention to the dialogue, as well as ramping up the joke to minute ratio (which was dire).

The film is a throwback to the 1950's, I have no problem with the use of stereotypes, but those pressed into service for this film were retired elsewhere on this planet approximately 40 years ago. I suppose the film was about two elderly gents who were masquerading as homosexual lovers so their innocence could, potentially have been genuine. But the stereotypes 'dug up' for this film lacked any form of comedic, or creative interest.

The lack of a creditable script and the uninspired use of stereotypes aside, this film could have been worthwhile had it been ripsnortingly funny, but alas, it was found lacking it that department also.

I have heard it before about a lot of Australian film and television product relating to the comedy genre. It is said by those in the industry that almost all Australian film and television comedies have one thing in common, "they're just not funny". "Strange Bedfellows" falls into that category, it just isn't funny.....enough. There are, admittedly a couple of funny happenings (the opening sequence when the mailman spins around and throws the mail sack at a newsagents was mildly amusing).

It was not a complete train wreck of an exercise (although it was pretty close), unlike a couple of other people, I actually thought Paul Hogan was one of the few protagonists who looked comfortable in his role. Glynn Nicholas, is also quite good as the towns hairdresser, in fact, as much as he could, I thought he stole the film.

As a long suffering Australian, please, in 2005 could we perhaps, instead of making five half-baked, insipid, quirky sleepers, could we pool the funds and make one decent tear-you-from-your-seat blockbuster.

I'm not going comment on the narrative (it was adequate), I'm not going to wax on about the acting (it wasn't bad), and I'm not going to poke at the script (which was quite good). What I want people to know about this film is the costumes, sets, and lighting, which by the by are stunning.

Less than Zero is spectacular to look at. The lighting of this film is nothing short of breathtaking, a masterwork. The screen, almost throughout the film, is awash with amazing colour. With much of the film staged at night the use of electric blues, neon pinks, and translucent greeny whites (that's right, you heard it right 'Greeny Whites'), paints an electric lit Bachanalian feast. Look at Jamie Gertz's face and it is bathed in blue, the swimming pool is a wobbling diffusing-screen offseting a hot pink wall with Robert Downey Jr leaning against it.

The sets are sensational, a party scene is replete with fake snow and smooth white icebergs festooned with televisions and ferry lights. The apartments are ecclectic, some are post modern eighties gems all faux palm trees, and mod lamps. Others are Moorish palaces with cool marble floors and turqoise mosaics. And everything looks lush, and everything looks decadent.

The costume department appeared to have paid a visit to Rodeo drive. Linen suits, and bright red pullovers, Deutschland tank tops, and hobnailed slippers, unheard of. I won't even get started on the Jamie Gertz wardrobe, or Andrew McCarthy's suit selection, genuinely inspired choices the lot.

To add to this array of flossy delights is the shore footed direction and the sumptuous cinematography. The film is generously sprinkled with props that add to the feel, James Spader's floating cell phone, Andrew McCarthy's roadster, the ball machine, the modern art, even the cool freebasing lighters (sensational).

If you don't like the story then turn the volume down, but don't dismiss this film out of hand. Visually it is a truly captivating experience.

To add to all

It's not the film 'Freddy Got Fingered' that is the supreme failing here it is the films primary artistic creator Tom Green. The film is really very average, and yet it really shouldn't be. With content that includes the handicapped, the mentally ill, sexual abuse victims and animal masturbation there is certainly a large volume of material to make a truly funny movie. Only Tom Green really is not the man for the job.

Tom Green just isn't funny, this is not, I should mention, a subjective point of view. It is a universal imperative. Firstly he tries far too hard. With some comedians this over zealous effort can turn into truly hysterical routines. With Tom Green you stare at his set pieces and wait for some truly funny climax, and then it's over, and you're left with nothing. I guess it is a little like modern impressionistic art, if as the creator you repeat something that is wacky or bad enough times and stand by it, and continue to stand by it, people, some people will start to take you seriously. And if you get enough of the right people taking you seriously then you gain respect and credability. This persistence is Tom Greens greatest strength, not his humour.

The film is just not very clever......or irreverent, or alternative, or anything, it's just a couple of overpaid knuckleheads trying way too hard.

The Piano, it's international accolades aside, is an overtly surreal, dreamlike puddle of dross. I will grant that many of the artisans who lent their names and reputations to this production have scored peripheral success, but the core artistic conception, the film itself, is a murky blur of period costumes mixed with inaccessible concepts and visions. Perhaps Jane Campion knew what she wanted to say, but with the distributor failing to hand out liner notes at the box office the rest of the world was left to battle with subliminal cartoons, and schizophrenic characters and their mood swings.

I desperately wanted to like 'The Piano', and yet, aided by this desperation I still found myself feeling cheated by a Director who was just as desperate to court the critics and, at the same time, carve her signature into her work, all to the detriment of the finished product.

Why do I hate this film so? Well, it's largest crime is that it is boring. The film is boring not because of it's subject matter, but by the way that subject matter is handled. None of the characters feel like real people, they all, or almost all, deliver lines and performances (performances gravely influenced by direction) that are at right angles to the actions of real people.

Ignore it's reputation, see the film, and then ask yourself "What up with that?".

Okay, I must admit, it is difficult for me to remain entirely rational about this film, because it evokes sentimental memories. But I love this film, I love it, what can I say. For me it has everything, the ivy league ambience, the lovable-I-own-the-place-swagger of Rob Lowe, the appropriate witticisms, at the appropriate times read by a cast to kill for.

The film begins and ends with the "kids" in complete control, theres no PC screwing around either, all of the students do drugs, with most of the action taking place at a prep boarding school there's poker games and smoking after lights out. I tried to re-enact the John Cussack 'tip truck' smoking trick for almost a decade, in fact it was the prime reason I took up smoking in the first place.

The New Renaissance has been indicated by many social historians as the years 1982 to 1987 with the peak beginning with the opening night of the movie ET, and the end coinciding with the closing ceremony of the 1984 LA olympics. This film, having been made in 1983, stands as a virtual document to the affirmations and values of Western Culture at its peak. The scene of the triumphal holiday return of Rob Lowes character to his ancestral home is resplendant with a punk version of 'the little drummer boy', as he tears through New England countryside in his Porshe charger......breathtaking.

Nothing since the death of communism comes close to replicating the self confidence that shimmers off this film with the possible exception of "The Chocolate War". This film is not to be taken as a trite story but should be viewed in the light that reflects what it is, an artistic vision of the height of teen existence at the height of human existence, not too big a call I'm sure you'd agree.

I first saw Taps when I was only 11 and I loved it. But at eleven I liked it for its militaristic attributes rather than its 'fight for honour' motif.

I recently, aged 31, saw it again, and, predictably, liked it for entirely different reasons. Firstly, as someone else on this sight mentioned, the film is quite beautiful to look at. The cinematography is quite stunning actually, and if you don't believe me, watch it again. Secondly the direction, writing, and editing is tight, controlled and technically fairly solid.

But what made this film for me was the impressive, inspired acting by the, at the time, young cast. I was captivated by the core trio of Cruise, Penn, and Hutton. If charisma were a concrete substance these three would have garbage bags of the stuff stowed in their cupboards.

The script was thoughtful, and, importantly, believable. The ending was very powerful......when I was eleven, but once seen, lost it's effect on subsequent viewings.

Yes, the summary line has been used in an attempt to qualify this entry as upbeat and interesting. But it is true, I did purchase a modular couch unit because the hero in Local Hero has a scene where he reclines in a couch while on the phone (his is cream, mine, mindful of stains is blue). This little anecdote symbolises the effect this film has had on me. I first saw it at the impressionable age of 14, and have watched it pretty much on an annual basis ever since.

I don't know how, or why it has proved such an hypnotic film, maybe it is due to the fact that there is not a sordid event in sight, that every scene reamains soft and innocent, without becoming fantasy. It could all happen, to me, or you and it is totally unthreatening. Not a fist fight, mugging, or domestically violent vision to behold. The film is like a memorable weekend where you know you've experienced something special.

You have to set the right mood, this film is definately a red wine with candles film, not one of the beer and pizza variety.