It had to happen eventually - that day when I finally reached Peak Fantasy. I woke up yesterday morning in the stone-cold, solid knowledge that I physically couldn't face one more damned movie that transcended the bounds of reality - no more cartoons, no more whimsical family adventures, no more horror. I needed a break, and not just because all four potential candidates on the listings page were films I'd tackled already.
As is often the case, I brought in Mr. B to help me make my choice. After nearly thirteen years together, he's developed a handy ability to pick up on my tastes and moods at any given moment, so I sometimes use him as my personal weathervane when I have no idea what I fancy. A heist movie, he said, and I was pretty sure he was right, but unfortunately the heist movie I really wanted to see hadn't actually been made. Given that Hustle doesn't exist in feature-length form and probably never will, I suppose American Hustle would have been a decent choice, but that didn't occur to me at that precise moment. Instead, I realised I'd never seen Brian de Palma's The Untouchables, and that I actually rather fancied it. So, that was that, then.
You'll all know what it's about, no doubt: namely, Sean Connery and his excruciatingly bad Irish accent. Oh, there's a subplot in there about Eliot Ness trying to nail Al Capone in prohibition-era Chicago, but that's really just window dressing for Connery and the accent no matter what anybody says.
I won't beat about the bush; I enjoyed this one immensely. De Palma really knows how to compose a shot and isn't afraid to show it, from the top-down opening onto De Niro's Capone being attended to by a troupe of barbers. I knew then that I was going to be in for a good time, and I wasn't disappointed.
I should probably point out at this point that The Untouchables is, essentially, a live action cartoon, all visual flash and emotion by numbers. It ain't Chekhov, although notably, it was scripted by David Mamet. The dialogue is delightfully snappy, but the film saves its love for the concept of the gangster fantasy rather than for any of its characters, who exist to fill holes and keep the plot moving briskly along.
It's all backed up by a sparkling Ennio Morricone soundtrack which, interestingly, follows the characters' inner lives rather than the drift of the action, so that we see a pitched and bloody gun battle against the sort of sonic backdrop more normally associated with the arrival of the Starship Enterprise. The trick is a neat one, and really made me think about what was happening at any given moment.
If I had to pick any holes in this I guess I'd complain about the lack of even a single named female character; it can't have been terribly edifying for Patricia Clarkson to show up on the credits as Ness' Wife. My personal method of justifying this, though, is that The Untouchables is essentially a fairytale for boys of all ages - we never needed a name for Snow White's prince, after all.
Maybe I did land up watching another fantasy movie, after all. Maybe that's no bad thing.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Home (2015)
I will admit, my expectations before watching Dreamworks' 2015 animation Home were pretty low - my actual words to Mr. B were that if I couldn't find a film I'd actually enjoy, I might as well find one I could be enjoyably irritated by. Home had everything I needed to work myself up into a nice frothy lather: namely, 1) one of the two main characters was voiced by Jim Parsons from The Big Bang Theory and 2) for the purposes of this particular role, he appeared to be channeling Yoda. I was also fairly convinced that the visuals and the action would both be too loud, and I'd come out at the end with a totally righteous headache and everything to complain about.
A few quick explanations: Home is based on Adam Rex' children's novel The True Meaning of Smekday, and while I haven't read it, following the film I'd certainly like to. It deals with the invasion of the earth by the Boov, a cowardly but well-meaning group of aliens perpetually on the run from a hostile species. Our protagonists are Oh, a Boov outlaw (voiced by Jim Parsons), and Gratuity "Tip" Tucci (with Rihanna-yes-that-Rihanna doing voice duty), a 12-year-old girl accidentally left behind when the rest of the human race was forcibly relocated to Australia. The film follows their adventures and misadventures as Tip searches for her mother and Oh attempts to re-ingratiate himself with the rest of his race.
It's all very cute and cheerful, to be honest, and even after an afternoon of firefighting at work I was sort of won over. I kept the volume down reasonably low, and I actively enjoyed the animation itself - the human characters in particular were very nicely judged, not too cartoonish but still pitched safely away from the edge of the Uncanny Valley. Rihanna keeps the score sweetly bouncy, and there's a good-natured inventiveness about the whole thing that stopped my attention wandering too much. I shed a tear or two near the end, and didn't even find myself particularly resenting this.
So yes, I'd guess this would be a decent film to show your kids. As an adult, though, I couldn't help finding a few minor quibbles. Tip, for instance, was meant to be 12, but looked, sounded and frequently acted much older; personally, I was never really able to perceive her as a kid. Oh, and then there was the usual problem with modern animated films, in that there were about three separate climaxes taking up what felt like around an hour of the runtime - in this particular case they did all relate to relevant plot threads, but it all felt like a little too much and I could have done with half an hour less of it. My gut instinct is that a little simplification would have resulted in a shorter, tidier piece, and given the existing plotlines a little more room to breathe.
Oh, and Jim Parsons? Annoying as anything. #justsayin
A few quick explanations: Home is based on Adam Rex' children's novel The True Meaning of Smekday, and while I haven't read it, following the film I'd certainly like to. It deals with the invasion of the earth by the Boov, a cowardly but well-meaning group of aliens perpetually on the run from a hostile species. Our protagonists are Oh, a Boov outlaw (voiced by Jim Parsons), and Gratuity "Tip" Tucci (with Rihanna-yes-that-Rihanna doing voice duty), a 12-year-old girl accidentally left behind when the rest of the human race was forcibly relocated to Australia. The film follows their adventures and misadventures as Tip searches for her mother and Oh attempts to re-ingratiate himself with the rest of his race.
It's all very cute and cheerful, to be honest, and even after an afternoon of firefighting at work I was sort of won over. I kept the volume down reasonably low, and I actively enjoyed the animation itself - the human characters in particular were very nicely judged, not too cartoonish but still pitched safely away from the edge of the Uncanny Valley. Rihanna keeps the score sweetly bouncy, and there's a good-natured inventiveness about the whole thing that stopped my attention wandering too much. I shed a tear or two near the end, and didn't even find myself particularly resenting this.
So yes, I'd guess this would be a decent film to show your kids. As an adult, though, I couldn't help finding a few minor quibbles. Tip, for instance, was meant to be 12, but looked, sounded and frequently acted much older; personally, I was never really able to perceive her as a kid. Oh, and then there was the usual problem with modern animated films, in that there were about three separate climaxes taking up what felt like around an hour of the runtime - in this particular case they did all relate to relevant plot threads, but it all felt like a little too much and I could have done with half an hour less of it. My gut instinct is that a little simplification would have resulted in a shorter, tidier piece, and given the existing plotlines a little more room to breathe.
Oh, and Jim Parsons? Annoying as anything. #justsayin
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Tormented (2009)
Couldn't find anything much on TV this weekend, so I decided to go with Tormented, a British take on teen slash-em-ups that deals with the tricky topics of bullying and teen suicide with about as much sensitivity as you'd expect. The IMDB didn't seem to like it much, but I was on the fence - there seemed to be enough comedic potential there to make it worth a look.
I won't lie; slasher movies aren't really my thing, and neither was this one. There was just that bit too much gore for my taste, just that bit too liberally sprayed. Still, after I'd finished watching and I looked back at my notepad, I hadn't actually written anything, which tends to be a pretty reliable index of how much a movie entertains me.
The key to this one, I think, lies in some savvy casting, that borrows liberally from Channel 4's acclaimed teen drama Skins. Essentially, what we have here is a bunch of old hands in young bodies, capable of producing decent performances no matter how rubbish the set-up or the script. The end result, therefore, is slick, fast-paced, gross and occasionally laugh-out-loud funny. If I had to quibble at all, I'd point out that Alex Pettyfer and Tuppence Middleton are far too posh to attend your local comprehensive, but that's really just a minor detail.
Definitely recommended for genre fans.
I won't lie; slasher movies aren't really my thing, and neither was this one. There was just that bit too much gore for my taste, just that bit too liberally sprayed. Still, after I'd finished watching and I looked back at my notepad, I hadn't actually written anything, which tends to be a pretty reliable index of how much a movie entertains me.
The key to this one, I think, lies in some savvy casting, that borrows liberally from Channel 4's acclaimed teen drama Skins. Essentially, what we have here is a bunch of old hands in young bodies, capable of producing decent performances no matter how rubbish the set-up or the script. The end result, therefore, is slick, fast-paced, gross and occasionally laugh-out-loud funny. If I had to quibble at all, I'd point out that Alex Pettyfer and Tuppence Middleton are far too posh to attend your local comprehensive, but that's really just a minor detail.
Definitely recommended for genre fans.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Flash Gordon (1980)
I did actually have something half-decent lined up to write about for you today, but then computer issues got in the way and oops, suddenly I found myself on Saturday morning frantically scanning the listings for anything that wouldn't be too unbearable to watch. And there it was, sat in a comfortable 10.45am slot, Flash Gordon, shiny and ripe for the panning. In my Queen-mad teenage years I had a recording of it from the TV sat more or less permanently in my VCR, but up until today, I don't think I'd seen it in about twenty years.
My expectations, diplomatically put, weren't exactly the highest.
Let's start by getting the obvious stuff out of the way, then. The acting stinks, to the point where as Flash, Sam J. Jones reputedly had to have his dialogue overdubbed by somebody else. As a fix, though, this proved about as effective as putting a sticking plaster on the puffy, gangrenous leg that can serve us nicely as an analogy for the script itself. It's awful, curl-your-toes-so-hard-they-cramp awful, and it's left to Brits Brian Blessed and Timothy Dalton to give it life through a level of am-dram enthusiasm it doesn't really deserve.
And yet. And yet.
Did I have a bad time watching? Absolutely not. The storyline itself is a fun one, in the old-fashioned sort of way you'd want from something based on a 1930s comic strip, with an array of colourful characters and shifting alliances that gradually unite in a way that only recalls colonialism and the British Empire if you're having a particularly cynical day. The costumes and the music are both gleefully over the top, but thankfully without the sort of migraine-inducing jump cuts that can make Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge such hard going. And then there's the set design, which I never really noticed when I was a kid. This time round, however, I was struck by all the art deco-styled features and furnishings, and what a lovely nod they were to the film's original inspiration.
It's not art. It's absolutely not craftsmanship. Damn, though, I wish somebody from Marvel would watch and take notes.
My expectations, diplomatically put, weren't exactly the highest.
Let's start by getting the obvious stuff out of the way, then. The acting stinks, to the point where as Flash, Sam J. Jones reputedly had to have his dialogue overdubbed by somebody else. As a fix, though, this proved about as effective as putting a sticking plaster on the puffy, gangrenous leg that can serve us nicely as an analogy for the script itself. It's awful, curl-your-toes-so-hard-they-cramp awful, and it's left to Brits Brian Blessed and Timothy Dalton to give it life through a level of am-dram enthusiasm it doesn't really deserve.
And yet. And yet.
Did I have a bad time watching? Absolutely not. The storyline itself is a fun one, in the old-fashioned sort of way you'd want from something based on a 1930s comic strip, with an array of colourful characters and shifting alliances that gradually unite in a way that only recalls colonialism and the British Empire if you're having a particularly cynical day. The costumes and the music are both gleefully over the top, but thankfully without the sort of migraine-inducing jump cuts that can make Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge such hard going. And then there's the set design, which I never really noticed when I was a kid. This time round, however, I was struck by all the art deco-styled features and furnishings, and what a lovely nod they were to the film's original inspiration.
It's not art. It's absolutely not craftsmanship. Damn, though, I wish somebody from Marvel would watch and take notes.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Lady in the Water (2006)
...Because I keep my promises.
Actually, Lady in the Water wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Don't take that as praise, though, even of the very faintest sort - my expectations before watching were crashingly, staggeringly low. I've never seen one of M. Night Shyamalan's movies before, but I've read a lot about them, and he seems to peddle a particularly tedious, pompous sort of mysticism that's too ridiculous to be taken seriously but which lacks even the faintest spark of levity to make it bearable.
Regular readers may have noticed that I have any amount of pet peeves when it comes to movies. The biggest and angriest of these, then, is one that carries over into pretty much every aspect of my life. People, do what you want, but do not make me complicit in your own stupidity. Everybody's stupid sometimes, and that's okay. Some people are stupid pretty much all the time, and y'know what? That's okay, too. What's not okay, however, is when somebody is so dim that they lack the self-awareness to realise that the people around them might be able to see through them. It's that moment when, say, a line manager lies to you through their teeth and office etiquette requires that you nod and smile along even though every fibre of your being is screaming at you to call bullshit, or when a relative spouts racist guff down the phone because they know you're too polite to hang up.
It's that moment when a filmmaker decides to write a halfassed fairytale and not only writes the bad guy as a movie critic but casts himself as the eventual saviour of all mankind. Really, Mr. Shyamalan, what did you think was going to fucking happen?
Perhaps, in the hands of a decent edit crew, the film could have been saved. The cast, for the most part, give the script far more respect than it deserves, and if all the effects shots take place in both the dark and the rain, then at least it keeps the film visually okay. None of this, however, can save the viewer from the all-embracing awfulness of Shyamalan's overarching vision. What could have possessed him to make him think that he could make a general-audience movie out of an improvised bedtime story for his kids? Did he really believe that nobody would roll their eyes at the use of terms like narf and scrunt? It's not that I have anything against fantasy genre pieces - far from it - but there has to be some sort of cohesive central mythology to support the terminology. Here, it seems as though the writer-director is creating his fantasy world on the fly, and trying to keep viewers sympathetic to his cause by relying on such old chestnuts as the tragic backstory, the implausibly diverse group of protagonists and the metric fuckton of PG:13-rated female nudity.
Perhaps I'd have been a little kinder to Lady in the Water had it only been a little worse. There's something to be said for the noble failure, I think, and some rubber suits and a little more racial stereotyping would just about have tipped this one over into the territory of the eye-wateringly awful. As it is, however, it's a well-made, utterly heartfelt monument to the power of the Writer, brought low by the fact that the Writer in question is a bit of a tit.
In loving memory of movie critic Harry Farber, 1950something to 2006.
Actually, Lady in the Water wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Don't take that as praise, though, even of the very faintest sort - my expectations before watching were crashingly, staggeringly low. I've never seen one of M. Night Shyamalan's movies before, but I've read a lot about them, and he seems to peddle a particularly tedious, pompous sort of mysticism that's too ridiculous to be taken seriously but which lacks even the faintest spark of levity to make it bearable.
Regular readers may have noticed that I have any amount of pet peeves when it comes to movies. The biggest and angriest of these, then, is one that carries over into pretty much every aspect of my life. People, do what you want, but do not make me complicit in your own stupidity. Everybody's stupid sometimes, and that's okay. Some people are stupid pretty much all the time, and y'know what? That's okay, too. What's not okay, however, is when somebody is so dim that they lack the self-awareness to realise that the people around them might be able to see through them. It's that moment when, say, a line manager lies to you through their teeth and office etiquette requires that you nod and smile along even though every fibre of your being is screaming at you to call bullshit, or when a relative spouts racist guff down the phone because they know you're too polite to hang up.
It's that moment when a filmmaker decides to write a halfassed fairytale and not only writes the bad guy as a movie critic but casts himself as the eventual saviour of all mankind. Really, Mr. Shyamalan, what did you think was going to fucking happen?
Perhaps, in the hands of a decent edit crew, the film could have been saved. The cast, for the most part, give the script far more respect than it deserves, and if all the effects shots take place in both the dark and the rain, then at least it keeps the film visually okay. None of this, however, can save the viewer from the all-embracing awfulness of Shyamalan's overarching vision. What could have possessed him to make him think that he could make a general-audience movie out of an improvised bedtime story for his kids? Did he really believe that nobody would roll their eyes at the use of terms like narf and scrunt? It's not that I have anything against fantasy genre pieces - far from it - but there has to be some sort of cohesive central mythology to support the terminology. Here, it seems as though the writer-director is creating his fantasy world on the fly, and trying to keep viewers sympathetic to his cause by relying on such old chestnuts as the tragic backstory, the implausibly diverse group of protagonists and the metric fuckton of PG:13-rated female nudity.
Perhaps I'd have been a little kinder to Lady in the Water had it only been a little worse. There's something to be said for the noble failure, I think, and some rubber suits and a little more racial stereotyping would just about have tipped this one over into the territory of the eye-wateringly awful. As it is, however, it's a well-made, utterly heartfelt monument to the power of the Writer, brought low by the fact that the Writer in question is a bit of a tit.
In loving memory of movie critic Harry Farber, 1950something to 2006.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975)
So, I had Lady In The Water all lined up for you and good to go, I swear - I wasn't looking forward to it much, but I was going to do it anyway, because my gut instinct was that it'd be an interesting piece to juxtapose with The Wizard Of Speed And Time. I didn't enjoy that either, though, and while I try not to shy away from films I think might not be a great time, if I'm watching something on a Friday night after work I tend to cut myself a little bit of slack and go for the easy option. So, when I found out that yesterday that it was the 40th anniversary of the release of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, it kind of felt like a get-out-of-jail-free card.
So I watched it, and I sang along and scared the cats, and did a sort of stretched-out version of the TimeWarp that didn't involve getting up off the couch, and generally had a thoroughly enjoyable time. It was only afterwards that the doubts started to kick in - what the heck am I going to write about this one? How can you try to make any sort of balanced or objective judgement about a film that feels like a family member, and more to the point, would you even want to?
A little background information, then, to start off. I first saw the film before I saw the stage show. The year would've been 1996, I was in my first year at Durham University, and I'd have lost my virginity no more than a couple of weeks previously. I'd lost it to a sweet, slightly geeky guy who I'd earmarked for this specific purpose from the day I'd heard he existed - it had seemed like far too important a decision to leave to chance and drunkenness, although my pragmatism only took me so far and eventually I landed up getting my heart broken anyway. All of that, however, was a month or so ahead, which is a long time when you're not yet 19.
C was something of a film buff himself, and sat on his bed in his bedroom in his parents' house, I had my first brush with real cinema - with films that had some sort of definite artistic vision. Here was where I first encountered Danny Boyle's Trainspotting (initial thought: WOW) and Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs (initial thought: pretentious bollocks). And yes, this was where I first saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show - initial thought: is that what all the bloody fuss is about? I was thoroughly unimpressed by the sets (shonky), the songs (limp, bloodless parodies) and the general nudge-nudge-wink-wink campiness of the whole affair.
Fast forward three years, and a lot had happened in my life. I'd had a breakdown, of sorts, and been in a very dark place for a very long time. While a full recovery was a long way away, I'd reached a turning point and was starting to get to a point where I was ready to start feeling better. After almost four years, I'd found myself a group of friends and some sort of a social life; my grades had shot up and yes, life was good. With my 22nd birthday coming up, I wanted to celebrate, and when I saw a flier for an upcoming performance of the Rocky Horror Show a couple of towns away, it sounded like a great night out. I think Jason Donovan played Frank N Furter, although it may have been Darren Day; I know the narrator was Ken Morley from Coronation Street because when I eventually got to see Nicholas Parsons in the role it felt like a very big deal indeed.
So we went, myself and the girls and Sven the Improbably Loud German, and a great time was had by all, and you know what? The next time I saw the film, it didn't seem half so bad. The story made more sense, and the songs felt as though they had more rhythm, and the various parts seemed to have merged into a coherent, even uplifting whole.
I was never one of those groupies who followed the show from town to town, but I did go once more, and once again, I was reminded of quite how much I enjoy live music. What I enjoyed even more, however, was the feeling of being part of a club, and a slightly naughty one at that. Never mind that it was about as transgressive as a seaside postcard, it was a happy place and an escape route, and one which, thanks to my psychotic ex-boyfriend and his cutting-edge DVD player, it was somewhere I could go any time I wanted.
So if you were to ask me whether The Rocky Horror Picture Show is any good, I honestly don't think I'd be able to answer, any more than I could describe the taste of water or how it feels to be constantly breathing in and out. It doesn't belong to a frame of reference that allows for value judgements, it is what it is, and I'd have a hard job imagining my life without it.
So I watched it, and I sang along and scared the cats, and did a sort of stretched-out version of the TimeWarp that didn't involve getting up off the couch, and generally had a thoroughly enjoyable time. It was only afterwards that the doubts started to kick in - what the heck am I going to write about this one? How can you try to make any sort of balanced or objective judgement about a film that feels like a family member, and more to the point, would you even want to?
A little background information, then, to start off. I first saw the film before I saw the stage show. The year would've been 1996, I was in my first year at Durham University, and I'd have lost my virginity no more than a couple of weeks previously. I'd lost it to a sweet, slightly geeky guy who I'd earmarked for this specific purpose from the day I'd heard he existed - it had seemed like far too important a decision to leave to chance and drunkenness, although my pragmatism only took me so far and eventually I landed up getting my heart broken anyway. All of that, however, was a month or so ahead, which is a long time when you're not yet 19.
C was something of a film buff himself, and sat on his bed in his bedroom in his parents' house, I had my first brush with real cinema - with films that had some sort of definite artistic vision. Here was where I first encountered Danny Boyle's Trainspotting (initial thought: WOW) and Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs (initial thought: pretentious bollocks). And yes, this was where I first saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show - initial thought: is that what all the bloody fuss is about? I was thoroughly unimpressed by the sets (shonky), the songs (limp, bloodless parodies) and the general nudge-nudge-wink-wink campiness of the whole affair.
Fast forward three years, and a lot had happened in my life. I'd had a breakdown, of sorts, and been in a very dark place for a very long time. While a full recovery was a long way away, I'd reached a turning point and was starting to get to a point where I was ready to start feeling better. After almost four years, I'd found myself a group of friends and some sort of a social life; my grades had shot up and yes, life was good. With my 22nd birthday coming up, I wanted to celebrate, and when I saw a flier for an upcoming performance of the Rocky Horror Show a couple of towns away, it sounded like a great night out. I think Jason Donovan played Frank N Furter, although it may have been Darren Day; I know the narrator was Ken Morley from Coronation Street because when I eventually got to see Nicholas Parsons in the role it felt like a very big deal indeed.
So we went, myself and the girls and Sven the Improbably Loud German, and a great time was had by all, and you know what? The next time I saw the film, it didn't seem half so bad. The story made more sense, and the songs felt as though they had more rhythm, and the various parts seemed to have merged into a coherent, even uplifting whole.
I was never one of those groupies who followed the show from town to town, but I did go once more, and once again, I was reminded of quite how much I enjoy live music. What I enjoyed even more, however, was the feeling of being part of a club, and a slightly naughty one at that. Never mind that it was about as transgressive as a seaside postcard, it was a happy place and an escape route, and one which, thanks to my psychotic ex-boyfriend and his cutting-edge DVD player, it was somewhere I could go any time I wanted.
So if you were to ask me whether The Rocky Horror Picture Show is any good, I honestly don't think I'd be able to answer, any more than I could describe the taste of water or how it feels to be constantly breathing in and out. It doesn't belong to a frame of reference that allows for value judgements, it is what it is, and I'd have a hard job imagining my life without it.
Monday, August 10, 2015
The Wizard of Speed and Time (1988)
Do you ever find yourself wondering how much more you might have done with your life if only you'd just been able to bring yourself to give a damn? All those things you could have achieved if only it hadn't seemed like so much bloody effort, so you did as much as you had to do to get by, and settled for a life of cosy mediocrity instead.
Or is that just me?
In any case, it's at times like this, when regret threatens to sweep over us like a tsunami, that we need a very special film in our lives, a film that reminds us of just how much we, the apathetic, truly have.
That film, my friends, is called The Wizard of Speed and Time, but in the interest of concision, I shall henceforth refer to it as TWOSAT. It's the brainchild of animator and sometime Disney collaborator, Mike Jittlov - he's a man of many talents, but self-awareness does not appear to be one of them.
Let's take a look at exhibit A, the original short upon which he based the feature length version:
Wasn't that delightful? I bet you smiled, just a little bit. And then, if you're anything like me, you'll have thought slightly harder about the amount of grafting involved to create the stop-motion sequences and decided that this was clearly the work of an amiable madman. If you're slightly more like me, you'll have gone in search of his other short films, which are equally impressive even if they don't score quite so highly in either the adorableness or batshit insanity categories.
Thus it was that I settled down to watch the full-length version of TWOSAT in a gently contented frame of mind, prepared to be charmed, entertained and perhaps (in the event of any further musical numbers) slightly embarrassed.
98 minutes later I emerged, feeling as though I'd been slapped around the face with a fully-frozen tuna.
There are people out there who'll tell you that this is a wonderful little film, full of heart and pluck. They're wrong, totally, but they're probably not the sort of people you'd want to hang out with for long enough to find out their opinion on the weather, much less a low-budget effects flick directed by an emotionally stunted middle-aged man-child who not only writes songs about how wonderful he is, but then puts them into a film intended for general public release. These are probably also the sort of people who think it's okay to electrocute bike thieves, but don't put too much thought into who'd actually want to steal a part-motorised pushbike with a propeller on the front.
In case you hadn't worked it out, I think Mike Jittlov is kind of a jerk. Granted, this is hardly a rare quality in Hollywood, and certainly not a barrier to a profitable career. I'm not sure, however, whether I've ever seen a movie where a key figure shows quite such an ignorance of their own jerkishness - I've heard rumours that Shyamalan's The Lady In The Water may come close, but that's another story for another post*.
Actor/writer/director Jittlov sets himself up as the little guy, starring as himself and building whole armies of straw men to set ablaze on the altar of his own ego. Some of them are obvious targets - the slimy producers, for instance, who seek to use his undeniable talent without offering adequate compensation. When he starts taking potshots at the unions, though, and at the tax office, I find myself wondering if he's standing up for the underdog or simply for himself.
Uncomfortable watching, then, but also uncomfortable to write about. I actually don't enjoy writing personal attacks, but I find it difficult to separate Jittlov the film character has impossible to separate from Jittlov, the man who wrote him. This turns the whole thing into some sort of twisted wish-fulfilment fantasy created by a lonely, angry pre-teen. Don't you find that impossibly sad? I know I do.
Still, it's really good to know that somebody like this managed to find a safe outlet for their frustrations. Better that they're making films to show at the cinema than... yeah, you know the rest.
*possibly next week, but only if I'm feeling really masochistic.
Or is that just me?
In any case, it's at times like this, when regret threatens to sweep over us like a tsunami, that we need a very special film in our lives, a film that reminds us of just how much we, the apathetic, truly have.
That film, my friends, is called The Wizard of Speed and Time, but in the interest of concision, I shall henceforth refer to it as TWOSAT. It's the brainchild of animator and sometime Disney collaborator, Mike Jittlov - he's a man of many talents, but self-awareness does not appear to be one of them.
Let's take a look at exhibit A, the original short upon which he based the feature length version:
Wasn't that delightful? I bet you smiled, just a little bit. And then, if you're anything like me, you'll have thought slightly harder about the amount of grafting involved to create the stop-motion sequences and decided that this was clearly the work of an amiable madman. If you're slightly more like me, you'll have gone in search of his other short films, which are equally impressive even if they don't score quite so highly in either the adorableness or batshit insanity categories.
Thus it was that I settled down to watch the full-length version of TWOSAT in a gently contented frame of mind, prepared to be charmed, entertained and perhaps (in the event of any further musical numbers) slightly embarrassed.
98 minutes later I emerged, feeling as though I'd been slapped around the face with a fully-frozen tuna.
There are people out there who'll tell you that this is a wonderful little film, full of heart and pluck. They're wrong, totally, but they're probably not the sort of people you'd want to hang out with for long enough to find out their opinion on the weather, much less a low-budget effects flick directed by an emotionally stunted middle-aged man-child who not only writes songs about how wonderful he is, but then puts them into a film intended for general public release. These are probably also the sort of people who think it's okay to electrocute bike thieves, but don't put too much thought into who'd actually want to steal a part-motorised pushbike with a propeller on the front.
In case you hadn't worked it out, I think Mike Jittlov is kind of a jerk. Granted, this is hardly a rare quality in Hollywood, and certainly not a barrier to a profitable career. I'm not sure, however, whether I've ever seen a movie where a key figure shows quite such an ignorance of their own jerkishness - I've heard rumours that Shyamalan's The Lady In The Water may come close, but that's another story for another post*.
Actor/writer/director Jittlov sets himself up as the little guy, starring as himself and building whole armies of straw men to set ablaze on the altar of his own ego. Some of them are obvious targets - the slimy producers, for instance, who seek to use his undeniable talent without offering adequate compensation. When he starts taking potshots at the unions, though, and at the tax office, I find myself wondering if he's standing up for the underdog or simply for himself.
Uncomfortable watching, then, but also uncomfortable to write about. I actually don't enjoy writing personal attacks, but I find it difficult to separate Jittlov the film character has impossible to separate from Jittlov, the man who wrote him. This turns the whole thing into some sort of twisted wish-fulfilment fantasy created by a lonely, angry pre-teen. Don't you find that impossibly sad? I know I do.
Still, it's really good to know that somebody like this managed to find a safe outlet for their frustrations. Better that they're making films to show at the cinema than... yeah, you know the rest.
*possibly next week, but only if I'm feeling really masochistic.
Friday, August 7, 2015
Masters of the Universe (1987)
I was listening to a podcast the other day and heard a snippet from the theme tune to the old He-Man and the Masters of the Universe cartoon series. I watched it as a kid, although I was never that big a fan - it was too predictable, too preachy and far too boy-oriented even for my single-digit self. Left to my own devices, I doubt I'd have been pestering my parents to take me to the 1987 movie incarnation, but I landed up watching it at the cinema on an outing with a friend. I remember it as having been passably entertaining - not much stuck with me, to be honest, other than one of the props, which was a weird sort of combination of a keytar and an accordion with a bunch of twirly tuning forks stuck on the end. In any case, back in the here and now, it seemed like exactly the sort of thing I should be re-watching and then writing about.
Can't win 'em all, I guess.
It's not that there's anything to particularly hate about this one. It isn't especially offensive - in fact, for an action movie it's actually pretty damned progressive, with a whole bunch of proactive female characters. Sure, they're stereotypes, but arguably less so than most of the guys.
I think what it all boils down to in the end is that I wasn't in the mood for a 100-minute long, badly-choreographed, PG:13-rated fight sequence. It was big, it was loud, it was unengaging and the ending was incomprehensible.
I could write more, but I'd only be wasting everyone's time.
Can't win 'em all, I guess.
It's not that there's anything to particularly hate about this one. It isn't especially offensive - in fact, for an action movie it's actually pretty damned progressive, with a whole bunch of proactive female characters. Sure, they're stereotypes, but arguably less so than most of the guys.
I think what it all boils down to in the end is that I wasn't in the mood for a 100-minute long, badly-choreographed, PG:13-rated fight sequence. It was big, it was loud, it was unengaging and the ending was incomprehensible.
I could write more, but I'd only be wasting everyone's time.
Monday, August 3, 2015
An Open Letter to Mr. Beaupepys about Tropic Thunder (2008)
Dear Mr. B,
You're the love of my life; this you must know. You're my best friend, my motivating force and the single funniest person I ever met. Sharing my life with you is both a pleasure and a privilege, which is what makes what follows so very hard to write.
You see, I've been lying to you for a lot of years now. I don't actually loathe Tropic Thunder. Those early nights I have a couple of times a year when you come in to check on me and see the tail end of it on BBC3? I haven't actually been asleep for the previous hour and a half. I've been giving it my full attention, more or less, and for the most of that time I've been moderately entertained.
Yes, I know it's problematic in any number of respects, and I know that when I say problematic what I really mean is grossly offensive. I know it employs a number of devices that in other films, would send me into a frothing rage. I know, too, that we both have an appreciation for genuine satire, and that no matter how hard it tries, Tropic Thunder lacks the requisite subtlety to qualify. At the same time, however, I can't help but give it points for trying.
Take the blackface scenes, for instance - I cringe to think about them, absolutely, but while I don't claim to be able to speak on racial matters, my personal take is that if you have a sympathetic black guy constantly pointing out how incredibly offensive this is, then maybe, just maybe, it's okay, kindasorta. Ditto the whole business with Simple Jack, a fictional film within a film that bombed horribly because it used a model of disability that was too unlikeable for audiences to be able to really identify. Honestly, how often have we rolled our eyes at yet another piece of heavy-handed Oscar-baiting drama and wondered how in hell people don't see through it? This isn't poking fun at learning disabilities, this is ripping a hole in the egos of moviemakers who treat audiences like morons.
Feel free to argue that I'm biased. Feel free to point out that all it takes is a couple of Robert Downey Junior facial tics to reduce me to a puddle of unquestioning approval. Feel free to tell me that jokes about agents thinking stars have killed prostitutes aren't funny, even if it turns out that they have, in fact, only killed a panda instead. You can even feel free to tell me that the opening trailer for a fictional movie featuring Robert Downey Junior and Tobey Maguire as a couple of monks having an illicit affair isn't actually something that needs an immediate greenlight. All of the above are probably true.
Judge me all you like, but please forgive me?
You're the love of my life; this you must know. You're my best friend, my motivating force and the single funniest person I ever met. Sharing my life with you is both a pleasure and a privilege, which is what makes what follows so very hard to write.
You see, I've been lying to you for a lot of years now. I don't actually loathe Tropic Thunder. Those early nights I have a couple of times a year when you come in to check on me and see the tail end of it on BBC3? I haven't actually been asleep for the previous hour and a half. I've been giving it my full attention, more or less, and for the most of that time I've been moderately entertained.
Yes, I know it's problematic in any number of respects, and I know that when I say problematic what I really mean is grossly offensive. I know it employs a number of devices that in other films, would send me into a frothing rage. I know, too, that we both have an appreciation for genuine satire, and that no matter how hard it tries, Tropic Thunder lacks the requisite subtlety to qualify. At the same time, however, I can't help but give it points for trying.
Take the blackface scenes, for instance - I cringe to think about them, absolutely, but while I don't claim to be able to speak on racial matters, my personal take is that if you have a sympathetic black guy constantly pointing out how incredibly offensive this is, then maybe, just maybe, it's okay, kindasorta. Ditto the whole business with Simple Jack, a fictional film within a film that bombed horribly because it used a model of disability that was too unlikeable for audiences to be able to really identify. Honestly, how often have we rolled our eyes at yet another piece of heavy-handed Oscar-baiting drama and wondered how in hell people don't see through it? This isn't poking fun at learning disabilities, this is ripping a hole in the egos of moviemakers who treat audiences like morons.
Feel free to argue that I'm biased. Feel free to point out that all it takes is a couple of Robert Downey Junior facial tics to reduce me to a puddle of unquestioning approval. Feel free to tell me that jokes about agents thinking stars have killed prostitutes aren't funny, even if it turns out that they have, in fact, only killed a panda instead. You can even feel free to tell me that the opening trailer for a fictional movie featuring Robert Downey Junior and Tobey Maguire as a couple of monks having an illicit affair isn't actually something that needs an immediate greenlight. All of the above are probably true.
Judge me all you like, but please forgive me?
Saturday, August 1, 2015
Pitch Black (2000)
For somebody with a professed dislike for the horror genre, I seem to be watching an awful lot of it these days. Funny thing is, if you asked, I'd still say I wasn't a fan - I'm not good with either jump scares or slow-burning tension; I want to be thrilled, but not actually terrified. Increasingly, however, I find it becoming my go-to genre when I want an easy good time, perhaps because it's relatively unmarred by the overblown sentiment and sentimentality that spill over into a lot of tamer sci-fi and fantasy fare.
Pitch Black is another one of those films that I've often seen bits of but never, up until yesterday, actually sat down to watch in full. I was torn over it for a long time, aware it contained some beautiful cinematography but put off by the creature feature subgenre pigeonhole. I'd just got home from work, though, and Mr. Beaupepys thought I might like to watch a little something by Ken Russell, possibly because of last night's blue moon. I had to think of an alternative, and think fast, and a little vicarious bloodletting seemed like a fun way to round off the working week.
Let me make one thing absolutely clear: if you want to enjoy Pitch Black you're going to have to be ready to silence your inner nitpicker. If you're worried about things like logic, or scientific accuracy, or human beings behaving like horror movie stereotypes, you'll be in for a thoroughly exasperating couple of hours. I'm not going to spend too much time gazing into the abyssal depths of every plot hole, but you have a planet that gets 22 years of blinding sunshine for each single night of darkness, and yet has managed to evolve an apex predator for whom light is lethal? This is the level of stupidity we're talking about here.
Given the above plus some truly abysmal acting, it'd be easy to assume that the film's only pleasures would be guilty ones. The reality, however, is a little more complex, because honestly, parts of Pitch Black are pretty damned good. The visuals are the obvious candidates here - this is a film about light and darkness, so you'd hope for some neat effects to emphasise the harshness of the planet's decade-long days. You wouldn't be disappointed, either, with bleached, parched footage that dries your mouth just to look at it. Parts of the film are flat-out stunning; one or two shots are honestly as achingly beautiful as anything I've ever seen on screen. Less obvious, however, is some truly nifty sound engineering that really adds to a movie that aims to scare us with what we can't quite see. Oh, and think on this: when did you last see a film with an Islamic good guy? Here, Keith David plays the sort of generic holy man role that would normally be given to an amiable Irish Catholic priest or something, only in this case, in a genuinely progressive move, he's an Imam taking a group of students on a pilgrimage to New Mecca.
I'd probably be remiss if I didn't mention Vin Diesel, so this is me mentioning him. I've noticed that he seems to inspire strong feelings in people - either loathing for the hypermasculine roles he seems to take, or a sort of militant apathy probably born of all those Fast and Furious sequels. Me, I always think of him as the voice of the Iron Giant in the film of the same name, and of Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy, two big, dumb animated sweethearts who first melted my heart and then outright broke it, so yeah, I actually have a fair amount of time for the guy. Here, I liked him as escaped convict Riddick, but as I've previously stated, this really isn't a film to watch for the acting - it's an ensemble piece where everyone's a cliche and each actor is equally culpable.
Don't get me wrong, Pitch Black isn't a work of flawed genius, it's a silly horror film with some compellingly redeeming qualities. That said, just for a little while, I found myself thoroughly enjoying being scared out of my wits, sat tensing myself for the next toothy alien monster to leap out of the darkness. Oh, and it lingered, just a little bit, until late that night, when I was only able to sleep once Mr. Beaupepys had checked the wardrobe to make sure Ken Russell's ghost had gone away.
Pitch Black is another one of those films that I've often seen bits of but never, up until yesterday, actually sat down to watch in full. I was torn over it for a long time, aware it contained some beautiful cinematography but put off by the creature feature subgenre pigeonhole. I'd just got home from work, though, and Mr. Beaupepys thought I might like to watch a little something by Ken Russell, possibly because of last night's blue moon. I had to think of an alternative, and think fast, and a little vicarious bloodletting seemed like a fun way to round off the working week.
Let me make one thing absolutely clear: if you want to enjoy Pitch Black you're going to have to be ready to silence your inner nitpicker. If you're worried about things like logic, or scientific accuracy, or human beings behaving like horror movie stereotypes, you'll be in for a thoroughly exasperating couple of hours. I'm not going to spend too much time gazing into the abyssal depths of every plot hole, but you have a planet that gets 22 years of blinding sunshine for each single night of darkness, and yet has managed to evolve an apex predator for whom light is lethal? This is the level of stupidity we're talking about here.
Given the above plus some truly abysmal acting, it'd be easy to assume that the film's only pleasures would be guilty ones. The reality, however, is a little more complex, because honestly, parts of Pitch Black are pretty damned good. The visuals are the obvious candidates here - this is a film about light and darkness, so you'd hope for some neat effects to emphasise the harshness of the planet's decade-long days. You wouldn't be disappointed, either, with bleached, parched footage that dries your mouth just to look at it. Parts of the film are flat-out stunning; one or two shots are honestly as achingly beautiful as anything I've ever seen on screen. Less obvious, however, is some truly nifty sound engineering that really adds to a movie that aims to scare us with what we can't quite see. Oh, and think on this: when did you last see a film with an Islamic good guy? Here, Keith David plays the sort of generic holy man role that would normally be given to an amiable Irish Catholic priest or something, only in this case, in a genuinely progressive move, he's an Imam taking a group of students on a pilgrimage to New Mecca.
I'd probably be remiss if I didn't mention Vin Diesel, so this is me mentioning him. I've noticed that he seems to inspire strong feelings in people - either loathing for the hypermasculine roles he seems to take, or a sort of militant apathy probably born of all those Fast and Furious sequels. Me, I always think of him as the voice of the Iron Giant in the film of the same name, and of Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy, two big, dumb animated sweethearts who first melted my heart and then outright broke it, so yeah, I actually have a fair amount of time for the guy. Here, I liked him as escaped convict Riddick, but as I've previously stated, this really isn't a film to watch for the acting - it's an ensemble piece where everyone's a cliche and each actor is equally culpable.
Don't get me wrong, Pitch Black isn't a work of flawed genius, it's a silly horror film with some compellingly redeeming qualities. That said, just for a little while, I found myself thoroughly enjoying being scared out of my wits, sat tensing myself for the next toothy alien monster to leap out of the darkness. Oh, and it lingered, just a little bit, until late that night, when I was only able to sleep once Mr. Beaupepys had checked the wardrobe to make sure Ken Russell's ghost had gone away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)