My only rule is no repeat directors. I have a separate honorable mention category for runner-up films by directors in the top 10 and other movies that just barely missed the cut.
1. There Will Be Blood - Directed by Paul Thomas Anderson
Driven by Daniel Day Lewis, in a performance for the ages, this movie will remain supremely captivating for many decades to come.
2. The Squid and The Whale - Directed by Noah Bombach
A most unlikely comedy with consistently spectacular performances, beautifully composed by Bombach from events in his own childhood.
3. Children of Men - Directed by Aflonso Cuaron
A bold futuristic portrait of mankind at its lowest point that somehow manages to grasp some hope. Breathtaking direction and photography.
4. Inglourious Basterds - Directed by Quentin Tarantino
Tarantino raises the bar for World War II films to astounding new heights. It crackles and pops from beginning to end. Christoph Waltz is brilliant.
5. Traffic - Directed by Steven Soderbergh
An extremely innovative and riveting portrait of drugs, family, and crime in America. A great story with a unique visual flare.
6. Matchpoint - Directed by Woody Allen
A grand tragedy with little of Allen's characteristic humor yet all of his wit. Scarlett Johansen sizzles and the story is a classic that Shakespeare would envy.
7. Sexy Beast - Directed by Jonathan Glazer
A more personal crime thriller that doesn't sacrifice any exhilaration. Ben Kingsley will floor you and leave you chuckling as well.
8. A Christmas Tale - Directed by Arnaud Desplechin
A beautiful portrait of a fascinatingly unique family that touches on the intricacies of any family tree. The characters' relationship drive the narrative with their gravitational pulls.
9. Lost in Translation - Directed by Sophia Coppola
Post-modern bliss.
10. In the Bedroom - Directed by Todd Field
Tragically beautiful performances by Tom Wilkinson and Sissy Spacek.
Honorable mentions: City of God, Memento, Idiocracy, Sideways, I (Heart) Huckabees, Closer, Brokeback Mountain, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Pianist, Babel, Pan's Labyrinth, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, No Country For Old Men, Punch Drunk Love, Kill Bill, Little Children, The Constant Gardner, Apocalypto, Bad Santa, Adaptation, The Door In The Floor, Y Tu Mama Tambien, The New World, The 25th Hour, 21 Grams
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
My Dinner With Andre
This movie has a reputation that precedes it. It is, in fact, a movie that consists almost entirely of a conversation between two people over dinner. You might think there isn't much to say about this movie: false.
My Dinner With Andre is a tame sort of experimental film in that way. I liken it to the Dada art movement in Europe following World War I, which challenged the very nature of art itself. This movie explores the boundaries of the definition of film to an extent. The two stars (Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory) each wrote their own dialogue and play characters with their own names. So, if they wrote their own lines and play themselves, are they really acting? And if the answer is no, is this really a film? This is what the movie is about actually.
Wallace (Wally) and Andre have not seen each other in several years, and during that time Andre has been on a series of journeys trying to rediscover himself and regain touch with reality. Wally has meanwhile been a struggling playwrite and actor, consumed with much more tangible aspects of reality. Andre imparts his disaffection with state of humanity while unconsciously revealing that he not only has the metaphysical wherewithal to take on a wild pan-spiritual journey, but the economic security to do so. Wally agrees about the sad degeneration of human relationships and social disaffection, but confesses that he has too many practical concerns and too many simple pleasures to let these issues consume his conscious.
The breakdown between the two characters is best summarized by their respective attitude towards the electric blanket. Wally relates how his new electric blanket is such a wonderful thing, a marvel in modern comfort. Andre responds that he would never use one; because it would separate him from the cold, anesthetisizing himself from it. By hiding in the comfort he would not be forced to imagine how cold and uncomfortable others are, thus separating himself from his fellow man. Wally responds that it gets cold, and life is full of so many difficulties, why should one thing of comfort be a bad thing? This conversation reveals that Andre has the luxury to reject comfort, while for Wally comfort is a luxury.
My Dinner With Andre touches on the relationships among wealth, art, and identity in very subtle ways. I come away with an intense disdain for Andre, who lauds his bizarre artistic exploits as only an elitist snob can. In all his searches for himself and his attempts to rediscover the essential in humanity, all he has accomplished is a wildly overinflated sense of his own experiences and a vast distancing of himself from humanity. Wallace is more likable, but also pathetic in his own right. He simultaneously bemoans and validates his life as a starving artist, happily relegating himself to a life of quaint comforts.
I have to give director Louis Malle some credit for remaining true to the nature of this film while attempting to give it some visual variety. That being said, I fell asleep while watching this movie the first time. I was watching it while sitting in bed at night, but that is what it is.
My Dinner With Andre is a tame sort of experimental film in that way. I liken it to the Dada art movement in Europe following World War I, which challenged the very nature of art itself. This movie explores the boundaries of the definition of film to an extent. The two stars (Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory) each wrote their own dialogue and play characters with their own names. So, if they wrote their own lines and play themselves, are they really acting? And if the answer is no, is this really a film? This is what the movie is about actually.
Wallace (Wally) and Andre have not seen each other in several years, and during that time Andre has been on a series of journeys trying to rediscover himself and regain touch with reality. Wally has meanwhile been a struggling playwrite and actor, consumed with much more tangible aspects of reality. Andre imparts his disaffection with state of humanity while unconsciously revealing that he not only has the metaphysical wherewithal to take on a wild pan-spiritual journey, but the economic security to do so. Wally agrees about the sad degeneration of human relationships and social disaffection, but confesses that he has too many practical concerns and too many simple pleasures to let these issues consume his conscious.
The breakdown between the two characters is best summarized by their respective attitude towards the electric blanket. Wally relates how his new electric blanket is such a wonderful thing, a marvel in modern comfort. Andre responds that he would never use one; because it would separate him from the cold, anesthetisizing himself from it. By hiding in the comfort he would not be forced to imagine how cold and uncomfortable others are, thus separating himself from his fellow man. Wally responds that it gets cold, and life is full of so many difficulties, why should one thing of comfort be a bad thing? This conversation reveals that Andre has the luxury to reject comfort, while for Wally comfort is a luxury.
My Dinner With Andre touches on the relationships among wealth, art, and identity in very subtle ways. I come away with an intense disdain for Andre, who lauds his bizarre artistic exploits as only an elitist snob can. In all his searches for himself and his attempts to rediscover the essential in humanity, all he has accomplished is a wildly overinflated sense of his own experiences and a vast distancing of himself from humanity. Wallace is more likable, but also pathetic in his own right. He simultaneously bemoans and validates his life as a starving artist, happily relegating himself to a life of quaint comforts.
I have to give director Louis Malle some credit for remaining true to the nature of this film while attempting to give it some visual variety. That being said, I fell asleep while watching this movie the first time. I was watching it while sitting in bed at night, but that is what it is.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
DJ Railsplitter's Not Top Ten Movies
I my last post I mentioned that El Topo was not the worst movie I have ever seen. So, to give that statement a little more definition, here are the ten worst movies that I have seen, in no particular order.
Walking Tall -- the original -- the remake could not be any worse
Tremors 2 -- never seen Tremors 3, but I hear its pretty bad
Action Jackson -- this movie is so bad, but it is hysterical without meaning to be
Money Train -- again, funny in all the ways it tries not to be. Featuring Academy Award winner Chris Cooper in a truly baffling role. Also Robert Blake is gut-wrenchingly funny.
Sleepless in Seattle -- I don't know how this movie was such a success, fucking 90s
Boondock Saints -- most . . . overrated . . . movie . . . ever
Smokin' Aces -- could have been cool, but fails epically
Gods and Generals -- over 500 speaking parts, and one of them is Ted Turner
Notting Hill -- vomit
Grand Canyon -- painful bloody vomit. A strange circumstance has forced me to watch this movie repeatedly and I cannot say enough bad things about it.
Honorable Mention: Free Jack, The Hills Have Eyes (remake), Tango and Cash, Sharky's Machine, Rambo, Pearl Harbor, Legally Blond, The Ring
What did I miss?
Walking Tall -- the original -- the remake could not be any worse
Tremors 2 -- never seen Tremors 3, but I hear its pretty bad
Action Jackson -- this movie is so bad, but it is hysterical without meaning to be
Money Train -- again, funny in all the ways it tries not to be. Featuring Academy Award winner Chris Cooper in a truly baffling role. Also Robert Blake is gut-wrenchingly funny.
Sleepless in Seattle -- I don't know how this movie was such a success, fucking 90s
Boondock Saints -- most . . . overrated . . . movie . . . ever
Smokin' Aces -- could have been cool, but fails epically
Gods and Generals -- over 500 speaking parts, and one of them is Ted Turner
Notting Hill -- vomit
Grand Canyon -- painful bloody vomit. A strange circumstance has forced me to watch this movie repeatedly and I cannot say enough bad things about it.
Honorable Mention: Free Jack, The Hills Have Eyes (remake), Tango and Cash, Sharky's Machine, Rambo, Pearl Harbor, Legally Blond, The Ring
What did I miss?
El Topo
1970
This movie has it all.
Love, heartbreak, redemption, an armless man and a legless man harnessed together and acting in concert, a lion, a disemboweled horse, a pile of spontaneously combusting dead rabbits, male nudity, female nudity, female midget nudity, voyeuristic public castration, violence, homosexuality, a naked child putting a dying man out of his misery with his father's pistol, weird costumes, some weird sex scenes, gross old women in lingerie, a soundtrack that is ironic at best, Russian roulette, and a race of subterranian deformed inbreds longing to reach the surface only to be slaughtered by weird townsfolk who are then slaughtered by El Topo who then kills himself by dousing himself in kerosene and setting himself on fire.
The weirdest movie that I have ever seen, but far from the worst.
The allegory of a principled, talented, and shockingly insane person.
Costume design, production design, screenplay, score, and direction by Alejandro Jodorowsky. He also plays the starring role, that of El Topo. I would not want to be stuck on an elevator with him.
Also John Lennon was a big fan. That is all.
This movie has it all.
Love, heartbreak, redemption, an armless man and a legless man harnessed together and acting in concert, a lion, a disemboweled horse, a pile of spontaneously combusting dead rabbits, male nudity, female nudity, female midget nudity, voyeuristic public castration, violence, homosexuality, a naked child putting a dying man out of his misery with his father's pistol, weird costumes, some weird sex scenes, gross old women in lingerie, a soundtrack that is ironic at best, Russian roulette, and a race of subterranian deformed inbreds longing to reach the surface only to be slaughtered by weird townsfolk who are then slaughtered by El Topo who then kills himself by dousing himself in kerosene and setting himself on fire.
The weirdest movie that I have ever seen, but far from the worst.
The allegory of a principled, talented, and shockingly insane person.
Costume design, production design, screenplay, score, and direction by Alejandro Jodorowsky. He also plays the starring role, that of El Topo. I would not want to be stuck on an elevator with him.
Also John Lennon was a big fan. That is all.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Passenger
Another dense masterpiece from Michelangelo Antonioni, The Passenger follows a man who tries to rediscover himself by running away from everything he has ever known. David Locke (Jack Nicholson) fakes his own death by trading identities with a dead man, unwittingly involving himself in the dead man's dangerous intrigues. He soon finds himself running away from the man he once was and grappling with the person he has become. He meets a free-thinking, libertine woman (the always beautiful and captivating Maria Schneider) and they go on a journey that is part holiday and part getaway.
The Passenger is almost a thriller, not quite a love story, but it is primarily a study the nature of self, identity and ones relationship with others in the abstract. Locke's personal and legal rejection of everything that makes him David Locke changes the way he relates to everything and everyone around him. He adopts the dead man's persona, but never truly embraces it: so who is he really? During the course of the movie he defines himself more in terms of what he rejects (and flees) than what he espouses. His relationship with Schneider's character (significantly we never learn her name) is indissoluble and fleeting at the same time; their conversations are abstract existential musings. They never know each other, and in a sense neither are knowable. Watch: draw your own conclusions, please.
A word about Jack. I feel as though his most well-know, defining roles (One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, The Shining, Chinatown, to an extent, and others) are portrayed as vibrant dynamos, characters that truly burst off the screen. He certainly is a brilliant and dynamic actor, and fantastic in those movies. In The Passenger his character, by its very nature, will not grab you like many of his other roles -- but he is great. His lesser roles (lesser by virtue of prominence, not quality) are often of a more subdued nature, which is something I have only learned in the last year or so. I would recommend The King of Marvin Gardens and highly recommend Five Easy Pieces as good movies and another side of Jack. OK, back to The Passenger.
An Antonioni movie with a plot! The first such movie that I have seen from him, which is not a knock on the other two in any way. He achieves a striking balance between the world of Nicholson and Schneider and everyone else who is being themselves, playing the parts they have cultivated their whole lives. The opening scenes in the Sahara Desert are disorienting, brilliantly so for the opening of this movie. He makes very limited use of flashbacks, accenting rather than driving the narrative and characterization in interesting ways. The photography is, of course, brilliant. It was shot by Luciano Tovoli (god damn those Italians really have a knack for beautiful composition). I have two favorite shots. while driving down a tree-lined Spanish road, Schneider asks Jack what he is trying to get away from, Jack replies "Face the back of the car," which she does, and as she looks at everything behind them from the back seat while the car flies forward the camera catches her from below, we see only her erect figure set against the canopy rushing by overhead. Description does not do justice. The penultimate shot is sublime, and I am not quite sure how they did it; it defies description. No one knows how to end a movie like Antonioni.
The Passenger manages to be both artistic and captivating, abstract yet grounded. The plot and the point reinforce each other throughout, cemented by flawless direction. Of the Antonioni movies that I have seen, Blow Up and Zabriskie Point, being the others, I would recommend this for a first Antonioni movie. It unmistakably bears his touch but it is much more accessible than the other two. So watch this first and hopefully it won't be your last.
The Passenger is almost a thriller, not quite a love story, but it is primarily a study the nature of self, identity and ones relationship with others in the abstract. Locke's personal and legal rejection of everything that makes him David Locke changes the way he relates to everything and everyone around him. He adopts the dead man's persona, but never truly embraces it: so who is he really? During the course of the movie he defines himself more in terms of what he rejects (and flees) than what he espouses. His relationship with Schneider's character (significantly we never learn her name) is indissoluble and fleeting at the same time; their conversations are abstract existential musings. They never know each other, and in a sense neither are knowable. Watch: draw your own conclusions, please.
A word about Jack. I feel as though his most well-know, defining roles (One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, The Shining, Chinatown, to an extent, and others) are portrayed as vibrant dynamos, characters that truly burst off the screen. He certainly is a brilliant and dynamic actor, and fantastic in those movies. In The Passenger his character, by its very nature, will not grab you like many of his other roles -- but he is great. His lesser roles (lesser by virtue of prominence, not quality) are often of a more subdued nature, which is something I have only learned in the last year or so. I would recommend The King of Marvin Gardens and highly recommend Five Easy Pieces as good movies and another side of Jack. OK, back to The Passenger.
An Antonioni movie with a plot! The first such movie that I have seen from him, which is not a knock on the other two in any way. He achieves a striking balance between the world of Nicholson and Schneider and everyone else who is being themselves, playing the parts they have cultivated their whole lives. The opening scenes in the Sahara Desert are disorienting, brilliantly so for the opening of this movie. He makes very limited use of flashbacks, accenting rather than driving the narrative and characterization in interesting ways. The photography is, of course, brilliant. It was shot by Luciano Tovoli (god damn those Italians really have a knack for beautiful composition). I have two favorite shots. while driving down a tree-lined Spanish road, Schneider asks Jack what he is trying to get away from, Jack replies "Face the back of the car," which she does, and as she looks at everything behind them from the back seat while the car flies forward the camera catches her from below, we see only her erect figure set against the canopy rushing by overhead. Description does not do justice. The penultimate shot is sublime, and I am not quite sure how they did it; it defies description. No one knows how to end a movie like Antonioni.
The Passenger manages to be both artistic and captivating, abstract yet grounded. The plot and the point reinforce each other throughout, cemented by flawless direction. Of the Antonioni movies that I have seen, Blow Up and Zabriskie Point, being the others, I would recommend this for a first Antonioni movie. It unmistakably bears his touch but it is much more accessible than the other two. So watch this first and hopefully it won't be your last.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
The Conformist
(I am doing away with grading. It is too arbitrary, and who the fuck am I to give something a grade, especially something artistic.)
The Conformist (Il Conformista) is a cinematic depiction of fascism, the political movement that thrust the world into turmoil in the 1930s and 1940s. It is the story of a Clerici (Jean-Louis Trintingnant) a man driven by a sense of himself as someone a-typical, a drive which is fueled by the compliant nature of fascism itself. The pressure from within and without to conform leads him to complicity in an act that he ultimately finds repugnant.
In order to take the most away from The Conformist, one must have at least a working understanding of fascism. DJ Railsplitter is here to help. Crudely defined, fascism is the subordination of the individual to the collective. Mussolini referred to fascist Italy (which he governed, as head of the singular Fascist Party) as the "corporate state. Think of it as a corporation, a collection of individual interests united in one body with one collective purpose. Everyone must do their part, working towards a common goal. It is distinct from communism in that it does not entail strict state control of the economy or total public ownership of the means of production. Communist and fascists actually didn't get along too well (see: Spanish Civil War, World War II). This explanation would get me lampooned in any history or political science class, but we're talking film here people.
The Conformist is directed by Bernardo Bertolucci and was released in 1971. Bertolucci adapted the screenplay from the novel by Alberto Moravia. It was photographer by Vittorio Storaro with production design by Ferdinando Scarfiotti. I don't always make a point to credit cinematographers (and even less production designers [not that they are not integral roles in film making]) but so many scenes in The Conformist are dripping with visual meaning that they deserve accolades. This movie is a visual depiction of fascism, and I will mention three scenes: a visit by Clerici to his father, who has been committed to an insane asylum, a dance in which everyone present joins hands and dances around Clerici in a circle that gradually becomes more and more suffocating, and scene which takes place in a ballet studio. It is difficult and kind of senseless to attempt to explain photographic symbolism if you haven't seen the movie. I recommend you see it.
Visually The Conformist is a depiction of fascism. While Clerici's story takes place within the historical frame of fascism, it could be the story of any man at any time who wants desperately to be normal; to feel as if he is walking in the middle of the road that society has laid out for him. He marries a woman who he doesn't really love, and who never had to go out of her way to be a conformist. Haunted by an event in his past, he finds himself not only getting in line, but stepping into the front line of the fascist secret police. Of course, the fascists eventually lose (see: World War II) and Clerici finds himself on the wrong side of the road, yet again.
The lesson, of course, is be yourself. Also, fascism blows. Also people wore really cool looking clothes in the 1930s.
Seriously, though, this movie is seriously awesome. There is a healthy amount of humor, and I actually laughed out loud several times. I hasten to add that the cinematography is not only meaningful but innovative and beautiful in its own right. Trintignant is a revelation; a truly brilliant performance. Bertolucci is a master, and he would follow Il Conformista with his consensus masterpiece, Last Tango in Paris.
In short, I recommend this film to those who consider themselves worthy of its recommendation.
The Conformist (Il Conformista) is a cinematic depiction of fascism, the political movement that thrust the world into turmoil in the 1930s and 1940s. It is the story of a Clerici (Jean-Louis Trintingnant) a man driven by a sense of himself as someone a-typical, a drive which is fueled by the compliant nature of fascism itself. The pressure from within and without to conform leads him to complicity in an act that he ultimately finds repugnant.
In order to take the most away from The Conformist, one must have at least a working understanding of fascism. DJ Railsplitter is here to help. Crudely defined, fascism is the subordination of the individual to the collective. Mussolini referred to fascist Italy (which he governed, as head of the singular Fascist Party) as the "corporate state. Think of it as a corporation, a collection of individual interests united in one body with one collective purpose. Everyone must do their part, working towards a common goal. It is distinct from communism in that it does not entail strict state control of the economy or total public ownership of the means of production. Communist and fascists actually didn't get along too well (see: Spanish Civil War, World War II). This explanation would get me lampooned in any history or political science class, but we're talking film here people.
The Conformist is directed by Bernardo Bertolucci and was released in 1971. Bertolucci adapted the screenplay from the novel by Alberto Moravia. It was photographer by Vittorio Storaro with production design by Ferdinando Scarfiotti. I don't always make a point to credit cinematographers (and even less production designers [not that they are not integral roles in film making]) but so many scenes in The Conformist are dripping with visual meaning that they deserve accolades. This movie is a visual depiction of fascism, and I will mention three scenes: a visit by Clerici to his father, who has been committed to an insane asylum, a dance in which everyone present joins hands and dances around Clerici in a circle that gradually becomes more and more suffocating, and scene which takes place in a ballet studio. It is difficult and kind of senseless to attempt to explain photographic symbolism if you haven't seen the movie. I recommend you see it.
Visually The Conformist is a depiction of fascism. While Clerici's story takes place within the historical frame of fascism, it could be the story of any man at any time who wants desperately to be normal; to feel as if he is walking in the middle of the road that society has laid out for him. He marries a woman who he doesn't really love, and who never had to go out of her way to be a conformist. Haunted by an event in his past, he finds himself not only getting in line, but stepping into the front line of the fascist secret police. Of course, the fascists eventually lose (see: World War II) and Clerici finds himself on the wrong side of the road, yet again.
The lesson, of course, is be yourself. Also, fascism blows. Also people wore really cool looking clothes in the 1930s.
Seriously, though, this movie is seriously awesome. There is a healthy amount of humor, and I actually laughed out loud several times. I hasten to add that the cinematography is not only meaningful but innovative and beautiful in its own right. Trintignant is a revelation; a truly brilliant performance. Bertolucci is a master, and he would follow Il Conformista with his consensus masterpiece, Last Tango in Paris.
In short, I recommend this film to those who consider themselves worthy of its recommendation.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Zabriskie Point (A-)
Zabriskie Point was directed Michelangelo Antonioni and released in 1970. It is a depiction of student radicalism, free love, and personal freedom of thought and action in late 1960's southern California.
Many people will find this movie almost unwatchable. The "plot" is the story of two young and uninhibited youth on a journey without direction through the desert of a society of confining social norms characterized by a sterilized commercialism. It encompasses scenes of anti-war protest, quasi-revolutionary activity, hostility to authority for its own sake, and hippie free-love. This is juxtaposed with mainstream culture depicted as impotent, blandly capitalistic, and essentially without a soul.
The most striking feature of Zabriskie Point is the apparent ineptness of the acting and writing. The writing (Antonioni, Sam Shepard, Franco Rossetti, Tonino Guerra, Clare Peploe) consists of the most cliched hippie speak imaginable, as dry throughout the film as the desert in which most of the movie takes place. Antonioni uses amateurs and non-actors - and it shows. I hesitate to say that even the direction of the renowned Antonioni leaves something to be desired, at least on the surface.
On further contemplation, I believe it is not that simple. I believe, rather firmly, that the direction is in fact deliberately lacking. In fact the previous sentence is the greatest thing I take away from Zabriskie Point. It is a film about not only lack of direction, but the actual rejection of direction as a life virtue. It is a film about characters who have or are discovering that they can live their lives in a way that rejects plans, goals, and any social norms that they so choose to reject. A film without direction depicting life without direction. That is my take anyway.
The cinematography (Alfio Contini) and production design (Dean Tavoularis) is immaculate, and bursting with social commentary. Scenes in which students bent on a life of free expression and rejection of the world as it is drive through streets fraught with corporate logos and advertisement. Through model homes and model families the consummate capitalist markets mass housing developments and a cookie-cutter life while an American flag fills the window in his sky-rise office. Other scenes beg for allegory that is better left for the individual to determine for themselves.
The soundtrack for the greatest cinematic depiction of hippie-dome? Jerry Garcia and Pink Floyd of course. Which brings me to the final scenes of the movie, accompanied by the memorable Pink Floyd number "Careful With That Axe, Eugene." Probably the most engrossing, poignant, and impeccably filmed end to a movie that I have ever seen. And I have seen a few. I would not recommend this movie to many, but I would recommend the final ten minutes to everyone.
Zabriskie Point is a social and cultural commentary. There are few scenes that I would call entertaining. I laughed once, barely. This is a work of art that is truly not intended as entertainment. My grade of A- is merely for this fact. Zabriskie Point is a work of transcendent artistic genius.
Many people will find this movie almost unwatchable. The "plot" is the story of two young and uninhibited youth on a journey without direction through the desert of a society of confining social norms characterized by a sterilized commercialism. It encompasses scenes of anti-war protest, quasi-revolutionary activity, hostility to authority for its own sake, and hippie free-love. This is juxtaposed with mainstream culture depicted as impotent, blandly capitalistic, and essentially without a soul.
The most striking feature of Zabriskie Point is the apparent ineptness of the acting and writing. The writing (Antonioni, Sam Shepard, Franco Rossetti, Tonino Guerra, Clare Peploe) consists of the most cliched hippie speak imaginable, as dry throughout the film as the desert in which most of the movie takes place. Antonioni uses amateurs and non-actors - and it shows. I hesitate to say that even the direction of the renowned Antonioni leaves something to be desired, at least on the surface.
On further contemplation, I believe it is not that simple. I believe, rather firmly, that the direction is in fact deliberately lacking. In fact the previous sentence is the greatest thing I take away from Zabriskie Point. It is a film about not only lack of direction, but the actual rejection of direction as a life virtue. It is a film about characters who have or are discovering that they can live their lives in a way that rejects plans, goals, and any social norms that they so choose to reject. A film without direction depicting life without direction. That is my take anyway.
The cinematography (Alfio Contini) and production design (Dean Tavoularis) is immaculate, and bursting with social commentary. Scenes in which students bent on a life of free expression and rejection of the world as it is drive through streets fraught with corporate logos and advertisement. Through model homes and model families the consummate capitalist markets mass housing developments and a cookie-cutter life while an American flag fills the window in his sky-rise office. Other scenes beg for allegory that is better left for the individual to determine for themselves.
The soundtrack for the greatest cinematic depiction of hippie-dome? Jerry Garcia and Pink Floyd of course. Which brings me to the final scenes of the movie, accompanied by the memorable Pink Floyd number "Careful With That Axe, Eugene." Probably the most engrossing, poignant, and impeccably filmed end to a movie that I have ever seen. And I have seen a few. I would not recommend this movie to many, but I would recommend the final ten minutes to everyone.
Zabriskie Point is a social and cultural commentary. There are few scenes that I would call entertaining. I laughed once, barely. This is a work of art that is truly not intended as entertainment. My grade of A- is merely for this fact. Zabriskie Point is a work of transcendent artistic genius.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Four Flies on Gray Velvet (B+)
"Four Flies on Gray Velvet" was directed by Dario Argento and released in 1972. Argento , the Italian master of horror, should be more well known than he is. This is one of the most visually striking "horror" movies I have ever seen.
"Four Flies" actually uses elements from many different film genres. (It is aesthetically anachronistic to look at it this way since the movie was filmed before these genres had become so entrenched in the film industry, but it is a useful perspective for the modern movie-watcher.) It is part mystery, part detective flick, and part horror. The plot makes it a mystery, but Argento's distinct style certainly belongs in the horror genre.
A prominent musician is set-up to commit a murder and psychologically tortured by a mysterious yet intimately acquainted and obviously deranged mastermind. As people begin to die the stakes are continually raised. The mystery unfolds obliquely through seemingly unconnected images and narration. The protagonist enlists the help of of a private detective who uncovers the truth, but the viewer only hears part of the story. The course of the movie strays a bit at times and the viewer could feel a little bit TOO lost. Some of this convolusion is justified by the end of the movie, but only some, in my estimation. The end is also accompanied by the seemingly ubiquitous killers monologue, allowing help to arrive. This is more than compensated for by a final shot which is simply breathtaking.
Argento kills a character like no one else. The scenes of obvious suspense are torturously (amelioratively) drawn out and the coup de grace is never disappointing in their graphic boldness. Argento also makes wonderful use of silence. That being said "Four Flies" has a wonderful soundtrack by Ennio Morricone. Argento also injects some humor into the script in the form of the flamboyantly gay private detective, with mixed results.
The screenplay is certainly not Argento's best, but visually this movie is unbelievable. It probably won't blow your mind taken on the whole (although the last shot is sure to) but it is definitely worth a viewing.
"Four Flies" actually uses elements from many different film genres. (It is aesthetically anachronistic to look at it this way since the movie was filmed before these genres had become so entrenched in the film industry, but it is a useful perspective for the modern movie-watcher.) It is part mystery, part detective flick, and part horror. The plot makes it a mystery, but Argento's distinct style certainly belongs in the horror genre.
A prominent musician is set-up to commit a murder and psychologically tortured by a mysterious yet intimately acquainted and obviously deranged mastermind. As people begin to die the stakes are continually raised. The mystery unfolds obliquely through seemingly unconnected images and narration. The protagonist enlists the help of of a private detective who uncovers the truth, but the viewer only hears part of the story. The course of the movie strays a bit at times and the viewer could feel a little bit TOO lost. Some of this convolusion is justified by the end of the movie, but only some, in my estimation. The end is also accompanied by the seemingly ubiquitous killers monologue, allowing help to arrive. This is more than compensated for by a final shot which is simply breathtaking.
Argento kills a character like no one else. The scenes of obvious suspense are torturously (amelioratively) drawn out and the coup de grace is never disappointing in their graphic boldness. Argento also makes wonderful use of silence. That being said "Four Flies" has a wonderful soundtrack by Ennio Morricone. Argento also injects some humor into the script in the form of the flamboyantly gay private detective, with mixed results.
The screenplay is certainly not Argento's best, but visually this movie is unbelievable. It probably won't blow your mind taken on the whole (although the last shot is sure to) but it is definitely worth a viewing.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
"Fake Palindromes" by Andrew Bird
my dewy-eyed disney bride, what has tried
swapping your blood with formaldehyde?
monsters?
whiskey-plied voices cried fratricide!
jesus don't you know that you could've died
(you should've died)
with the monsters that talk, monsters that walk the earth
and she's got red lipstick and a bright pair of shoes
and she's got knee high socks, what to cover a bruise
she's got an old death kit she's been meaning to use
she's got blood in her eyes, in her eyes for you
she's got blood in her eyes for you
certain fads, stripes and plaids, singles ads
they run you hot and cold like a rheostat, i mean a thermostat
so you bite on a towel
hope it won't hurt too bad
my dewy-eyed disney bride, what has tried
swapping your blood with formaldehyde?
what monsters that talk, monsters that walk the earth
and she says i like long walks and sci-fi movies
if you're six foot tall and east coast bred
some lonely night we can get together
and i'm gonna tie your wrists with leather
and drill a tiny hole into your head
-- Andrew Bird
This is my current favorite song. Andrew Bird falls into a category of music I would call Indie Folk (even though I hate the term "indie" for describing popular movies and music). I would group Bird in with the likes of Sufjan Stevens and Iron & Wine, both of whom are good as well.
"Fake Palindromes" really stands out on the album "The Mysterious Production of Eggs." It is accented by swirling string refrain that reminds me of Eastern music. A driving bass drum and crooning vocal style combine with the lovingly melancholy lyrics making a song that is both pulse pounding and profoundly sad. I am not a big fan of critiquing music by their lyrics. I think these lyrics stand on their own, however. It has a beautiful poetic quality. I recommend this song very highly, and the album itself is pretty good too, if you're into that kind of thing.
-- DJ Railsplitter
swapping your blood with formaldehyde?
monsters?
whiskey-plied voices cried fratricide!
jesus don't you know that you could've died
(you should've died)
with the monsters that talk, monsters that walk the earth
and she's got red lipstick and a bright pair of shoes
and she's got knee high socks, what to cover a bruise
she's got an old death kit she's been meaning to use
she's got blood in her eyes, in her eyes for you
she's got blood in her eyes for you
certain fads, stripes and plaids, singles ads
they run you hot and cold like a rheostat, i mean a thermostat
so you bite on a towel
hope it won't hurt too bad
my dewy-eyed disney bride, what has tried
swapping your blood with formaldehyde?
what monsters that talk, monsters that walk the earth
and she says i like long walks and sci-fi movies
if you're six foot tall and east coast bred
some lonely night we can get together
and i'm gonna tie your wrists with leather
and drill a tiny hole into your head
-- Andrew Bird
This is my current favorite song. Andrew Bird falls into a category of music I would call Indie Folk (even though I hate the term "indie" for describing popular movies and music). I would group Bird in with the likes of Sufjan Stevens and Iron & Wine, both of whom are good as well.
"Fake Palindromes" really stands out on the album "The Mysterious Production of Eggs." It is accented by swirling string refrain that reminds me of Eastern music. A driving bass drum and crooning vocal style combine with the lovingly melancholy lyrics making a song that is both pulse pounding and profoundly sad. I am not a big fan of critiquing music by their lyrics. I think these lyrics stand on their own, however. It has a beautiful poetic quality. I recommend this song very highly, and the album itself is pretty good too, if you're into that kind of thing.
-- DJ Railsplitter
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
From "Dance Dance Dance" by Hiruki Murakami
I often dream about the Dolphin Hotel.
In these dreams, Im there, implicated in some kind of ongoing cicumstance. All indication are that I BELONG to this dream continuity.
The Dolphin Hotel is distorted, much too narrow. It seems more like a long, covered bridge. A bridge stretching endlessly through time. And there I am, in the middle of it. Someone else is there too, crying.
The hotel envelops me. I can feel its pulse, its heat. In dreams, I am part of the hotel.
--------------------
I wake up, but where? I dont just think this, I actually voice the question to myself: "Where am I?" As if I didnt know: I'm here. In my life. A feature of the world that is my existence. Not that I particularly recall ever having approved these matters, this conidtion, this state of affairs in which I feature. There might be a woman sleeping next to me. More often, I'm alone. Just me and the expressway that runs right next to my apartment and, bedside, a glass (five milimeters of whiskey still in it) and the malicious -- no, make that indifferent -- dusty morning light. Sometimes its raining. If it is, I'll just stay in bed. And if there's whiskey still left in the glass, I'll drink it. And I'll look at the raindrops dripping from the eaves, and I'll think about the Dolphin Hotel. Maybe I'll stretch, nice and slow. Enough to be sure I'm myself and not part of something else. Yet I'll remember the feel of the dream. So much that I swear I can reach out and touch it, and the whole of that SOMETHING that includes me will move. If I strain my ears, I can hear the slow, cautious sequence of play take place, like droplets in an intricate water puzzle falling, step upon step, one after the other. I listen carefully. That's when I hear someone softly, almost imperceptibly, weeping. A sobbing from somewhere in the darkness. Someone is crying for me.
-- Haruki Murakami
I just started reading this book. This is the beginning and all that I have read so far. And so I suppose there will be more on this to come. The beginning is striking.
--DJ Railsplitter
In these dreams, Im there, implicated in some kind of ongoing cicumstance. All indication are that I BELONG to this dream continuity.
The Dolphin Hotel is distorted, much too narrow. It seems more like a long, covered bridge. A bridge stretching endlessly through time. And there I am, in the middle of it. Someone else is there too, crying.
The hotel envelops me. I can feel its pulse, its heat. In dreams, I am part of the hotel.
--------------------
I wake up, but where? I dont just think this, I actually voice the question to myself: "Where am I?" As if I didnt know: I'm here. In my life. A feature of the world that is my existence. Not that I particularly recall ever having approved these matters, this conidtion, this state of affairs in which I feature. There might be a woman sleeping next to me. More often, I'm alone. Just me and the expressway that runs right next to my apartment and, bedside, a glass (five milimeters of whiskey still in it) and the malicious -- no, make that indifferent -- dusty morning light. Sometimes its raining. If it is, I'll just stay in bed. And if there's whiskey still left in the glass, I'll drink it. And I'll look at the raindrops dripping from the eaves, and I'll think about the Dolphin Hotel. Maybe I'll stretch, nice and slow. Enough to be sure I'm myself and not part of something else. Yet I'll remember the feel of the dream. So much that I swear I can reach out and touch it, and the whole of that SOMETHING that includes me will move. If I strain my ears, I can hear the slow, cautious sequence of play take place, like droplets in an intricate water puzzle falling, step upon step, one after the other. I listen carefully. That's when I hear someone softly, almost imperceptibly, weeping. A sobbing from somewhere in the darkness. Someone is crying for me.
-- Haruki Murakami
I just started reading this book. This is the beginning and all that I have read so far. And so I suppose there will be more on this to come. The beginning is striking.
--DJ Railsplitter
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