The Milky Way Blues

The Star Wars Blues

2005-05-27T10:17:00.000-07:00

I think there’s a book to be written about the way the original “Star Wars” generation reacted to director/mastermind George Lucas’s just-completed prequel trilogy to his 70s-80s pop culture phenom. At least as far as can be gleaned from internet bashing, the average Gen-Xer despised both 1999’s “Phantom Menace” and 2002’s “Attack Of The Clones” – and only now is the tide of thirty-two-something bitterness ebbing a bit with the general embrace of this summer’s mega-hit “Revenge Of The Sith.” You’ve heard the rhetoric: “The dialogue sucks,” “The acting sucks,” “Too many effects,” “Who cares about all that political stuff?” and my personal favorite bit of slacker hyperbole, “George Lucas raped my childhood.” Never mind that all those criticisms would also work just as well if leveled against the older “Star Wars” films.

While I myself just turned 32 in April, and grew up clutching little white Stormtroopers in my mitts, I’m gonna go ahead and make an altogether shocking statement: I think that, forced to choose three out of these six best space-fantasy films ever made, the prequel trilogy is better than the holy original batch. These new films tell a stronger, more subversive story. The sizzling action scenes are freed of the terrestrial grounding that late 70s effects-work required. The look of the films, pure psychedelic color, is as giddy as any early Technicolor work done during Hollywood’s golden age of color. And, most significantly (and this is the part of the argument that is irrefutable), the prequel films much more clearly represent what must have been Lucas’s original version of a fantasy space universe sprung from his own wildest fantasies. These films, and “Sith” especially, are George Lucas’s unadulterated and pure vision of “Star Wars” (remember, Lucas is an indie filmmaker now, no studio guys have any say over the final film product) - and all the grumbling from the “original fans” amounts to little more than a serving of dogmatic, conservative, and very sour grapes.

Sour because, instead of catering to the ever-embittered whims of my generation (who embraced the faux-anarchist philosophies and cool black outfits of ‘The Matrix’), Lucas produced this recent prequel trilogy for the same audience he made the originals: Adolescents. In Lucas’s mind, this is one 12-hour film he’s just completed, and he’s always aiming at that 13-year-old kid who gets the six-film boxed set twenty years from now and starts from “Phantom Menace,” plumbs the dark depths of “Sith,” and ends up joyful at the fireworks display than ends 1983’s “Return Of The Jedi” –I gotta say, that is one lucky kid. Stripped of the sentimentality with which my generation rabidly champions the original trilogy, that future-kid is in for one hell of a treat.

And “Sith” is the big cliffhanger right in the middle. It’s a dark film, epic and intimate at the same time. Filled-to-bursting with both terrific action set-pieces and believable comic-book torment, “Sith” is also the “Star Wars” film that most clearly displays Lucas’s liberal and Eastern ideals. Here, in the story of Anakin Skywalker’s final downfall (well-played by Hayden Christensen, who heads up the best-acted film in the series), is the story of how phony wars and politicians can turn youthful idealism into selfish greed. And if that doesn’t seem relevant to America and my generation, you may already be lingering over on the Dark Side (just kidding). While Peter Jackson’s otherwise terrific “Lord Of The Rings” trilogy supported the troubling (and often handy) notion that good armies are made of pretty white people and bad armies are composed of drooling monsters, Lucas’s six-film series, and especially this much-darker prequel trilogy, teaches a more resonant lesson, sneaking it to adolescents under the guise of fantasy: That through the best intentions come the darkest hours of mankind. And that even the wisest governing body (in this case, the fleshed-out and even arrogant Jedi order) is fallible.

In the end, the only thing these new films don’t have is Han Solo. As a friend once mentioned to me, “A lot of ‘Star Wars’ fans are actually just Han Solo fans.” Too true. And there isn’t a loveable rogue like Solo in this prequel set. But I can’t help thinking about that kid again, unwrapping the six-film set twenty years from now. He has a nice surprise waiting for him, after he gets through the emotional pop torment of “Sith” and dives into Episode Four (the original “Star Wars” from ’77) – and an aged Obi-Wan and young Luke wander into that alien bar on Tatooine with the weird jazz pumping, only to ask a wily human smuggler and his tall, furry friend for help getting past the Imperial blockade…

Man, were these films cool, or what?

Weekend Movies

2005-05-23T11:55:00.000-07:00

While I had hoped to get this blog flyin’ like a regular stream of altered-consciousness, it seems all I can do is impotently post wholly subjective film reviews. Here’s what I saw this weekend, Yancy.

First, the big one.

“Revenge Of The Sith” (****) is a terrific George Lucas picture, and a mighty webbing that handily straps the older films together with the more recent prequels. It’s also, as you might have heard, a rather politicized adolescent fantasy. Lucas definitely has it out for Bush this time out, and his hits are all below the belt and, in his own way, subtle (secreted as they are, suitably, in the mythology of the fall of democracies). Yes, the dialogue is sometimes awkward, and yes, some of the line readings are therefore hobbled. But just as often, the acting and dialogue are the finest this series has seen. And if you’re coming to a “Star Wars” picture for the stuff of theater, you’re working off a different template than I am. For me, Lucas’s space fantasies are all about singular imagination and design – a real vision based on a mix of Buck Rogers, liberal politics and Eastern philosophy. And on that basis, I can now say that I prefer the three prequel films to the Holy Trilogy of our youth. “The Phantom Menace,” “Attack Of The Clones,” and now the majestic “Sith” all adhere closer to my definition of personal, auteur cinema than either “Empire” or “Jedi.”

That’s it for big cinema releases. If I’m gonna be seeing anything on the big screen over the next few weeks, it’ll be “Sith” again. BUT, my home viewing schedule is thriving, and I screened some good things over the last week or so (many thanks to Warner Bros. and their excellent treatment of their back-library in recent months):

Ken Annakin doesn’t have much of a rep (other than by mentoring George Lucas, and thereby inspiring his “Star Wars” lead character’s name), but the director’s “Battle Of The Bulge” (***) is a pretty solid Sturges-esque WW2 movie. The picture’s rep is low, probably due to dual dead-eyed lead perfs from Henry Fonda and Robert Ryan (both great actors in a fallow period) – but otherwise, “Bulge” fairly rocks, with thunderous tank-battle scenes, a sleek and crazy Robert Shaw as the Nazi tank commander, and the best acting I’ve even seen from Charles Bronson, in a small role as a half-mad G.I. Plus, overall, I like seeing movies where the Nazis lose.

Speaking of John Sturges, I also took another gander at his classic “Bad Day At Black Rock” (****), which features a totally spot-on performance from the aforementioned Robert Ryan, as well as another iconic perf from Spencer Tracy. Vet Tracy shows up, with an apparently mangled hand in his pocket, in a Western relic of a town a few years after WW2. It needs not be mentioned that the town is hiding a dark secret, but it should be reiterated that “Black Rock” is the ultimate clash of the American Western and the post-war Noir genre (although “Rock” has a skillful Cinemascope studio sheen that most Noirs don’t)

Also, at milady Beck’s behest, we screened Michael Mann’s film of “Last Of The Mohicans” (***1/2) last night. I still maintain, as I have since ’92 when it opened, that “Mohicans” has a slightly muddy plot that ends up amounting to little damage in the face of Mann’s tremendously organic setting and his vicious action sequences, as well as a central romance (between ideals-of-the-species Daniel Day-Lewis and Madeline Stowe) that is hot, hot, hot. Mann has made better films, but never a more supple one.

And Bill Condon’s “Kinsey” (****) was just as good as I had been hoping for, and I still can’t understand why I didn’t see the picture during it’s Oscar run late last year. The acting, script, and direction are all predictably superb – but more than that, the film’s noble desire to uproot sexual prudery may ultimately be an even clearer and more pure effort in that Southerly direction than Kinsey’s own study (at least as far as Condon and the great Liam Neeson have characterized him.) Big, big kudos to William Sadler and Lynn Redgrave for late-in-the-film supporting roles.

And, thanks to a Direct TV cable channel called (apparently and quite appropriately) Encore, I was able to see Ridley Scott’s “Thelma And Louise” (****) almost two and a half times on Sunday. The film holds up well, and its strong feminist iconography seems to be the picture’s main feature, rather than the Scott stylization that threw some viewers (this one included) off in ’91. It’s a landmark in American pop entertainment.

Okay, enough typing. Time to draw some blood.

The Best Film Of The Decade (So Far)

2005-04-21T15:31:00.000-07:00

As one of my birthday gifts, I was happy to receive a Lion's Gate screener of a major documentary they'll be releasing in the Fall: Werner Herzog's "Grizzly Man," about the life and times of Timothy Treadwell. You may remember Treadwell from that big news item a few years back. He was the grizzly bear activist who had generated some press (including an appearance on David Letterman), but who generated even more when, after 13 winters of semi-peaceful living among the dangerous grizzlies, Treadwell and his girlfriend were devoured during a thunderstorm by a bear they didn't know. At the time, the news reported that - for whatever reason - Treadwell's camera was running with the lens cap on during the attack, so while there is no video of their deaths, there is audio of the last moments (which has never been leaked.)

Herzog lets us know early on that we're not going to be hearing the death tape. But that's the only restriction he puts on himself. The great German filmmaker (whose past triumphs, I had assumed, were 25 years behind him) has made both the greatest of his films and the finest documentary ever made. From the 100+ hours of footage that Treadwell shot of himself in the wild with his "friends" (he was planning some kind of children's nature series, with himself as the heroic lead character), Herzog says he discovered "a dormant film within Treadwell's nature footage, the story of a man and his demons." And, boy, he ain't kidding. We watch as Treadwell begins to rely more and more heavily on the camera as his confessional, and as the fateful attack approaches, the blonde-haired activist seems to embrace his own strange brand of happy insanity. And his very real disconnect with the world of men.

The film exists, quite amazingly, as a dialogue between Herzog and the dead Treadwell. Between two filmmakers with differening takes on the footage we see in the film. While Treadwell saw nature as friendly and innocent, Herzog admits that he "is haunted by the fact" that he only sees hunger and boredom in the bears' eyes. There are images in this film, moments captured on the fly, that are among the most beautiful in all film. And the fact that they were captured by a madman who died for his cause, and then assembled by another semi-madman (Herzog was famed for intensely difficult, dangerous shoots in remote locations) is nothing short of miraculous.

You'll be hearing a lot about "Grizzly Man" when it gets a wide-ish release in September. But you heard it here first: This film is a masterpiece.

The Mystery Of This Life Grows

2005-04-08T14:21:00.002-07:00

A few posts ago, you'll notice I wrote about encountering someone else's unflushed toilet in a stall at work. Well, I came in today, and the self-same toilet has been retro-fitted with a auto-flush device. Either someone really powerful is reading my blog, or I control the universe. There is no other option.

Let's Bury All The Hipsters

2005-04-08T14:21:00.001-07:00

Not being a Catholic, I had a pretty good week. I think that's probably a sentence that could describe any week I ever had, but this one in particular. Out of the corner of my eye, I've seen masses gathering around the dead on every news channel. But as I said, it's been a fine week for me.

1) New music. And I don't just mean new to me music. I mean, finally, crochety old Berns is allowing himself to enjoy some of the music these kids today are making. I always figure, when I read a glowing review of, say, the last White Stripes album, that there should be an asterisk that leads to the following disclaimer: "But, of course the age of The Beatles and The Stones are over, so it's not good like THAT"...

And while this new music I've allowed myself to absorb ISN'T The Beatles or The Stones (or even early Elton John), it is better than crochety old Berns would have admitted before he got deeply into Joni Mitchell last month. Now, I know what you're thinking: Joni Mitchell is not "new" music. No, of course not. In fact, she's retired. But I dunked myself headfirst into her entire catalogue, including the really difficult jazz stuff from the later 70's. And I feel like I retrained my ears to accept the true merits of anything. If you can get serious enjoyment out of "Don Juan's Reckless Daughter," you're ready for any sounds imaginable.

So now I've got the new Beck album (lotsa fun), four Bright Eyes records (the guy is pretty much as good as the L.A. Times says he is), and - perhaps in the most revolutionary and anti-social move of all - the most recent Elton John album. Yes, Elton John. Even his fans admit that his great years are far, far behind him. Which makes his new stuff as underground as you could possibly go, music-wise. Once you've gone through the wormhole of the deepest, darkest alternative record store, once you've listened to Charles Manson records all night - you emerge at the other end, with the new Elton John album in your hand. And you know that nobody else your age, not even the guy with the wire hanger through his nose and the split penis, has on his iPod. The ultimate rebellion. And isn't that the goal of every hipster? To be the only guy who "gets it"?

Anyway, the Elton John album is pretty good, much better than the majority of garbage he was putting out during my generation's formative years (80s and 90s), if not quite in the ballpark of masterpieces like "Madman Across The Water" and "Captain Fantastic & The Brown Dirt Cowboy"...

2) I went to Disneyland recently with three very attractive, smart women - one of whom is my long-time lover (forever, babe, forever) and the other two of whom are the mysterious Soy Noodle #1 and #2. Which one is which remains a mystery. But let me tell you: Spend some time at Disneyland with three terrific women. Every cynical thought will leave your mind, and you'll the enjoy the park for the masterpiece it really is (on the design level)

3) Saw some more fine, fine movies. My truly outstanding girlfriend is working nights these nights, so I'm my own best friend after 6:30. Recently saw Bresson's "A Man Escaped," Grace Kelly and Bing Crosby in "The Country Girl," Werner Herzog's "The Enigma Of Kasper Hauser," and William Wyler's "Carrie"... And you know what? They were all good, very good. I'm a happy guy.

What The Hell Is Wrong With You People?

2005-04-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking about writing a film book, something very personal. A book all about defending certain movies from the last, say, 10 years that have been hated by large majorities of the critical press and/or the public. I don't know who I expect to read this book, since the ethos behind its reason-for-maybe-being is that everyone feels differently than I do. Or should I say, "everyone"...

Movies I could write 10,000 word essays in defense of:
The Hulk
Spanglish
A.I.
Eyes Wide Shut
Solaris (Soderbergh version)
Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace
Star Wars Episode Two: Attack Of The Clones
Ishtar (may be a little too "old" a picture at this point)

There are a lot more. So you better not prompt me any more by expressing your subjective opinion. Because for some reason, my ego manifests itself as this idea that my subjective opinions are more clear-eyed than anyone who disagrees with me. But as far as human flaws go, I'm not too down on that one. Better than, say, obstinant self-righteousness. About things other than popular entertainment. Or, say, deep and negative racism.

The Awfulness Of Being A Man

2005-03-30T12:51:00.000-08:00

Perhaps MWB's female contingent will find themselves unable to relate to this posting - at least, I hope so.

This morning, at work, I stumbled into the bathroom and towards my usual stall. I prefer the handicapped stall because A) there aren't any handicapped people I know of here at work, so I won't be bothered in there and B) it's bigger, and it creates the illusion of entitlement. Plus, because the toilet is around the corner from the door, nobody who knows my shoe type will be able to identify me from a bottom view.

Anyway, as I rounded the corner and entered the defecation suite, I was horrified to discover that the bowl was still full from a previous tenant's stay. And I'm not talking a simple yellow urine and tissue paper stew. I'm talking the full male bowel movement, soiled paper and all.

It's not the first time I've encountered this fascinating and repulsive occurance. Many times in my life, I've come upon such a leaving. But this morning I've finally started to wonder: Who does this? What male beast, what drooling knuckle-dragger, slouches out of the stall without a simple flushing of his newborn waste?

There are only two possible answers. The first is comforting: Perhaps said shitter was absent-mindedly riveted by the latest L.A. Times article about tumult at the Disney company, and he forgot to flush. I'm sure that happens. Or maybe he was on his cell phone, or simply was distracted. Hell, I'm sure that kind of circumstance is possible at least, say, once in a man's lifetime. I'm sure I've even done it, I suppose. But I don't think so...

And that leads to the second, more disturbing possibility: That this human evidence was left on purpose for an unsuspecting, anonymous soul to discover. And this morning, and on at least a dozen mornings of my recent life, that soul was mine. But what does this signage mean? What does this filth signify? Why did this degenerate want me to inspect, even for a moment, this intimate offering?

Bruce Springsteen once said he wanted to become a famous pop star not for the money or even the ego-mania, but simply because he wanted to feel his presence reflected in the world. He wanted to prove he existed, by seeing that existence mirrored in a throng of fans and admirers. If he heard his own song on the radio, he'd know that the world knew, "Bruce was here."

Perhaps the same is true of my anonymous friend, who leaves his dump behind him in the mornings without taking advantage of modern plumbing. Perhaps this is his rebellion, his way of feeling entitled. "I don't live here," he might think, "I'm a king around here, and someone else can flush my mess down."

Or maybe this is how we communicate the truth to each other in the 21st century. Perhaps this is the caveman left in all of us, but that lingers most tenaciously in the male of the species. We can't cry to each other, we can't talk about our feelings, but we sure enough can leave a festering pile of shit in a stranger's way.

And if that is the case, did I receive the communication clearly? It's a little fuzzy, as this blog posting points up. The message did not come through clearly, my friend. I understand that you can't be botherered to flush, that you're proud of the length and diameter of your fecal droppings, and that you expect someone else to clean up after you. But I don't understand what that means in the grand scheme. What are you trying to tell me, sir?

I didn't end up using that stall, nor did I do the flushing for him. If he's too good to flush his own waste, then I'm WAY too good to do it for him. For a brother, maybe. A lover, certainly. But a stranger? No way. But who will flush the mess? And how will that debased action affect that man's day? Will that third man now leave a similar offering of emasculation in a stall at a cheap restaurant tonight, in retalation towards a world built on a faltering and mysterious foundation of anonymous shit? Is this our chain of sorrow?

A Widmark On The Hi-Way Of Life

2005-03-25T11:15:00.000-08:00

I've been getting deeply into pre-1960 films as of late. Something about the cleanliness of them, the graphic up-closeness, the adolescence of the form represented in these stark black and white lines.

And within that new obsession is a newfound appreciation for Film Noir, the post-war style employed by the majors (influenced, somehow, by neo-Realism in Italy) that reflected the moral ennui that apparently was brought to the fore of the culture as it slunk from triumphant wartime into the odd decade of the 1950s.

And as a new noir nut, I've discovered my new fave poster boy: Dick Widwark. He's still alive, and you might recognize him as the cranky old guy from that movie you saw that one time back in college. But he was, during the film noir era, the face of that new realism, the new visage of the audience. I've seen, in quick succession, Widmark in Jules Dassin's "Night And The City" (released recently by Criterion,) Elia Kazan's amazing "Panic In The Streets" (also released recently, as part of Fox's new film noir line-up) and Sam Fuller's crisp "Pickup On South Street" (...) - All good films, all pungent and shorn of all bullshit ("South Street" runs 80 minutes).

I find it hard to go back to modern films, which more resemble the kind of bloated garbage (some of which I guiltily enjoy) that led to the film-school revolution of the 70s.

I'm tired, baby. So tired.

Mild Blueberries

2005-03-24T14:46:00.000-08:00

I saw the new Woody Allen picture last night with some good friends. It's called "Melinda and Melinda," and while it seems to be a riff on Allen's career masterpiece "Crimes and Misdemeanors," it's actually an entirely different dual-toned investigation of relationships. "Melinda" is designed as a dinner-conversation between two playwrights, gently arguing about whether life is essentially tragic or comic. So they take a simple anecdote (a woman called Melinda crashes a dinner party) and spin two versions of the story, one a comic romance with a surprisingly adept Will Ferrell, the other a less-somber-than-usual Bergman-riff drama. Rhada Mitchell is magnificent in both roles.

Five of us went. Three of us liked it, the other two weren't so sure. Personally, I think it's Mr. Allen's best work since "Deconstructing Harry" 8 years ago, and sure proof that this great film artist has not atrophied into some hack, but rather returned from a career vacation in which, instead of not making movies, he made some mildly successful, very low-effort light comedies (everything from "Small Time Crooks" to "Anything Else"). Anyway, good movie, and probably worth seeing a couple of times.

But here's where my mind is this morning: Alzheimer's disease. Both (count 'em, both) of my grandfathers died from complications from said malady. Which puts me at a rather ridiculous risk. I believe blueberries are good to consume to stave off the mind rot. Woody Allen eats a tuna sandwich for lunch every day. Perhaps some of that green tea Soy Noodle provided will do the trick, or at least allow me to retain the titles of my hundred favorite movies. Then again, if Alzheimer's does envelop me in its leathery wings, somebody remember to show me the "Star Wars" and "Indiana Jones" movies again... for the first time.

Of course, I'm not actually planning on dying. Or even getting sick. It's just a rumor to me until it actually happens. If it actually happens. I may have invented all of you, this whole reality. In which case, I wrote all The Beatles' music. Good for my subconscious, eh?

Wild Strawberries

2005-03-23T17:12:00.000-08:00

Watched Bergman's "Wild Strawberries" for the second time in my life last night, and I'm still more than a little mystified as to why it is so universally considered one of the director's major works. It's certainly better than anything that came out in the theaters last year (with the exception of perhaps "Million Dollar Baby"), but it just doesn't compare to the Bergman films that really knock me out: "Seventh Seal," "The Virgin Spring," and the whole faith trilogy ("Through A Glass Darkly," "Winter Light," and the freaky-erotic-sicko "The Silence")

"Strawberries" concerns an aged professor (Victor Sjostrom, himself a veteran Swedish director) and his road trip to the college where he will recieve a lifetime honor. His traveling companion is his son's troubled wife (Ingrid Thulin, one hot mama). And while the film's observations about the connections between the very, very old and the very, very young are interesting, I can't escape the fact that Bergman himself was a young man when he made the film. Any observations on mortality he may have had at the time are either pure conjecture or the kind of artistic wisdom and inspiration that boggles the mind. "Strawberries," for my soon-to-be-32 year old eyes, doesn't pierce through to the heart of the Big Question as skillfully as something like "Through A Glass Darkly," which has the emotional impact on a viewer of having every member of your famliy die on the same die that Jeb Bush get elected King for Life and they re-run "Cheech and Chong's Next Movie" on Comedy Central with all the pot and cocaine references cut out. As far as masterpieces go, "Glass Darkly" most closely resembles a soul enema.

I will continue to pursue my fascination with Bergman's work, and I assume that as I myself get closer to the end of my own life, "Wild Strawberries" will either seem more or less like "the truth."

On a side note, may I say one of the very real side pleasures of surfing the Bergman catalogue is the guilty ogling of all those beautiful actors! My God, them make 'em pure in Sweden!

2005-03-23T10:26:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been a long three months on the kibbutz, thinking about that top ten list I posted last time. While on that glorious mission, digging through the feces of ages, I really feel like I reached an epiphany about what it is I like about the movies I like.

My interest is in the truth within fantasy, not the truth within truth. "Sideways," which replicates life down to ever scrotal itch, is just a mirror (as brilliant a comedy as it is); "Million Dollar Baby" and "Closer" however, with their stylized performances and dialogue, and their fatalistic approaches, are fantasies. Dour, depressing, downbeat - but fantasies. And when I leave the theater after seeing them, I walk out on a high. Not because what I've seen has made me "feel happy," but becuase what I've seen, with all that gloss and sheen and artifice, has ennobled the human experience. If the raw stuff of human life (boxing accidents and ugly break-ups) can be transmuted into verse-chorus-verse play-acting, then maybe there is some order to the universe. Or, perhaps, maybe it's the illusion of that order I so crave.

The Way It Crumbled, Movie-Wise

2005-01-04T01:45:00.000-08:00

Last year, I had no trouble at all (it was a pleasure, I assure you) extending my list of ten-best films to an easy twenty, and I was still re-jiggering the top few as late as early January. And even as I thought I had a locked 10 to be confident in, I saw Patty Jenkins's “Monster” and had to both make room at #2 to place it AND re-think some of the positioning on my list in light of the effect that raw film had on my post-holiday sensibilities.

But, I knew 2003, and 2004… You’re no 2003. There were some major personal disappointments in the cinemas at the end of this year, and swanky Top Ten list-spaces I had dusted out and renovated for the likes of sure-things like “The Aviator” and “Life Aquatic” instead ended up housing early-’04 titles that I was sure would be off the honor roll by December.

Even with a struggle, I could only find nineteen films that I had lingering appreciation for, or that would certainly earn a place in my personal pantheon of useful movies (i.e., I’ll buy ‘em or have bought ‘em on DVD.) So, before we start the list proper, here’s a list of those fallen few that had the poor fortune of being subjectively assigned a number just lower than #10 in a year where there wasn't 20.

• Tom Hanks hit a pothole with the mainstream audience this year, but I found all three of his films of 2004 to be more interesting and more loveable than many of the films that earned him his spot crouching over our collective movie-heart. Both The Coen Brothers's pungent, madcap re-think of “The Ladykillers” and Spielberg’s committed wedge of Capra-corn “The Terminal” practically demonstrated their makers resilient ability and appeal in ways that their more obvious successes haven’t always. In any other hands, these films would have been dross. Spielberg’s film, almost willfully slight, shows just how invaluable the man’s eye is, turning another high-concept script into pure pleasure. And “The Ladykillers” might be the closest the Coens have gotten to making (yikes!) a truly personal statement, with the Hanks character’s literate immorality totally smote by the dumb faithful. And in both, Hanks excelled. As seems more and more the case these days, I don’t feel like I saw the same films that were so reviled by the press and, in most cases, the paying audience.

• You would have to go back as far as George Roy Hill’s all-time great “The World According To Garp” to find a film that does as much justice to John Irving’s uniquely Dickensian vision of modern psycho-sexual sprawl as Tod Williams’s delicately considered “The Door In The Floor.” It’s a flawed film in that the central character and performance (Jon Foster as the teenage observer) are not rendered with as much insight or clarity as the adult roles – but those adult roles! Kim Basinger is very fine, as always, with a difficult part. And Jeff Bridges gives what my eyes and mind are trying desperately to convince is the performance of his majestic career as Ted Cole, the very definition of a character we wouldn’t want to know in real life but cherish spending illicit time with in the movies. Bridges’s mid-film gauntlet, sans-car, from the house of his jilted lover to his own beach home, is the year’s single best movie scene, and it alone warrants near top-ten placement for the film.

• Quentin Tarantino’s “Kill Bill Vol. 2” is not on its own two feet a masterpiece, but it does exist as the second half of what might very well be one. Had this second film been fused to last year’s barn-storming (and leaner) “Kill Bill Vol. 1,” it would have been both the film of 2003 and the peak of Tarantino’s short career. As it stands, it bears quizzical mention on any list.

• “Spider-Man 2” dignified the summer, surely. It’s not, perhaps, the full-blooded pop-art classic I wanted it so badly to be – it’s too eager to be all things to all viewers. But Sam Raimi got much closer to the real Marvel magic here that so entranced me as a kid than he did a few years ago, especially (and get this) in the scenes that didn’t involve Alfred Molina’s heavy or even Peter Parker in the tights. And good on Sam for expanding the film to a ‘Scope aspect ratio, a no-brainer lost on Columbia during the production of the first film. Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst remained this fan’s dream-team – but I’ll betcha they’re eyeing Topher Grace for those tights once Maguire’s contract runs out.

• Did I actually like Joel Schumacher’s adaptation of “Phantom Of The Opera” ? That kitsch spectacle that any self-respecting heterosexual aesthete feels compelled to despise without even the most superficial examination? Yeah, I did. It’s an ungodly mess around the edges, but the heat between born-star Emmy Rossum and handsome-guy Phantom Gerald Butler was the most palpable sensuality we had at this year’s American cinema. I guess I just decided to go with it.

• And while I don’t have terrific amounts of pith to dispense about them, I would be remiss to not mention the pleasure I got from Jonathan Demme’s near return-to-form remake of “The Manchurian Candidate” ; Steven Soderbergh’s incredibly relaxed and fetching “Ocean’s Twelve” ; The chewably literate Classics Illustrated pop-fantasy "Troy," the best movie Wolfgang Petersen has directed since "Das Boot" (depending on how you feel about "The Neverending Story"); and Chris Kentis’s bleak and effective “Open Water”

And as for the Top Ten

10) James L Brooks IS the great American screenwriter, and “Spanglish” has been instantly underrated. Those critics who dismiss the film as unkind and smug towards the Tea Leone character are missing the point: Do they want honesty or not? Or do they want honesty only up to a point? If, indeed, as his critics have charged, “Spanglish” is Brooks’s own life on display, what weight do charges of insincerity and isolationism carry? Is a privileged Angeleno screenwriter not allowed to investigate his soul? This is another Brooks script and film to shame the usual Hollywood product’s warmth and depth. Oscar will miss Brooks’s script this year, and Adam Sandler will go unrewarded for turning in the finest work he’s ever done in any genre or capacity.

9) My habit of buying British DVDs just as the import films are becoming available on screens in this country finally paid off (after flat-lining with “28 Days Later” and “Young Adam”) with the absolutely delightful “Shaun Of The Dead” – a great comedy with real feeling for farce and a genuine shape, not afraid to approach sentiment (unlike the painful modern Ferrell-Stiller-Vince Vaughn American snarky comedies, which spend every moment parodying past convention without have the guts to actually engage the audience), and greatly rewarded for it. Even more surprisingly, “Shaun” is less a send-up of George Romero’s zombie films (I prefer greatness not be sent up in these days of diminishing returns, anyway) but a genuine tribute and continuation. Along with “Before Sunset,” this one had the best ending of the year.

8) Michael Mann’s sleek “Collateral” just proves that Mann is among the very best modern filmmakers. He’s committed, steel-eyed, and unafraid to grit his characters' teeth. It’s a shame, truly, that Mann didn’t helm “The Aviator,” as was the original plan. One thing Mann doesn’t bring is bloat. This latest film is deceptively simple, but as modern L.A. noir it’s nearly unparalleled. It’s the sign of a great filmmaker, taking as he did material that might seem familiar on the page and rendering it as something he and we have never seen before. It’s been a good long time now since Mann stumbled (if, as I do, you consider “Ali” a near-masterpiece, instead of a missed opportunity)

7) “Ray” is more than just Jamie Foxx’s brilliant and subdued take on the titular genius; it’s also the best film Taylor Hackford (a longtime pet director, ever since he rolled past “Out Of The Past” and descended into the hysterical steam of “Against All Odds”) has ever done. It’s plain and simple: Scorsese may say in interviews that he’s interested in Howard Hughes, but Taylor Hackford doesn’t need to tell us where his passions lie. His feeling for rock n’ roll and the early era of Atlantic rhythm n’ blues is palpable here in every loving frame. Foxx’s for-the-ages performance has also unfortunately over-shadowed the year’s best-staffed cast, but I’d like to add a huzzah for Curtis Armstrong (that’s Booger, to you) as Atlantic founder Ahmet Ertegun, giddily singing forth his brand-new “Mess Around”

6) I will never forget the power “Fahrenheit 9/11” had on that night when all of us like-minded bleeding-hearts saw it, and how we felt the masses surge forward to embrace it. Bill Clinton was signing his book at the Brentano’s just under the theater. It felt like we were coming back to our sense. Michael Moore didn’t win the war, but even months later on DVD, his film is a righteous (and hilarious) accomplishment. The less said the better, at this point. But imagine how bad we’d feel without it?

5) Quiet is a rare commodity in the American cinema. Clint Eastwood’s puzzlingly-titled “Million Dollar Baby” reminds me of a line from a top-ten movie from the last decade, Victor Nunez’s “Ulee’s Gold”: “I like sad. Sometimes, it makes me feel quiet inside.” Eastwood’s masterpiece takes place, mostly, in a darkened gym and in a tiny room at the end of the world, where whispered conversations and resolute compassion forever erase any thought of Eastwood as a Conservative avenger. The man is well-chewed American material, dark and weighty and true. Those who disagree, about Eastwood and his newest triumph, will one day change their mind. It’s as simple as that.

4) I first saw Alexander Payne’s “Sideways” at a test screening last summer. Incredulously, I realized that the film was an even greater achievement than Payne’s last film, the tremendously sad and funny “About Schmidt.” Payne walked in at the end of the screening and sat right behind me, so I made a point to pontificate to the test marketer about the way the picture earned it’s semi-happy ending. The corporate crew that night was looking for anything from us, any indication that something essential could be changed in the film’s make-up to render it more marketable (no dice, as it turned out.) For sure, I thought, they would take out the bit where the main character steals money from his mother in the first reel. Months later, the film opened, and I was pleased to see that there were in fact no subtractions at all, and only the addition of a multi-image picture-in-picture insert of that most banal of images: Thomas Hadyen Church’s hand riding the waves just outside the car window.

3) Laugh if you want, you grouchy bastards, but the re-birth of modern cinema was on display all November and December at IMAX screens everywhere, where the giant-size 3D version of Robert Zemeckis’s “The Polar Express” was blowing minds young and old. What an experience, and what a cozy fantasy the film is. Kids in their pajamas, boarding a fast train through the winter night to a strikingly regimented North Pole that is, in its own way, a preview of the complexities adult life will bring. Oh, and they drink hot chocolate on the way. (Runner-up for scene of the year: The journey of the golden ticket, out the train window, into the wilderness and the wolf pack, and back onto the train.)

2) In just under 80 minutes, Richard Linklater’s “Before Sunrise” is one of the screen’s great romances, a sequel I never would have held my breath for to an original film that greatly informed my early 20s. I was, in fact, teased by my old roommate Arnie for years as the 90s wore on. “That ‘Before Sunrise,’” he would say, “that’s YOUR movie, man. Two people talking about romance for two hours, but not doing anything? That was created for YOU!” Well, Arnie, my life just got even better. Linklater’s sequel is a substantial hiccup in youthful resolve, a mature realization that found love should not be fed to the engine of your 20s, where the impetus is to gather experience without planting roots. Or, if that instinct is correct for the 20s, we and they (Hawke and Delpy) find ourselves here in our early 30s, younger than yesterday and looking for that lost found love.

1) Those who dismiss Mike Nichols’s “Closer” as a monstrous and glib condescension are guilty of far more resonant misanthropy than anything on display in the film. These are real humans, stranded between love, or greedily eating it when they have it as if they’re alone in the room. The performances, all four of them, are brilliant possessions of the characters. Nichols empathizes with them, doesn’t judge them, sees them for what they are and finds beauty, not shame. They are individual beings, not couples. The definitive state, always returned to. The best film of the year, by a director in his 70s, who also directed the best film of last year (the stunning “Angels In America”) – what a wonderful surprise.

For the record, I didn't see "Vera Drake" or "Kinsey," so I still have those presumed pleasures coming to me over the dog days of January.

Movies Is Magic

2004-12-20T16:21:00.000-08:00

Well, considering that nobody is reading this, let me blow some more hot air. In no way do I feel that a totally subjective opinion (as is totally unavoidable when discussing one's reaction to art, even popular art) is worth reading unless you have prior experience with the writer (as a critic) - of if you simply enjoy subjective opinions. That said, I love applying subjective little star-ratings to movies, as if there was a quantifiable objective quality level that could be attained and the movie could be definitely labeled and shuffled off into infinity.

To paraphrase Terry Gilliam's fine "12 Monkeys," "Every time you see a movie, it seem different. But the movie didn't change. You did."

Martin Scorsese's THE AVIATOR is entertaining but insubstantial. It's the first seemingly passionless film I've seen from Scorsese, and it's a shame that Michael Mann (a stylist, sad to say, more in his prime currently) didn't take a crack at the Howard Hughes legend, as he originally was planning to do. DiCaprio is terrific as Hughes, Cate Blanchett does a fine impersonation of Kate Hepburn (she's the movie's most enjoyable element), and the production design and cinematorgraphy couldn't be finer. Especially in the early reels, the early Technicolor process is aped remarkably.

But somehow the dangers that didn't befall Taylor Hackford's wonderful "Ray" have splatted all over Scorsese's movie. John Logan's script lacks bite, and the bio-pic blues set in early on. A human being's life, even a famous and eccentric one like Hughes, does not have the same pleasing arc as a work of total fiction. And when a life is forced into a screenplay formula, chances are you'll end up with a Parade Of Moments like "The Aviator."

There are great scenes (especially the crash in Beverly Hills, which should not be missed on the big screen), but at 166 minutes, I found myself rudely searching for my watch-face in the dark more than a few times. "The Aviator" is hardly a bad picture, and future viewings will probably enhance it's pleasures, as expectation-fed disappointment fades... But this will not be Scorsese's Oscar year.

It might be Clint Eastwood's, though. MILLION DOLLAR BABY is just a hair shy of being as good as "everyone is saying" - it's a deeply felt sober-somber work of art.

Also saw OCEAN'S 12 recently. It's in every way as good as the first one - except for in the script department. The original remake (how do you like that?) is a pop masterpiece, I think, and the most sheerly pleasurable Hollywood movie of the last decade. 12 doesn't have as satisfying a heist, but I can live with that. (The musical score, though, is the year's best.)

And the less said now about STEVE ZISSOU, the better. Like "The Aviator," it's too interestingly-made a film to not engender some good will. But unlike the Scorsese picture, future viewings may only denude what little meat there in on those bones.

Well, I for one am looking forward to THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA. Not sure why I'm supposed to be dreading that one.

Plenty Of Jam-Jars

2004-12-20T11:13:00.000-08:00

As a Gen-X'er, I'm supposed to be upset because Christmas has become commercialized. That constant buzz of "Joy to The World" is supposed to irritate me to no end, and I'm encouraged to find every tendency towards sentiment phony. I suppose this will allow me to become 100% purged of all bullshit, and then maybe a portal will appear and I'll step through it into the 'real world' like Keanu Reeves in "The Matrix"... And all that realness, and all that lack of phoniness, will apparently be amazingly pleasurable.

I watched the Charlie Brown Christmas special last night for the first time in at least 20 years. I was surprised to find old Charlie complaining about the same things my Gen-X buddies gas about - Christmas is commercialized, blah blah blah (of course, Charlie's main concern is that nobody is talking about Jesus at Christmas... Perhaps the network demanded such piety in the mid-60s... Schultz's masterful vision of neurotic kids would seem to be above such dogma...)

You remember the show, I'm sure. The most memorable bit is Charlie picking that sorry little X-mas tree to feature in the school play he's directing. He gets razzed by Lucy and some of the other, less identifiable Peanuts (Sherman, perhaps?), and totes his tree out into the snow as he seques into another self-pitying monologue. Eventually, though, he arrives at the very wise and calm realization that one is totally in control of one's cultural intake. If one wants to enjoy the good stuff about Christmas (mostly having to do with warmth of friendship and brightly colored bulbs) and avoid the distasteful stuff (people trying to sell you stuff), you're more than welcome to it.

Charlie Brown was right. And even though you're already thinking I'm trying to sell you something, there is no phoniness, nor any attempt at a hustle here. I was over at a friend's last night, and stood in awe of the Christmas tree that he had erected in his living room. Huge, majestic, stretching up to an inch from the ceiling. And covered with lights and charming ornaments any Gen X'er would appreciate: A Milennium Falcon, Winnie-The-Pooh, Captain Kirk sulking in a chair, and my vote for greatest-ornament-ever - a little guy clutching a glowing red tree bulb and fixing it, with a light on his helmet and another red and blue bulb in the pack on his back. Somewhere, some craftsman really put in a little effort.

At no point in my viewing of this tree did I think about people in grey buildings trying to take my money. Nor did I think about the fact that, as a Jew, I should reserve my awe for things directly tied to my culture. The guy who showed me his tree - I got him the recently released DVD set that Disney put out called "On The Front Lines." It's five hours of World War 2 propaganda cartoons, epically delightful. He will get nothing but pleasure out of watching it, and I will get nothing but more pleasure out of having given him that pleasure. Yes, out of all this, the Walt Disney Company made a few bucks, and the guy who designed that little ornament I liked so much made a few cents and, who knows, maybe he and they spent it towards the furtherance of evil aims. Eventually, the world will be crisped by the sun, and all dark corporations and conspiracies will evaporate into stardust. Until then, we can't do much about them but be aware of their policies when they affect us adversely, and avoid them.

The point is, the good will far outweigh the bad for me, again this Christmas. Have I been duped? Is my life somehow less pure because I don't factor in the various ways companies have me hooked up to their money-sucking machines? Do those of you who double-up on cynicism when the culture is hysterically begging you to momentarily feel otherwise really end up feeling that superior by late January?

Lighten up, folks. Pretty lights are, indeed, pretty. Some things can be that simple without threatening the complexity of other things that are more complicated. Make sure you allow dual pursuits in your life: If one of them is going to be truth, let the other be pleasure. But then again, maybe Gen-X gets intense pleasure from sarcasm and cynical gassing. In which case, Joy To The World.

Is There Anybody Out There?

2004-12-18T21:02:00.000-08:00

Bad vibes tonight. They're coming from me, I think. There's a new James L. Brooks movie in theaters this weekend. Brooks is the best screenwriter in the business. A humanist poet, and a populist, too. And a real crowd-pleaser. He used to create TV shows, so every critic falls into lockstep, describing his big-screen work as "sitcom-lite"...

The new movie, "Spanglish," is just as good as his last one, "As Good As It Gets." That one was a major Fall '97 hit. This one looks to be a mild failure. The critics have been savage. Not sure why, all of a sudden, Brooks's soulful mainstream comedy style is anathema to the critics' version of the truth. This culture got up on the wrong side of the bed after the 9/11 attacks - we're mean now, deadly paranoid, pumping bad vibes and bad negativity. Optimism and humanism is, for my generation, a lie. Lovely. We deserve the filthy, dead-eyed zeitgeist we wallow in. And, folks, that thing dripping from your mouth is sarcasm, not "irony"...

In better news, at least for me, the dread Ben Stiller appears to be rapidly balding. That's for cheapening our standards, little by little, Mr. Stiller. That's for the whole "I'm funny because I'm not prepared, and that makes me funny" act. My father had Peter Sellers, Monty Python, and Nichols and May. His father had W.C. Fields and the Marx Brothers and S.J. Perelman. I have Ben Stiller, Will Ferrell (judged a "genius" by people without the patience for watching black and white movies), and those conservative jerk-offs who do "South Park."

In spite of all this, I'm optimistic. Because, as I mentioned, Stiller's pate is emerging clean of hair. Soon, he will be painfully ugly, and his fans will pretend he has died.

Gotta go to a party tonight. It's a requirement that we bring a mix CD. I'm bringing a Beatles mix, but I've written "90's Death Metal B-Sides Vol. 2" on the disc. I imagine if the right drunken degenerate gets my CD, he'll be disappointed when "I've Just Seen A Face" starts. One of McCartney's best unknown songs, from the back end of the album "Help!" If the right degenerate gets the CD, he/she will bellow, "Aw, what is this hippie shit!" Smite them, Lord. But wait until I've ducked out with my soon-to-be-trashed Coldplay/Maroon 5 mix disc.