A Fish Called Wanda (1988) **

Don’t call me stupid for not loving this 1988 comedy from director Charles Crichton (with an assist from John Cleese). Yes, it has some funny parts, but it is definitely a film I could have died without having seen (although some man in Denmark did laugh himself to death while watching it).  Perhaps it’s the decade in which it was made (the 80s) that makes it shine a little less brightly for me.  There is something about the hideous fashion and over-synthesized songs of that decade that really irks me, and when it is on full display, as it is here, it is even more distressing because it is forever imprinted (quite literally) in the annals of cinema that the 1980s sucked. 

Written by Crichton and Cleese, this comedy-heist film about four eccentric jewel thieves takes place in jolly old London.  The thieves are led by George (Tom Georgeson), a cockney gangster who picks three of the worst criminals in the world to help him pull the job: Wanda, Otto, and Ken.  His girlfriend Wanda (Jamie Lee Curtis) is a complete slut and an even bigger liar. Otto (Kevin Kline) is a pseudo-philosopher and an outright psychopath who pretends to be Wanda’s brother, but is really her jealous lover.  And, then there is Ken (Michael Palin)—a stammering animal lover with absolutely no sense.  When the heist goes awry and George is arrested, the other three scramble to tie up loose ends and engage in wacky acts of betrayal.  In the middle of all this treachery is Archie Leach (Cleese), the barrister working on George’s case who becomes ensnared in Wanda’s sleazy web of lies.  And, no, it is not a coincidence that Cleese chose to name himself after Cary Grant (the real Archie Leach)—he was born 20 miles from Grant’s birthplace and greatly admired him. 

Obviously 1988 was a weak year for the Academy Awards, specifically in the Best Supporting Actor category, because Kline won an Oscar for his turn as Otto.  To me, watching him in this was like taking a class in overacting. If anyone in the movie deserved an Oscar nod it was Palin, and even that would have been a stretch.  Of course his scenes attempting to kill Mrs. Coady (Patricia Hayes) are my favorite, so I think that might skew my point of view.  But really, he is quite hilarious as the murderer of three innocent Yorkshire Terriers.  And, when I come to think of it, the only time I found Kline entertaining was when he was doing a scene with Palin.

The story is entertaining and Cleese’s straight-man act is enjoyable, so I can’t really give A Fish Called Wanda a poor rating. Still, Kline and Curtis’ less than stellar performances are grating to me.  Yet, the wardrobe and music are worse.  Costume designer Hazel Pethig definitely did not benefit from what passed for fashionable in the 80s.  I wonder how much Curtis cringes every time she sees how horrid her wardrobe was.  Oh, and the music (if you can call it that) by John Du Prez is a complete representation of what was wrong about 80s music.

Overall, A Fish Called Wanda is a passable 1980s comedy.  Unfortunately, to watch it you must hear and see everything that makes the decade one of the worst of the Twentieth Century.

 

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The Phantom of the Opera (1925) **

What is the price of fame? According to this 1925 silent classic staring Lon Chaney a deal with the devil…no, no, no that’s Faust; I mean a creepy Phantom. Please excuse my mistake; it was an easy one to make seeing as the opera performed in this film is Faust. Coincidence? I think not.

Christine (Mary Philbin), the understudy to the prima donna, has a mysterious voice coach who first communicates to her through the walls and then later in a face to mask meeting that she will be the star of the show, but only if she gives everything up but him and the opera. No, she’s not a schizophrenic, just so hell-bent on being a diva that she’ll do just about anything to get ahead—think Mariah Carey in the Tommy Mottola years. He causes all kinds of mischief to ensure this—threatening notes to the lackluster prima donna and dropping a chandelier on the audience to end a performance. Christine’s very annoying boyfriend, Raoul, wants her to give it all up and marry him, and since she is starting to get weirded out by the Phantom she agrees. This makes the Phantom jealous and so he kidnaps Christine and takes her to his man-cave. Instead of seeing posters of his favorite team and his collection of shot glasses, she sees his hideous skullface. To emphasize how shocking his face was the camera actually went out of focus. Eventually, Christine is rescued and the Phantom is chased by an angry mob to his drowning death in the Seine.

This film is ultra-melodramatic, but it is watchable due to the creepiness of Lon Chaney’s Phantom and the great set designs. The underground tunnel scenes are the best, with the unmasking of the Phantom and Raoul’s near-death experience in a torture room where the heat is unbearable (see Hell and Faust), Personally, I wished he had used the provided noose. But I digress. Anyway, the music is eerie and Lon Chaney is stellar. A good watch in October.

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Zero Kelvin (Kjærlighetens kjøtere) 1995 **

Set amidst the artic elements of Greenland, this Norwegian film from director Hans Petter Moland examines the effects of isolation and brutality on the human psyche.  Beautifully photographed by Philip Øgaard, Zero Kelvin (1995) is predominately a psychological thriller without the usual histrionics associated with the genre. While it is interesting to watch the volatile relationship between the two major characters, the film does drag in a few places, which hampers my overall appreciation of it.

Henrik Larsen (Gard B. Eidsvold) makes a fateful decision when he signs on with the Greenland Company as an animal trapper. Commissioned to write a book about the life of outdoorsmen, the Norwegian gentleman poet is thrown completely out of his element when he finds himself working for a crude, alcoholic foreman named Randbæk (Stellan Skarsgård).  The men are polar opposites, coming from two very different social classes and intellectual levels, and they immediately clash.  The only thing that stands between them killing one another is the pleasant camp naturalist, Jakob Holm (Bjørn Sundquist). When the two rival’s incessant and violent bickering becomes even too much for the peaceful Holm he deserts the camp and leaves the two men to their deathly feud.  It is at this point that the film takes an even darker turn, as Larsen is forced into a duel of survival on the artic terrain against a menacingly cruel Randbæk.

One of the most recognizable Swedish actors of his generation, and known throughout all of cinema as a prolific and versatile actor, Skarsgård plays Randbæk as a deplorably reprehensible character. He seethes with antagonism and almost every word he says drips with venom.  You can’t help but hate Randbæk and feel sympathetically towards Larsen. From his constant belittling and taunting of Larsen to his extreme cruelty exacted on the sled dogs, you find yourself hoping that he ends up dying painfully slow.  I usually don’t completely despise a character, but with Randbæk I had no choice. Skarsgård has said of the role that he “could see from the outset that it was a rewarding character to play because there were absolutely no limits to what he could do. It's one of the most delicious parts I've ever played. I've never been such a bastard before." That’s more than an apt description of Randbæk—he is a complete bastard. 

Perhaps it was the icy, artic air that contributed to how mean Skarsgård made Randbæk appear, because the crisp, austere images captured by cinematographer Øgaard would lead one to believe that only a certain type of person could survive in such an environment.  Working above the Arctic Circle in Svalbard, Norway, Øgaard adeptly uses the setting’s natural elements of ice, snow, and wind to create a vast, desolate wasteland which compounds both the characters’ and viewer’s sense of isolation. With his photography he creates a completely punishing atmosphere for an equally punishing story.

However, my biggest complaint with Zero Kelvin stems from Øgaard’s cinematography: the film sometimes drags because so much time is spent looking at the harsh terrain.  I think Moland and his editor, Einar Egeland, could have slightly cut some of the environment shots to keep the story’s pace a bit more engaging.  Yes, Øgaard’s images deserve to be admired for their beauty, but a good director knows when enough is enough.

Overall, Zero Kelvin is a somewhat engrossing psychological thriller with engaging cinematography, but it is not a film that I would categorize as must-see.

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2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) *1/2

No, I don’t like Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).  I’m sure I have offended countless sci-fi fans and cinephiles, but I don’t care because I find the film beyond boring. Yes, there are several interesting visual images, and for 1968, at the height of the Space Race, it was ahead of its time, but that doesn’t mean I have to revere it or recognize its perceived “greatness”.  The only thing I do like about it is the music—and even that contributes to the overall tedious effect the movie has on me.  If you fall asleep every time you watch something I think that sends a clear message. 

Based on sci-fi author and futurist Arthur C. Clarke’s short story “The Sentinel”, 2001: A Space Odyssey is a plodding look at humankind’s relationship with the universe.  There is a monolith that keeps popping up: on Earth at the dawn of man, on the moon, and on Jupiter.  I expect all of these “sightings” are supposed to be tied together, but having not read Clarke’s series I have no idea how, as the film gave me no conclusive answer. I’m a historian by trade, but I minored in philosophy, so I kept asking myself if Kubrick chose to open and close his movie with Richard Strauss’ “Thus Spoke Zarathustra” because he was trying to make some sort of nihilistic statement about Nietzsche’s concept of eternal recurrence and the Übermensch. I suspect this is the case.  Okay, I somewhat understand what he was doing, but what about the average person on the street who never read Nietzsche or Clarke, do they get it?  Probably not, but I don’t think Kubrick cared, either. 

I have been told that people liked to drop LSD and then go watch this—I can see that.  There is an abundance of vast spatial dissonance and towards the end there is a plethora of psychedelic images, so I understand how this might appeal to Dead Heads.  For me, these images did one of two things: made me sleepy and/or gave me a headache. I’m not a special effects geek, and so while it is obvious that Kubrick and his crew were way ahead of their time, it does nothing for me.  Maybe I lack the ability to be awed by these endeavors because so much has been seen and discovered since this film was released.  Still, I can’t see how Pauline Kael wrote in 1968 that 2001: A Space Odyssey was "a monumentally unimaginative movie.” There is plenty of imagination, but, for me, that’s not enough to make me like it. 

Minimalism has its place, but too much of it in a film can leave viewers feeling completely detached.  That is the effect that 2001: A Space Odyssey has on me.  Sparse, minimal dialogue; sterile set designs; and, a complete denial of human pathos makes for bad cinema in my book.  To makes things worse, when Kubrick does attempt to make an emotional appeal he does so with the supercomputer HAL (voiced by Douglas Rain), who is represented as both creepy and evil.  Is Kubrick making a statement about emotions?  Is there no room in his future world-view for feelings, and if you do have them does that make you deficient and/or deviant?  For a humanist like myself, that is an unbearable bitter pill to swallow.

The one element of the film that I liked was the music. Kubrick wanted to create a non-verbal experience, and you will notice that he uses music throughout the film except in the rare cases where there is actual dialogue.  While he bookends his movie with Strauss’ “Thus Spoke Zarathustra”, he also creatively uses Johann Strauss’ “On the Blue Danube” and György Ligeti’s Requiem.  Still, even though I found Kubrick’s musical choices inspired, I also think they contribute to my desire to fall asleep every time I watch his movie. 

Overall, I don’t dig this film.  To me, it is boring and lacks any emotional appeal.  Yes, there are a number of enticing visuals, but that just isn’t enough for me. Plus, the creepy baby at the end gives me nightmares.

 

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12 Angry Men (1957) **1/2

In director Sidney Lumet’s first feature film, 12 Angry Men (1957), one juror asks another, “What kind of man are you? Who tells you that you have the right like this to play with a man's life?” The duty of a juror is to judge the evidence presented without prejudice or sympathy and render a verdict. The problem is every person who sits in a jury box has their own personal views regarding race, class, and gender, as well as their own personal problems. Reginald Rose’s Oscar-nominated screenplay (adapted from his stage play) does an excellent job of showcasing these very issues in this taut, dramatic film.  Aided by brilliant cinematography, outstanding editing, and stellar acting, 12 Angry Men is an inspiring look at one of the most disliked and avoided duties of American citizenship. 

Our jury is deliberating a first-degree murder charge involving an 18-year-old minority boy from the slums who is accused of stabbing his father to death.  If convicted, the mandatory sentence is the death penalty.  On the surface, it appears to be an open and shut case of guilt, but one juror, played by Henry Fonda, has doubts.  As the lone holdout, he takes it upon himself to make the other eleven jurors (all men, hence the title) reluctantly (and in some cases belligerently) reexamine the evidence.  Along the way we learn there are other contributing reasons for why they think the boy is guilty: racial and class prejudice, familial issues, and indifference.  It is a searing analysis of what actually influences jurors to make the judgments that they do. 

While I have a particular issue with the fact that all of the jurors are men (women could vote and thus serve on juries in 1957!), that does not damper my appreciation for how Lumet and cinematographer Boris Kaufman shot the film.  I’m not sure whether they chose to use black and white film to accentuate the viewpoints of the jurors (everything is seen as either black or white) or because it was cheaper, but it works. The beginning of the film is shot with wide-angle lenses and at an above eye-level perspective. This cleverly depicts how distant the jurors are from one another on many levels.  It also provides the viewer with the ability to observe the idiosyncrasies of each juror.  As the story progresses and becomes heated as jurors start changing their verdicts, the film is shot from much lower angles and closer shots.  These techniques heighten the drama and create an almost claustrophobic atmosphere.

With over 365 camera sets-ups and multiple angle shots, it is obvious that cinematography played a vital role in the overall production, but without clear, decisive editing it would have been useless. Having worked for several years on dramatic productions for television, Lumet knew the value of editing, and he and Carl Lerner expertly and concisely cut 12 Angry Men to create a smooth, cohesive feel.  While there are a lot of panning shots, the film is appropriately cut at crucial moments.

All twelve actors give fine performances, but three stand out to me. Fonda is obviously the star, and he plays his calm, rational Juror No. 8 well, but he serves more as a moral compass than anything else.  I’ve seen him play this part before in The Ox-Bow Incident (1943) and Young Mr. Lincoln (1939), so while he’s good here it’s not what I consider one of his standout performances.  No, when I think of the jurors I remember Ed Begley (Juror No. 10), Lee J. Cobb (Juror No. 3), and George Voskovec (Juror No. 11).  Begley plays his rude, bigoted part with just the right amount of anger and callowness.  By the end of the film, when almost every man turns their back on his poisonous prejudice, he does an excellent job of conveying his character’s resigned realization that no one respects him or his views.  Cobb’s Juror No. 3 is violently vitriolic and difficult to forget. His vehement agitation serves as the actual pulse of the movie.  And, finally, I think Voskovec’s turn as a naturalized citizen with an appreciation for the American justice system deserves to be recognized.  His dealings with both Cobb and Begley are memorable, but it is his confrontation with Jack Warden’s Juror No. 7 that hammers home the importance of the jury system. 

Overall, 12 Angry Men is an intelligent look at an important element of the American justice system.  It benefits from creative cinematography and editing, and has an outstanding cast.  It is a tad overdramatic at times, but that does not lessen its overall effect.

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Strange Days (1995) **

Loud, obnoxious, and inexplicably unbelievable is how I would define director Kathryn Bigelow’s Strange Days (1995). I’ll admit that I dislike most science fiction movies, so I already had a proverbial chip on my shoulder when I watched this. Plus, this is one of those Y2K films that forecasts the world on the brink of anarchy as the new millennium approaches, and since I know that was all much ado about nothing it irks me even more.  Now, I’m not saying it’s unwatchable, because it’s not horrible, I just don’t think it’s very good, either. I’m obviously not the only person who viewed it as such, since this James Cameron $42-million production was a huge box office disaster.  Over the years it has developed a cult following, but so has Pink Flamingos (1972), so that’s nothing to brag about in my opinion.

The beyond handsome Ralph Fiennes plays Lenny Nero, an ex-L.A.P.D. cop who has morphed into a complete sleazeball who sells bootleg recordings for something called a SQUID (Superconducting Quantum Interference Device). Basically this device allows the wearer to record whatever they see. These recordings are then sold to virtual reality addicts. While some of these images are benign, most of them are for adrenaline junkies, perverts, and/or budding psychos.  When Lenny comes into possession of a Blackjack recording (what we call a snuff film) of a woman being raped and killed he finds himself embroiled in a web of corruption and multiple murders.  Things are only exacerbated by the fact that his slutty ex-girlfriend, Faith (played by Juliette Lewis),  is at the center of the whole sordid mess.

Where to start?  The story is just too bizarre for me.  For some reason Lenny is obsessed with the whorish Faith. Juliette Lewis spends the entire film scantily (if that) clad in what can only be described as Fredrick’s of Hollywood couture.  Her character is a punk rock singer who likes to do covers of PJ Harvey songs. Lewis does her own singing, and while her voice isn’t bad, the songs (to me) are.  Anyway, Faith obviously has a thing for sleazy men, as her current one, Philo (Michael Wincott), is a sadistic freak (he is also her manager).  Because he can’t have Faith, Lenny watches old recordings of them having sex to compensate.  Can anyone say yuck…oh, and pathetic, too!  In what world would a man who looks like Fiennes need to be pining over a former heroin-addicted prostitute?  This is one of the biggest reasons I couldn’t get behind this story—why would anyone want to risk their life to save such an unlikable character?

Then there’s Angela Bassett as Mace—Lenny’s ass-kicking, limo-driving friend.  It’s obvious she has a thing for Lenny, but for the life of me (besides his hotness) I can’t figure out why.  There is some unexplained backstory about how they came to know one another, but other than this I don’t know why they would be friends.  It’s apparent she’s actually a decent human being—why would she want to be friends with someone as despicable as Lenny?  Well, she does, and so she joins him on his quest to save Faith from Philo and the mystery murderer.  I like Bassett, but her character here is one of those I want to help the man that I love besides my better judgment women that I always find myself despising.  As such, I dislike all of the female characters in this flick. 

There’s so much tech-speak about the SQUID that it is really difficult to keep everything straight. Yes, like most sci-fi films they do quick, passing explanations of what the hell they are referring to—this is another convenient role that Mace plays since she is a strict non-user of the device she has to have tutorials (just like the viewer) as each new thing about this virtual reality world is introduced—but it just sounded like sci-fi geek stuff to me and I found myself not caring what did what.  Since James Cameron, along with Jay Cocks, wrote the screenplay I guess I shouldn’t be surprised there is a heavy reliance on gadgetry, but that doesn’t mitigate the fact that I felt bogged down with information overload. 

And, the ending: it was so trite.  Was I supposed to be surprised about who the killer was?  I wasn’t.  It was beyond clichéd. Oh, and the whole allusion to the Rodney King police brutality incident was just so over the top for me.  I know the film was made in 1995 and America was in the throes of the OJ Simpson murder case and the entire country was led to believe the LAPD was full of rogue racist cops, but sometimes a director should take a step back and look at the message they are sending to their audience. 

One of the main reasons I couldn’t enjoy this film was how loud it was.  Punk rock just isn’t something I find enjoyable to listen to, and when it was unnecessarily amplified in what seemed like every scene I found myself reaching for the Aleve. I’m sure Bigelow and Cameron used it to create an atmosphere of anarchy, but it just gave me a headache.

At the end of Strange Days I just couldn’t find anything I liked about it (other than Fiennes’ hotness).  All of the characters were either reprehensible or annoyingly flawed; the story was bogged down in tech-jargon; and, everything just came off too loud.  Yes, the film has a lot of style, but, to me, it lacks substance.

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Of Gods and Men (Des hommes et des dieux) 2010 ***

While the Islamic world sets itself aflame with religious zeal due to perceived slights to the Prophet Mohammed by one very intolerant bigot I watched director Xavier Beauvois’ Of Gods and Men (2010). It tells the spiritually courageous story of eight French Trappist monks’ attempt to ride out the Algerian Civil War, which was a.10-year bloody struggle (1992-2002) for power between the government and Islamist rebel groups. The story takes place in the winter of ‘95-96 at the monks monastery, Notre-Dame de l'Atlas of Tibhirine, during a clash between rebels and the government.  As danger knocked at their ancient door, the monks had to decide whether they would remain true to their vocation or give into their fear of death.

Often when people watch films about contemplative religious (monks and nuns) they have a difficult time understanding the austerity and quietness in which these men and women live. As someone with a bit of experience with the religious life I suspect I have better insight into this world than most.  As such, I was not fazed when Beauvois chose to focus in on the internal (mostly silent) struggles of these men as they grappled with their desire to stay true to their calling while at the same time fearing death.  Still, crises of faith, especially ones that remain mostly unspoken, don’t exactly make for riveting cinema for most viewers.  There are many long, static shots of still silence in this, and for some that can come off as boring.  I expect many viewers asked themselves why Beauvois chose not to have the men’s internal dialogues spoken in voiceover.  Ah, but it’s all about their facial expressions and body language—that’s how you understand what they are thinking.  If you can convey this without vocalizing it then you, as a director and as an actor, have done something special. 

Other than Michael Lonsdale, who plays Brother Luc, most of the actors here are relatively unknown to audiences outside of France.  Some may be familiar with the work of Lambert Wilson (especially fans of The Matrix films), who plays Brother Christian, but the other six monks are played by French character actors. The one thing a character actor knows how to do is how to use his/her face and body in a scene.  They don’t always have a lot of dialogue, so they have to make up for this with stage/screen presence.  This is exactly the type of actor Beauvois needed to fill the roles of his often silent monks.  Dialogue hogs have a tendency to become hammy when they have limited lines, so it was an inspired decision to use actors who weren’t used to having to speak a lot on screen.  As a result, all eight men give delightfully nuanced performances which make you believe that they are monks.  Of course, for me Lonsdale’s Brother Luc is the most memorable of the men.  Perhaps it was his age-induced haggard look and his lumbering gait, or maybe it was those weary soul-full eyes of his, but he fully embodied so many religious that I have come across in my life.  He deservedly won a Best Supporting Actor César (France’s Oscar) for the greatest performance of his long, storied career. 

While there are many expertly designed scenes to discuss, I would like to focus on my favorite: Beauvois’ homage to The Last Supper. Set to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake (op. 20 Moderato), the monks gather around their communal table to partake in what one would assume they viewed as a meal of reprieve. Having overcome their personal struggles about whether to flee danger or to stay true to the words of John 10:12: “a good shepherd does not abandon his flock,” the men are at peace with themselves and one another. As they silently and reverently listen to that beautiful composition a wave of emotion washes over each man’s face.  In one of the more powerful scenes I’ve seen in recent cinema, Beauvois employs extreme close-ups of every man’s face.  This elicits an extremely powerful emotional reaction from the viewer (at least it did for me).  Knowing what will soon befall seven of these men, of course, makes it an even more bittersweet view of what can only be seen as unmitigated joy at being alive and at peace with themselves.  (While I don’t do this often, I invite you to watch this clip: http://vimeo.com/27678110)

Overall, Of Gods and Men is an emotionally riveting film.  The peace with which these men lived is inspirational. At a time when there is so much religious unrest in the world it is good to know that there are some people who still believe in peace, tolerance and human goodness.

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