Now, for this week's edition of "Let me talk, ASSHOLE!"
"They do ordinary things! That's not why we go to the movies!"
With so many mainstream print critics losing their jobs, the question remains: Why can't the cretinous, film culture–killing TV critics join them? Here's old pro, and by all accounts worthless asshole Jeffrey Lyons (once, the "rational one" when paired with conservative hack Michael Medved back in the 90s) "reviewing," retching, whining, obnoxiously talking over his by-association genius co-host, and pitying himself for having to watch Flight of the Red Balloon. Incisive stuff here.
It was the eternal grimace, the decades-long implosion, the attempt at decency swallowed up by half-hearted stabs at propriety, that not only defined Heath Ledger's Ennis Del Mar, but also Brokeback Mountain as a whole. And if Ennis hadn't already been one of recent American cinema's truly iconic characters, then, sadly, he surely will be from this point forward. Once simultaneously representative of the wide-open frontiers, tight-lipped repression, and willful self-denial of America, Ledger's much-lauded portrait of rough-hewn, gorgeously fragile masculinity now becomes something horribly definitive, indescribably expressive. Brokeback's cultural impact is unthinkable without Ennis's weathered visage, the crinkle of his spreading crow’s feet, the attempts of his denim body armor to make him impervious to emotional pain; Gyllenhaal's transition from yee-haw cowhand to disillusioned romantic useless without Ledger's heedless patience; Ang Lee's restrained mise-en-scène incomplete without Ledger's disappearance into it. If Brokeback's pain proved exquisite for some and unbearably raw for others, odds are it was all because of Ennis's internalized anguish, his disparity between how he felt and how he was told to act opening up a chasm within him too great to bridge. If Brokeback was criticized by some at the time as dated, as a tale of repression and safe closet-dwelling, then it also served as a fitful warning for future generations, a hope that happiness can still exist for a large segment of the American population who every day swallow their guilt, longings, and needs until it all burns like acid in the pits of their stomachs. This was the locus of Ennis's winces, the reason for his roiling guts. Ledger provided the face of anguish, a reflection for many who saw it, now caught forever in a freeze-frame, older than this fine actor will ever have the chance to grow to become.
Welcome to our annual 11 Offenses, a proper wake-up call from the end-of-year lovefest that found us waxing on the greatness of contemporary cinema, as well as the only list you’re likely to see that doesn’t feature There Will Be Blood. With a year as great as 2007 behind us, it took all we could muster to get out the knives and sharpen them up, but how could we deny our fans the pleasure? Why, just read a sampling of reactions from some devoted, erudite readers about last year’s litany of litter:
“Who are you people and why does anyone give a rat’s ass what you think?” . . . “The article does come across as though someone played around on Word's synonym tool.”; . . . “what a moronic column. absurd. friggin idiots. next time i bump into a bitter film critic, i guess i'll punch them in the face instead of just laughing at them.” . . . “Criticism, in general, is such a negative thing. And real hard to do. Not! Hey, instead of actually doing anything, I will just judge what everyone else does....nice! Great Legacy! trust me bro...you dont look smarter, no matter how hard you try!”
With only 11 slots, and so much ground to cover—somewhat less than last year’s bumper crop of high-profile stinkers, to be sure—there are bound to be omissions. By all accounts, Trade should be on this list, as it’s probably the most offensive, and inept, movie in many a moon, but not only has it already been appropriately excoriated by Reverse Shot, we also really don’t want to have it give that largely unseen filth another half a thought. But all you bad films know that we know you’re out there. So, back by popular demand:
Reverse Shot and true fans everywhere would like to congratulate and thank the 2007 New York Mets on another soul-shattering, God-questioning season of professional baseball. We have been aptly rewarded.
Where to begin? Lowest-common denominator filmmaking in the guise of a "social problem picture," Trade does indeed make us mad, as director Marco Kreuzpaintner has said he wanted - but not in the way he intends. So much that's so wrong and so bad flies out of Trade so quickly that the audience practically has to duck and cover from shrapnel. From its flagrant exoticization-cum-demonization of Mexico City to its predictably trendy, faceless aesthetic to its uproariously hammy acting, Trade is a disaster from the top down. Obviously the work of a filmmaker who has genuinely no ideas about the ethics of storytelling or representation, Trade is essentially Hostel Part Two but designed to make you feel good for having learned about "something."
And what is that something? Why it's the hot topic of human trafficking, an undeniably serious human-rights issue that's become the narrative playground of exploitation hacks looking for credibility: amoral genre filmmakers, you now have your social problem of choice! It's apparent from the get-go that Kreuzpaintner has more interest in car-crash shock cuts and panties bunched up around molested women's flailing ankles (that would be eight punches to girls' faces too many, thank you very much) than exposing the harsh realities of underage sexual slavery or impoverished south-of-the-border life - which incidentally is introduced by this German filmmaker (whose last film was, oddly, the misshapen but good-natured gay coming-of-age flick Summer Storm - more underage flesh, but sun-dappled and safe) when wispy protagonist Jorge (Cesar Ramos) robs an American tourist and says, "What do weee doooo to greengos who don't respect Mexicans?" before squirting him with a water gun and laughing, "Die, beetch!" Cue upbeat mariachi music. Click here if you actually want to read more of Michael Koresky's review of Trade.
It pains me to say it, but Neil Jordan's new film, the vigilante flick The Brave One, doesn't really merit much of a mention in the pages of Reverse Shot, so this blog blurt will do. This hurts because this is a film from a director we really, really, reallyrespect. Rarely does a filmmaker of Jordan's gifts plummet so drastically off the edge of good taste and judgment as he has here; I haven't read an Armond White recouping mission yet, but Jordan defenders (of which I have often been one) may have to do some serious scrambling, digging, and wishful thinking here.
The only excuse for the film, which doesn't let Jordan off the hook one iota, is that the film is so clearly another in a long line of Jodie Foster vanity projects, apparent from the flattering dialogue (one character calls her "skinny but with a nice ass"...impossible the character would know since she was sitting down during the entire scene) to the Sarah McLachlan tunes on the soundtrack (taken from Jodie's latest mix CD?). Foster is not just a formidable screen presence but also possibly the only over-40 actress who can still, consistently, open a film at number one at the box office based on her star power alone: that's an astonishing feat and nothing to be sniffed at. As evidenced from interviews, she tailors projects to her liking, changes scripts and sculpts stories and characters to fit her world view and the needs of her persona. Foster undoubtedly had as much say in the resulting lopsided catastrophe of The Brave One as producers, writers, and the woebegone director, who must have felt a serious ego-clash with his own. None of this is to disparage Foster, who remains mesmerizing onscreen, and who has an amazing ability to remain an icon of female individuality in a dream machine where wives, prostitutes, and slutty gfs are the norm. Yet the film's inability to sufficiently complicate the Foster image is its main downfall, as its repetitive, dully filmed (paranoia = tilty camera!) Death Wish structure allows her to kill a parade of muggers and nefarious baddies who, always at the last minute, say or do something which validates the audience's blood lust—the most egregious: when a couple of subway-riding black punks, who really only seem to be after some kid's iPod, turn on Foster with a blade and ask her if "she's ever been fucked by a knife"? Blammo.
Even more egregious than the film's moral simplicity and visual uninspiration, though, is the sheer stupidity of the script. Nearly every line has a Haggis-like mix of overexplanation and political self-righteousness, even contriving Foster as an NPR-like radio personality so that she can wax poetic on the "disappearing New York City" (which includes that old chestnut, little Plaza Hotel-dwelling Eloise) and, when she starts killing, on her own "stranger within." And when the radio show is opened up to live call-ins, we get, naturally, a flood of stock actor voices regurgitating conveniently opposed views to denounce or praise the actions of the infamous vigilante crime-fighter--for some added topicality, someone says, "It's like what's going on in Iraq!" Well, no, in fact. Not at all. The biggest eye-rolls come courtesy of Terrence "baby wipes" Howard's detective ("the only living cop in New York," as my friend chuckled), who literally is on every crime scene of Foster's random killing spree: whether it's on the Upper West Side or Roosevelt Island, they always conveniently seem to be in his jurisdiction.
Furthermore, the ending is so risible, illogical, and morally and racially dubious that it could never be mistaken for anything other than thoughtless Hollywood hackery. I won't give it away, lest someone wants to experience some incredulous gasping guffaws. Rarely does a film with such formidable talent feel so defeated, weak-willed, and confused. The film's success might encourage Jordan to keep taking for-hire projects (hopefully to fund his long-gestating Borgias project), but one can only hope he'll be more discerning next time; even his less-than-worthy earlier films like Interview with the Vampire and In Dreams showed off both visual invention and a tantalizingly idiosyncratic world view, despite their tendencies toward narrative incoherence. The Brave One is a craven mess, lacking in any of the deeply human qualities that its director usually effortlessly conveys.
There are untold artistic benefits to living in a culture of critical reassessment--otherwise, what would current generations think of Vertigo? But if the glut of superfluous "special edition" DVD packages over the past ten years is any indicator, then there are also some sorry side effects. Falling somewhere between the enshrined camp package (Mommie Dearest's Hollywood Royalty Edition, complete with John Waters commentary track!) and the sober-minded resurrection of the long unavailable and disenfranchised as crucial artifact (the recent "Films of Alejandro Jodorowsky" box set, featuring El Topo) will surely be Paramount's imminent deluxe edition of William Friedkin's 1980 film maudit, Cruising.
Cruising's squishily anticipated return to home video, and to the hearts and minds of a generation who had the benefit of possibly not knowing of its existence, will be accompanied by a brief theatrical run in New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. Add to all that a recent Cannes screening, followed by an alleged double standing ovation for Friedkin (come on...really?), and we have on our hands a full-fledged attempt at recouping Cruising as some sort of misunderstood masterpiece, and a reaffirmation of its director as visionary provocateur
A friend recently tried to dissuade me from overestimating the recent cottage industry of quirky, offbeat films focused on the maladjusted and weird. But it’s films like Rocket Science—not nearly as atrocious as Eagle vs. Shark but in a way more frustrating—that keep convincing me this is a not insignificant trend. Are filmmakers now so insecure about the meaningfulness of their films that they must consistently undermine any truthful melancholy about high school life with evasive adorability and easy irony?
Move over Doogie Howser, the unattractive guy from Grey's Anatomy, and Fish Face from N'Sync, a new gay sex symbol has emerged. There's no reason we shouldn't believe Reverend Ted Haggard, head of the rabidly anti-gay Evangelical movement, and seen in the current art-house hit Jesus Camp scolding those with that terrible chromosome affliction, when he says that he DID NOT have sex with that gay hustler who he DID happen to buy crystal meth from. I mean, as Mark Foley recently proved, it's always better to come out as an alcoholic or other related drug addict, than to admit to smoking pole.
Of course, there's also no reason to not call a spade a spade: Reverend Haggard, despite your inflammatory, monstrously hypocritical, vilely self-abnegating stance towards all things queer, you're a pretty sweet piece of ass. That flaxen hair, shimmering with all the sun's rays, those flared nostrils, those angelically straight pearly white chompers, those luscious dew-drop eyes, pools of redemption that they are, those dapper suits barely concealing a tall, broad, lean frame....Instinct cover, here we come. You, sir, get the first ever Reverse Shot Hottie of the Week award.
