Nothing this summer (not the Oscar-prognosticating-cum-corpse-picking over Heath Ledger; not the morally bankrupt “balletics” of Angelina Jolie’s latest garbage-fest, Wanted; not even Will Smith’s “homo”-baiting jokes in Hancock) has rumped by hump more than the ad campaign for that film that I probably won’t see, American Teen. Effective though it may have been in getting some major media attention for a, gasp, documentary, the Breakfast Club evoking poster and trailer for Nanette Burstein’s year-in-the-life look at a group of Indiana high-schoolers savvily, shamelessly, shamefully locks each of its five participants into types designated by John Hughes’s “classic” so many years ago. Not only does this give actual cultural credence to Hughes’s generalizations (and in all fairness such easily accessible people-filing is the provenance of comedy), but it also reduced real, actual, unformed humans to nothing more than pop-culturally generated categories. Well, we have the “princess,” the “jock,” the “geek,” the “heartthrob,” and the “rebel.” (For the record, if we’re being reductionist I believe the “heartthrob” and the “jock” in The Breakfast Club and often in real life, are the same person…but hey). It also appears from the trailer that the “rebel” (who looks about as out-of-the-mainstream as Juno) and the “heartthrob” meet up and start dating—could such a fortuitous set of circumstances have occurred perhaps because, oh, I don’t know, a camera is following them around everywhere they go? (More minus points: where’s the “gay”....oh, I mean the “outcast”? ) Insert reference to The Hills here to talk about the not-very-interesting merging of real life and fictional teen drama, and you can give American Teen some bogus analytical heft. Pandering to the eternally high-school rutted American mentality, the rules of which products like these culturally sanction as inextricable facts of life, the ad campaign for American Teen (and, ugh, that title), only further glamorizes a time of life we all really need to fucking forget about already.
“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 http://www.reverseshot.com/article/11_offenses_of_2006 >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.
Syndicate this site