We like Up. We really do. But it really got some of us here thinking about the complete lack of female protagonists in the entirety of Pixar’s impressive decade-plus output. Perhaps Up magnified this fact because a) it’s the most explicitly stated “Boy’s Adventure” film they’ve done so far, with its father-grandson bonding and its boy-scout sidekick, and b) because it foregrounds so literally the divide between the space of male-action and female-domesticity, even as it fights against it by making its major female character, Ellie, the more adventurous tomboy. Undoubtedly the end of the film is exquisitely tearjerking, with the deceased Ellie’s [spoilers?] photo album, always intended to be filled with images from a lifetime of derring-do and journeys to the outskirts of the world, now filled with snapshots of marital bliss and happiness, which she implies that she has happily taken over the more traditional, childhood adventures she had always planned, but which financial obligations, household practicalities, and old age had curtailed. It’s all beautiful and true, but the more I watched Ellie smiling, satisfied from her frame on the wall as her surviving husband Carl flew to Jules Verne-esque lands, the more hyperaware I became of Pixar’s boy’s club mentality. Toy Story, A Bug’s Life, Toy Story 2, Monsters Inc., Finding Nemo, The Incredibles (the only debatable one), Cars, Ratatouille, Wall*E, and now Up, are all inoffensive in their gender bias, but it’s there nonetheless. And the occasional strong female character has always been in some way subordinate to the male. It’s never their story. It’s perhaps a calculated move away from the Disney Princess aesthetic and target audience, which has often branded other animated Disney films as too riskily “girly,” but in comparison even to the in other ways retrograde Beauty and the Beast (with its head-spinning mix of headstrong, booksmart, anti-marriage, independent-minded heroine who . . . falls for her beastly abusive captor), Pixar’s advancements can seem occasionally backwards.
It’s tempting to chalk up the inability of Tony Gilroy’s Duplicity to overcome monsters, aliens, Nicolas Cage (alien), and Paul Rudd (monster) at the box office to audiences’ “dwindling intelligence” or “lack of concentration for intricate plots,” or whatever wide net you want to cast over contemporary movie watchers. Theatergoers have made hits out of just about anything so far in 2009 (mall cops, Madea, and a gun-toting Liam Neeson), so Duplicity‘s poor performance seems to be somewhat noteworthy (and considering its stellar reviews from major outlets, insert boring “death of the film critic” thinkpiece here). Yet there’s nothing particularly shocking to me about the film’s evident poor word of mouth—it commits a cardinal sin: it never allows the audience to be one step ahead of the characters and therefore feel superior. Trying not to give away too much of the twisting, turning pleasures of Gilroy’s script (an entirely enjoyable compendium of unforced screwball repartee and thematically unified musings on identity and trust within romantic and business relationships), I’ll only say that it leaves its audience, along with its two main characters, who seem entirely, reassuringly in control throughout the film, in a charmingly effaced position of complete uncertainty, disarray, and self-doubt. By the end of the film, we’ve all been duped, and many viewers might feel betrayed by doing only what they’ve been trained to do: completely identify with, and believe in the goals of, its dashing protagonists.
Something else has occurred to me since seeing this film, though, which also might help explain the hands-off response to it. In its quicksilver, embattled repartee between a man and woman who don’t—and probably shouldn’t—trust each other completely, Duplicity naturally recalls such touchstones as Trouble in Paradise and The Lady Eve, yet it’s not just screwball cynicism but also its narrative ambiguity that makes the film seem at times nearly confrontational. Its “what just happened?” approach to story and consequence is not just applied to its denouement, but also extends to the unfolding of the entire film. At times it seems like nothing less than a play-acted, wiseacre updating of Last Year at Marienbad: when, following a brief pre-credits one-night-stand while on assignment in Dubai, Clive Owen and Julia Roberts’ freelance spies Ray and Claire meet again in New York, Ray’s insistent “don’t you remember me? We’ve met before” and Claire’s continual bemused denial recalling Alain Robbe-Grillet and Alain Resnais’s classic parlor trickery. Constant flashbacks and achronological storytelling ultimately make Duplicity into something like Marienbad-lite, especially pronounced when, in further leaps into their pasts, the dialogue is repeated, their relationship revealed as a self-conscious masquerade, words themselves a fetish, locked in a sort of never-ending loop.
Of course Duplicity‘s goal is to lightly tease, rather than deconstruct, narrative norms, but Gilroy’s playful time games result in something surprisingly hefty. How we’ve all been had is less important than our engagement with the process of being had. It’s less about recollection than concentration, but it’s a game nonetheless. Perhaps comparing it to Resnais is a bit of a stretch, but you can at least take my word for it: it’s way more fun than Private Fears in Public Places.
Ten Reasons to Not Mess with the Zohan while Kicking Angelina off the Hood
Zohan just wanted a taste of Angelina’s Fizzy Bubblech, but the Loom of Fate had a different idea…
1) Wanted is about a pathetic asshole (yawn) who “grows some nads” and kicks about four, maybe five, asses; Zohan’s about a world-class Mossad agent – totally fine on the nads front – who becomes a hair stylist and gets some ass. Way more than five.
2) Most of the ass Zohan gets is over 60 years-old. This is fine, because it’s good to please a woman, no matter how old she is. Wesley Gibson (James McAvoy) doesn’t get any, because all of the women in Wanted are either fat bitches (with staplers!), slut bitches, or Angelina Jolie. I’m not expecting Jeanne Dielman here, but come on, misogynist much?
3) Rodents figure prominently in the climax of Wanted. In Zohan – puppies!
4) People try to kill each other in Zohan because of a historically-specific, millennia old conflict. In Wanted, people kill each other because the Loom of Fate – no it’s an actual loom…no, really – tells them to by weaving their names into a swatch of death. And whatever you do, you don’t question der Führer the Loom of Fate when deciding whether or not to murder somebody.
5) Adam Sandler shouldn’t be hot in Zohan, but he kind of is; James McAvoy should be hot in Wanted – okay, he’s totally hot, but he’s only shirtless once. What’s up with that?
6) Zohan actively questions the necessity of state-sponsored violence; see #4 above RE: questioning the Loom of Fate. Hello, fascism! Seriously. Not funny, just fascist.
7) A small part of me wept inside to see Terence Stamp in Wanted, but miraculously, I was happy to see Mariah Carey in Zohan.
8) We are constantly reminded that Zohan has a penis; it is constantly implied that Wesley Gibson does not have a penis; by Wanted’s own twisted standards, it is significantly better – and I mean significantly – to have a penis than to not have a penis. QED.
9) Speaking of penises, Zohan may pee on a litter box, but with his last line in the film, James McAvoy takes a metaphoric dump on the face of every person who pays to see Wanted.
Pundits have been begging “No!” (why, because we’re always right?), but we’re going to ballsily throw our hats into the ring for this Sunday’s 80th Academy Awards ceremony. The little voices in our heads may have tried to talk us out of it, but readers’ mail like these forced us to once againtake up the prediction baton:
“Dear Reverse Shit [sic], thank you so much for your predixions [sic] for last year’s Oscar Awards—I won enough money in Oscar pool at work to finally pay for my cataract oparation [sic]. Keep up the good work.” – “Lil’ Mo Beckstein.
And then there was this one that came to us Air Mail, crumpled up with sunflower seed shells scattered in the pocket of its tattered envelope:
“Dear Reverse Slop [sic], I simply cannot tell you how inspiring you’ve been to me. I had given up hope that Banlop Lomnoi would receive a surprise write-in best-actor win for his fascinating, delicate, literally transformative performance as a gay man-beast in Tropical Malady. And lo and behold, you predicted it! I’ll never forget the dazed look on Banlop’s face as he accepted his award and stared dumbfounded at the camera for a full thirty seconds. Take that, Anna Paquin!” – Sally Kirkland.
We can’t disappoint our fans, so, without further ado, here are Reverse Shot’s official, thoroughly researched, pragmatic, and sobering predictions for the big prizes at this weekend’s Academy Awards, the organization that chose Forrest Gump over Pulp Fiction, Ron Howard over David Lynch and Robert Altman, and Braveheart over close competition from a banana and a stapler.
Best Picture: As everyone’s been saying, this is Joel and Ethan Coen’s to lose. But if they do, it’ll probably be to Ten Canoes, surprisingly the first Aboriginal film ever to be nominated for the top award. Pundits are saying that its chance to upset has been spurred on by Palm Pictures’ sly marketing campaign—just last week plastered all over the inside cover of Variety, accompanying a picture of star Peter Minygululu, was the catchphrase that’s put to bed thoughts of milkshakes: “Ten canoes, three wives, one hundred and fifty spears…trouble!” The rest of the nominees are starting to feel like also-rans: Gbravica: The Land of My Dreams and Day Night Day Night are just in it for the post-game parties at this point, but if there’s vote splitting between No Country and Ten Canoes, then there’s the outside chance of Color Me Kubrick coming in for a sneak attack—revered director (Kubrick) + beloved star (Malkovich) + niche success (one week at IFC Center) + Day & Date release (you can see it on TV, too!)? You do the math…
Best Actor: James Gandolfini’s surprising snub (for the long delayed but loved long-time Romance & Cigarettes) left this race wide open. Luckily, all the nominees are not only from warmly embraced films, they’re also household names, or in a couple cases soon will be: perennial nominee Lee Kang-Sheng (doing brave double duty in I Don’t Want to Sleep Alone, and getting two nods in the process), Samuel Boidin (lovable, vulnerable, hulking man-child of Flandres), Joe Souza (memorable as cock on the left in Naked Boys Singing), and, last but never least, Tobin Bell, mainly for that autopsy scene, in Saw IV; and if you think he doesn’t have a chance due to limited screen time, tell it to Beatrice Straight. Prediction: Expect a split between both Lee Kang-Shengs and for Bell to prevail, finalement!
Best Actress: Lucy Tulugarjuk has swept every single critics’ award so far this season for her minimalist, Kaurismaki-esque turn in L’Iceberg, so common wisdom would tell you she’s a shoo-in. Not likely. Due to her recent myriad unmentionable scandals (so indelicately splashed all over Page Six), Tulugarjuk is more likely to be run out of town on a rail come Sunday (Oscar lover Bill O’Reilly’s already calling for a good ol-fashun lynchin’); which only further goes to prove that she is indeed, as People magazine dubbed her way back in May, the New Ingrid Bergman. Instead, Oscar may be looking for someone more wholesome: all sights turn to Rita Wilson. Most insiders and critics and fellow macramé aficionados agree that it’s her turn for the award, after paying her dues in the business for decades. And lo and behold, she was in a movie this year: Chad Lowe’s Beautiful Ohio, which, though still unreleased, did show at the Newport Beach International Film Festival in April. With a heavyweight like Wilson, Ellen Page, Julie Christie, and Marion Cotillard can kiss their dreams goodbye.
Write in to us with your thoughts on this year’s cutthroat awards ceremony, and tell us which films you think will win and which deserve to be put out with Monday morning’s garbage. Viva l’Oscar!
Everyone’s favorite worthless waste of muppet-faced space, Tom O’Neil, made a pithy statement on his hilarious, always-wrong Oscar prognostication website (Dreamgirls will win Best Picture…doh; Sweeney Todd will win…doh!), calling out the GLAAD awards for its apparent lack of edge for not including The Kite Runner in its citation of great gay films.
O…....kay….The Kite Runner, right…well, I do recall that deliriously erotic child-on-child same-sex rape scene, in which a young sadistic bully, in a show of fascistic aggression, viciously rapes another young boy because he disapproves of his perceived inferior race, that of Hazara. With discreet cutaways, Marc Forster edits around the offense, but in the end shows a single droplet of blood from the poor victim’s wounded anal cavity splashing to the ground (At Slant, Ed Gonzalez memorably compared it to a syrup drizzle over a stack of golden pancakes, if memory serves.)
Then, as a result of shooting this sequence, the actors involved had to be taken to safe havens so that their lives would be spared after bristling homophobia in their homeland.
O’Neil calls The Kite Runnera great film with a gay subtext. And then muses, Why did GLAAD wimp out? Well, there’s no accounting for taste (The Kite Runner....great? come the fuck on…), but there should be some accounting for really poor taste. O’Neil, take your sock-puppet mouth and googly eyes and finally go far, far away. Perhaps to that magical land of soaring digital kites, where boys learn how to be men, and men learn how to wear sticky beards.
Best Picture: As everyone’s been saying, this is Joel and Ethan Coen’s to lose. But if they do, it’ll probably be to Ten Canoes, surprisingly the first Aboriginal film ever to be nominated for the top award. Pundits are saying that its chance to upset has been spurred on by Palm Pictures’ sly marketing campaign—just last week plastered all over the inside cover of Variety, accompanying a picture of star Peter Minygululu, was the catchphrase that’s put to bed thoughts of milkshakes: “Ten canoes, three wives, one hundred and fifty spears…trouble!” The rest of the nominees are starting to feel like also-rans: Gbravica: The Land of My Dreams and Day Night Day Night are just in it for the post-game parties at this point, but if there’s vote splitting between No Country and Ten Canoes, then there’s the outside chance of Color Me Kubrick coming in for a sneak attack—revered director (Kubrick) + beloved star (Malkovich) + niche success (one week at IFC Center) + Day & Date release (you can see it on TV, too!)? You do the math…
Best Actor: James Gandolfini’s surprising snub (for the long delayed but loved long-time Romance & Cigarettes) left this race wide open. Luckily, all the nominees are not only from warmly embraced films, they’re also household names, or in a couple cases soon will be: perennial nominee Lee Kang-Sheng (doing brave double duty in I Don’t Want to Sleep Alone, and getting two nods in the process), Samuel Boidin (lovable, vulnerable, hulking man-child of Flandres), Joe Souza (memorable as cock on the left in Naked Boys Singing), and, last but never least, Tobin Bell, mainly for that autopsy scene, in Saw IV; and if you think he doesn’t have a chance due to limited screen time, tell it to Beatrice Straight. Prediction: Expect a split between both Lee Kang-Shengs and for Bell to prevail, finalement!
Best Actress: Lucy Tulugarjuk has swept every single critics’ award so far this season for her minimalist, Kaurismaki-esque turn in L’Iceberg, so common wisdom would tell you she’s a shoo-in. Not likely. Due to her recent myriad unmentionable scandals (so indelicately splashed all over Page Six), Tulugarjuk is more likely to be run out of town on a rail come Sunday (Oscar lover Bill O’Reilly’s already calling for a good ol-fashun lynchin’); which only further goes to prove that she is indeed, as People magazine dubbed her way back in May, the New Ingrid Bergman. Instead, Oscar may be looking for someone more wholesome: all sights turn to Rita Wilson. Most insiders and critics and fellow macramé aficionados agree that it’s her turn for the award, after paying her dues in the business for decades. And lo and behold, she was in a movie this year: Chad Lowe’s Beautiful Ohio, which, though still unreleased, did show at the Newport Beach International Film Festival in April. With a heavyweight like Wilson, Ellen Page, Julie Christie, and Marion Cotillard can kiss their dreams goodbye.
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