wrapping up again

I've seen quite a few movies lately, but due to the hectic pace of life and such, I haven't written in a while. A few weeks ago, the morning after my birthday party, I bombed around downtown, aimless and desperately haggard and ended up catching Margot at the Wedding, Noah Baumbach's follow-up to The Squid and the Whale. It's smart and daring and feels very much like the first effort after a breakthrough success. Baumbach gets away with scathing dialogue, repellent characters and a dramatically shapeless narrative structure. Some would note these traits with derision, but they really are what makes the film great and different than so many current American films.
The film follows the uncomfortable domestic clash between a successful writer (Nicole Kidman) and her approval-seeking sister (Jennifer Jason Leigh). It's full of incidents (a wedding tent collapses, neighbors squabble, marriages collapse), but nothing really happens. Baumbach deftly plumbs the love-hate relationship between siblings, allowing the film to breath and move at its own pace. It's a refreshing, naturalistic take, and Baumbach writes dialogue better than anyone today ("Maybe I'll move to Williamsburg? People are moving their, right?" Pauline asks. Margot replies, "Pauline, it's for young people.")
The weak link is Kidman, who can't help but be terribly mannered. Baumbach's jilted camera work, use of close-ups and jumpy editing call for a stripped-down acting style. I imagine Laura Linney in the role, not only because Margot closely resembles the character Linney played in Squid, but because she is so natural and unpretentious.
Leigh does raw emotion better than most actresses, and here she turns Pauline into a messy ball of unstable vulnerability. It's killer work from one of our best (have you seen Georgia?).

No Country for Old Men, the new Coen Brothers movie, has been getting more buzz than any movie this fall (reference my previous post about trying to catch a sold out late night show). I finally caught it, and must say that while technically flawless with an intriguing aesthetic, it's just a solid thriller that falters when it tries to become something more in the third act.
When a West Texas good ole boy (Josh Brolin) stumbles upon a stash of drug money when hunting in the desert, his life changes forever. He makes off with the cash, leaving his trailer trash wife (Kelly MacDonald) behind. Soon, a vengeful gun for hire (Javier Bardem in a towering performance) and a wise old sheriff (Tommy Lee Jones) are on his trail. There are a few masterfully edited chase sequences, and the performances are terrific, but the Coens make an odd decision with the climax. Perspectives shift, a great deal of action occurs off screen, and the wise old cop waxes philosophical. Sure, it's fine, but I like my thrillers to end in a bloodbath.
Brolin, who has always been a bit of a cheeseball, channels Rock Hudson and other 50s idols with his broad chin and beefy stature. He carries the film well, and will hopefully continue to progress. The film will be remembered for Bardem's gleefully sardonic work. It's chilly, frightful, and one of the most memorable villainous turns in recent memory.

And, finally, I caught Todd Haynes' much-talked-about Bob Dylan biopic I'm Not There over the Thanksgiving holiday. I've always had a crush on Todd Haynes. Because of the flesh-eating disease in Poison, because of the title sequence in Safe, because of the music videos in Velvet Goldmine, because of Far From Heaven in its entirety, because he went to Brown, because he's outspoken, because he was on the forefront of the queer cinema movement, and because he's the most academic filmmaker working in the mainstream today. Basically, he's my intellectual crush and I would totally blush in his presence.
I'm Not There is a bit of a disappointment, an overly ambitious, hyper-fragmented dissection of both Dylan and the artifice of celebrity. By now we all know that six actors portray Dylan-esque figures at different points in his evolution as an artist and idol. Yep, they're a few stunts (a black kid, a woman, Richard Gere). The whole thing doesn't coalesce, and feels a bit like the cinematic equivalent of a fallen souffle.
It's a bit of a shame given my love for Haynes, and the grand black-and-white segments with Cate Blanchett as the Blonde on Blonde-era Dylan. These bits have the absurdity and grandeur of a Fellini film, and are as visually exciting and alive as anything put on film recently. It goes without saying that Blanchett is the best working today, and here she gives us the performance of her career. Mimicry is so in right now with actors (Jamie Foxx, Reese Witherspoon, everyone's doing it), but this transcends the game. She strikes closer to Dylan than the rest, it feels like a real character, and you forget who you're watching. My jaw totally dropped.

the last movie i saw

I love catching late movies. There's something satisfying about slipping into a ten or eleven o'clock show just as the light goes down. It's also one of the only ways to go the movies without buying tickets ahead of time in the city (i.e. planning). At least, that's what I'd found to be the case until last night. I tried to see No Country for Old Men, on a whim, but got to the theater (that awful multiplex at Union Square) to find it sold out. It was one of those "everyone in New York has the same idea" moments. I'm dying to see this one, it's gotten the best reviews of any film this year and its impossible to pass up the Coens in serious mode (none of this Intolerable Cruelty nonsense). It looks like a throwback to their first film, Blood Simple, a hardboiled Texas noir, which is one of my favorite films.
So, I came home with a shrug and decided to watch Last Days, Gus Van Sant's poetic rumination on grunge icon Kurt Cobain. It's a strikingly unusual film ... it feels almost experimentally taciturn, non-linear and rambling. This makes it a tough sit for some, but others (myself in the front row) find it mesmerizing and beautiful. As the Cobain figure, Michael Pitt (so compelling in The Dreamers) stutters in and out of the frame with a soiled mop of blond hair and slurs the incoherent musings of a tragic rock figure. He's hardly audible, but that's the point. He doesn't know what he's saying either.
More so than any other filmmaker, Van Sant has the ability to capture wayward youth culture with an eye more endearing than critical. Look at Drugstore Cowboy and My Own Private Idaho ... both neo-classics about drug-tainted youth culture on the run. Last Days captures the spirit of these earlier ventures and nearly wipes away the stench left by Elephant, Van Sant's miscalculated exploration of a Columbine-like school shooting, which was aesthetically vibrant but suffered unforgivable narrative sloppiness.
The real joy of this film comes from the small moments that will make any rock lover swoon ... Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon shows up for a quickie scene, another character sings along with the Velvet Underground's "Venus in Furs." And, if that hasn't won you over, a few shaggy-haired hipsters, complete with square-framed glasses and wool ski caps, climb into bed together. Talk about swooning.

because you shouldn't have to be a celebrity to fill out the New York survey

After reading Brian Williams' stomach-turning responses to New York's survey, I decided to give it a try. If you didn't know, real people are almost always more fascinating than celebrities. If you're so inclined, turn in yours in the comments section.

Who: Jon
Job: Communication Analyst
Age: 23 (24 on Monday ... eeep!)
Neighborhood: East Village
Who's your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?: I bet a lot of people pick Daisy Buchanan. Real, living is Joan Didion. Real, dead is Dorothy Parker. Fictional? Annie Hall.
What's the best meal you've eaten in New York?: When I was in high school we would go to Cafe Artistes the day after Thanksgiving every year with visiting friends. All of those meals, combined.
In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?: I develop and implement communication strategies for companies.
Where do you get your coffee?: The fresh roast place on 8th St. and 2nd Ave., Cafe Pick Me Up, that guy in the cart outside my office who has memorized my morning order. I don't even have to say "the usual."
What's the last thing you saw on Broadway?: The Year of Magical Thinking.
Do you give money to panhandlers?: If I have change in my pocket.
What's your drink?: Jack and (Diet) Coke.
How often do you prepare your own meals: I rarely don't.
What's hanging above your sofa?: In my bedroom I have a large silk screen of a black vinyl record on an orange canvas.
How much is too much to spend on a haircut?: I spend too much. This is a touchy subject. Let's move on.
When's bedtime?: Somewhere north of midnight.
Brunch. Pro or con?: It's my favorite meal to have out.
What's your thread count?: Ask me in 10 years.
What do you hate most about living in New York?: Rent.
What's your brand of jeans: St. Augustine, from a boutique in Echo Park in LA.
When's the last time you drove a car?: September. (I'm new).
Who should be the next president?: Hillary.
Times, Post or Daily News?: Times (of course).
Yankees or Mets?: If you had a ticket, I would go to either game, as beer would be involved regardless.
What makes someone a New Yorker?: Gumption, wit, sass, neurosis and the belief that living anywhere else would be a waste of time.

insert norma rae joke here

The media frenzy surrounding the Writer's Guild strike is pretty fascinating. Thank goodness Tina Fey and Eva Longoria walked the line, otherwise, mainstream America would have trouble putting a face on the scribes' plight.
I wholly support the strike. When I lived in LA, I had a variety of jobs, all of which involved screenwriters. I interned for a producer at Paramount who gets along with and nurtures writers famously. I ended up as the assistant to a lit manager, on the phone with writers everyday. Most of the writers I knew were sharp, talented and friendly. All were passionate.
Given my experience, I consider myself fairly familiar with the writer's place on the Hollywood food chain. Considering the industry's mammoth cash flow, writers are underpaid and under-appreciated. Talent salaries invite a somber comparison. Compound this with the harried neurosis of a creative mind, and you've got a potentially prickly set who are (mostly) too smart for the town they call home.
This strike isn't about general salary; it's about new media. Sure, DVD residuals are on the table again, and that's good. Writers only see a slim portion of those proceeds, and considering the cash cow that is the home video market, they deserve a bigger cut. Digital content and the internet are the real issues here. Writers want to be protected for the online content they create. Pretty simple. If someone creates a character online who becomes a youtube phenom, they want to be protected and see residuals if a sitcom or movie deal ever happens. They just want the same protection online that they have in other mediums.
So why are the studios so resistant? Because these demands force them to examine their currently outdated business model. Hollywood has been mystified and confused with the digital realm for a while now. Without the tangibility of a DVD, a ticket stub or a CD, they're at a loss for how to make money. They're both eager to make every possible penny but also afraid to change the way things are and risk tipping the ever-tenuous balance that holds the town together. Fear and greed? Yep, that's a pretty volatile cocktail.

smug alert

I sometimes wonder if pop culture has been too tough on news anchormen. James L. Brooks has staked a career on poking fun at these dignified, seemingly informed pretty boys. There's dimwitted Ted Baxter on The Mary Tyler Moore Show; the vacuous, upwardly mobile twit played by William Hurt in Broadcast News; and, not least of all, silver-haired cartoon character Kent Brockman on The Simpsons. Other instances in other people's films abound. Christopher Plummer's portrayal of an image-obsessed Mike Wallace in Michael Mann's The Insider had the real Wallace fuming. And we can't forget Bill Murray's seething weather man in Groundhog Day. He's so unpleasant that only an otherworldly plot device can inspire change.
But, after reading an interview with NBC's nightly talking head Brian Williams in New York last week, I am beginning to think that these filmmakers may have the right idea. If there was a meter for smugness, this nonsense would be off the charts. Let's do a rundown:

- He's against brunch. "Brunch is an unnatural event, invented by the restaurant industry. Life is about hard choices. Before noon on weekends, it's called breakfast. After that, it's lunch. Pick one." These are harsh words that totally clash with my personal beliefs. Williams sounds like the kind of guy who denies himself life's pleasures. He probably hasn't had dessert in a decade. The joyous texture of powdered sugar is probably a mystery to him.

- He refuses to disclose his political affiliations, but nevertheless makes a crack about the cost of John Edwards' haircut. Ugh, can't we let this innocuous gossip item go already?

- He's a pedestrian-knocking New York driver. When asked what he hates most about living in New York, he cites "the relatively new 'pedestrian empowerment' of crossing the street after the light has changed and glaring at oncoming drivers as if to say, 'Go ahead and hit me.'" First off, it's silly to be driving in New York. I don't care how Upper East Side (Williams' neighborhood) a person is. This is a pedestrian friendly city, Mr. Williams, and if you continue to feel such disdain, may I suggest a move to LA? But, beware, that town brunches like no other.

the last movie i saw

This was certainly a movie weekend. Today, hungover and dealing with a case of "I did what last night?" I decided to finally see Into the Wild, the much-lauded new film from director (and kick-ass actor) Sean Penn.
It's the true story of a college grad (Emile Hirsch) who ditches the trappings of his bourgeois family life, snips his credit cards, donates his savings to charity and hits the open road. He heads West, of course, in search of the restorative power of the natural landscape.
It's a stunning film, deeply moving, but, thankfully, never cloying or sentimental. It plays almost like a video diary, a collection of vivid images and moments often set against a stirring score or original Eddie Vedder song (I've never really been into him, but here he provides the perfect sound for the action).
The film, like so many right now, toys with chronology. Unlike, say Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, it's an effective device here. Because Hirsch's fleeting encounters with random strangers comprise so much of the movie, a non-linear structure prevents the film from becoming episodic. The performances are uniformly excellent. Hirsch ably carries the whole thing, with dynamic supporting work from Catherine Keener as an aging hippie and surrogate mother, Marcia Gay Harden as Hirsch's real-life, nightmarish mom, and especially Hal Holbrook as a lonely do-gooder who meets Hirsch late in his journey. Holbrook's a suave old-timer, and I wouldn't be surprised to see him walk off with an award or two for this one. His performance, like the film, is tender and moving.

short cuts

Lately, I haven't been very good about getting to the movies. When I was in high school, I wrote a weekly movie review column with my dad for the local paper. As a result, I got into the habit of seeing at least one movie a week. I did the Arts section for my college newspaper, and I kept a similar schedule. But now, as a grown-up (eek!), it's harder. Time (and money) are at a premium. But, since moving to New York, I've made more of an effort. I really love film, and it feels odd to not stay current. Similarly, it feels odd not writing about film on a weekly, if not daily, basis. So, I am going to try to keep track of my viewing habits on this blog.
I saw Elizabeth: The Golden Age a few weeks ago, it's opening weekend, I believe. What a mess. It's all a blur of feathers, scowls, raised eyebrows, ripped bodices and red wigs. I loved the first Elizabeth film, and found it to be an intriguing contemporary interpretation of the normally stale costume drama. It was visually brazen and gave us Cate Blanchett, who is so clearly the new Meryl Streep. In the sequel, which finds Elizabeth settling into the "Bette Davis Period" of her reign, even Blanchett seems ill-at-ease with the proceedings. Sure, she gets a grand speech about having a hurricane within her. Yeah, she gets to wear boy armor and ride around on a horse. Clive Owen's around, but you never really know why. To call it disjointed would be too kind. At the least the costumes are ravishing (rivaling the primo duds from Marie Antoinette, but overall, a less visually coherent or aesthetically impressive film). And Samantha Morton has too small a part as the bilious Mary Queen of Scots. It's an amusingly sinister performance, one that seems meant for a different (and better) movie.
I just got back from seeing Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, an uber-buzzworthy indie from veteran director Sidney Lumet. After a knockout career in the 70s (he did Network), Lumet faded into schlock territory in the 80s and 90s. He was even responsible for the Sharon Stone clunker Gloria. Oh how the mighty fall. Many people have labeled this film, about the perfect crime gone tragically awry, a comeback picture. And while it does offer a visual coherence and attention to character detail that hearken back to 70s cinema, it's also a fairly cliched, melodramatic and contrived caper film. The film's biggest problem is the jumbled chronology of the narrative ... in the spirit of Babel I suppose. Sometimes this device works (it's great in Pulp Fiction) but here it just feels like an attempt to hide the holes in the plot. Movies about sibling strife, financial desperation, anguish and guilt depend on tension to hold everything together. Long silences, swelling tears, etc. When you hop around, you lose this crucial glue and end up with a few nice scenes and that's about it. Ethan Hawke and Philip Seymour Hoffman have great fun playing misfit brothers who decide to knock over their parents' jewelry store. Hoffman's is a more one-dimensional, almost cartoonish portrayal. I think it's the way the character's written. This guy can do anything, really, and is nothing if not fun to watch. Hawke struck me as the real revelation. Sometimes he's too twitchy and self-conscious on screen, but here he plays naive and troubled with conviction. I don't get those trumpeting this one as an Oscar contender. Hawke, yes, and even Hoffman, too. But it should stop there.