if you haven't ...

If you haven't read Jennifer Egan's short story in this week's New Yorker, do so now. It's called "Found Objects" and it's simply thrilling.

something else

I just realized that my last few posts have been totally film-centric. There's more going on in my life, trust me, but things have been so busy that it's been a chore to write. I do want to do a Thanksgiving post, but there's still a lot to digest on that one (surely I could come up with a better way to put that ... buy you know what I mean).

Anyway, winter hit New York this weekend. I awoke to snow on Sunday morning, and even though I was still fighting a head cold (which I am still not rid of), I took a brief walk in my neighborhood. It was another "I Love New York" moment, with everything blanketed in white, snow still falling, smiles galore, etc. And, even though people were out and about, it was markedly calm. The clamor of 2nd avenue felt especially dulled.

I picked up a new pair of gloves, too, given that I have already sacrificed one pair to the subway gods (ugh). I've never understood fingerless gloves. They just seem like a frost bite accelerant. But lately I've seen people wearing fingerless gloves that convert to mittens ... the mitten portion folds over the fingers when you're braving the elements, and then you can fold it back and use your fingertips when grabbing cash, keys, etc. When I was out among the snow flurries, I picked up a pair. I'm totally pro. They eliminate the anxiety of the seasonal fumbling for things ... and allow you to keep your gloves on all the time, making them a tad harder to lose.

So, there you go, a post about something other than film. We can file this one under accessories.

sick day

I'm finally on the mend after two days of nose-running, body-aching, head-clunking illness. I even took a sick day on Friday, so I turned into the office guy who talks about never getting sick who actually got sick. Staying in hasn't been fun. I've decided that New York may be the least pleasant place to be sick. There's stuff going on everywhere, and to be stuck in a bedroom this small for so long feels criminal. It would feel like a jail cell if it wasn't so well-decorated.
When I was a kid, my mom made the prospect of staying home sick as unpleasant as possible. No TV. No action figures. No coloring books. It was all throat-mopping, pedialyte-swilling contemplation. Feigning illness came with no incentives. So even during this quarantine, when I flipped on the TV, I felt like I was cheating. And while I would have much preferred being at work (and being able to go out this weekend), I was able to catch up on a load of movies I missed that are now on video.
Here's a rundown:
I started with Hairspray, which I resisted for a number of reasons when it was released this summer. I saw the show when it was new to Broadway, and was totally unimpressed. I thought it sucked the crude joy out of the John Waters classic ... the only thing that didn't make it Disney was a lack of mouse ears. The movie's no different, but it works better here. It's a fun, bubble gum trifle, and that's fine. It's a far better screen effort than Dreamgirls ... this one glides from dialogue to song effortlessly, and the talent is pretty consistent. Nikki Blonsky is adorable in the lead, Zac Efron is pretty, John Travolta is from another planet. It works. The only one that doesn't fit is Michelle Pfeiffer, who can't sing, is too thin, suffers from a Nicole Kidman-esque inability to make a facial expression, and doesn't seem to be having any fun.


After having seen Death Proof, Quentin Tarantino's lackluster contribution to Grindhouse, I wasn't too eager to catch Planet Terror, Robert Rodriguez' zombie-fest companion. I caved ... and am totally glad I did. Plant Terror delivers everything Tarantino couldn't muster. It's shamelessly campy, intentionally bad, it's in on the joke and doesn't care. Blood oozes through every frame, the audio crackles and the reels skip and shudder along. It's as fun and entertaining as anything I've seen recently. Josh Brolin gamely plays a masochistic doctor ... he's had a killer year. The best part? Anyone who loathes Fergie will get to see zombies eat her brains. When I saw that, I was sold.

I thought I was done with horror films after Planet Terror, but the real monster movie turned out to be La Vie en Rose, the biopic of French songbird Edith Piaf. Marion Cotillard has gotten heavy awards buzz for her portrayal of Piaf, and I can see why. It's yet another impersonation that finds an actor mouthing lyrics in between shots of whisky (see also Ray, Walk the Line, The Rose, The Doors ... the list goes on and on). This one, like the rest, chronicles the hard-knock life of a budding artiste. With Piaf, it's almost too much to believe. Raised by prostitutes. Goes blind as a child only to regain sight at the most dramatically opportune moment. Grows up to drink like a fish. Has a romantic life akin only to Elizabeth Taylor's. Looks 75 by the age of 40.
The production design, costumes and cinematography cannot be faulted. And Cotillard? Well, maybe I'm being too harsh. Her Piaf is a slurry, sloshing beast. She rips through the picture with teeth gnashing, her nails like talons and her lips aflame. At moments she looks more like one of De Kooning's devouring women than anything else. I normally enjoy watching despicable characters on screen (I find villains and deadbeats to be infinitely more interesting than heroes), but Piaf is too vile even for me. She's the cinematic equivalent of a spilt bottle of wine. It doesn't help that Cotillard is weighed down by fake teeth that jut from her mouth like something out of the Jerry Lewis canon and penciled-in eyebrows that wouldn't suit even the least-convincing drag queen. These snafus make the artifice surrounding the performance glaring and distracting. The seams totally show.

For a more convincing bit of stunt casting, I would recommend Angelina Jolie in A Mighty Heart, which finds the most photographed woman in the world masquerading as the wife of slain journalist Daniel Pearl.
The movie itself isn't as good. It plays more like Law & Order: Pakistan than anything else, an intricate investigation that leads to an inevitable result. It works because Pearl is a fascinating heroine who refuses to succumb to weepy-wife cliches (I was waiting for the Reese Witherspoon "Tell me where he is!" catharsis). Instead, she's seething with anger, confusion and emotion. It's an astonishingly subtle portrayal until the requisite purging of rage when she learns of her husband's fate. I wished she and director Michael Winterbottom would have held back in that moment, but I'll forgive the misstep. To play against the grain and avoid the cloying sentiment that trivializes heartbreak and loss in so many films is commendable. Even if the rest of the movie feels like a cable-ready crime drama.

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.