I always feel funny telling people that Gangs Of New York is my favorite film. Not just of the decade but of all time. I’m not usually self conscience about my tastes (Anyone who wants to write about film and is, is in for a short sad career) but when I’m talking to real hardened cinephiles as opposed to their happy cousin the movie buff or geek and mention that Gangs Of New York is my favorite film, there’s always that one second beat of “Is he fucking with me.” And then that realization that I’m not followed by a nod and forced smile. Suddenly I’m not in the game anymore.
Its as though I’ve mentioned that my favorite novel is by Tom Clancy, or my all time favorite album is “Dookie”. A kind of cautious, “You do know there is other stuff out there…” attitude coupled with a faint whiff of disdain.
But in the end this is all somewhat beside the point of why I love this film so dearly and deeply. It’s the last tactile epic. The last time that all the sets need to be built, the last time all the costumes need be sewn and the extras actually be there. The last time that the streets that the characters walk on stretch out not merely in your minds eye but in actuality covering entire city blocks. That era, the grand tradition of Hollywood that caused Griffith to raise Babylon over Sunset Blvd, to have DeMille rebuild Egypt no more then ten miles from where I type this, that made Lean march out into the desert, and Peckipah blow up Mexico, and Herzog drag that steamship over the mountain. That era of filmmaking of not just impersonating wonders but actually creating them is over now. As Lucas informed the befuddled Scorsese when he visited his old friend on set, “They can do this all on computers now."
In the face of so many ones and zeros its perhaps not hard to find an echo between Bill’s final lines and what will almost surely be Scorsese’s. Scorsese whose films I love above all others. To the point where even though it’s deeply Pupkin to say so, I consider him to be more of a favorite uncle I happen to have never met, rather then just a favorite filmmaker. To the point that I actually avoid talking about them with people because I take it all so personally. Insult one of Ford’s or Keatons, or Kurosawa’s films and we’ll disagree and discuss. Insult one of Scorsese’s and you may as well be insulting a member of my family. And though he remains a deeply active and relevant filmmaker its probable that he has more films behind him then infront of him. Almost Thirty. I don’t care it’ll never be enough. But when he goes he can go saying, “At least I die a true filmmaker.” One who never compromised a whit.
I’m not saying cinema is dead, or even that the epic is (The fact that Fox has officially ranked up more money then God thanks to Avatar would seem to dissuade this). I’m merely pointing out that it has been changed irrevocably. That’s OK the history of cinema is the history of Irrevocable change. The decade that begun with Gangs Of New York though, is now in the land of Avatar. Where the characters and land on which they walk has never even come remotely close to existing. It’s a landscape completely of the mind and the imagination, and I’m sure it will show us wonderful things and terrible things, just as the old style has shown us wonderful things and terrible things.
But ask yourself in twenty years will anyone even know how to make a film like Gangs Of New York? Will anyone even understand why you would want to? When I say I love Gangs Of New York best, it’s because to me it is synonymous with me saying I love the cinema best.
How fitting then that a film about the ending of eras should be in and of itself the grand ending of an era. As I said, my faith in the future of cinema is strong, but oh how I love to go back and look at its past, and how beautiful it all was.
WallE is so many things. I’ve described it before as 2001 as made by Buster Keaton. And while it does contain Kubrick’s vision and Keaton’s grace, that’s really just the tip of the iceberg. It’s lyricism rivals Tati. It’s tone poem like meditative beauty on par with Malick. The most ruthless critique on consumer culture since Dawn Of The Dead. It’s the harshest satire of humanities shortcomings made since Brazil, and the most forgiving towards them since Magnolia. And one of the most improbably touching love story (when you think about it, its basically the story of a trash compactor and an IMac falling for each other) imaginable.
But perhaps the most stunning thing about WallE is that no matter how many superlative films and filmmakers I compare it to, the fact is it doesn’t quite do justice to WallE. It’s an increasingly rare thing, a film that is thoroughly, almost defiantly itself.
It’s a movie that’s tough to write about, because it speaks so loudly for itself. Stanton is the poet at Pixar (Finding Nemo the movie that’s probably my least favorite from Pixr works much better when viewed through a similar tone poem lens) Sure I can write about the way the way that “Sunday Clothes” juxtaposes first with space and then the ruined earth, in the film’s stunning opening (and how much does the philistine in me love the fact that Hello Dolly, is apparently the last film in existence. When asked why that film Stanton answered “Because WALLE has terrible taste, which kind of fills me with joy). The way Stanton’s poet’s eye meshes with Gabriel’s minimalist score. The way WALLE’s personality slowly asserts itself, without ever having him portrayed as anything machine like. The way Stanton so gracefully weaves the story into the background of the film (with a similar confidence that Cuaron possessed in Children Of Men) but to truly get the affect you have to see it for yourself.
Many say that WallE loses its way once it reaches the Axiom and the sad last remenants of humanity left to rot in luxury there in. And I can understand the appeal of having the whole movie being set upon that dead earth, simply following the last spark of human creation around as it sifts through the rubble. But I can’t help but feel that’s a little crazy. Because make no mistake, all the redemption and happy endings in the world can’t hide the fact that the sequences on The Axiom are absolutely fucking vicious.
Like I said in my Children Of Men review great science fiction is always about the here and now and WallE is no exception. It’s a startling direct indictment of the way we live now. Consumer culture frankly scares the piss out of me (And on a related note has made it hard to consider Idiocracy either a comedy or a piece of science fiction). This is admittedly a somewhat hypocritical statement coming from someone whose collection of books and films is constantly threatening to overrun my living space, but at least I’d like to think that its somewhat redeemed by the fact that I at least know why and what I’m collecting. Most people accumulate just because they don’t know what else to do. I work two retail jobs which means I spend up to sixteen hours a day staring at the empty hungry face of mindless consumption, and brother it ain’t pretty. Romero hit it pretty square on the head with Dawn Of The Dead. If you don’t believe me, go to Costco some time and watch the people push their 20 pound bag of Pork Rinds on a hand truck. Go to your local Bartertown known as Walmart (I seriously am just waiting for them to install a Thunderdome) and tell me I’m wrong. Spending any amount of time in a big box store would turn Mother Teresa into a misanthrope.
We’ve always known this. This isn’t new. People have been talking about the emptiness of this lifestyle since the fifties. But instead of getting better it always feel like its getting worse. People aren’t rising above it, they’re getting bowled under by it. Its infantilizing us and its doing it with exponentially greater speed. At least Willy Loman had the ability to get so pissed off chasing the brass ring he killed himself, today he’d probably shrug and go back to watching The Biggest Loser.
And that’s why I find WallE so incredibly moving, the way it shows the rebirth of human curiosity and creativity with a simple question of what dancing is. And the way it shows moving to even someone who is as much of a luddite as myself, Man’s creation saving itself from itself. Sacrificing to give us one last second chance. Its rare I make it to the magnicant end credits (Which contrast the development of art and man with perfect metaphorical beauty) without tears in my eyes. Not because of the buttons it so shamelessly (and masterfully) pushes, but because that’s the ending we need to have, and I don’t know that we will ever be lucky enough to get it.
WallE isn’t just a movie, I love, its one I’m in awe of.
“He offed a few citizens and faded into a footnote“
Zodiac is many things. A startling meditation about the nature of memory, time and evil. The way the first fades thanks to the second washing the third away, leaving only the scars. This is the movie that proved David Fincher a stylist par excellence by focusing him, after the empty flailing of Panic Room. This is a movie that turned the dumbest hippy song ever written into a bone chilling reminder of mortality and harbinger of evil. As a cinematic achievement (if not capturer of the cultural zeitgeist) it’s superior to Fight Club.
The film plays like nothing you would expect, particularly when you consider Se7en, which I think is just about as good of a serial killer movie as you can make (a dubious honor to be sure but I do consider it superior even to Silence Of The Lambs). The thing about Zodiac is its not a serial killer movie. Oh there’s a serial killer in it, and he certainly murder’s people. But its not his presence that’s frightening but his absense. He’s like a little tear in the fabric of the universe that every once in awhile opens up and swallows people whole.
The genius of the film is the way it doesn’t allow you to be sure of the validity of anything. The Zodiac basically disapear’s a half hour into the movie. And the one time he does maybe show up again “for sure” (And there’s no film in which those two words have less meaning) the movie goes out of its way to cast doubt on the validity of his appearance. It doesn’t matter if you objectively see him threaten to throw a baby out the window. We can be sure of nothing, least of all what we see. What Zodiac really does though is capture the merciless passing of time. The way today’s tragedy becomes tomorrow’s curiosity for nutty obsessives and the next day’s blockbuster. Odd that a movie in which several brutal murders are shown in graphic detail, the most disturbing shot is a time lapse view of a skyscraper being built.
Fincher’s style really is at a career best here. By laying off the “fancy shots” that he’s built his career on (aside for some highly appropriate God’s Eye View bits that can induce vertigo), he emerges as an unlikely formalist master with beautifully composed shots that manage to not be about themselves.
With mesmerizing performances by Jake Gyllenhall, Mark Ruffalo, and Robert Downey Jr. (In a role that coupled with his performances in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and Scanner Darkly really brought him back) As Men who are murdered by the Zodiac Killer to one degree or another, even if they aren’t killed (Also of note Brian Cox in a note perfect cameo, Dan Heyeda, and Chloe Sevingy in a rare role that doesn’t make me want to take out my eyes with knitting needles).
The discussion with Clea Duvall, providing so many answers while obscuring so many others proves the heart of the movie. Showing the very human wreckage Paired with the sequence where the we catch up with the victim from the first sequence of the film. Old worn, with dark circles around his eyes. The film’s message becomes clear. By vaguely hinting at it, Fincher showcases the damage the Zodiac left behind much more thoroughly then he ever could with a case by case basis. We realize that even with how thorough the movie was (and at this point Fincher is down right Kubrickian in his compulsion to Catch. Every. Detail.) the film can never can never even begin to encompass the damage the man has done. The murders where the least of it, it’s the way, to quote Joe Hill, “that the dead drag the living down.” Miring the rest of their lives in tragedy, doomed with the knowledge that a safe and happy life is a fragile thing, and with the knowledge that its all too easy for others to move past it.
Oh and sweet Jesus those where some terrifying squirrels.
As much as I love it. The Dark Knight is not on my top ten of the decade list. I know. I feel like a fraud. I love The Dark Knight the way fat people love chocolate. And it more or less epitomizes the type of movie I started this blog to write about, and the type of movie I’m desperate for Hollywood to continue to make. Of all the films that failed to make the cut it was only The Dark Knight, Ghost World and No Country For Old Men that really broke my heart to keep off.
But in The Dark Knight’s case the fault lies squarely with this movie. Because there was no fucking way it wasn’t making the list.
Christopher Nolan has one of the most interesting careers in Hollywood right now. There’s no one I can even compare him to.
I think with his first three American movies it was fair to term him an above average Hollywood stylist, a Ridley Scott type (though I don’t know if Scott ever made a movie quite as wounded and soulful as Memento). I certainly liked Nolan a whole lot with those three films (I plan to write about what makes Insomnia such an underrated film sometime in January) but I didn’t really love him. This movie changed that.
The thing about Nolan is there’s no one else LIKE him. David Fincher maybe, but Fincher’s more mannered, more dedicatedly a stylist. The Wackowski’s share his penachet for blending heady idea’s with genre entertainment, but the Wackowski’s are at their core fanboys and will always play by the strict rules of genre even when they're breaking them down (They never for example would have had the stroke of genius to turn The Dark Knight into an epic CRIME film rather then a superhero movie). The only filmmaker that comes close to him in his ability to mix ideas, genres, and artistry is Coppala in his prime. And so far anyway Nolan seems to have missed Coppola’s self destructive “crazy as a shit house rat” gene which caused him to go ape shit in the jungle, and spend an unprecedented fuck ton of money on what basically amounted to allowing himself to edit on a VCR. And now that he can officially do whatever the fuck he wants Nolan is just fascinating.
And it all began with this dark little fable. An example of someone stepping up their game an unprecedented degree.
The Prestige’s opening, is possibly my favorite of The Decade. What makes Nolan’s film so rewarding to return to is to see just how carefully Nolan has woven the central mystery of his film into its fabric.
Its all right there in that opening ten minutes. Nolan even has Michael Caine (I love the bizarre but perfect latter day partnership that Caine and Nolan have apparently formed, its resulted in some of Caine’s best work) tell you its alright there in the opening ten minutes. But you don’t see it, not yet, because as Caine also informs us, “You don’t really want to.” The bracing non linear opening of the film, is the equivalent of a great magician’s warm up, everything is in plain view but its all misdirection (By the way how much would Orson Welles have fucking loved this movie?) Inter cutting seemingly random bits of information, with a wondrously staged magic act, it’s the work of a master craftsman in full command of his art.
Let’s take a moment to talk about Nolan’s strength’s as a visual artist. Since he’s not especially showy about it he’s not often talked in such terms, But Nolan has one of my favorite looks of a director working today. The entire film is deep and rich looking, caked in beautiful shadow, illuminated with stark flashes of blue white light. From the opening images of those top hats blowing in the Autumn leaves, and the lightning reflecting off the cataracted eyes of the stagehands, The Prestige establishes a hypnotic, slightly surreal look and feel to it.
But its Nolan’s ability to marry this elegance to a moving story that truly makes the film great. Telling the tale of two magician’s who make it there lives work to destroy each other (and telling it in a bold non linear fashion) the story is so captivating, that you nearly forget that there’s a stiletto waiting at the end for you as promised. Another of Nolan’s great gifts is an impeccable eye for casting. His choice of Hugh Jackman (A better actor then he is usually given credit for. Or opportunity to show for that matter) was a perfect one. Allowing the actor’s natural callowness to curdle gradually into obsession and mania. By the time we (and he) realize he’s gone too far its too late. Christian Bale is often accused of just doing Christian Bale, but that ignores that what Christian Bale does is pretty damn good. He might have his tricks, but few actors dedicate themselves to a role the way he does. And he makes some brave choices as Jackman’s foil, never allowing the audience to warm up to him even as he becomes the nominal hero. Even David Bowie, Michael Caine, and Andy Serkis three enjoyable actors known to showboat, restrain themselves turning in tight controlled performances that turn the psychological screws perfectly.
But in away, this deliriously well crafted and enjoyable story that Nolan has laid out for us is also misdirection. While we’re not watching he turns The Prestige into a startling meditation on art in general, and film in the specific.
If Ratatouille was about the joy of creation, The Prestige is about its darkside. The mania and tunnel vision that can come as a result of allowing yourself to be gripped by what you do. The genius thing about it is the way Jackman gradually loses sight of even his desire for revenge, it becomes about the act, the pride of being the best, the prestige. And though Bale might be the better magician, he’s too analytic to understand just what makes his skills worth while.
And this is where it really comes together. Its been their all along, the themes of staging and illusion. Half the film is set in Vaudeville houses, the precursor to the movie theater, even Film’s Inventor, Edison himself, hangs over the movie like a dark specter just off screen. Even the name of the highly contested illusion, what does it promise to do but “transport” you. Its all there in that last monoluge by Jackman. Which I find to be one of the most moving defenses of cinema since the climax of Sullivan’s Travels.
You never understood, why we did this. The audience knows the truth: the world is simple. It's miserable, solid all the way through. But if you could fool them, even for a second, then you can make them wonder, and then you... then you got to see something really special. You really don't know? It was the look on their faces...
I don’t know about you but I that’s what I find moving about the cinema, about all art really. It sounds melodramatic but isn’t it nice every once in a while to turn our backs on the yawning specter of death?
And that’s when I really started to pay attention to Nolan, in this he promised (and in The Dark Knight he payed off) that he was a man, who oxymoron that it might be, takes entertainment seriously. Someone who will never condescend, check his swing, or sign up just for a paycheck. Because while most would argue that the show isn’t an important thing, Nolan knows the truth. It’s the only important thing.
-“Died tragically rescuing his family from a sinking battleship.”-
Anderson’s films to one extent or another are all about people desperate to be better. Think of Herman Blume surveying the ruins of his life from the top of his diving board, Think Steve Zissou staring up at the Leopard Shark, and Owen Wilson’s “Accidently On Purpose” motorcycle crash. Even Good ole Mr. Fox must spend his film dealing with the fact he’s doomed nearly everyone he knows through his selfishness. In The Royal Tenenbaum’s it’s the entire cast that’s slouching towards redemption. Searching for some way to be kinder.
Phrasing it like this makes him sound corny and trite, perhaps that’s why he’s so dedicated to making his films play at the remove of a dedicated modelist. But the key word in that sentence is desperate. Thats what gives Anderson’s films the sadness and emotion that makes all the whimsy and wonder go down.
Its this mix of muted emotion and melancholy sentiment, his ability to capture life played at the tone of Vince Guaraldi, above all Anderson’s other (brilliant) gifts of composition, music and dialogue that make Anderson so invaluable. If taken as the central theme of his work, then The Royal Tenembaums is without a doubt his greatest statement on the subject, and his greatest film. It is in fact one of the wisest, funniest, forgiving films about what it means to be human that I have ever seen.
The Tenenbaum’s, like so many other Anderson characters, are all walking punchlines when first we see them. Richie behind his beard and glasses. Chas with his track suits, shock of black hair, and ever quivering sense of rage, Margo with her ever present mink stole and cigarettes and southern gothic wooden finger. What Anderson does brilliantly is strip down the joke, the look of pain and vulnerability when Richie finally shaves his beard and uncovers his eyes, the sorrow behind Richie’s Anger, the loneliness behind Margo’s affectations. It’s not enough for Anderson to show us people as caricatures; he’s enough of an artist to tell us why someone would turn themselves into one.
The visual element of Anderson’s work is also at a never better state. Every detail the game room, the boar’s head, the Dalmatian mice, Eli’s buckskin jacket, Sherman’s bowtie, Raliegh’s book covers. Everything feels tactile, perfect, and right.
Maybe part of what sells Anderson’s sentiment is how unabashedly his characters are themselves. Of the directors working today only Tarantino and PT Anderson rival Anderson’s ability to instantly lock a character in your mind. Anderson’s characters are so uniquely themselves that you never even forget their names. Max Fischer, Steve Zissou, Margret Yang, Dignan, Herman Blume, Ned Plympton, Margo Tenenbaum, Dr. Nelson Guggenheim, Rosemary Cross, Eleanor Zissou, Pagoda. You didn’t even have to think about them did you? When an Anderson character changes for the better, and they all almost invariably do, its not because of the dictates of Hollywood morality, or to make the audience feel good, often as in the case of Royal, the Anderson character improves because they are in themselves so delightful that they cannot imagine depriving others of their company because of the small matter of their short comings. They will simply have to move themselves past such minor difficulties.
The justifiably famous long pan after the climax finds all the characters wiser and happier then we found them. Not because of any false epiphanies, or easy outs, or reclaimed glories, but because damnit they’ve earned it. Because Royal’s absurd epitath is true in its own beautiful way.
To say The Royal Tenenbaums is a film of moments sounds like a dismissal even though its not. Because it is a film of moments in the same way Jules and Jim is a film of moments and the way Night Of The Hunter and Clockwork Orange are films of moments. Not because the rest of the film around them is bad, but because there are moments and sequences and shots so perfect in and of themselves that they instantly become part of who you are as a filmgoer. The whirling montage through Margo’s life spinning through all two minutes of Judy Is A Punk, The Hey Jude set opening that perfectly establishes the tone and characters before the film has even begun. Richie regarding himself in the mirror face shorn, years of pain in his eyes ready to die, Elliot Smith serenading him back through the years. Chad and Royal’s argument in the games closet. Ethel reaction to Royal’s revelation infront of that grand old house on Archer. “I’ve had a rough year Dad.” Henry Sherman’s halting marriage proposal. “Yeah but its not your fault.” The sloppy, desperate kiss between Richie and Margo. The profound look of sadness pain and betrayl Margo has on her face as she looks down at Richie’s hospital bed. She Smiles Sweetly morphing into Ruby Tuesday. Royal’s day with his grandchildren. “How can I help.” And that lovely quintessentially Anderson shot of Margo stepping off the Greenline Bus, Richie beholding her while a string of white uniformed Ships Captains march behind, while These Days plays. Absurd, and arch and beautiful to behold, and wonderful to feel.
The thing that makes Children Of Men a great film is how thoroughly it portrays a world without hope. What makes it a terrifying one is how thoroughly that world resembles our own.
Great Sci Fi is of course always truly about the now rather then the future. What Cuaron captures in Children Of Men is the terrifying feeling of the entropy, that I and I know many other’s feel everyday. The feeling that as one piece of Grafitti so succinctly puts it, “The Future Is A Thing Of The Past.”
I don’t know about you, but I’ve spent the last decade or so feeling like we’re on the verge of a cataclysm. Global Warming, Peak Oil, NWO, pick your poison but they’re all resonating with us for the same reason, there’s a real feeling of paranoia in the air on both the left and the right. The feeling that things are coming to an end. The feeling that as Michael Chabon put it, "We’re living on the last paragraph of the last page in some absurd story." The idea that we’re either going to be wiped out, or that what we come up with to save us will change us in some fundamental way. Either way it feels as though humanity is about to go through a huge shift.
Call it paranoia, call it millennial tension, call it being part of the first generation raised in the shadow of 9/11, no matter how you label it. There’s no denying that things are shifting.
Most apocalyptic movies take place in a world that’s about to end, the genius of Children Of Men is it takes place in one that is in the process of ending. Everyone in Children Of Men knows they are going to die, and when they do humanity will be one step closer to ending. In a very literal way nothing they do matters, whether its saving Michelangelo’s David, getting stoned off your ass in a forest, or taking one of those suicide pills they advertise on every street corner. Children Of Men explores what happens to humanity when the phrase “Nothing You Do Has Meaning.” Is no longer a matter of philosophical discourse, but is a demonstrable fact.
But what makes Cuaron’s film so utterly moving is the way he provides the answer, that we try anyway. As dark as a film Children Of Men is its about as far from Nihlism as you can get. At its core it argues that perseverance is as completely at the core of humanity as the xenophobia and cruelty that is displayed out there.
Cuaron wraps all of these ideas in a moving human drama. It’s the fact that Clive Owen makes such a recognizably human and fragile hero that makes his eventual triumph so compelling. Everyone from Michael Caine, to Julianne Moore, to Danny Huston, to Chitwel Ejifor give unshowy pitch perfect performances, they inhabit they world.
And what a world it is, perhaps Cuaron’s smartest move in a movie that’s full of smart moves, is the way in which Cuaron lets you catch all the sumptuous detail he’s put into the movie out of the corner of your eye. While another less confident director couldn’t resist sitting you down so you could take a good long look at his set design, Cuaron with his engrossing long takes just walks you through it, letting you catch only snatches of the newspaper articles, graffiti, sects, and conflicts, that are serving as humanity’s woefully inadequate epitaph.
The result is that Cuaron creates one of the few films where there is genuinely something new to see every time you watch it, and by the time the first ten minutes are over he’s created a sense of continuity that’s nearly panic attack inducing. There’s no escaping Cuaron’s world, no place you can look for the edge of the set or miniature. Your mind just subliminally accepts it as a real place.
Children Of Men, is simply put my favorite kind of movie. A deeply felt, richly imagined work of art, containing one of the most detailed senses of place I’ve seen in a film (not to mention a few of the most exciting set pieces) all brought to being by a master filmmaker in full control of his craft. It’s a work whose power always catches me by surprise, one where scenes even on the dozenth repeat viewing make me catch my breath in astonishment (How anyone could fail to be moved by that first walk with the baby down the stairs is beyond me).
In the short two years that its been out I’ve already watched There Will Be Blood more then I have any of the other Anderson movies, possibly combined. As I love me some PT Anderson, that’s saying quite a bit. There Will Be Blood is hypnotic filmmaking on a literal level. Like Brazil, The Red Shoes, Goodfellas, Strangers On A Train, or The Big Lebowksi its one of those films that is impossible for me to pull away from once I’m stuck in its orbit. If I chance upon There Will Be Blood, no matter the circumstances I’m watching it until Plainview bellows he’s finished and finally gives me permission to leave.
But I can’t help but wonder why.
It’s not like There Will Be Blood carries the giddy surprise that Boogie Nights had, nor though I’m in awe of its filmmaking it doesn’t delight me with its dexterity the way Nights does. Nor does it reduce me to a twitchy ball of exposed nerves the way Magnolia does. It is a film that I in fact have one pretty big issue with. But that all seems beside the point somehow, the film is simply immutable.
I know that I’ve felt this way since I first saw it. When I stumbled out of the theater for the first time, dazed two old ladies walked out next to me and I heard the following exchange.
“I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t that.”
“Dreadful film.”
“We should have gone to see The Bucket List.”
“Oh The Bucket List is such a wonderful film.
Now I’m proud to say that I have never punched an old woman in the face, but I came close oh Lord I came close.
Part of what makes Anderson such an affecting filmmaker is his extraordinary humanism. Not since Hal Ashby has there been a director as merciful as he, washing away his characters sins time and time again with pop music (is there a montage that feels more like a breath of fresh air then the God Only Knows one that ends Boogie Nights). So to be delivered with a film as cold and unforgiving as There Will Be Blood from him was a great shock, like being punched by someone you trust absolutely, you just don’t see it coming. It’s a bone hard film.
Its all there from the opening sequence with Johnny Greenwood’s score buzzing like the screams of the damned. A hard man mining a completely unforgiving land. Huddled against a small fire against the howling winds, before clawing out of a grave and dragging himself on his back across the vast desert (The pan that shows just how expansive the area is is one of the most stunning shots in the film). The opening with its wordless images of the wilderness, death, children, blood, and oil, is as utterly primal of a scene as I’ve seen in film. It taps into something deep and reactive playing almost like the cinematic version of the test in The Parallex View. It’s a wordless sequence because there are no words for what Anderson is conveying. He’s reaching that rarified cosmic level that only Herzog and Malick hold dominion over.
And when the words do come into it they’re very harsh ones indeed. In the justly famous opening monologue Plainview is like an old testament God. Laying out to the towns folk just what they have to gain by following him, what they have to lose for disobeying him. Finally throwing up his hands in disgust at their small minded bickering before punishing them terribly (Interesting too that he offers up his son as proof of his love). It’s a brauva sequence for Lewis showing Plainview at his smoothest and then how quickly the mask will fall.
While we’re on the subject of theology, I should point out that its here in where the rub lies with me. The central conflict in There Will Be Blood (at least if you ask most critics) is between God and Business. Represented in their respective corners by Plainview and the snaky Eli Sunday in the other. The problem is that I don’t believe that Sunday makes that good of a representative.
Now when I say that I’m not saying I’m annoyed that Eli isn’t a “Good Christian” or that the film shows Christian’s as backwards easily lead. That’s not problematic for me. What is problematic is I think to a certain extent Eli always comes off as faking it. He’s manipulating the beliefs of his followers for his own personal gain as surely as Plainview suspects he is. It’s the same problem I have with Breaking The Waves, with Von Trier making God a literal big scary voice, and turning Bess’s struggle into one of madness rather then faith. If Eli with all his flaws and vices intact had been a true believer rather then a transparent charlatan I feel the central battle of the film would have been a lot stronger (This isn’t to say that the Paul Dano’s performance isn’t strong because he. He was in fact that only actor I had trouble excepting in Where The Wild Things Are given the strong impression he made.) It also takes a great deal of the punch out of what should be the film’s thematic conclusion, the possibility of union between the two symbolized by the union of HW and Mary Sunday.
It’s a shame because a lot of the scenes dealing with the theme are the films strongest particularly the one where Eli comes to the jobsite and starts pulling away laborers literally taking souls from one camp to the other.
Still it’s ultimately a minor issue when your watching the movie itself. Which unfold mesmerizing. If there is such a thing as an intimate epic Anderson has surely made it. The rhythms of the film, the dialogue, abstract score, editing, and golden though thoroughly ominous cinematography combine to create an experience quite unlike any other. There are sequences in There Will Be Blood, The opening, the well disaster, Eli’s Beating, the Kubrickian ending, that inspire awe no matter how many times they are viewed.
In the end it all comes down to Daniel Plainview and the enigma that he represents. Plainview remains one of the few modern movie characters who is truly inscrutable. In an age when “realism” demand we know the inspiring instant between each psychological quirk, Plainview remains almost defiantly unfathomable. We’re never quite sure what he’s thinking. Particularly in his final sequence, I’m still not sure whether he really is just getting in one last bit of curdled cruelty, or if he’s performing some perverse act of fatherly kindness giving HW the last bit of ammunition he will need to break from his Father forever. Though given what proceeds afterwards I consider the latter to be more and more likely with each passing viewing.
The way most movies are made we would know exactly what drives Daniel Plainview. That his ambitions are a reaction to his feelings of powerless stemming from the time his mother spanked him when he was three. I don’t know where it comes from, but movies feel the need to explain everything about people nowadays. They forget that we are fundamentally unknowable to eachother, that as Cather said in one of her finer moments, “The heart of another is a dark forest, no matter how close it has been to one’s own.” Anderson has no trouble about this truth, perhaps because his movies are all fundamentally about people who are alone.
Think of Frank TJ Mackey illuminated on the stage isolated in the light from the crowds of venial men he preaches to. Think of Barry outside, alone, listening to his sisters tear him apart his rage finally boiling over isolating him even further. Think Julianne Moore and Heather Grahamn trying to forge a desperate familial bond out of pure will between lines. Phillip Baker Hall lonely life spent skulking in the backs of casino’s.
The tragedy of There Will Be Blood, is that there’s no one to save these people. No Beach Boys to blow away the damage, no John C. Reilly to draw out that final redemptive smile, or Emily Watson to give them “the love that makes them strong”. The characters in There Will Be Blood are doomed by their own natures their own very special hell. Its all the more a shame because of how nakedly Plainview enjoys such connections, their are moments with his "son" and "brother" where he is truly happy, and when both disappoint him in different ways he falls further and further into himself sealing his fate.
Though I always liked Paul Thomas Anderson a whole lot, I always thought of him as a magpie that put Tarantino to shame. I couldn’t look past the fact that he was “doing” Scorsese in Hard Eight, or Altman in Magnolia and Boogie Nights, or Ashby in Punch Drunk Love, ignoring the fact that the ability to speak in all those voices would be quite a feat on its own. But There Will Be Blood is just such a stunningly singular vision that there was no possible way to ignore the fact that Anderson is perhaps the greatest filmmaker of his era and this is his crowning achievement.
“Could you do what you did? Of course you could. But, I never thought you would or could do that to me.”
“I'm really sorry, Kiddo. But you thought wrong.”
Kill Bill Vol. 2 is a bloody valentine. A Valentine from a director to his muse, A Valentine to an icon given one last time to show the talent he never got a full chance to use, A Valentine to the pleasures of cinema itself, and finally in it’s final sequence one of the best and truest movies ever made about love.
Ebert observed of Inglorious Basterds that Tarantino is a director of “Quixotic delights” an expression that I could never improve on. Kill Bill 2 offers I believe the zenith oft his style, so full of the tactile pleasures of movie going. Filled with the electricity of someone knowing creatively exactly what to do in every single shot. So much of the effect comes from the way that Tarantino exploits the tangible pleasure of watching movies.
Which was exactly what the amazing in its own way Volume 1 was about. The beauty of the perfect split screen, the perfect black and white flashback, the perfect gore shot. The fact that he would make a film about such elements, is something that gets Tarantino labeled a shallow filmmaker, both by the his detractors like John “You’re Worse Then Hitler” Rosenbaum, but also by his defenders like Jim Emerson, who in his otherwise great analysis of Inglorious Basterds scoffed at the very idea that anyone would have an emotional reaction to Tarantino films.
But isn’t that emotional reaction arguably the greatest physical pleasure of movie going? Because that’s the thing; while Volume 1 is about the surface pleasures of cinema (though Volume 2 certainly has its share of that, particularly in the Kung Fu sequence with its filters and silhouettes, and the buried alive sequence with its horrifying aspect ratios, the great nod to Once Upon A Time In The West with Beatrix doing the Henry Fonda out of the desert) Volume 2 is unabashedly about Beatrix Kiddo.
Tarantino is not often talked about in terms of humanism, but that’s his greatest gift. Beyond all the clever boy dialogue, behind all the style behind all the ultra violence. Its The fact that Tarantino takes these absurd people and makes them real. Because he believes in them we also believe in them. Tarantino often smiles but he never winks. When his characters hearts are concerned he never jokes. When Bill and The Bride have their final talk about their relationship. Its not in quotes its real, we're fully invested in what will happen to them as people.
But lets back up for a moment and consider what leads us up to that final battle. While slower then its jacked up on sugary cereal predecessor, Kill Bill Vol. 2 is still one of Tarantino’s most purely entertaining movies. Its got set pieces that are just perfect, from the horrific Italian horror influenced Live Burial and the brutal Kung Fu training sequence facilitated by the magnificently cruel Gordon Liu to the brutal trailer fight which cannily tops the hand to hand house demolition that opened Volume 1.
The dialogue is some of Tarantino’s best (Not to mention Tarantino's other point of Pride the soundtrack, is also a career best with choice cuts of Ennio Morricone, Johnny Cash, Charlie Feathers, capped by Malcolm McLaren's haunting version of "About Her") from Madsen (in a career best performance) explaining to The Bride why its in her best interests to allow herself to be buried alive. To Daryl Hannah (Ditto) lolling her tongue around the word “Gargantuan” Tarantino even manages to coax an entertaining performance out of the loathsome Larry Bishop as an ultimate Asshole unaware that his shit talking might seriously endanger his life.
But really it all comes down to the two extended conversations that Kill Bill Vol. 2 begins and ends with. They take up nearly a third of the films runtime and are the keys to the film. In both the Bill and The Bride talk in lieu of fighting, the first time both are playing a game of concealment and the second time under the influence of The Absolute Truth. Both times slicing each other to shreds as surely as if they where using Hanzo steel.
Though I would never think of replacing Carradine I consider the almost casting of Warren Beatty as Bill to be one of the great cinematic what ifs. Not least of all because it’d be nice to have what is increasingly looking to be Beatty’s last film not be Town and Country. The difference I think is that Beatty would have been smoother, more cordial, better to mask his pain. Which is something Carradine simply cannot do. He’s charming here, but its painfully obvious its all a cover, he's charming because if he wasn't he'd be snarling. He’s a raw nerve here obviously trying with all his might not to put his hands around her throat there and then. And look at The Bride, nervous but not scared.
The scene is DePalma like in the way that it uses the cinema itself to generate suspense. We know more then both the characters in the scene. It’s a flashback for us, The Bride has no idea what Bill will and can do to her in a few moments, but we have full disclosure. Bill has no idea that he’s about to risk his unborn daughters life, and set in motion the chain of events that will eventually destroy him. But even if he did I doubt he would care. He’s hurting too much.
And that’s what Kill Bill Vol. 2 is really about the infinite ways that the one’s we love tear us apart. Its in every relationship in the movie, the way the love between Bill and Budd (“The only man I’ve ever loved.") has festered. The rage in Elle that comes from the knowledge that she is doomed to always be his “rebound girl”, never loved half as much as the woman who betrayed him. The love of a child that hit both The Bride and Bill at their most, possibly only, vulnerable spots. And finally the love between Bill and The Bride, which can only be expressed by ripping each other to shreds.
And isn’t that the appeal of the end of the movie? How many of us have dreamed of the ability to ask the question “Why?” knowing that we’d get a truthful answer. To say “I never thought you could do that to me.” And know that the other person will hear you. Our capacity to be hurt by and to hurt the ones we love always comes as a fresh surprise. We never quite develop the tolerance to that pain that we would like to have. Or grow the mercy we feel we should.
It ends as it must inevitably, from death brought on by a broken heart (of course). The tale of bloody revenge brought to its quite end in one of the most oddly moving scenes of the decade. Tarantino famously cheekily ended Inglorius Basterds with the line “I think this might be my masterpiece.” Almost Quentin, but you were too late, you made it five years ago.
If someone where ever God Forbid to make a Bergman style movie about me, involving the fractured pieces of my personality turned into living embodiments, it might look a whole hell of a lot like Ratatouille.
Trust me I know that’s a pretty ridiculous statement, but work with me for a minute here. I also know that this is a pretty personal reason for naming a film one of the best movies of the decade. But as time goes on I find I have less and less use for objective film criticism, and if ever there was a stage for the personal it’s the blog. And that’s the thing about Ratatouille I take it so ridiculously personal.
But lets take a moment and look at the larger picture Pixar is as far as I’m concerned the only true constant working in film today, and Brad Bird’s their best filmmaker. Sure Stanton’s the poet, and Doctor is the storyteller, Lassester is the craftsman that makes it all work, but Bird? Prickly, self certain, fearlessly auteuristic Bird? He’s the total package, if there was any fairness in the world of American Animation (Hint there’s not) Bird would have already helmed a Miyaziki level of films by now. His is one of the most fully formed voices in American cinema period. Even when he’s making something from the shambles of someone else’s product, he cannot help but make something that is glorioulsly himself. It’s a voice that bugs a lot of people. Fucking Good. Objectivism is about as far as you can get from my own personal philosophy without actually being Scientology. But having a personality, one strong enough to annoy people in a medium that’s as purposefully antiseptic as American Animation is a feat.
But Bird isn’t some mere demagogue he’s also a true artist with a poet’s eye. There where sequence’s in The Incredibles particularly near the beginning that where worthy of Tati. Iron Giant’s lovingly 2D animation was a complete labor of love. But Ratatouille out does both of them, with its warm tones and free camera scurrying through the streets of a romantic’s dream of Paris, making food made entirely out of ones and zeroes look mouthwatering.
It’s a film of comic wit, witness Ego’s exquisitely designed study, and the way after checking the vintage he declines the spit take, or the perfect timing on the near domestic murder that Remy witnesses on his trek across Paris, or the simple comic perfection of a raised thumb. Like Day For Night, my other favorite valentine to France and Art, it delivers its message not in ennui filled monologues about the struggles of creation, but with a simple comic grace.
But really it’s the… well heart sounds too cheesy, but emotion of Bird’s piece that makes it fly. Anchored by Patton Oswalt’s lovely bristly performance, perfectly matched by O’Toole’s droll dogmatist (The film on the whole has one of Pixar’s great supporting casts, the names aren’t really big, but Brad Garrett, Brian Dennehy, Jeneane Garofolo, Will Arnett, and Ian Holm all do note perfect unshowy work) , Ratatouille is my favorite movie about art, about that simple wonderful act of creation that I’ve ever seen.
Like I said, as crazy and borderline soliphistic as it sound I see pieces of myself in all the central Ratatouille characters, The finicky difficult creator, the unsure and uneasy kid, and the demanding exacting connoisseur. All so disparate but all united by the common theme that what they do, despite all evidence to the contrary somehow matters.
Why write an indepth essay for a blog, which I’m happy neigh estactic for when it gets forty hits a day. Why write weekly for a column that I’m halfway sure that literally no one reads. Why toil away on screenplays and manuscripts and film that will probably never come to fruition even if I am able to drag them kicking and screaming into “Complete” (Whatever that means) status. Why can’t I learn from Sissyphus and when the boulder rolls over me for the forty thousandth time just go “Fuck this.” Or on the other end of the brow spectrum get it through my head that The Acme Catalogue is never going to be all its cracked out to be. Why the utter masochism of hard work for little recognition or satisfaction?
Because I can’t even begin to imagine doing anything else.
As Ego says in his noble final speech the new does indeed need friends. Whether its my destiny to actually ever create something new, or just spend my life as an ardent appreciator of it (and its friend the old, often equally endangered by the ever present foe the banal) I do not know. But I accept either.
And that’s what Ratatouille captures, that bit of benevolent mania that is at the core of anyone narcissistic enough to consider themselves creators. Success or fail “It is wonderful to create.” As Akira Kurosawa put it. It might be nigh impossible to please people, and even harder to please yourself, but those moments when it does come together, and that plate of Ratatouille takes someone back to the base component of what they love, or leaves them stumbling out into the Jacaranda haze after the main credits roll, it’s a special kind of bliss. Just like this movie.
Take a minute to watch the opening montage of This Is England, it’ll put us on better terms to talk about who I think is pound for pound the greatest filmmaker to start his work in this decade.
Now that’s a fucking montage. I’ve never been to England, and my only knowledge of its history in the eighties comes from the frenzied rants of David Peace (Whose books have more or less convinced me to never visit your lovely country. No offence but if he’s correct you’re all terrible terrible people) and Alan Moore, where from what I can glean you guys actually elected your Sarah Palin and went and stomped the shit out of Argentina just to show you could (If any of my readers in the UK wish to correct me please do so. Actually please comment anyway, I’ve been wanting to get the thoughts of a real life British person on this movie for quite awhile). But from the opening frames I can feel the place in my bones, That montage tells you nothing at all. But at the same time it tells you everything.
Shane Meadows is the new Martin Scorsese. That’s not something I say lightly, as Scorsese is the filmmaker I hold dearest above all others.For some, saying that would be a complement, maybe even a boast. For me it’s damn near a canonization. To say I’m Scorsese super freak would be an understatement, if you’ve ever seen the movie Ratatouille that really should give you the best idea of the one sided mentorship I have with him. There’s basically a tiny Scorsese floating above my shoulder at any given moment. There is also the possibility that I’m utterly insane but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
The point is when I say Meadows has captured the vitality, style, feel, and ferocity of Scorsese in his prime with This Is England (And Dead Man’s Shoes, and Once Upon A Time In The Midlands, and well you get my point), you know I’m not saying it idly. This Is England follows a young boy, named Shaun who falls in with a group of skinheads, he’s young, troubled, has recently lost his father, and the acceptance and comradery they give young Shane is like Manna from heaven. At the time the groups not a bad influence on him, The Skin Heads had yet to become affiliated with Neo Nazism and were no different from any rowdy group that adolescent boys usually fall in with for a time. But when former members start getting out of prison, hardened and with a gleam of zealotry start talking about The National Front, things very quickly go to shit. This Is England shares many things in common with Meadows early films (and as I said before Scorsese), the environments aren’t merely passive backgrounds but come on so strong that they are practically tactile, the tone and dialogue have a kind of jocular menace to them, anything can happen at anytime especially when the players are at there most relaxed. Most of Meadows films have been about this, the way that good natured male ball busting, and piss taking can erupt into violence over something as meaningless as inflection. But this time he’s doing all these things on a greater scale, This Is England is the same kind of leap that Taxi Driver was from Mean Streets, the announcement that talent may have cured into genius.
Meadows has Scorsese’s gift for capturing the feeling of a particular time and place utterly in the small details of his mileu, he shares Scorsese’s gift for encapsulating how working class groups interact and as I said, how good natured ball busting can shift to violence at the drop of the hat, and he shares Scorsese’s fascination with violence and maturity and where the two intersect. Though few Scorsese heroes have passed that terrible test quite as well as Meadow's young hero, despite the terrible price Shaun has to pay.
Once Upon A Time In The Midlands and Dead Man’s Shoes were both interesting films, but unmistakably warm-ups, This Is England shows Meadow’s in full command of his gifts, making for my money the best film about the transition from Childhood to Adolescence since The 400 Blows.
Its Meadow’s knack with character, that makes his work so powerful. He works in quick broad sketches that none the less ring true, setting up Shaun and his loneliness, isolation, and almost perfect pliability in the first short scenes. Meadow’s ability with characters serves him well again allowing him to create a sense of community in the first scene they appear in (Again quite Scorsese Like).
Anchored by a charismatic performance by Joe Gilgun and Vicky McClure as Woody and Jo a Skinhead power couple, unable to fight off the influences in their ranks. Meadows smartly makes them very human characters, small moments (Scorsese like moments OK I promise I’ll stop) that another filmmaker would gloss over an ignore, like when the character who would normally be summed up as “The fat one” gets a moment to express his anxieties and doubts, or when the group reverts back to a bunch of nervous little kids when faced with a scolding from Shaun’s mother. From the word go you understand why Shaun wants to be like them, they’re funny, cool, and they actually seem to like him. Meadow’s is equally adept at portraying the nearly narcotic bliss of belonging that Shaun experiences with the skinheads. A misfit getting to belong for the first time.
Why wouldn’t he devote himself to them? Why wouldn’t he make excuses? Why wouldn’t he turn a blind eye when everything starts to go to shit? The opening half of the movie is so purely pleasurable, that we’d almost like to believe that This Is England can remain such, a gentle Linklaterian observation of a time and place. But of course its not to be.
If you weere to tell me that one of my favorite characters actors of the decade would end up being that Goofy Guy from Snatch whose defining characteristic was that he wasn’t Jason Statham, I would have probably told you that you where fucking insane. But Stephen Graham is so good in this that I didn’t even realize who he was until I recognized him in Public Enemies and looked him up.
He’s terrifying in this. The ultra alpha, the dark clump at the heart of the movement that metastases and ignites a wave of terrible violence that’ll happen whenever you can convince people that they’re poor, fucked and its all someone else’s fault. Graham walks a tightrope in this roll, he’s enough of an Alpha dog to be able to convincingly take over the group, but he’s got enough charisma and genuine intelligence to make it work. Its not like he’s some mustache twiller that comes and strong arms the gang. He just comes in, and lays down his propaganda with such skill that poor kind hearted Woody has no chance of holding on to control.
Everyday that Graham runs the gang, everyday things get a little darker and more out of control. Everyday Shaun has a chance to step away, to wake up. But of course he never does, few of us ever do. Shaun pays a terrible price for his complacency, or more accurately he has it paid for him and is at least cognoscente enough to realize this. The ending of This Is England is as terrible as it is inevitable. But its tinged with a hard earned hopefulness, Shaun finally finds the strength to reject the dream that has long since curdled. It takes a lot to walk away from the things that have protected you, the things that have made you feel like a person even when they’re obviously corrupt, but its something we all have to do at one time or another. Meadow’s captures the moment with the command of a virtuoso. And the thing that excites me most about This Is England, is I think he's still just getting warmed up.
As I prepared to make my list for the best films of the Aughts, I was expecting it to be a lot more difficult then it was. After collecting some lists of the films released and then brutally paring down a list of movies that I knew simply couldn’t not be on the list I found I was two over and after the minimum of hemming and hawing, I kicked two back to this list.
These films aren’t the best films of the first decade of the 2000’s. I hesitate even to use the term runner up, because if I thought about it much I could probably pick movies that where better then these.
What these are, are the films that without which any list dealing with the cinema of 2000’s would be a fraud. Call them the honorable mentions if you must, to me this simply is what made up the cinematic landscape for the past decade.
This is the first decade that I’ve been completely cinema conscience for, though I was film sentient by the end of the nineties, it’s a different situation because year by year these are the movies I defended, sharpened my critical teeth on, and loved. In a lot of ways over the better films that will make up the second half of this list, beyond the classics and canon films I explored, these are the films that MADE me. The films I chose rather then the ones I’ve had chose for me.
How could I not give them a moments tribute?
Traffic- A lot of people seem to have some what forgotten about this film, lumping it in with other inferior “Big Issue Oscar Bait” movies (Perhaps because America’s War On Drugs has been eclipsed by an even more foolish campaign). That’s a shame, because for my money Traffic is second only to The Limey in Soderbergh’s Oeuvre.
A startling adult story, that eschews the easy answers that most films of this type provide, in exchange for carefully observed human detail and a stunned all encompassing view of America’s War On Drug’s utter failure. A stunning script by Stephen Gagaan, coupled with Bencio Del Toro’s break out performance, and Soderbergh’s never better direction and cinematography make for the best American Policier since The French Connection.
Donnie Darko – Detractors say that Darko is awkward and overblown. I say if there are any other two words that better describe adolescence I’d love to hear them. Richard Kelly’s movie still plays as an honestly observed and deeply odd fable. Its Kelly’s knack for anchoring his surreality in the mundane world of the every day that still makes him a talent to be reckoned with.
O Brother Where Art Thou? – O Brother Where Art Thouis one of the Coen’s Funniest and most humane films, as well as one of the funniest and most humane of the decade. There are bits in O’ Brother that simply never fail to get me, from the world’s slowest “Record Selling” Montage (Naw ma’am we just can’t keep them Soggy Bottom Boys on The shelves) to the performance of The Big Lebowski as the venal incumbent governor Pappy O’ Daniels “Thank God your mother’s died giving birth to you, if she’d seen you now she’d a died of shame”. The Eerie beauty of Deakin’s never better cinematography, from the sun dappled beauty of the baptism the three wander into, to the ominous absurdity and perverse splendor of the KKK Rally, to the lyrical exquisiteness of the final shot O Brother Where Art Thou is one of the most pleasurable films to watch I have ever seen.
Brick – As you might have caught the other day I have something of an affection for the films of Rian Johnson. Brick still feels as fresh as ever, Johnson’s trick is he makes movies that only seem artificial. Once you get past the fact that his cast of teens are talking like Bogie and Bacall Brick becomes as honest and deeply felt as anything else in Noir. By the time that last dark inference is made by the femme fatale, its not playing dress up anymore. It’s the real thing.
Black Snake Moan – Craig Brewer’s hysterical Southern Gothic, was the craziest and most unique film of the decade. Simultaneously played completely straight and like a Mad Magazine parody of itself, Black Snake Moan played without a safety net. It dared you to laugh and care with equal balls, campy but not camp, with scenes of stunning power, coupled with some that are sublimely ridiculous (I love the fact that the scene where Ricci deflowers a young delivery boy is shot like something out of a slasher movie) its worthy of Williams. Bolstered by Ricci’s fearless performance, Brewer’s considerable directing prowess and Jackson actually playing it down a little, I can only hope that Brewer breaks out of movie jail soon. We need more directors unafraid to swing for the fences.
Matrix Reloaded/Revolutions – Yes they’re a mess, but I love these crazy, ambitious, ridiculous and occasionally awesome films.
Hannibal – How do you follow up one of the most respected thrillers of all time? After all Demme’s film was such a happy accident that there’s no way you could really replicate it (witness Ratner’s disastrous Red Dragon) Well Scott and company Make it a jet black comedy and then just don’t bother to tell anyone. Ridley Scott lent things such a respectable sheen that few noticed just how bizarre this movie, basically about a cannibalistic James Bond complete with exotic locals and cat and mouse set pieces, really was. Personally I had a great time with it and if you don’t giggle at Gary Oldman’s character, a born again Christian who wants to feed Hannibal to a bunch of pigs and sucks down martini’s made of Children’s tears, expounds “Nobody beats the Riz!” your sense of humor is either dead or needs to get a whole lot sicker.
Aviator – Martin Scorsese has never made an impersonal film, so it was somewhat shocking when a lot of people thought he did with this one. In reality I find The Aviator to be one of the director’s most personal, and probably the closest we’ll ever get to an autobiographical statement from the filmmaker. In telling the story of Hughes, Scorsese parallel’s it to his own passion, perfectionism, problems with women, and if Easy Rider’s and Raging Bulls is to believe, even his own mental breakdown.
But its not just a psychological purge. Its also one of Scorsese’s most purely pleasurable films to watch, filled with the tactile detail (The decadence of The Coconut Grove shot in Technicolor Glory), little bits of throwaway genius (The cuts between Hughes caressing the sides of Katherine Hepburn intercut with him stroking the rivets of his plane) and sheer beauty that makes Scorsese’s films such a joy to watch.
Backed by one of Scorsese’s greatest supporting casts ever and a suitably driven lead performance by Di Caprio (Really for my money where he really came out of Titanic’s shadow) The Aviator remains a stunning achievement.
Z Channel – At once the most poignant tribute to the cinema I know of, and a chilling cautionary tale. The amazing thing about Xan Cassevette’s documentary is she never allows one to pollute the other. Crafting the story of Jerry Harvey, a programmer and preservationist, who saved film (including the directors cut of The Wild Bunch) showed them to the world, and ended his life and that of his wife in a monsterous act of violence.
I’m in awe of this film, and not only because if I am honest I see so much of myself in poor doomed Jerry Harvey, but because Xan’s film comes close to capturing what it is that really drives us hardcore film freaks. What causes us to sit in the dark hour after hour, to dig up that obscure film, to hunt down and devour a directors work in the course of a weekend. It captures more then any other movie the narcotic bliss of cinema, and is unafraid to show what a terrible price addiction to it can yield.
The Departed – Pure Bliss. Scorsese says he directed it as a tribute to Robert Aldrich and Sam Fuller, and its that and some. It might not be the deepest movie Scorsese ever made, but the craft on it is impeccable, and its psychological depth is underrated. One of the shortest two and half hour movies ever maid.
Mulholland Dr. – One of the most exquisitely haunting films ever made.
Pan’s Labryinth – Guilmero Del Toro has a dangerous imagination. Its alive and it will sink its teeth into you. Its never been applied better then here, telling this adult and tragic fairy tale with the skill of a master craftsman and a soul of an artist. Del Toro is one of the filmmakers who I most value in the world. I can’t think of a better example to show why. (I would be remiss if I didn’t mention how great Doug Jones is in this. He’s really really great truly a modern day Chaney.)
A History Of Violence: David Cronenberg made one of his most quietly subversive films with History, taking his theme of how the mind and body betray us out of the supernatural (or perhaps more accurately the ultra natural) and putting it smack dab in middle America. Like all great social commentary History works just as well as an example of what its criticizes (This film basically makes Haenke's career unnecessary), telling a great story with strong central performances by Mortenson and Bello, building a hot coil of suspense and dread (with the help of perfectly amused performances by Ed Harris and William Hurt) before exploding into action that is shot and edited like Hollywood set pieces and end with their participants in bloody tatters on the floor. But its in Cronenberg’s usual Darwinian and Freudian concerns that the movie really finds its unsettling depth providing a startling meditations on the limits of self determination and the genealogy of violence in people… and nations.
Road To Peridition– Sam Mendes is pound for pound one of the most underrated filmmakers of the day. His only crime happens to be working in a time when Formalism is out of vogue. Of all the filmmakers working today I feel his is the ripest for rediscovery twenty years down the line. The Gangster Greek tragedy, Road To Peridition provided a fitting swan song for both Conrad Hall and Paul Newman. Though it is arch, I also found it moving and beautiful, complemented by Jude Law’s delightfully kinky performance as a very fucked up hitman, and Daniel Craig, in the type of role he is unfortunately no longer able to play. Its old school, but as Bill said, “I’m all about the old school.”
A Prairie Home Companion – Some thought that Altman’s final film was too sweet for the cantankerous old bastard. But I’ve always found the core of Altman to be humanism rather then cynicism, and I don’t know if a Director has had a more fitting capstone to a career then this. It’s a flawed film to be sure, I’m watching it right now and I find myself fast forwarding through the Lindsey Lohan and Kevin Kline scenes. But it’s a lovely little film and avoids the slapdash feel that some of the later Altman films had, while retaining the easy intimacy that has always made Altman such a pleasure to be with, assembling one of Altman’s greatest ensembles, centered by Keillor’s gentle performance though wisely undercutting it with Woody Harrelson’s and Lily Tomlin’s edgier acts, for one last go round. Sentimental sure. But Goodbyes should be.
Vanilla Sky – Cameron Crowe is so far ahead of the game on this one its not even funny. For my money it’s the most underrated film of decade. Capturing in away that I don’t know anyone else has, the way Pop Culture has utterly colonized our minds, our ideas of love belong to Truffaunt, romance from Dylan, and Father’s from Peck
Catch Me If You Can – Spielberg’s most underrated film. While deceptively as light and airy as the best of his entertainments, Catch Me If You Can carries within it a deep well of melancholy that lends the film a depth that’s heartbreaking. There are images as desperate and sad as any in Spielberg’s career. Frank staring into the window at the family that’s left him behind, that single dollar wafting through the breeze. Backed up by Amy Adam’s lovable debut, Tom Hanks breezy turn as Frank’s mellow Javert, and Christopher Walken doing his only recorded acting in the last decade or so.
Almost Famous– Its many things, a memory piece, a tribute to some of the greatest music ever made, a great coming of age story. But its also one of the saddest examinations of art there is. A deconstruction of the myth that it can be enough, that it can shield you from the pain of life completely, that when you get lonely “all you have to do is go to the shelf and visit a few of your old friends.” It takes apart the easy lie that art can ever, or should ever, be enough.
The Fountain – The Fountainis about as earnest and unguarded as a high school mix tape, made for the prettiest girl in school. To make matters worse thanks to the Sci Fi and Fantasy trappings it was like a mix tape filled with Rush and King Crimson. The look of horror that mainstream critics got when they received said tape would seem to confirm the analogy. And that leaves us the girl in black glasses and beanie who picked up the tape after they where all gone and quietly fell in love. Then the son of a bitch made The Wrestler got all popular and won’t talk to us anymore. God!
The Incredible – Part Objectivist fairy tale, part expert genre deconstruction, part family drama as honest as The Royal Tenenbaums, all animated marvel. Only the presence of an even better Brad Bird film kept it off the top ten list.
The Two Towers- This is a stand in for Peter Jackson’s entire trilogy but somehow that felt like cheating. Two Tower’s is my favorite anyway best balancing the trilogy’s epic scope and spectacle, and human anchor provided oddly enough by a character who only existed in digital form. Crafting an epic worthy of the best of Lean.
Sweeney Todd– One of my most watched films of the decade. A dark opulent operetta that manages to work both as simple grotesquery and human drama. Particularly in Helena Bonhamn Carter’s performance, finding tragedy in a character whose always been portrayed as something of a one dimensional harpy before then. Its dark, stunningly beautiful, and queasily funny. Its one of Burton’s best movies The Stuff that nightmares are made of.
Undertow - Southern Gothic at its best. Greene is a true poet, and as much as I’m enjoying his current detour into screwball comedy, I hope he returns to his roots soon, filmmakers who can do this don’t come along every day.
Shaun Of The Dead/Hot Fuzz– My favorite movie Comfort food. I love Edgar Wright in away I love few filmmakers, and few things give me as much pleasure as revisiting his particular cinematic universe.
Munich – I still haven’t fully digested this one.
The Dreamers – Is no doubt a clumsy film, but love is clumsy. And Dreamers is a love story, one for the cinema, life the past, and the fucked up people who we meet on our way through life, the ones we have to let go of one day. There’s no saving them, if you try you just get taken down as well. But for awhile its just brilliant.
Sympathy For Mr. Vengeance – Oldboy gets all the attention but for my money Mr. Vengeance is the best film of the trilogy. A cold bone hard crime film with an ending worthy of Kubrick.
A Scanner Darkly – Richard Linklater out did himself, with this the first Philip K. Dick adaptation that treated him like he deserved to be adapted. A mournful movie, that captures the tone of Dick’s most personal novel. Compulsively watch able.
Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead – The greatest American Crime film of the decade.
Darjeeling Limited- Every popular film gets a movie where the critical community decides they’ve gotten to big for their britches and decides to tie said director to the whipping post for a spirited game of “Kick the every living shit out of the artist.” The Darjeeling Limited was for some reason the time when most critics decided it was time for Anderson to get his paddling. Which is a shame as I consider the film to be one of Anderson’s best and the perfect showcase for all the things that make him one of the most unique, lovely and above all gentle voices in American cinema.
Which means this, as perfect a blend of Anderson’s warm humanism, weary humor and wry existentialism got sorely underrated.
Also underrated Anderson’s lyricism, the shot of the lanky Brody spindling across the screen as the desperate Bill Murray begs him to wait is one of my favorite shots of the decade. A shot rich in both meaning and composition, that’s laugh out loud funny to boot.
Well tomorrow I’m off for Austin, when I get back I’m going to do a write up of the three “Almost Ons.”and then onto the end of the decade proper.
A Demon To Some An Angel To Others. Critic/Filmmaker/Factotum dedicated to engaging art on its own terms. Occasionally cruel but never incurious or dismissive. And always enthusiastic
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