Brief Viewing of a Hideously Bad Movie

"Brief Interviews With Hideous Men"

2009

Written and Directed by John Krasinki based on the short story collection of same title by David Foster Wallace

Starring: Julianne Nicholson, Christopher Meloni, etc.

Perhaps there is something disingenuous about reviewing a film that one has only watched 1/2 of, but this is too good an opportunity to pass up.

This film is based on a collection of stories by the late, some would say great, David Foster Wallace. I happen to think "Good Old Neon" is one of the best stories I've ever read, and for that, Mr. Wallace has my infinite (teehee) respect. That said, and without commenting on the book on which this film is based (because I haven't read it)-- as a film in a context removed from the story-- Krasinki's directorial debut has to be the most boring piece of cinema I've laid eyes on.

The main character, Sara, played by Julianne Nicholson (no offense, but I think she is WAY too old to be a TA) sleepwalks her way through campus functions, lectures, interviews with "hideous" men, and various confabs with her social circle. I'd say they are friends, but I get no indication from the acting. She's boring, the cinematography is boring, and Krasinki makes the subject matter boring. There's no life to anything on screen.

So, why did I stop a movie halfway through for only the second time in a year? Because there's nothing to this. It doesn't say or depict anything that hasn't already been said or depicted by superior films ("In the Company of Men" and "Glengarry Glen Ross" come to mind right off), and I fail to see what's so hideous about "boys being boys." To me, something hideous or ugly would have to be something out of the ordinary. Something that didn't constitute "normal" behavior-- or what passes for it. Sure, you can say, "well, maybe you missed all the truly heinous bits in the final half of the film." Maybe. But who wants to watch half of a film before there is any kind of payoff at all?

Here, Krasinski suffers from Zach Braff syndrome. Just another relatively wet-behind-the-ears tv actor who thinks he has something to say, so he spends a lot of money and wastes a lot of people's time trying to say it.
Hell, he even had a head-up! He had source material. From a bad ass writer. If this film is an accurate representation of the late Mr. Wallace's book, then wow, it's gotta be his lesser material.

Part of the problem is that Krasinki doesn't allow scenes to linger or build. They're static and then they're gone. You can't even settle in on anything before there's a cut to another interview or Sara being followed around by two guys pondering the "mysterious" nature of women. My sense is that Wallace's book is about a woman who gets a glimpse of the inner workings of men vis-a-vis these interviews, and as the stories go on, she sees how said workings affect her own relationship with a specific man (played by Krasinski himself).

Instead of centering the film on her as a character, we get this spliced, artsy-fartsy, segmented display of thoughts that go absolutely nowhere. It's humorless, drab, and it gave me no indication that it was suddenly going to establish the kind of focus necessary to drive home whatever ideas it has.

I will say that Christopher Meloni stole the half of the film I saw. The guy can act.

Other than that, poorly played.

Movie Review: Revanche

Writer/Director: Götz Spielmann
2008
With: Johannes Krisch and Irina Potapenko

Spielmann's beautiful film would've fit very nicely in my "top 20" of the 2000's list. It's that good. It feels like two films in one. In the first, Krish is a small-time crook working in a Vienna brothel who makes the mistake of falling for a Ukrainian prostitute. In the second, he lodges in his aging grandfather's cottage; his life having been thrown into upheaval by an accidental death. A loner, by day he chops firewood and by night he paces his room in anger and frustration.

It's quite a coincidental tale of love, loss, and revenge. The beginning, which is defined by love or something approximating it, is peopled with various urban dwellers: pimps, prostitutes, johns, and crooks. The climax comes in the crime, where the bad deed is punished by loss. Needless loss. A loss that stokes the fires of revenge, creating three new perspective victims.

He finds himself in the pastoral sparsity of his need for revenge. Where once there was a future, there is but a void. A void that cannot be filled by whatever memories may be conjured from a single photograph. Because that's all he has. A photo of her.

The cop who killed her also carries her photo. Krisch's loss is also his. So it is that their lives swirl round and round in an existential vacuum, but only one can benefit from the death of the other. After a moment of revelation, he is implored by the most seemingly innocent of seductresses, the cop's wife, to not pursue vengeance. Though she knows he is without faith, she beseeches him in a dignified manner that exhibits vulnerability, but doesn't overstate it with pathos.

Because, as we all know, revenge has its many faces.

Getting Your Ass Kicked by Your Hero: A Review of "Big Fan"

For me, getting my ass kicked by my "hero" is the idea of meeting Will Self after he's read my book or some of my stories or this blog, and having him tell me that I'm a shite writer or something more substantially damning like, "tell me, when you work a Debord reference into your story, are you being serious or are you taking the piss because that was fucking god awful, mate."

But for Paul Aufiero, getting your ass kicked by your hero is just that: literally getting the shit beat out of you in a dark, liquor soaked nightclub.

Oswalt is a damn fine comedian, and after seeing this, he's a formidable actor, holding his own when sharing the screen with the likes of Kevin Corrigan and Michael Rapaport. But what's more to me, personally, is that I can't imagine anyone else being able to capture the essence of a guy like Aufiero. Of course, I don't mean this as a dismissal or personal appraisal of Oswalt; I mean this as hey, the guy has shown his geeky tendencies before: in his cameos as an RPGer on "Reno: 911!" and in every appearance he made as Spence on "King of Queens." Call it typecasting if you will, but it's more than that.

In the beginning, Paul is a happy guy. He's a happy guy who is single, lives with his mother, and works as a parking attendant. His only real passion, which he shares with his only friend (played by Corrigan), is Giants football. As well as watching entire games from the parking lot of Giants Stadium, at 11:30 each night, he calls in to the local radio station to defend his beloved Giants against the taunts and slander leveled by an Eagles fan who goes by the handle "Philadelphia Phil."

Of course, everyone in his family exibits frustration towards him. His behavior-- indeed, his entire lifestyle-- is not that of an adult man. He needs, in his mother's words, to "grow up" as his brother and sister have. "Normal" is a wife and kids. Etcetera. This tension is exacerbated by an incident where Paul is viciously attacked by his hero, Giants defender (his jersey # is 54, which is generally a LB designation, but it isn't entirely uncommon to see DEs wearing them) Quantrell Bishop in a nightclub.

It's no surprise that a guy like Paul would have no idea about "club etiquette," or even understand that pursuing your hero is a fruitless endeavor that can only lead to heartbreak. But even in the wake of the event, his concern doesn't shift from Giants football to his own well-being or his sense of justice; no, he awakens in a hospital bed and realizes he has missed his beloved team's blowout loss to the Chiefs. Bishop has been suspended pending the case.

Paul's single-mindedness is a constant throughout the film. He doesn't want the "normal" that his family wants for him. He wants to cheer on his team. He wants them to win. He wants to shut "Philadelphia Phil" the fuck up. Every Giants loss crushes the guy, sending him further into an emotional abyss. But even through that, what struck me was his relationship with his only friend, Sal. Sal is the only person who doesn't want to change him, the only person who doesn't view him as a loser. They are in the same boat, and even when he lashes out at Sal after a loss to the Cowboys, it's not a friendship killer.

My only real complaint about this film is its lack of NFL scheduling knowledge. The Giants (NFC East) would never play the Patriots (AFC East) and the Chargers (AFC West) in the same season (outside of perhaps playing one of them in the Super Bowl). And as a Cowboys fan, the "Dallas Sucks" tee was fucking stupid (editor's note: how very biased of you), but a necessary evil as it is indicative of the divisional rivalry between the two teams.

My Girlfriend Experience

Girlfriend Experience (GFE) is a type of service a female prostitute offers which includes acting like a girlfriend to the client.

-- Wikipedia entry

I suppose I could've written a more sexy definition myself, but such that the dictates of my economic situation are, I can say freely that I haven't the requisite experience on the matter to do such a thing. If I could afford a sexy young thing to pose as my girlfriend-- although, it seems to me that in this film, Miss. Grey is more of an escort with a romanticized view of herself than a prostitute who offers herself as a girlfriend to the highest bidder-- I'd probably choose a more lively woman.

That's not to say that Christine (Grey), who is known as Chelsea to her clients, isn't beautiful. Sure. She is. But beyond that, Soderbergh and company have managed to take a very promising tale of a young woman actualizing herself in a world where the measure of successful actualization is-- pardon the pun-- equivalent to whoring oneself out until one is indistinguishable from all the other whores out there, and turn it into a whiny snoozer that is thankfully short.

The very fact of its brevity is a problem. There's just not much there, and one wonders if there's even a point at all except to say, "well, these people actually exist." But is that good enough? Is that worth the 1.3 Million supposedly spent? I'm not sure. As someone who wishes he could feasibly follow his dream of being a filmmaker, someone who has been sitting on a developing screenplay since he was 19, I can say that I would've loved for this film to be so much more, and I'm disappointed that it isn't.

It looks good. The premise sounds delicious. But the substance is nil. Soderbergh's film is set in modern day America. In fact, one of the themes is political and economic uncertainty. Very relevant. Very now. Christine and Chris are a couple. They live together in a swanky NYC apartment. They share very little screen time together and the two actors who portray them likewise share very little chemistry. There's a very arty, very European feel to their scenes together, but there's something amiss. The camera is almost too distant, too unobtrusive. Soderbergh (commendably but ineffectively) goes out of his way to not manipulate his audience at the expense of capturing any real performances.

It is almost unbearably minimalist. Spare to the point of wondering what the director's intent was. Was there supposed to be an ironic joke in casting an "it" girl, known for her adult film roles and risqué ad appearances, as a prostitute, and then having her do zero sex scenes (in fact rarely even nude)? Not that sex scenes were necessary, but they would've lent more action to such a catatonic film.

So Christine and Chris are a couple in NYC, somewhere in 2007/2008. America is entering a recession and there are bail-outs and debates and pissing and moaning abounds. McCain is mentioned. Obama is mentioned. Characters whine about being just a little bit poorer all while flying on private jets to Vegas and ordering $60 bottles of scotch and buying prostitutes, etc.. All of these characters (save one), are white, yuppie, and obsessed with anything short of substance.

Christine is trying to modify her website and expand her reach. She enters discussions about starting a true service. She's pulling in nice amounts of money. After all, she sits in her cozy apartment on her computer (a Mac, no doubt), writing of all her various clients-- she spares us deep observations, opting for surface descriptions and Bret Easton Ellis-like attention to product-- and spends her free time shopping and eating and just looking completely fucking dull. Why shouldn't she choose the "less work" option? Then she decides her relationship with Chris is not worth continuing because she started talking to a potential client that didn't laugh at her silly obsession with astrology (I'm not making this shit up)!

Call it a "soft arc" because her revelation is hardly dramatic or a cause for introspection or even action in/by the characters (I like this, actually-- gives it a realistic quality). In fact, it's kind of confusing because things happen so fast, and character development wasn't high on the list of any of the filmmakers' priorities. When I think about the title, I wonder: "has she really acted like a girlfriend to any of these men?" One guy patronized her services because he could, another used her as a kind ear, another used her as a way to foist upon her his kinkiness (which she rejected and was then blackballed), and another used her to not use her. Stood her up. For his family. How sweet. But she was never really a girlfriend. Not even to her boyfriend. Was that the "point?"

In the end, no one has learned anything, no one is happy, and well... we get to watch Christine give a jeweler an orgasm without even touching him sexually.

Movie Review: "Gegen Die Wand/Head-On"

"Gegen Die Wand/Head-On (US title)"

Written and Directed by Fatih Akin

With: Sibel Kekilli and Birol Ünel

I have tremendous respect for German director Fatih Akin. From a substantial standpoint, I believe he does what most of the best filmmakers do. He doesn't moralize. He doesn't instruct his audience, demanding judgment or teasing feelings forth one way or another. If there is any manipulation, it is very subtle.

So, I was blown away by "The Edge of Heaven" and was informed that "Head-On" is even better. I agree. Both films are similar in style, formula, and theme, but what is particularly powerful about the film I'm reviewing here is, and here's what I don't bring up often: how it made me feel.

More on that.

Cahit and Sibel are two different people with only one two things in common: they are crazy, and they are Turks living in a German world. Now Cahit, who has lost his wife and has attempted suicide by driving his vehicle into a wall, is a very assimilated, very drugs (mostly alcohol) and rock & roll kind of guy. Sibel seems to come out of nowhere (with no expository info except for maybe allowing the viewer to infer that perhaps she's attempted suicide a few times) and demand that he marry her. He thinks this crazy, and doesn't so much verbalize it as shrug her off. He eventually takes her for a drink, where she again entreats him to marry her: "I cook, I clean, I like to fuck." And when she, in a cry for attention, tries to kill herself in front of him (in that very feminine, "I'll show you, I'll slit my wrists!" sort of way), and they later get kicked off a city bus (largely for being noisy, but more probably for being Turkish and announcing it), the courtship seems to end where it began.

But...

Eventually he agrees. The scene where he and his "uncle" meet her family is interesting in that Cahit is so obviously not comfortable. He is taking part in a charade in which he has ceded all power to Sibel. The funny part is that he can't even keep his lie straight, and his Turkish, as noted by Sibel's brother, is awful. Perhaps this is sabotage. Perhaps it's nerves because he believes that if he fails, the crazy bitch'll really kill herself. Whatever it is, I'm already with this guy. In for the long haul.

So they marry; Cahit is fucking a hairdresser/barfly who hooks Sibel up with a job, and Sibel, in her youthful ways, enjoys clubbing and fucking random guys she meets. Their lives are shared only by law and by the four walls they sleep within. The beauty is that there's this tension building between them. It's a definite arc. Of a natural kind of romantic tension. The kind where they are both reluctant to realize something more intimate. Even to the point where when they decide to finally consummate, she can't follow through. This creates a suppressed kind of longing in Cahit.

I identify with Cahit as he slowly, unbroodingly falls in love with Sibel. You're quiet, but you don't stare out of windows on rainy days, or make indie music mixtapes or profess feelings in quirky ways, no. This shit's for real. No "aww" moments here. He sits in his flat while she's out one night, shooting a bb gun, looking at their wedding photo. Probably wishing it all wasn't so fucking fake. Okay, maybe that's a tad quirky, and brooding, but not intentionally. If there's a particular reason for it, Akin doesn't bother to spell it out or accentuate it through repitition. It just exists. Fine. She's young, beautiful, and nurturing in a way that is welcome for any lonely man. That is, if you don't mind your shithole being redecorated to accommodate her aesthetic needs. I mean, after all, shithole is the operative term. As damaged as she is, who could not appreciate her?

One night, Cahit, plaintive and drunk (as if the two were disjunct), ends up killing one of Sibel's lovers. The guy is bad mouthing her. She's not around. He knocks him the fuck out. Guy doesn't wake up. Now, normally I'm of the opinion that violence is bullshit, but I felt very sad for Cahit. This wasn't some random expression of machismo, it was the act of a man in the throes of drunken passion.

As one would expect, it all goes down hill for the both of them. He goes to jail, Sibel's family in Germany are disgraced by her, so she flees to Turkey where she works in a hotel managed by her sister. She does drugs. Gets raped. Gets beat up in a dark alley of Istanbul. Shit's getting hopelessly depressing fast.

When Cahit manages his way out of the clink somehow, he endeavors to find his love. Her life has changed. She has a child, and presumably a new life. There's not a lot of focus on this, because now the film is about Cahit... as it really always has been. The most powerful scene to me is near the end where he finds Sibel's sister, who refuses to tell him of her whereabouts. For some reason, and I don't know if this was written into the script, or if the actors decided to throw in their own bit of improv, but they switch to ENGLISH. Up until that moment, it was all Turkish and German, and then out of nowhere, Cahit explains his feelings en breve and that was all it needed. So little said so much. English, so denounced in some linguistic circles as being simple and inexpressive, grabbed me by the throat. He. Fucking. Loves. Her.


So beautiful.

Of note: I have talked very little of the compositional make-up of the film. The cinematography is beautiful but understated. A lot of beauty comes from the settings. In particular, there's a continuous musical underpinning filmed in front of a seaside cityscape.

Movie Review: "Metropolitan"

"Metropolitan" (1990)

Written and Directed by Whit Stillman

Starring: Edward Clements, Chris Eigeman, Carolyn Farina, Taylor Nichols

Whit Stillman is relatively unknown to most who lack "indie" sensibilities when it comes to cinema. Often he is mentioned by "buffs" in the same breath as Noah Baumbach and Wes Anderson. Until recently, I'd never seen "Metropolitan" or the subsequent movies in Stillman's "series": "Barcelona", and "The Last Days of Disco."

After viewing "Metropolitan" it is doubtful I'll be watching any other projects with his name attached to them. Because while the cinematography was modest (something I generally like)-- minimalist in style, with only cuts and fades to black with occasional title cards (that added nothing to the story)-- the meat of the movie, the stuff that matters: acting, story, characters, etc. failed to move me at all.

The story, which was really nothing more than a bunch of privileged fuckheads attending fancy "tie" parties and talking a load of "bollocks," only served one purpose, and that was giving such thinly attributed characters a reason to exist. The performances, save Eigeman's (who is good, though awfully typecast as the witty cynic in almost everything he does) are awful.

For example:

One character rambles endlessly about how their clique should relabel themselves as UHB (urban haute bourgeoisie) as opposed to "preppy," which I suppose is an underserved social "epithet."

Yeah, "Fuck me" is what I said, too.

Another is a "middle class" Princeton alum who tries to fit in even though apparently he's poor. Makes no fuckin' sense but whatever. Apparently his parents are split and he lives with his mother in a large apartment on the west side. He's a socialist and surprisingly isn't taken to task for it. Questions early on, but after that, it's all about some girl he's obsessed with.

Eigeman's character is an "aristocrat" who hates aristocrats with titles and fucks women he loathes.

The female characters are even thinner than the males and exist primarily as ciphers for the latter. Por ejemplo: Eigeman's character is calling one of the girls (and I don't even remember her name because she was such a non-factor) a slut, and she just playfully slaps him (bad acting). Of course, the exposition to that is that they'd been fucking. Ugh.

I really wouldn't have given a shit if some crazy fucker walked into a scene and just mowed down the whole cast with an AK. Fucking useless wastes of cum. That would've made this shitfest watchable.

And that's the thing. It was fucking boring. It even took me two hours to watch the fucker because I stopped it to go and buy cigs. A testament to my never wanting to give up on movies. Comedy? Stillman, surely you jest.

Movie Review: "He Died With A Felafel in His Hand"

Written and Directed by Richard Lowenstein, based on the novel (of same title) by John Birmingham.

Starring: Noah Taylor, Emily Hamilton, Sophie Lee, and a bunch of other Australian unknowns.

This is a film that I'd often skipped over in my Netflix (instant view) perusals. I don't know if it was the title or the kitschy cover photo or what, but for some reason I couldn't will myself into clicking "play." After actually viewing the film, I cannot understand why. Because it's a good-- if somewhat standard-- piece of indie cinema.

The pieces are all there: desultory, quirky characters, youthful malaise, girls kissing (with implied lesbian sex), and of course, a guy dying with a felafel in his hand. The drawback to following or falling into a formula is that it gets predictable (obviously), and even verges on self-parody, but part of what saves this film is that it isn't American. Those cutesy, "hip," exhaustingly mundane portraits of people that require little of actors other than to embody a quirkiness unnatural in even the quirkiest of people are either not there, or are dulled/relegated to background noise.

Lowenstein achieves the latter here. Sophie Lee's portrayal of a fringe paganist/feminist beauty is really the only character that gets to the point of being grating. Less annoying/prevalent stock characters exist: a violent but loyal alpha male (who loves to buy hookers), a heroin addict who moon tans, creative stoners, an intelligent but sexually confused young woman, a closeted homosexual who picks the wrong time to "come out," a conspiracy theorist, an actress/drama queen, etc. etc.

But the film is focused on Noah Taylor's character, Richard. He's a writer. And he is the constant as he shifts from house to house, flatmates to flatmates, avoiding the inevitable: payment. He owes rent. He owes on damages. He owes on credit cards. The guy just fucking owes. Kind of hits home for me as I too, am drowning in debt.

However, Richard has a plan. He's written a story for Penthouse Magazine that is bound to get him 25 grand. So he moves about Australia with the idea that he is, in fact, a writer.

Taylor plays Richard quietly, detached. He's not incendiary or garrulous, funny or amiable. He just is. Deadpan and matter-of-fact. In some scenes he's in the background or foreground, strumming away at his guitar, quietly singing while other characters engage one another. In others he broods in front of a typewriter, a single phrase typed onto a "scroll" not dissimilar from the one Jack Kerouac used for On the Road.

Introspective is a good word for his performance. He's likeable and relatable. He carries the film along because he has to. He plays so distantly from even Emily Hamilton's character, the bookishly attractive would-be-love-interest who he refers to as his "best friend" in one scene. And despite this air of separation between all the characters, Lowenstein manages to make a watchable film of it. A film that has kept me talking about it for the last couple of days.