The Cineman ::: Redux

Bordering on transgressive cinema, Jared Hess’ ‘Gentlemen Broncos‘ is an exercise in bad taste with a PG-13 rating. There’s a lot to cringe at here, ranging from snake defecation to science-fiction castrations. Yet beyond these tinted glasses lives a spontaneous universe, where character motives reflect personal issues, even if they don’t register immediately with audiences. Like Jon Heder’s stoic dance-off at the end of Hess’ ‘Napoleon Dynamite’ or Jack Black’s strange identification with the art of lucha libre in ‘Nacho Libre’, Hess desires to denote his characters’ off-kilter personalities as genuine. Benjamin Purvis (Michael Angarano) is a mopey only child living with his overbearing fashion entrepreneur mother Judith (Jennifer Coolidge). He finds solace in writing elaborate sci-fi novellas like ‘Yeast Lords’, which comes alive in partitioned segments and loosely relates to Ben’s own fantastic hopes and fears. He attends a writer’s camp, where he meets his idol, the pompous author Ronald Chevalier (Jemaine Clement). In a chance to be published nationwide, Ben submits ‘Yeast Lords’, which Chevalier finds promising. In plagarizing, that is – the author’s reputation has begun to fade. Soon, ‘Yeast Lords’ becomes ‘Brutus and Balzaac’, a nationwide bestseller. And the shy tortured Benjamin must find a way to prove his work is not misattributed.

‘Broncos’ worldview is wholly unique; Hess revels at stale Americana, trodding Midwestern outlet malls of gun shops and taco stands, and appreciating the microcosm of the socially inept and ugly. No doubt I may be overanalyzing Hess’ body of work, but his aesthetic choices have the markings of an underground auteur. Not as avant-garde as Nick Zedd or John Waters, Hess ties up all his storylines neatly - which is why studios still finance his films. With its campy music and scatological bend, viewers may have some difficulties with ‘Broncos’ - but don’t mistake its cultural insight for aimlessness. Angarano’s sullen eyes do a lot of the talking, and makes for a sympathetic protagonist. Sam Rockwell as Benjamin’s (and later Chevalier’s) literary hero Bronco is an entertaining mix between Ben Johnson and Boorman’s ‘Zardoz‘. And charismatic Clement’s as Chevalier will no doubt leave even the most estranged of audience members in stitches – if Orson Card spoke like James Mason. The film is a celebration of the bizarre, with its intentions buried deep within the pathos of a tormented writer.

[***]

Mira Nair’s accessible biopic ‘Amelia‘ may be shunned as being too cursory or stale, but it is Hilary Swank’s selling performance as the aviatrix and cinematographer Stuart Dryburgh’s smooth (camera) sailing that make the production a well-tended work. Maintaining the aura of the 1920-1930s, Nair’s film is hardly offensive despite the obvious implication of affairs in Earhart’s personal life. The young entrepreneur narrates the film not with mundane details, but as if she was writing love letters to the sky, the fields below, and the oceans cascading beneath her wings. Ron Bass’ script highlights her relationship with husband/publisher George Putnam (Richard Gere), and her soirées with aeronautics executive Gene Vidal (McGregor) – for which son Gore Vidal served as consultant for the film.

Yet the mysterious circumstances of her fated round-the-world disappearance falls under the weight of Swank’s benevolent depiction. The climactic tension boils over, and the audience is left wishing for the familiarity of Earhart’s presence. The final cut appears too sanitized; a cut-and-dry job on part of studio executives hoping to drum up wider support from younger viewers. A performance from Virginia Madsen (as Putnam’s first wife) was extracted, as if to clear Earhart’s name from any controversial history. But now having seen Swank in action as the fearless adventurer (and women’s icon), Fox Searchlight should have taken the chance. Gere is too apathetic to compete with Swank, and the same can be said for McGregor, who is drastically underused. What ‘Amelia’ runs on is Earhart and her dream: a combination of life on the ground and in the air. Earhart’s charm and ambition ride on Swank’s rough-hewn personality with regards to women’s rights, while Dryburgh’s mercurial aerial shots gives the best argument for natural lighting.

[***]

A technical achievement developed from a meager 10-sentence children’s book, Spike Jonze’s ‘Where the Wild Things Are‘ develops a uniquely mystical tone for Maurice Sendak’s writing. With the bevy of burly monsters created by the Jim Henson Workshop, and a script from new-age writer Dave Eggers, ‘Wild Things’ will surely fascinate viewers at first glance. However, a lack of understanding from Jonze and Eggers for its target demographic manifests after the more compelling first hour. Max (aptly played by newcomer Max Records) buries himself away in his imagination – he builds pillow forts in his bedroom, snow igloos in his front lawn, and wears a homespun wolf costume around the house. His divorced mother Connie (Catherine Keener) is too busy to spend enough time with him, and his sister Clare (Pepita Emmerichs) doesn’t care about his school-boy antics. Frustrated with homelife and his mom’s new boyfriend, he runs away from home. Lost in the unknown, Max discovers a world peppered with fuzzy beasts that have plenty of issues – the angry Carol (voice: James Gandolfini), jealous Judith (Catherine O’Hara), kindly hole-puncher Ira (Forest Whitaker), insecure Alexander (Paul Dano), and melancholy KW (Lauren Ambrose). He is swiftly named king of the land, and the “wild rumpus” begins.

Jonze’s imagination takes off in ‘Wild Things’: raw recollections of childhood freedom are fully expressed by Records’ doe-eyed performance, the warmth and humanity of the animated creatures, and the bright color schemes of foresty thatches and wispy deserts. In the same token, the voice casting for the wild things smartly reflects Max’s own personality traits. The normally guttural rasp of Gandolfini touches on his young temper tantrums, Whitaker’s solemn voice expresses his guileless candor, O’Hara lends cynicism, and Dano reveals vulnerability. Eggers’ liberties with Sendak’s book work – from an artistic standpoint – on all counts. The image of the mother-son relationship is fondly communicated through Keener’s performance, while the literary switch from ‘locking himself in his room’ to ‘running away from home’ articulates an emotional divide from Max’s comfort zone. Herein lies the conundrum: Eggers’ lets the characters talk far too much, and far too quickly – children won’t know what to make of the metaphors and muddled arguments between monsters. It’s a wonder for older generations who read Sendak’s book during kindergarten storytime, but what about the kids today? Excellent SFX and a sensitive script will still make for an entertaining watch, and confirms Jonze’s success with sharpening the line between the real and unreal (’Being John Malkovich‘).

[***]

A leap above their caper dud ‘Burn After Reading‘, the Coen Brothers tread upon familiar (and current go-to description, personal) territory with their bleak comic drama ‘A Serious Man‘. Much like their masterpiece ‘Fargo‘ and adaptation ‘No Country for Old Men‘, the film constantly leaves audiences with an impending sense of doom – assisted by Roger Deakins’ intrusive cinematography and Carter Burwell’s ominous score. Set in Minnesota within the vague timeframe of the late 60s-early 70s, the viewer follows the nebbish physics professor Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg). Larry’s world is falling down on him: his wife (Sari Lennick) is leaving him for friend-turned-foe Sy Ableman (Fred Melamed), his homeless brother Arthur (Richard Kind) is leeching off their funds and couch, teenage son Danny (Aaron Wolff) is solely concerned with getting high and good reception for F-Troop, daughter Sarah (Jessica McManus) wants a nose job, his college is reconsidering his tenure prospects, and a failing Korean student (David Kang) is bribing him with thousands for a passing grade. People tell him to visit the rabbi, and seek help from Hashem in this time of trouble. But Larry’s problems keep piling up, and the town rabbis aren’t giving him the answers he needs.

Prefaced with a Yiddish parable that correlates with the following story, the Coens’ tale of Jewish guilt thematically revolves around the rational and irrational colliding. The bleak finale may enrage some viewers hoping for a tidier conclusion, but the Coens are grappling with something beyond our understanding – literally. This is their gift, and casting Stuhlbarg as Larry is cinematic manna. The actor doesn’t approach this skewed universe with the presumed delirious behavior, but with hope and patience. Larry is caught between the people who think they have the answers, and the ones that don’t. There is artistic unity when dealing with the Jewish faith, as the Coens consolidate the Rabbinic fervor with its engrained culture within the film text – be aware, Larry’s trying to become more of a mensch than a man. A hilarious scene involving Stuhlbarg and George Wyner’s Rabbi Nachter hits the nail on the head when dealing with useless parables, while Melamed’s performance as Sy Ableman serves as commentary for both the Jewish know-it-all and overly diffident father figure. Stuhlbarg and the Coens make ‘A Serious Man’ such an amusing and engaging film; makes one wish the brothers’ record wasn’t so hit-and-miss.

[****]

‘Surrogates‘ is a poor-man’s ‘Seconds‘; it lacks Frankenheimer’s trademark patience for his story. With Jonathan Mostow’s production, based on what is probably a far more interesting graphic novel by Robert Vendetti, is far too short to be considered serious. The concept is simple: humans have the ability to live second lives thanks to surrogate technology, where a premium model of yourself is mind-controlled as you sit in the comfort of your bedroom. It’s plastic surgery without ever going under the knife, and reckless behavior brings no physical pain – essentially, robot versions of ourselves living out our wildest dreams. FBI agents Tom Greer (Bruce Willis) and Jen Peters (Radha Mitchell) investigate an isolated incident that could send shockwaves through the robotic community: the son of surrogate tech inventor Lionel Canter (James Cromwell) is killed despite still being connected to his robot stand-in. Fearing a doomsday weapon that will destroy the surrogates, Greer and Peters start to follow a strange and twisted trail, unfolding a conspiracy bigger than they would have imagined.

Acting suffers due to time restraints, and performances by Willis, Mitchell, and especially Rosamund Pike (playing Willis’ wife) are hindered by the dreadful dialogue. There’s no room to breath for the cast, yet the robotic tendencies of most supporting characters help establish a ‘Stepford Wives‘ trait that carries its clever backstory – James Ginty’s portrayal of a young James Cromwell is proof. Decent SFX help make the suburban Boston locales look far more futuristic than usual, and careful attention to the gimmicky technology makes story seem more like a Richard Matheson short than a ‘Terminator‘ sequel. But opportunities for characters to develop and divulge only devolve into by-the-book action sequences. Mostow’s film should have people questioning the unthinkable, not wondering “In a movie this mechanical, who really cares about the living?”

[**]