The Cineman ::: Redux

Behind those violent tantrums and piercing eyes, Nicolas Cage’s Terrence McDonagh isn’t really a bad guy – he’s just got “bad days”. Similar in tone but not in structure to Abel Ferrara’s masterpiece of the same name, Werner Herzog’s ‘Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans‘ dabbles in the surreal. Emotional detachment begins to personify itself through swamp creatures, heightened by the shadowy cinematography of Peter Zeitlinger. Lt. McDonagh saved a man locked in his prison cell shortly after Katrina hit the Big Easy – and is left with crippling back pain for the rest of his life. He juggles a homicide investigation while keeping the pain away by peddling dope, crack, and more Vicodin, fucking the pain away with the help of hooker girlfriend Frankie (Eva Mendes), and gambling the pain away via creep bookie Ned (Brad Dourif). But one thing leads to another, and the pain keeps finding its way back.

Cage is Herzog’s new Klaus Kinski – a hot-headed monster with moments of a clear conscience. For all the criticism the actor gets these days, the character of McDonagh is a true return to form – zany, arrogant, yet admirably pathetic. Mendes and rapper-turned-actor Xzibit also make commendable turns with such heavy material. While aggressively lurid, the film feels all too real at times, and is only levelled by McDonagh’s own mental deterioration. Wayward POV shots of iguanas, lizards, and assorted waterlife make their way into the narrative, existing as if their amphibious blank stares are the only things really keeping an eye on McDonagh – and he can’t seem to shoo them away. For a movie of the same name, the primary difference between the two versions are a change of folios – while Ferrara composed a tragedy, but Herzog likes a comedy. Harvey Keitel sees a vainglorious end in Ferrara’s ‘Lieutenant’. But if the main character stays alive at the end, is it necessarily a happy ending?

[***]

I don’t plan on converting the unconverted, or vice versa. The conundrum with ‘New Moon‘ is not the age-old fascination with vampires, werewolves, and teen heartthrobs, but rather the weightlessness of its characters’ motives and emotives. Stephanie Meyer’s prose – from the little I’ve pried – makes Dan Brown sound like Jack Kerouac, but why can’t the literature be expanded and improved through the film medium? It’s as if director Chris Weitz and ‘Twilight‘ screenwriter Melissa Rosenberg know fully of ‘Moon’s ham-fisted tendencies to let lulls of silence and brooding reaction shots tell their story in the stead of Meyer’s 563 pages of narrative. Bella (Kristen Stewart) is about to celebrate her 18th birthday with vamp boyfriend Edward (Robert Pattinson) until a simple paper cut turns into danger – when vamp colleague Jasper nearly attacks her. Edward calls off their relationship, leaving Bella in shambles. She befriends secret werewolf-neighbor Jacob Black (Taylor Lautner) who gives her the necessary friendship she’s been needing, but becomes a thrill-seeker, so she can be closer to the long-gone Edward.

‘New Moon’ runs itself in circles story-wise, performing a balancing act with the erratic feelings of Bella Swan – which Stewart makes do with, considering her character’s superficialities. The pasty tabloid-cover-of-2009 Pattinson rarely makes an appearance, but when it comes to playing the undead, he seems to fit the part. Lautner’s presence is enlightening, and some of the best sequences involve Jacob’s mood shifts and vanilla veracity. But watch him being ripped apart in gender theory when it comes to male objectification; the kid doesn’t seem to need a shirt to act. Weitz’s direction is mostly savorless with the few exceptions of Javier Aguirresarobe’s moody cinematography (a calendar-ripping 360-degree broodfest set to Lykke Li), as well as Alexandre Desplat’s concerto score. It lacks ‘Twilight’s straightforwardness, but ‘New Moon’ sure as hell looks and feels more professional. If only there was some patience for transitions, less close embraces and more reasoning, and a better screenwriter. We’ve got talented kids and a cultural phenomenon on our hands – they’re monsters underneath, so why just go skin-deep?

[**]

Roald Dahl would have been pleased. Wes Anderson has alleviated the audiences who have become far too accustomed with the limits of modern animation – that only Pixar and other CGI-based studios could define the limits. With his adaptation of ‘Fantastic Mr. Fox‘, the director/co-writer has not only made a whimsical cut of Dahl’s work, but a film of his own and also the best animated film of the year. Coated in his characteristic collage of autumnal colors and mustard yellow intertitles, Anderson gives his stop-motion actors a spirited glow (sometimes literally), as well as a clever and family-friendly script by indie newcomer Noah Baumbach. The titular Mr. Fox (voiced fatherly by George Clooney) made a deal with Mrs. Fox (Meryl Streep) a long time ago when trapped – stop stealing chickens or she’ll leave him. So he becomes a starving news columnist, sees his unatheletic son Ash (Jason Schwartzman) grow up, and moves into a nice tree-house. But three farms lay adjacent to his abode – Boggis, Bunce, and Bean – who happen to be the meanest men alive. But they hold delicious chicken, geese, and cider; so Mr. Fox plans to make one last heist, with unexpected consequences.

Anderson’s repertoire of actors (sans Anjelica Huston, plus Clooney) add humanity to their furry counterparts, without losing precious time in justifying their anthropomorphic universe. Mark Gustafson’s animation work is worth multiple viewings, as details flutter in every shot with great gusto. Shelving the impersonality of Rankin-Bass specials, there is vibrance pulsing in the Fox family’s exchanges – Ash’s candid talk with his ultra-talented cousin, Fox’s chemistry with the protective Mrs. Fox, and the know-nothing antics of tree superintendent Kylie (Wally Wolodarsky). These are not antics disposing a $150mil budget on flatulence and tired morals – it’s about lusting for life, or as Mr. Fox bluntly puts it: “We’re wild animals.” It’s the kind of animation that challenges perspectives and demographics, and delivers laughs without sacrificing its character or budget. And for a children’s movie, Anderson doesn’t become complacent with shying away from dilemmas, much less pushing borders to the morbid ‘Bambi‘ standard. Anderson’s an auteur, exploring the microcosms of troubled souls in live-action, and discovering new dimensions in stop-motion.

[****]

John Hillcoat’s direction suffers, in Sarrisist terms, from “strained seriousness”. His adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s ‘The Road‘ is a joyless expedition into nothingness, prefaced by two hours of hopelessness and cardboard father-son dynamics, and finished with a weak glimmer of promise. When a project is deemed “unfilmable”, sometimes it’s best to put down the books and dump everything. What could have been a tale of a father’s desperation to keep his son safe and sane becomes an unimaginative trip through a post-apocalyptic world. There are no moments of deep contemplation, the father’s inner narrative is pulled from only choice quotes of McCarthy’s text with no context, and the horrors witnessed are pages torn from zombie films and ‘Deliverance‘. The Man (Viggo Mortensen) and his Son (Kodi Smit-McPhee) are making their way to the sea coast after a cataclysmic apocalypse destroys most life on the world. The Mother (Charlize Theron) kills herself selfishly in flashbacks, while the Man struggles to make the Son happy for being alive, despite his own time running short.

Mortensen’s performance is touching and powerful, but it is lost on a film so desensitized and empty. His transformation is exceptional, and his movements seem to be the only colorful activities on such a desaturated palette. Whereas McCarthy’s words could give life to a dead world, Hillcoat seems stuck on compressing chapters to create artificial energy. And yes, it is depressing – but the resolution is so quickly prepared it gives audiences the falsest sense of hope. This is the film that claims to tackle scenarios when it only transgresses them, sliding past difficult scenes (one with Robert Duvall as a half-blind drifter) through dishonest measures (Duvall shows up to deliver a quote and be on his way). No, this is not to say ‘The Road’ is a poor production because it deals with a dead-end drama and cannibalism and looting and a lack of plant life – it’s because it’s done so fradulently, masquerading as a heartbreaking fable of a father and his son, despite its gallavanting tendency to cruise through tragedy with a RedOne camera and an unentitled sense of importance.

[**]

Roland Emmerich reincarnates so much of Irwin Allen’s fascination with destruction that it’s impossible to argue otherwise. Yet it’s the former’s manipulation with material that sets himself up as a hack director – ‘Godzilla’s bastardization of Atomic Age metaphor, ‘The Patriot‘ and ‘10,000 BC’s poor historical relevance, and ‘Day After Tomorrow’s political underminings are examples. But ‘2012‘ is such an earnest effort to quash all attempts at the end of the world; there are only so many ways one director can oversee mass extinction while enjoying himself at the same time. Like Allen’s multiple storylines prefacing relationships and family holding together during disasters, ‘2012′ follows writer-chauffeur Jackson Curtis (John Cusack) as he tries to maintain good terms with his two kids and ex-wife Kate (Amanda Peet), as well as her new boyfriend Gordon (Thomas McCarthy). There’s also the foreboding scientist Adrian (Chiwetel Ejiofor) who falls for Preosident Wilson’s (Danny Glover) daughter Laura (Thandie Newton), wingnut radio host Charlie Frost (Woody Harrelson), and more. Oh, and the world is collapsing due to the Earth’s poles shifting and its crust destabilizing.

The dialogue is as disposable as any city shown deteriorating in the film, and yes, some things are better left unsaid – much like Rome, where the Papal Basilica tumbles and crushes thousands of Italians in silent prayer. ‘2012′ is instant gratification; the price of admission will send you hurtling through the expanses of a decaying Las Vegas or DC, and little more. Cusack and Ejiofor make valiant impressions in a film of ridiculous proportions, but Emmerich isn’t occupied with proving any of the demented theories presented anyway. There’s no motive other than to entertain under extreme duress – and clocking in at 2 and a half hours, there’s some needed editing. SFX are sensational, the kind that rock without Sensurround or heavy publicity. A rip-roaring ride through a crumbling Pasadena is astonishing despite its incredulity, and the hot springs eruptions at Yellowstone may never seem the same after the film. But Emmerich’s a showman, and here he’s at his cornball best. Unlike his magnum opus ‘Independence Day‘, ‘2012′ has no plans on setting a standard – but at least the dogs are always safe.

[***]