rian johnson's THE BROTHERS BLOOM (2008)

(click to read via METRO PULSE))

catching waaayyyyy up

since last we jawed:




'







so, yeah, skipping 'em all, with few regrets, in the name of progress. i will say only that each of them was perfectly good (some even downright excellent) with the exception of Wes Craven's Last House On The Left, which is just about one of the worst movies I've ever seen.

not that i've been completely useless. METRO PULSE writings:







(click to read)

terence young's FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE (1963)

danny boyle's SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE (2008)

patrick lussier's MY BLOODY VALENTINE 3-D (2009)

steven spielberg's INDIANA JONES AND THE LAST CRUSADE (1989)

darren aronofsky's THE WRESTLER (2008)

from this point on (following the sad dissolution of the Knoxville Voice, which i had been writing reviews for) my published articles will have to be linked from their source on the Metro Pulse website. (one of the costs of going corporate, i suppose.)

THE WRESTLER

clint eastwood's GRAN TORINO (2008)

the first thing we notice, of course, is that cocked scowl. it was there when A Fistful Of Dollars first introduced him to the world, and it's very much there on Clint Eastwood's face throughout most of Gran Torino, the film that will allegedly steal his grizzled visage away from the screen for good; he was handsome once (maybe still) and his features have only sharpened as he's aged, but the sharpest of all is that unmistakable expression. Clint Eastwood, it would seem, is perpetually one step away from giving you the ass-whooping you've always deserved.

there's no denying that Gran Torino's Walt Kowalski (Eastwood, who also directs) has found plenty to scowl about. we first meet him at his wife's funeral, glaring at his bored, immodest grandchildren and listening to the empty words of an earnest rookie priest. receiving guests later that afternoon, he grouses about the crowd in his house and speaks testily to his two sons, who seem no more interested in his grief than he does in theirs. as they finally pull away, the retired auto worker quietly condemns his son's Japanese SUV, spits on the ground, and turns his attention to his neighbors, who have spent the afternoon celebrating a birth.

Walt's problem with these people (if he needs a reason) is the same as his problem with most of his Detroit neighborhood, which has been slowly and steadily overtaken by immigrant communities, particularly the southeast Asian Hmong. a Korean War vet, Kowalski looks upon them with undisguised, bluntly racist contempt, and they're prone to returning his gaze with fascination. Kowalski is, after all, as much a relic as his twin prize possessions: the M1 Garand rifle in his basement and the mint-condition 1972 Gran Torino in his garage.

naturally -- or, if you rather, by considerable contrivance -- our crochety, despicable hero is coaxed into a reluctant relationship with the neighboring Lor family. circumstances surrounding Kowalski's reflexive rifle-wielding confrontation with a gang of Hmong hooligans bring the teenage Thao (Bee Vang) into his home through a customary indentured servitude, while Thao's plucky older sister Sue (Ahney Her) seems to sense the old man's loneliness, and brings him into their home in return.

so there we are: Gran Torino is, at least at first, a film about racism and its reconciliation, with no small bit of the boring baggage that sort of film typically entails. screenwriter Nick Schenck goes to great pains to paint Kowalski as a bigot, but falls there and elsewhere into a tendency to tell rather than show; we are spared honest examination of his mindset in favor of abundant, casual epithets, ugly in the wrong way because they find no weight to carry. there is even a flatly superfluous scene between Kowalski, Sue and some black street toughs, existing only to emphasize the "wow he's racist but those guys were validating his prejudices" angle (as well as the "wow its badass when Clint pulls a gun on dudes" angle, which i have much less quarrel with.)

luckily Gran Torino slowly snaps out of its Crash-Lite sermonizing as Kowalski and Thao's relationship develops, and we come to understand what has drawn Eastwood to this story, particularly as an onscreen swan song. Kowalski's cantankerousness, it seems, is rooted just as firmly in masculine identity as racism, and he goes to increasing lengths to encourage the quiet, submissive Thao to pursue manly self-sufficience, especially when the Hmong thugs (led by Thao's cousin Spider) ride in on the third act.

while Thao remains fairly inert (it's evident that the majority of the Hmong actors are non-professionals) this thematic re-evaluation finally gives Clint something to do besides slur and sneer, and it becomes clear that Walt Kowalski has more in common with Dirty Harry Callahan than just the name on the marquee. the racism, resentment, and resistance to change are all outlets for rage, forged in war and tempered for decades by a manly life but newly impotent in the face of a world moving on. Kowalski clings to his own empowered experience as he clings to his Gran Torino; if he is a relic, he is unashamed.

it becomes clear, then, that Gran Torino is not simply the labored cross-cultural melodrama we've figured it for, but a meditation on a career on the screen, now too in decline thanks to age and changing times; Eastwood may be American cinema's most important masculine figure -- that cold scowl is an iconography in and of itself -- and whether or not his performance lives up to the legend (it doesn't, sorry) he's certainly rooted out a thoughtful curtain call in Gran Torino.

it's a good thing, however, that he plans to continue directing films. once the quotation marks are firmly in place around Walt Kowalski, Gran Torino's lazy character study sputters to a stop, dutifully hitting its marks and building to a nearly surprising ending but apparently content to have left its audience behind in fond daydreams of woolen ponchos and .44 magnums. (maybe we're happier that way anyway?) farewell, scowl, and godspeed.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

wong kar wai's CHUNGKING EXPRESS (1994)

jon favreau's ELF (2003)

mike leigh's HAPPY-GO-LUCKY (2008)

gus van sant's MILK (2008)

charlie kaufman's SYNECDOCHE, NY (2008)

michael apted's 7 UP, SEVEN PLUS SEVEN, and 21 UP (1964-1977)

francis ford coppola's THE GODFATHER (1972)

clyde geronimi's SLEEPING BEAUTY (1959)

billy wilder's DOUBLE INDEMNITY (1944)

stuart rosenberg's COOL HAND LUKE (1967)

sam peckinpah's THE GETAWAY (1972)

marc forster's QUANTUM OF SOLACE (2008)

dwayne carey-hill's BENDER'S GAME (2008)

sad news from last week: Fox has announced that Mike Judge's quietly superb King Of The Hill will end its thirteen-season run this spring, carving their Sunday night schedule a gaping hole of character-driven comedy and humanism into which they will toss a third (count 'em) weekly half hour of Seth MacFarlane's insipid comedic panhandling. the good news? noted programming scavenger ABC may be in talks to bankroll a fourteenth season of the show to keep Judge's newest animated effort, The Goode Family, company.

hopeful, yes. but necessary? there are at the very least lessons to be learned from fellow Fox cancelee Futurama, which debuted its third feature-length effort Bender's Game early this month. like King Of The Hill, Matt Groening's goofily literate sci-fi cartoon was treated to aggressive negligence by the network over the course of five staggeringly consistent seasons, and though it proved far less fortunate when it was axed unceremoniously in 2003, cable reruns and DVD eventually brought the show the audience it deserved. the unlikely result: a series of four straight-to-video features, eventually to be chopped up for use as a sixth "season" on Comedy Central.

but, alas, there is the Pet Sematary factor: resurrections aren't always what they're cracked up to be. last year's time-travel caper Bender's Big Score kicked the series off on a confident high note, but June's The Beast With A Billion Backs was somewhat less encouraging, and the latest effort does little to best it. As evidenced by the title's Orson Scott Card nod, Bender's Game still traffics in Futurama's immersive wit, and the film is surely good for 87 minutes of laughs from the faithful; from the characteristically clever fuel crisis topicality to a third act that dumps our 30th Century heroes into a Middle Earth-esque alternate reality, there is plenty of story to go around, and most of the series' expansive, beloved cast is given face time.

the keys to Futurama's unique excellence, though, remain conspicuously absent from most of Bender's Game. The conceptual heft and disarming emotional resonance that mark the show's best moments (both on healthy display in Bender's Big Score) here take a decided backseat to broader, less ambitious gags, and the writers' obvious struggle with the demands of their feature-length canvas only enhances the sour taste of missed opportunities. it's still damn good to have you back, Futurama, but let's hope February's Into The Wild Green Yonder does a little more to really earn that second chance.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

kevin smith's ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO (2008)

stuart gordon's STUCK (2008)

Gordon's Re-animator is among the most confident, accomplished first features within and even outside its genre, so it's sad his output since then has been so underwhelming. the effective, occasionally fascinating Stuck comes as close as any to following up on his potential as a serious filmmaker, but the confines of its "based on a true story" frame (however much the ending deviates) are both helpful and hurtful to its overall effect; on one hand the extremely limited constellation of characters and events keeps Gordon focused on the suspense of it all, but once the scenario's options have been carefully, thoroughly exhausted Stuck ends up feeling much more like a macabre short story than a cohesive film. still, both Mena Suvari and Stephen Rea give vulnerable, against-type performances, and Gordon's taste seems reinvigorated...just in time to get crackin' on House Of Re-Animator.

oliver stone's W. (2008)

why, in the end, did Oliver Stone choose to make this movie? the obvious answer is "because he's Oliver Stone" and all, but the primary impression W leaves has much less to do with the engaging novelty of great actors portraying great villains than with the general uselessness of it all. it's certainly wise to pinpoint George W. Bush's issues with his daddy and his brother as a driving force in his personality and historical trajectory, but Stanley Weiser's script bypasses a truly serious character study in the interest of giving the major players their face time. as Stone promised, the film is no mere smear, but neither does it respect its subject enough to do anything we're not expecting, and even if it balanced out the loud moments with a few more quiet ones there would still be the task of constructing a narrative. but Stone is more interested in making a movie about Dubya than actually telling his story (or at the least pulling some real lessons out of its few ideas), and the result, quite frankly, leaves little to justify its existence.

tobe hooper & steven spielberg's POLTERGEIST (1982)

jim sharman's THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW (1975)

sam raimi & rob tapert's GHOST HOUSE UNDERGROUND series

as countless film fans have no doubt spent the bulk of October appreciating, horror may well be the healthiest of film genres, and has been for some time. not so much creatively, perhaps (Cloverfield is the only theatrical release sitting above par so far this year) but certainly from a production and distribution standpoint: besides the standard wide theatrical model, scary movies of all stripes continue to find audiences through channels that would almost surely fail, say, similarly low-on-the-radar romantic comedies or costume dramas.

the venues are wide-ranging. on television, Showtime's "Masters Of Horror" and NBC's "Fear Itself" both attracted major genre players to a rebirth of the horror anthology, while On Demand network FEARnet and its website mix higher-profile screamers with easy-to-license cheapies. theatrically, After Dark Films have found considerable success with their Horrorfest, an annual eight-film lineup simulcast to theaters across the country.

it's the oft-maligned "straight to video" strategy, though, that drives horror's unique self-sufficiency. The most conspicuous player has recently been the Weinstein Company's Dimension Extreme boutique label, which has distributed new films by George Romero and Dario Argento as well as surprises like last year's charming vagina-dentata caper Teeth, but earlier this month a potentially stiff competitor emerged in the form of Ghost House Underground, a likeminded line of DVDs ostensibly presided over by Evil Dead masterminds Sam Raimi and Rob Tapert's Ghost House Productions.

watching Ghost House Underground's eight debut films, the more relevant factor in the indie horror boom looms heavily: the reason these companies have found such success in alternative distribution is that the core audience for these films have notoriously (if self-consciously) low standards. no one will speak as fondly about abjectly terrible films as the horror connoisseur; some seem to relish inept writing and inert performances nearly as much as stomach-turning violence.

a test, then, for that sort of horror fan: try Brotherhood Of Blood on for size. perhaps the line's most high profile title considering the presence of genre stalwarts Sid Haig and Ken Foree, Brotherhood is also by some margin the least watchable. its vampire-hunting scenario is passable, and both actors seem to be having their share of fun, but nearly everything else about the film (directed by Uwe Boll compatriots Michael Roesch and Peter Scheerer) handily overshadows anything that might be construed as entertainment; in acting, artifice and tone, Brotherhood Of Blood feels like a failed pilot for a macabre soap opera, shot on Hi8 through a dirty window.

the other two American films in the set benefit only by comparison. Gregg Bishop's prom-night zombie chopper Dance Of The Dead has already met a kind reaction from the fanboy community through festival screenings, but that's as much to do with the glut of pandering genre in-jokes than with any particular merit. its emphasis on comedy does set it apart from the rest of the too-serious Ghost House set, but it would stand out more if the comedy were actually funny; there are three or four good chuckles and one unique idea (the zombies react curiously to terrible pop-punk) but overall Dance doesn't reflect well on self-styled wunderkind Bishop as a humorist or a filmmaker.

nor does No Man's Land: The Rise Of Reeker give any inkling as to why writer/director Dave Payne thought it would be worthwhile to give the Evil Dead II half-sequel, half-remake treatment to his recent grim reaper re-imagining Reeker. it's at the very least one of the set's handsomest productions, but innocuously self-indulgent to a fault: while horror movies often stoop to contrivance and flawed logic, No Man's Land settles -- strives, even -- for a complete logical vacuum in both motivation and the narrative itself. It's engaging, but don't expect it to justify itself.

Ghost House Underground's five imports paint a rosier picture of the state of horror filmmaking, mired though they are in invasive American influence (and awful English dubs, though subtitles and original audio are included on each DVD.) the most eye-catching one, in fact, was shot in English and boasts studio-caliber production values: Finland's Dark Floors, a haunted hospital tale that doubles as a vanity project for mega-popular costumed Finnish power metal band Lordi. Dark Floors walks a fine line between a surprisingly creepy tone and the necessary silliness of building a scary movie around five hard-rocking monsters, but a decline in focus leaves Dark Floors little more than a precious novelty. (the disc also includes the best of the set's moderately generous special features, including two music videos and a hilariously blase press conference.)

on the other side of the American influence there is unfortunately also the tedious, unpleasant Trackman, a slick Russian thriller about a sewer-dwelling, eyeball-plucking maniac tailing escaping bank robbers and their hostages. though it contains the set's most accomplished gore, there is nothing further to recommend, and the contents of your stomach are just as threatened by the film's shakycam affectations as its violence.

Denmark's two entries, on the other hand, bring a bit of dignity to the table. Ole Bornedal's The Substitute (a moody sci-fi riff on "Miss Nelson Is Missing") steps the furthest outside the bounds of niche horror, but from script to screen it's Martin Barnewitz' Room 205 that proves the real high point. the story of a transfer student confronting a dormitory's ghostly secrets, Room 205 is staged with considerably more care and talent than its Ghost House peers, and despite obvious debts to haunted-girl J-horror there is a clarity of purpose that keeps its tone and pacing surprisingly steady.

regardless, if there is one Ghost House Underground film destined to connect with discriminating gorehounds, it's Gabriele Albanesi's unhinged Giallo throwback Last House In The Woods, which pits a young Italian couple against a troublesome cast of deranged forest-dwellers. familiar territory, sure, but the film has its own ideas as well, and enough depraved, graphic violence to fill in the holes. in a good many ways, in fact, it is Ghost House Underground's baddest of the bad, and the fact that that can mean different things to different people may be what keeps a beloved genre pumping blood.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

jaume balagueró's [REC] (2007)

george clooney's LEATHERHEADS (2008)

spike lee's MIRACLE AT ST. ANNA (2008)

is there another filmmaker working today that we can compare to Spike Lee? In the two-plus decades since She's Gotta Have It rocked black cinema and helped spark independent film as we know it, the lovably loudmouthed iconoclast has followed his muse through every nook and cranny of the film world. he's done music videos for the likes of Michael Jackson and Public Enemy, as well as commercials ("Money it's GOTTA BE THE SHOES!") and short films for anthologies. he's worked extensively in nonfiction, from music, comedy and performance films to serious docs like 2006's thunderously poignant When The Levees Broke. and in the meantime, of course, he has directed sixteen feature films, the majority of which cement his reputation as American cinema's preeminent lecturer on the subject of race. (he even found time to write books about the production of five of his first six films.)

but within this deep filmography and high profile is a dirty, if open, secret: Spike Lee makes kinda lousy films.

this isn't true across the board, of course; Malcolm X, for instance, is the rare biopic that doesn't let cliche undercut its spirit or respect, and Do The Right Thing remains the most penetrating, thoughtful and important film about the American race problem. but more plentiful are the loud misfires and quiet mediocrities, from School Daze to Girl 6 to She Hate Me, and the overrated, overwrought likes of Jungle Fever and The 25th Hour, undone by poor-taste melodrama and misplaced indignation. (hell, give The Original Kings Of Comedy a spin and watch Spike fail awkwardly where no-name Comedy Central technicians consistently succeed.)

so which Spike Lee shows up for his latest effort, the WWII drama Miracle At St. Anna? his most recent work seems to bode well (both When The Levees Broke and his taut, startlingly focused heist flick Inside Man rank among his best films, for very different reasons) and he certainly seemed confident earlier this year when a transparent St. Anna publicity stunt found him locking horns with Clint Eastwood. but the intermittently charming, occasionally boring, overwhelmingly frustrating Miracle At St. Anna sadly begs to differ.

if Spike had it in him to make a great war movie, this was surely the material. Miracle At St. Anna focuses on a group of four so-called "Buffalo Soldiers" (black infantrymen in the pre-integration US military) caught behind enemy lines in Tuscany during the final throes of the war and charged with the care of a young, slightly mysterious Italian boy they encounter along the way. taking refuge in a mountainside village, the soldiers befriend a group of war-weary locals and a small band of antifascist guerrillas, and the boy's "miraculous" story unfolds as the Nazis close in.

whatever potential the story has, though, James McBride's undisciplined, uninspired script (adapted from his novel) cautiously avoids capitalizing on. the pieces are all there, from the twists and turns to the intriguing frame story of a curious murder decades after the story's events, but nearly everything seems an afterthought; he lingers on scenes that do nothing to push the story or its characters forward, and whenever the plot does manage to advance it does so slowly and self-consciously, forcing the idea of an "epic" on a story that doesn't deserve such baggage and imposing thematics without earning them. even worse is the stuff that does need to be there: after more than two hours of interminable slogging, pretty much everything the film seems to be building to is crapped out in an overstuffed, undercooked battle scene masquerading as a third act.

however dismal McBride's work, it's not alone in sabotaging Spike's prestige pic; in fact, efforts seem to have been made across the board. Terence Blanchard's score impresses at first, but hovers heavy and unwelcome over every scene afterward; Barry Alexander Brown's editing steadfastly resists logic and decorum, ruining quiet dramatic scenes and outright butchering the painstakingly-yet-somehow-indifferently shot battle sequences; the oft-superb Matthew Libatique's grainy, bleached cinematography consciously apes Saving Private Ryan without regard for the fact that what's stunning on Norman beaches does a grave disservice to the hills of Tuscany. even the extras get in on the sabotage, flailing with each fatal gunshot like a preteen with a ketchup-packet squib.

in the end, though, the blame can't help but lay with Spike Lee, out of his element from the getgo but terminally self-serious to the final, unintentionally hilarious moments. His shallow epic cribs blatantly from superior filmmakers/would-be nemeses like Spielberg and Eastwood in nearly every regard, save only for the no less wrongheaded ones that make Miracle At St. Anna a Spike Lee Joint in the most traditional sense: Spike squanders his opportunity with the under-represented Buffalo Soldiers to wax heavyhanded about the dilemmas of black men fighting a white man's war, et cetera, et cetera, without any regard for the fact that a filmmaker truly equal to the subject (with, ideally, a competent screenwriter in tow) would recognize all that as painfully obvious, and at the very least steer clear of lengthy, tedious dialogue scenes spelling it all out.

if Spike really wanted to give the Buffalo Soldiers their cinematic due, he would have made a rousing war film in the classic tradition, emphasizing them as the heroes they were; if he really wanted to make a Great Film, he would have focused his and his collaborators' craft and emerged, as we know he can, with something memorable. But in trying to do both, and so much more, he has achieved nothing. you're better than this, Spike...aren't you?

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

peter yates' BULLITT (1968)

quentin tarantino's PULP FICTION (1994)

hiroshi teshigahara's ANTONIO GAUDI (1984)

kathryn bigelow's POINT BREAK (1991)

john landis' ANIMAL HOUSE (1978)