peter jackson's THE LOVELY BONES (2009)

(click to read via METRO PULSE)

gus van sant's MILK (2008)

francis ford coppola's THE GODFATHER (1972)

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.

joel & ethan coen's BURN AFTER READING (2008)

there's obviously a world of difference between Burn After Reading and last year's No Country For Old Men (it is, for example, reasonably certain that this one isn't going to put anyone of the receiving end of a golden statuette), but in the context of Joel and Ethan Coen's career the two films share a key characteristic: whether through steeled reaction to the relative failure of Intolerable Cruelty and The Ladykillers or simply a new phase in their career, the Brothers Coen seem a little bit broken.

this isn't to put down either film, of course; the mean, lean No Country earned every single ton of praise it received, and the sharp, silly Burn After Reading is a welcome homecoming for the 100% Coen screenplay after three consecutive adaptations. but the unfortunate fact is that both films find the Coens succeeding without throwing the full weight of their talents into the process, and while deference to Cormac McCarthy's novel gives No Country an easy pass, Burn After Reading's return-to-form potential brings the end result dangerously close to disappointment.

the film's story is comically and intentionally dense; it will suffice to say that it involves adultery, murder, blackmail, sensitive CIA documents and a dash of enthusiasm for hardwood flooring. the Coen hallmarks are all there, from the witty poetics and organic non-sequitirs to a seemingly unmanageable scenario that nonetheless wraps up in a tight, knee-slapping bow at the end. (there is also relentless scene stealing by Brad Pitt, reasserting the goofy verve we all thought he'd abandoned.)

but despite Burn After Reading's charms, the end result seems determinedly minor in the grand Coen scheme. the best (and that is to say most) of their films are rich with details that bring impossibly strange characters to vivid life, and in its brightest moments their peculiar wit is able to coax both comedically and dramatically profound moments from wherever it chooses. Burn After Reading, on the other hand, contents itself with the more modest goal of goofing expertly on the contemporary espionage thriller, and for what it's worth succeeds wildly; everything from Carter Burwell's hilariously dramatic score to random implied-first-person camera angles elevate the grandiose imbecility until it's clear that the film itself may be its own funniest joke. but that Joel and Ethan Coen have full control of their craft has never really been a point of contention, so it's a bit of a shame they wasted this particular post-Oscar limelight on a parlor trick, even if it is the funniest thing they've made this decade.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

guillame canet's TELL NO ONE (2006) & brad anderson's TRANSSIBERIAN (2008)

what is it about the French that they've managed to keep the spirit of Alfred Hitchcock alive as Hollywood's efforts at the suspense thriller have forked off into spectacle and twisty mediocrity? their fascination with him dates back to the dawn of his glory years, as the New Wavers worked to boost his critical standing and directors like Claude Chabrol and Henri-Georges Clouzot found themselves indebted to his genius as they thrived as his peers and rivals.

and it continues today, as currently evidenced by Guillaume Canet's sly, gripping Tell No One, produced in 2006 but only now seeing a US release. adapted from the novel by American mystery writer Harlan Coben, the story itself is a tip-off, and almost too self-consciously so: pediatrician Alexandre Beck (François Cluzet), still mourning his murdered wife after eight years, begins receiving mysterious emails on the anniversary of her death, just as a new development reopens the investigation and places him back under suspicion. the ensuing labyrinth of lies and secrets finds Beck chasing a love from beyond the grave (a la Vertigo) as he himself is pursued for a crime he did not commit (a la damn near half of the rest of Hitchcock's movies.)

Tell No One, however, is not merely imitation or even emulation; Canet (a heartthrob actor with only one previous feature under his belt) lays out his mystery with both focused aesthetic economy and a fierce desire to entertain, and it's the intersection of the two that really evoke the Master Of Suspense, from the interrupted quiet of the opening scenes to a heartstopping centerpiece across eight lanes of traffic.

there are elements here and there that break the spell: an ill-considered smattering of English pop music undermines Canet's good taste, and he puts his foot on the brakes a little too early, leaving the Big Reveal and its aftermath a bit flat. but it's said that the only way to write a mystery is to come up with the ending and write backwards, and Tell No One evidences a logical extension of that: though the final knot of formerly loose ends is as satisfying as it should be, the joy here is in the telling, which in its own novelistic way transcends Hitchcock's more arid orchestrations of suspense. what really distinguishes Tell No One from its Hollywood counterparts is that beneath the confident slickness is a dense thriller that takes itself, and the audience, seriously.

it seems a little unfair, though, to pick on American suspense thrillers just as Brad Anderson's latest effort arrives in Knoxville as well, fundamentally different though it may be from Tell No One's literate riddling. (perhaps the film's complete reliance on European funding excuses it.) the cold, claustrophobic Transsiberian follows American couple Roy and Jessie (Woody Harrelson and Emily Mortimer) as they traverse by rail through the badlands of Russia on the way home from a Chinese mission trip, befriending another young couple and a Russian detective (Ben Kingsley) along the way.

no, the couple are not what they seem. and yes, the detective is one step ahead of everyone else. these are not Transsiberian's surprises. what is surprising is where the story goes with these worn elements, and how it gets there. (besides the train -- itself an old standby, especially if we're still talking about Hitchcock.) Anderson unfolds his story unhurriedly, and depends as much on the audience's expectations as the story itself to provide the unease. we gradually get to know Roy and Jessie, occasionally all the better through contradicted perceptions of them, and we attempt to divine the intentions of their traveling companions.

and then, finally, plans are disrupted, though the film continues its deceptively carefree pacing right up to the inevitable (yet thoroughly unexpected) eruption, after which Transsiberian fulfills its coy promises on substantially altered terms. there is deception and considerable suspense, all enhanced by the backdrop of a train barrelling across the tundra, its passengers cornered in the snow white vastness.

sadly, though, there is also final act that takes our upended expectations and squanders them on noisily strained credulity. the story's slow, careful acceleration demands an eventual release, but Anderson (excepting a spectacularly foiled trip to the dining car) provides it largely through shouting and gunplay, and in doing so steers the film straight back toward, if not directly into, the territories of a more mundane thriller. Transsiberian is a noteworthy effort from a director that continues to impress (The Machinist still haunts), but that makes it all the more disappointing when the train finally loses its steam.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

terrence malick's BADLANDS (1973)

this is another one i'm hard-pressed to put my finger on, but during this viewing i did my damnedest to let Malick instruct me. his visuals aren't quite as far removed from the norm here as in the pure naturalism of his later films, but the writing ("what if i shot you? how'd that be?"), and Spacek's narration in particular, are every bit as focused on where he wanted to be; if you're wanting to make a filmic poem, i suppose, it's a good idea to fill it with such heart-rending poetry.