kathryn bigelow's THE HURT LOCKER (2009)

there's been a lot of talk since people started making movies about the Iraq war that people don't want to go watch movies about the Iraq war, but Kathryn Bigelow's The Hurt Locker -- called "a Platoon for the Iraq war" by ex-hubby Jim Cameron, which is perhaps a more smartly observed line than anything in Avatar -- is a pretty definitive refutation, no matter how underseen it remains. most films made thus far about the war were obviously done so from a place of political anger, and directed (consciously or not) at those who feel the same; while Bigelow's does stoop to the occasional potshot/groaner (one of the film's not-inconsiderable flaws) it's still quite clear her aim is to make an honest-to-god war film like we haven't seen in some time.

but that's not to say we've necessarily seen anything quite like this, and not just because we skipped all those other Iraq movies. The Hurt Locker is an action film and a war film, but plays like neither where it really counts; in choosing to focus on a small team of soldiers tasked with the disposal of live improvised explosives -- among the most unknowable enemies in a land chock full of them, and almost certainly the most devastating --  Bigelow (and writer Scott Boal, who despite strong work is more to fault for the film's problems) has found a top-notch scenario for visceral suspense, and makes the most of it. several of the setpieces play out for two or three times as long as a less tasteful, less sure filmmaker would think to let them, and each takes a jagged trajectory, ratcheting up the tension at irregular intervals, sometimes ending thirty seconds before we know they're over, sometimes ending three minutes after we think we're sure.

what fills the gaps between these scenes is much more uneven, and even corny toward the end, attempting a character study of the sort of solider that relishes his scrapes with death above all other earthly pleasures (including Evangeline Lilly!) but not really having the point of view to say anything compelling about it. Jeremy Renner is terrific in the role, but, like the film itself, always best from beneath his explosives suit.

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)

alfred hitchcock's ROPE (1948)

alfred hitchcock's DIAL M FOR MURDER (1954)

alfred hitchcock's VERTIGO (1958)

the Tennessee Theatre's "Summer Movie Magic" series is once again in full swing, populating our local treasure's silver screen with everything from perennial snoozers (Gone With The Wind) to more adventurous selections (Thunder Road's fiftieth anniversary) and underseen classics (It Happened One Night), and this weekend in particular brings perhaps the most exciting, must-see entry in this year's varied lineup: Alfred Hitchcock's masterpiece-among-masterpieces, Vertigo.

the story of an acrophobic former detective (Jimmy Stewart) tasked with tailing an associate's mysteriously afflicted wife (Kim Novak), Vertigo met a lukewarm reception upon release in 1958, and in a way it's not hard to see why; Hitch's genteel psychosexual melodrama contrasts rather drastically with the crowd-pleasing potboilers he'd been putting out for more than twenty years at that point, and the film is indeed so introverted that it hands out the solution to the central mystery well before it needs to simply because it serves the psychology.

this is not to suggest that Hitchcock sets aside his Master Of Suspense mantle for a single moment; Vertigo still exudes pure mystery (it was, in fact, recently named the genre's greatest film by the AFI) and beguiles with every twist and turn. the difference, though, is that Hitchcock (with screenwriter Samuel A. Taylor, adapting a French novel allegedly written specifically for Hitchcock) here narrows his focus to the mind -- Stewart's darkening obsession, Novak's fractured identity -- and emerges with a more profound mysteriousness than exists elsewhere in his storied body of work.

what may be the key to Vertigo's ever-expanding reputation, though, is that such internalized intrigue leaves Hitchcock free to dabble carefully with the look and feel of the film, and the result is quite simply perfection. Stewart, composer Bernard Hermann and cinematographer Robert Burks all collaborated fruitfully with Hitchcock throughout their careers, but Vertigo remains the deepest, most challenging work any of the four men ever produced. If North By Northwest is Alfred Hitchcock's gift to the audience, and Psycho his gift to the cinema, then Vertigo is nothing less than his gift to art at large, and the opportunity to see it on the big screen should not be passed up.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

alfred hitchcock's STRANGERS ON A TRAIN (1951)