FilmVomit

Ok, so I’ve seen it twice now. Appropriately projected on film once, projected on crappy crappy digital once. I don’t really remember much but Mr. Ledger’s performance. I don’t really need to remember much beyond that- the Joker will never be appropriately played again. The pacing, of course, because editing is Mr. Nolan’s forté, is exceptionally good, and surprising in ways that films don’t often surprise me any more. And there is a clever contrast between the limpid cinematography during the Joker’s ultraviolent escapades and the opaquely shot work of the Batman- enough of a contrast to bring Mr. Nolan’s own morality into question, though his other work has frequently done the same, so this is no surprise. The film also borrows a page from P.T. Anderson’s book (and, by proxy, David Lynch’s) in using, instead of overwrought tension-building music, an atmospheric whine at very appropriate junctures, and an utter lack of diegetic sound at others.
The film wants to be something more than it succeeds in being, unfortunately, though Nolan has gotten away with quite a lot. There is a choppiness in the last act- an inability to bring the story to a proper conclusion, that leaves me wanting. It is, by Hollywood standards, an exceptional film. But I prefer not to disrespect the celluloid by holding things up to such a short stick.
On a not completely related but certainly tangentially appropriate note, I would like to know how in g-d’s name they managed to control Mr. Ledger on the set, when he was not in front of the cameras. Had he lost his mind as thoroughly as it seemed? Or did he maintain control until the film wrapped, and then succumb to madness? Because he was mad, this much is clear. So very little of him was apparent in that role that I think he may have erased himself entirely. And that is the sort of thing from which one does not return.

If ever there was proof that Lynch was not meant to be a sculptor, this is it. The piece is clever, in that art student way. And of course, there is Philadelphia all over the place. Vomited across the screen.

Six Men Getting Sick (Six Times)

Just as an aside, did you know David Lynch sells coffee? Apparently it’s delicious. Tastes like existential terror.

I’ve been trying to figure out what my problem was with this film. It’s gorgeous, absolutely. The story is charming, well-executed for the most part (though it lost track of itself at the end), full of quirky reflexivity and generally fitting into the same category as most films I enjoy. And yet, it felt lacking somehow. There is a certain self-consciousness to the film that makes it quaver where it ought to have conviction- a feeling that it, or Tarsem at least, is uncertain of its own charm and thus layers things on too thickly. Things get a bit heavy handed and gimmicky in places where they shouldn’t, and hold back in others when a bit of drama would be called for. And the last reel and a half, starting with the direct theft of the Brothers Quay’s Street of Crocodiles, is a bit unfortunate. Tarsem quoted the Quays in The Cell, quite effectively and with a great deal of love, so I am certain he meant no disrespect, but what he has done here is nothing short of plagiarism.
I suppose the real truth here is that I wanted to love this film, and I couldn’t. I was stuck at really liking it.

As an exercise in storytelling, the film is exceptionally well done. Put together well, told with the proper highs and lows, following a good give-and-take arc. The people are engaging and interesting and the topic is well chosen and delightfully weird. As a visual and auditory aesthetic thing, however, I have some issues. Not as many issues as I generally have with documentary, which is refreshing, but still some issues. There were some questionable transitions, a few very poor choices musically, and some points at which the FinalCut pulldown menus started to flicker before my eyes in the form of canned effects. And some shots of a beach fire where the color correction had changed what should be orange-red to neon pink. Overall, though, everything was quite smooth and quite lovely. And, more importantly, I really did enjoy it. Which may have partly been due to the company.

Surfwise

Romantic comedies are terribly boring and terribly predictable no matter what language they are in.

Hors de Prix

Ben Kingsley is terrifying and beautiful. The film sags at points, but he never does.

House of Sand and Fog

I figured out, after much puzzling, what it is about this film that I like. It isn’t particularly good, and it’s essentially morally bankrupt. But it is the first film to take the classic Hitchcock formula and modernize it in a way that is truly effective. Rather than copying Hitchcock, Slade has managed to re-tool him, make his typical bad versus worse scenario into something that does not feel clunky and mis-directed. Even the opening credits, which remind me so much of Saul Bass, and the score are perfectly Hitchcockian. Which, by the way, was almost certainly completely by mistake.
So that’s why I like this awful little film.

Hard Candy

Pixar continues to put out adorable, morally upright, exquisitely animated films. I have nothing bad to say about the piece. Even the movie in-jokes were hilarious, though I was frequently the only person in the theater laughing at them- a position to which I am quite accustomed at this point. I especially appreciated the end credits, with their condensed history of art.

WALL-E

Lewis showed three pieces which I do not feel like separating into different entries- The Pharoah’s Belt, Valise, and episode two of The Diptherians. The first two pieces, like much of Lewis’s work, are completely entrenched in his own world of near semaphoric communication- indecipherable except superficially to nearly everyone, and at the same time mesmerizing and beautiful and possessed of a subconscious clarity completely unique to Klahr.
The Diptherians features Willem Dafoe. I don’t really have anything else to say about it.

Lewis Klahr

The world would be a better place if Danny Elfman were to suddenly disappear. I don’t wish any harm upon the man, but I’d really like him to just go away. 
The film would’ve been fascinating in silence. Mr. Morris should’ve taken lessons from Werner when Werner jump-started his career, learned the art of proper reserve. Not that Werner is exceptionally proper or reserved, but he does know when to hold back, when to exercise a modicum of restraint. Generally.