FilmVomit

I don’t want to analyze this one too hard, because I enjoyed it so much. I think I was in the mood for cute. There is a lot owed here to other directors and other films, of course- Wes Anderson springs to mind, as does The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys- and the aesthetic is a familiar one, though not yet entirely worn-out. As a whole the film rests on spindly legs, the threads that tie the segments together are very thin. There is more fluff than substance, but it is rare that music video directors make it in feature-length without feeling a bit vignette-y.
The majority of the charm comes from the relationship between the two boys- Lee Carter and Will Proudfoot- as the rest of the characters are fairly broad caricatures. The moments of childish innocence, Will’s quirky habits most especially, are delightful; and the depiction of kids’-world creativity is dead on. There is something to be said for letting the sheer joy of making something, anything, overwhelm you. If only they had managed to let that joy show through elsewhere, or had gotten someone other than their own characters to write THEIR plot, the boys of Hammer & Tongs would’ve been a bit more on top of the game.

Son of Rambow

I was so irritated that we left an hour in. I don’t do that, generally. I’ve only walked out of two other films- The Ring 2 and War of the Worlds- and War of the Worlds was only because the projection was so bad it was making me nauseous. Anyhow. Liv Tyler is being her usual dull self, the suspense is almost entirely music-based, the ‘scares’ are all loud noises and nothing else. I don’t know when I’ve been so bored in a ‘scary’ movie. And I’m usually the one watching through my fingers.

Yawn.

The Strangers

Wong Kar Wai is much more interesting when he is working in Hong Kong. Also, I hate conversations that sound normal but are occurring on the other side of a pane of glass. With that much effort to be visually interesting, shouldn’t the sound be interesting as well? The visual gimmicks are overdone in a way that makes me think he is hiding something… in fact, he is hiding something. He is hiding his discomfort with the English language, hiding that he cannot seem to guide his actors properly, hiding a story that is generally either unbelievable or rather drab. But the blueberry pie is awfully pretty.

My Blueberry Nights

I expected bad. I went in expecting the thing to be utter shit. I went in expecting the thing to make me shout at the screen, even. But I didn’t expect THIS bad. I kept wanting someone, maybe Indy himself, to look at the camera and say ‘I cannot believe you are watching this shit’. Unfortunately, instead, all I got was a bunch of poorly CGI’ed monkeys, some anthropomorphized prairie dogs, Shia the beef dressed up as Marlon Brando without the talent, swagger, or soul; and a reasonably good nap. John Hurt was, as always, emminently watchable; and Karen Allen has aged well. Harrison Ford, however, was airbrushed so much that every shot of his face is overexposed and his presence makes the lighting inconsistent from shot to countershot. And Cate Blanchett is the least believable Soviet ever, which is dismaying considering how lovely she is and my fetish for all things Russky.

I just don’t know what to think. It’s hardly even worth getting mad about, it’s so awful.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Steaming Bullshit

Be trained into docility, by yourself or by others. Your brain so accustomed to nothingness, to blankness, to mediocrity and blandness. You will never have the proper shock to bring you into humanity. You do not need to live your life because you have reached the point where all of your living is done. You are, in fact, American. You will not be questioned, not when you do nothing for your paycheck and not when you spend your evenings alone and not when you seem to utterly lack a soul. You Belong. You do not need to do aught for your belonging.
I do not understand what it is, not to Belong. Not really. But I will not idle simply because I can. I will not take my belonging as a given. I cannot take my belonging as a given. Belonging is not enough, and I am not convinced that it will not go away.

The Visitor

There is little that is wrong with this film, really. It’s funny and sweet and the right kind of clever. But it is an anachronism. The jokes get laughs not necessarily because they are funny now, but because they were funny then and we know it. The style so perfectly mimics something decades old, with scenes that are a bit longer than their contemporary counterpoints might be, and with a wink and a smile the actors pay homage to actors long gone.

Leatherheads

(seen on 5/5. was too disgusted to publish until now.)

I watch Gus Van Sant films entirely out of a desire to decipher their popularity. They do nothing for me, really, except confuse me and diminish my already dwindling faith in humanity. And this time was precisely the same as every other- it’s baffling and I am not sure what to say about it. The shots are framed in a largely meaningless and haphazard manner, the editing is poorly paced, the music is a fiasco.
Van Sant does not seem capable of directing actors who know what they are doing, so when he uses amateurs it is painful every time someone opens their mouth. Which is especially trying, as I know what can be accomplished with amateur actors. Two of my favorite directors made frequent or exclusive use of amateur actors.
My gut lurches in strange ways and I cannot seem to grasp what it is he is saying. If he is commenting on ‘youth’ he has failed because naught that he has said has not been said before. I do not know where he expects me to look, and what he expects me to see. Perhaps he expects me to see the vast nothing he presents me with, perhaps he is being a deconstructionist asshole.
Perhaps I should kick him in the teeth.
The frame is wasted on things that are impossibly unappealing in all ways, and the music ruins one of two decent scenes – I will always appreciate dispassionate teenage fucking.
I believe that Van Sant ought be sent back to film school and taught to use a camera again, so he stops wasting precious silver.
If Van Sant is going to make a commentary on filmmaking itself, then he ought to prove to me that he can make a film first. Godard, as much as I despise him, at least did the dirty work first. And thus I can appreciate his worth, while loathing his films. Van Sant can’t even manage to keep his corpses in the correct position. Someone ought to do him a favor and find him a script girl. And then maim him in such a way that he can never handle a camera again.

Paranoid Park

There are things lurking in all the corners, people hardened and brittle and those with seemingly inexplicable ideals still intact. It makes one consider- which would I be? Do I save five people I know or thousands I do not? And is there a way to do both? 

Die Fälscher

Color is drained from the frame, all that remains is yellow and green, vivid and putrid. Society is rotting from the inside and the jaundiced skin is peeling from slack flesh. Everything has been filed down to a point, all softness sheared off, the world is hard. Hell is neither hot nor cold but lukewarm and every body is covered in a fine layer of filmy feversweat and grime. 

There is no hope and the waiter may never come back, and you will be left to eat liver and breaded brains. 

4 luni, 3 saptamâni si 2 zile