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Friday, Apr 20, 2007


A young man named Edgar is working on a “project” of sorts. Its exact identity is as confusing as his research process. His premise at least is definite—it involves couples and the four stages of love: initial meeting, physical passion, quarrels ending in separation, and reconciliation—but whether it will be a book, or cantata, or play, is never quite clear. He seeks guidance from his father, a famous art dealer, but the old man cannot seem to get beyond the basic arguments about art and history. He begins the process of “casting” his project by interviewing various people, both professional performers and everyday individuals, about their understanding of love: both the emotional (of the heart) and metaphysical (of the head).


He runs into a young woman on the street that he is sure he has met before. He wants to feature her in his project. She constantly avoids him. They do seem to get closer, but then he loses touch with her. Eventually she commits suicide and leaves him a few personal belongings, including a book that may be a hint as to when and where they met before. Apparently, two years earlier while researching a project on the French Resistance during World War II, Edgar met the young woman. In flashbacks, we see that she was the secretary for an old couple trying to sell their story to Steven Spielberg in Hollywood.


In Praise of Love is a work of staggering genius. It is also a self-indulgent exercise in mental masturbation. It’s a moving and visually stunning film of depth and soul. It is also a disjointed and meandering mess that can never quite get its valid points across clearly. It’s beautiful and it’s embarrassing, philosophical as well as rote and fundamentalist. While it is clearly not the greatest work of legendary French new wave genius Jean-Luc Godard (whose credits are too numerous and importance in film too great to attempt to explain in a single review), it does represent a return to form for the once formidable cinematic force of nature. Those unfamiliar with his work should seek out the many classics of his oeuvre post-haste (Breathless, Contempt, and Alphaville to name a few) to see why so many clamor about him.


But the uninitiated should perhaps steer clear of this arcane, artistic triumph that mixes the ethos of love with visually stunning imagery and a clear anti-American/Hollywood sentiment. This is just not a movie for the first timer. It’s not that Godard’s methods are totally inaccessible. Indeed, much of the film is painfully obvious. But just like tossing a neophyte into David Lynch’s Eraserhead unprepared, someone approaching In Praise of Love without at least some background in Godard’s method and ideology will feel lost and unimpressed. That is because for most of its running time, In Praise of Love functions as a jigsaw puzzle, an intricate combination of treatise, tease, and tone poem that uses the backdrop of Paris (Godard once again shooting in the city after a long absence) and its mostly shadowed inhabitants as pawns in an enormous examination of emotion. But the epiphanies are hidden in strange scene juxtapositions, missing scene sections, overlapping dialogue/narrative strings, and long dramatic pauses of pristine lushness.


As Godard is known for his experiments in pushing the boundaries of the cinematic art, a little overindulgence can be expected. But there are some aspects of In Praise of Love that will leave even those most seasoned convert rubbing their temples to reduce the irritating throb of confusion. One has to assume that the lack of a full English translation for the film is Godard’s intention (judging how much he hates Americans, it’s not much of an inference) and the resulting incompleteness leaves huge gaps in dialogue that a non-French speaking audience will never understand. It’s like the in-joke about immigrants talking about you behind your back as you stand in line at their convenience store. Godard obviously has punches to pull and he really yanks them back quite harshly.


He’s also not afraid to be vague and repetitious, using title cards and bits of music to re-emphasize issues over and over again (a series of cards that say—and this is a rough translation—“in consideration of…love” are flashed more often than the multiplication tables in a third grade math class) while failing to connect them to anything that remotely resembles what he wants to discuss. This manner of misdirection may just be the point, but it leaves a viewer feeling bitter and unaccompanied, as if they stumbled onto a play that they have neither the native tongue nor the necessary mental skills to understand. Idealistic rhetoric is bantered about in heavy-handed doses and those famous French hating allies from across the Atlantic take a definitely moralistic beating at the hands of the characters in this film. Steven Spielberg and, indirectly, his treatment of the Holocaust are leveled with one of the most mean spirited and spurious denouncements ever in a motion picture.


And yet, In Praise of Love is a sparkling diamond, a movie that contrasts crass commentary with the subtle black and white beauty (and eventually hyper-digital colorization) of France to make a universal point about love, life, history, and art. With a visual sense reminiscent of Woody Allen circa Manhattan and Stardust Memories, Godard’s Paris in In Praise of Love is a world of hazy lights and lazy shadows, of the ancient edifices being meshed with the technology of modern man to form a new version of the old architectural traditions. Just as the film champions history, this use of monochrome shows that pure art is best derived from simple, straightforward visual dramatics. When memories (or “archives” as they are title carded) are presented, they are seen in bright near-fluorescent digital video images that recall the paintings of the old masters combined with the unreality and incompleteness of recollection.


Godard wants it known that the opening exercise in shadow and light represents the real world, the indecipherable structure of meetings, greetings, lamentations, and pontifications. When we move into the times of yore, we become lost in the mind’s eye, an unreliable recorder of events that adds undue importance to the trivial and over-romanticizes the simplest things. Indeed, the main character’s search for “adulthood,” that missing sense of personal resonance between childhood and old age, can be seen as a battle between the eras, a war of the hues and the grays. While it can meander off into mean-spirited vitriolic attacks (which have some validity buried in their brutal truths) and be jagged for juxtaposition’s sake, In Praise of Love is still a brave, bold statement that will satisfy the cinematic urges as it completely confuses your linear logic leanings. Synapses may misfire, but they will do so in visual bliss.


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Friday, Apr 20, 2007

Via Kottke.org comes this link to an International Herald Tribune story about the ban on outdoor advertising in São Paulo. I don’t have much sympathy for this line of protest against this:


“This is a radical law that damages the rules of a market economy and respect for the rule of law,” said Marcel Solimeo, chief economist of the Commercial Association of São Paulo, which has 32,000 members. “We live in a consumer society and the essence of capitalism is the availability of information about products.”


Billboards aren’t about distributing information; they are about reshaping the limits on our thought, so that it includes the advertised product at the expense of what we might learn were we left to our own fact-finding ability.


It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, but I’m a bit sympathetic to this:


“I think this city is going to become a sadder, duller place,” said Dalton Silvano, who cast the sole dissenting vote and is in the advertising business. “Advertising is both an art form and, when you’re in your car or alone on foot, a form of entertainment that helps relieve solitude and boredom.”


My sympathy makes me wonder if my culture has brainwashed me, and whether that makes laws such as São Paulo’s that much more necessary, as much as the paternalism and free-speech implications of it bother me. Should public space remain blank to remain neutral, to remain a public good to the entire public? Or is the brokered colonization of that space adding value to all as well as creating an industry that keeps people employed and others consuming?


Sometimes, in the most feverish moments of my antiadvertising fervor I would dare to dream about such a ban but found it quite impossible to imagine it, in part because as a child growing up in a sleepy semi-rural part of Pennsylvania, I craved much more visual stimulation in the public sphere and was drawn to what seemed to me the de facto excitement of neon. This signified to me the hustle and bustle of commerce, which I had naturally come to think was the essence of “real” life. Nature? Yawn. Reality, as far as I was concerned (though it’s not like I was consciously conceiving a philosophicla position about it) was the process of exchange, and all the emotions that process inspired. Sometimes I want to blame American culture for instilling this impression in me, but I find I still can’t quite shake it. I still get awfully nervous when I find myself “stranded” in the countryside. (In Mediated Thomas De Zengotita has a good passage relating the unnerving quiescence of finding oneself free of media blare, how one can feel strangely orphaned.)


That feeling led me to live in Las Vegas for several years in an attempt to surfeit myself on neon, and on the abstract notion of “action,” both visual and propositional. It almost worked. Las Vegas seemed like a blank slate invigorated by huckster energy that manifested as flashy come-ons and temptations, but that impression is part of what the town’s vested interests worked to create, the retrospective illusion that there was nothing until they came. But by the time I left there I had grown to have a newfound ardor for “emptiness,” for the grandeur of the high sierras, for Death Valley, for the miles of desert surrounding roads that seem endless, roads so featureless that drivers routinely end up in accidents out of boredom.  Now, I feel both repulsed and attracted to visual noise and the way it can alter our consciousness and our priorities, the way it signals a falsely triumphant subjugation of nature by humankind. But I wonder whether to live in a place where billboards were taken down but their infrastructure remained would feel like living in an urban ruin, in a dead space where vitality had drained away. How long and how much commitment would it take to eventually dispel that feeling?


 


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Friday, Apr 20, 2007
by Cliff Lee

If you’re reading Play: The New York Times Sports Magazine, odds are that you’re not a sports addict. A sports addict, after all, would have no use for a quarterly magazine that covers a subject matter that changes by the week, if not the day. Play, which has earned billing as an “everyman” sports magazine, is not interested in reflections on the New York Yankee’s early April slump or previewing the upcoming NBA playoffs. The sports addict will already have all that information readily available from their weekly subscriptions to Sports Illustrated and The Sporting News. The sports addict is probably also less inclined to indulge an elegant photo essay on the battered and bruised bodies of NFL defensive linemen or the daunting feats of women climbers. It will never be as funny as ESPN: The Magazine, but Play tries its hardest to be witty with a dash of Chuck Klosterman, whose sports musings, most recently on eccentric basketball star Gilbert Arenas, are infinitely more bearable than his meditations on music and pop culture.


No, if you are reading Play, you like sports, but are a casual fan at best. You appreciated the wall-to-wall preview of the soccer World Cup, despite having never watched a single game since four years prior. You also call it soccer.


 


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Friday, Apr 20, 2007
by Gail Shister [The Philadelphia Inquirer (MCT)]

PHILADELPHIA—In an unusual midcourse correction, TV networks have scaled back, or stopped altogether, running the disturbing video made by Virginia Tech killer Cho Seung-Hui.


Bowing to a storm of public censure and the outrage from victims’ families, NBC said Thursday that it would severely limit its use of the video on all NBC News broadcasts as well as on MSNBC.


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Thursday, Apr 19, 2007


You’d never know that Spring was just around the corner – that lousy groundhog. Baseball has had several of its opening week games postponed or relocated due to snow, and a nasty Nor’easter tore through the upper half of the US, causing damage – and a few deaths – along the way. If the showers we’ve seen this April are any indication, May’s gonna be overgrown with floral facets. Perhaps we can all dry off with a weekend in front of the idiot box. There’s some fresh fare there, including a hilarious satire on a very strange subject, a dumb gearhead actioner, another failed drama from a former directorial god, and a wicked little indie effort. Toss in the typical outsider and non-Tinsel Town odds and ends and you’ve got plenty to keep you couch bound and (somewhat) happy. And before you know it, it will be time to complain about the heat. Let’s begin with the weekend of 21 April’s best bet: 


Premiere Pick
Thank You For Smoking


It’s a highly unorthodox premise - especially for a comedy. A cutthroat tobacco lobbyist – played by pseudo star Aaron Eckhart – spends his days shilling for cigarettes while trying to connect to his distant 12 year old son. Not your normal laugh riot. But it’s obvious that some small amount of funny business filmmaking rubbed off onto Jason Reitman from his famous father, Ivan. After a series of well received comic shorts, this first attempt at a feature was a clear critical success. While many will still have massive problems with the subject matter – after all, when was the last time anyone considered smoking to be socially acceptable, let alone worth joking about. But thanks to the wonderful source material (Christopher Buckley’s book remains highly regarded) and an inherent way with wit, Reitman’s debut marks the beginning of a potentially profitable stint behind the lens – both commercially and comically. (21 April, Cinemax, 10PM EST)

Additional Choices
The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift


Same premise, same storyline, different locale. For this third go around in the FF franchise, our pissed off pre-adult heroes head to Japan, where drifting is all the rage. Apparently, this means kids destroy their brakes and alignment by purposefully fishtailing their back tires. Peachy! As an aside, beware of those earworm masters The Teriyaki Boys. Their hideous theme song plays throughout this derivative action pic. (21 April, HBO, 8PM EST)

Find Me Guilty


Sidney Lumet wants to return to the courtroom drama with this movie about a mobster who decides to defend himself during an important trial. Sadly, he brings along a toupee sprouting Vin Diesel to play his lead. Things only grow more groan inducing from there. While many praised both the ‘Pacifier’ and his performance, this is no Verdict or Serpico. In fact, it’s barely worth comparing to Lumet’s other concrete credits. (21 April, Starz, 9PM EST)


Edmund


Turn off the Tudors marathon for a moment and switch the dial over to this William H. Macy tour de force. Playing a man who finds his life unraveling over one long, intolerance filled night, Macy is magnificent, channeling all the rage and rejection of the title character. Even more amazing is who’s behind the camera. Casting fictional horror aside for the moment, Re-Animator‘s Stuart Gordon steps up to deliver his own look at NYC as Hell. (21 April, ShowTOO, 10PM EST)

Indie Pick
We Jam Econo: The Story of The Minutemen


Thanks to DVD, and in some small ways, the success of Michael Moore and Morgan Spurlock, the documentary has finally come of age as viable commercial cinema. Even better, filmmakers are finding that even the most obscure subject can reap remarkable artistic benefits. Take this amazing movie about the seminal ‘80s post-proto punk band The Minutemen. Thanks to a wealth of astonishing performance footage, some rare group interviews and present day chat ups with the remaining members, we learn how three disaffected youths from San Pedro, California became an unmatched rock and roll force. With the death of leader D. Boon hanging over every frame (he died tragically in an auto accident in ‘85), there is a meaningful melancholia attached to discovering how powerful and potent this musical maelstrom once was. Thanks to director Tim Irwin, and the magic of the digital format, his story has been perfectly preserved for generations to discover and appreciate. (23 April, Sundance, 9PM EST)

Additional Choices
Magnolia


For his follow-up to Boogie Nights, writer/director Paul Thomas Anderson forged this heartfelt homage to idol Robert Altman and his multifaceted masterpiece Short Cuts. Instead of channeling Raymond Chandler, however, PTA went biblical with his tale of several solemn individuals whose lives intersect in strange, almost spiritual ways. Featuring one of Tom Cruise’s best performances and similarly classic turns by Julianne Moore, William H. Macy, and Thomas regular John C. Reilly, this epic exploration of human emotion stands as one of the ‘90s great films. (21 April, IFC, 11PM EST)

Dancer in the Dark


The musical doesn’t seem like the best genre to fit within director Lars Von Trier’s Dogma ‘95 ideal, but somehow, the crazed Danish director makes it work. With Icelandic muse Bjork in the lead, this depression era drama about a foreign factory worker who thinks that America is all one big Hollywood movie mixes unbelievable hardship with sudden bursts of song. Some will find this film frustrating and obtuse. Others will simply appreciate Von Trier’s attempt to reinvent the filmic format. (23 April, IFC, 2:30PM EST)

Let’s Rock Again


With the passing of Joe Strummer from a heart attack in 2002 (he was just 50!) any hopes that the punk rock rebels The Clash would ever reunite were dashed forever. Thanks to documentarian Dick Rude, this one hour love letter to the fabled frontman catches up with his solo career, and the unbridled joy he had when performing. It’s just a shame he didn’t live to see the full impact of his legacy. Luckily, his music will remain with us forever. (26 April, Sundance, 10AM EST)

Outsider Option
Plan Nine from Outer Space/ Bride of the Monster


Ed Wood gets a bum rap these days. After years of perpetuating the myth that he is the worse director in the world (thank you very much, Medved brothers), DVD has really helped rehabilitate his status. After a double dose of Dr. Uwe Boll or a retrospective of Raja Gosnell’s crappy canon, our main man in angora looks like a flipping genius. Indeed, many mistake Wood’s wonky way with narrative and script as something to savage. But he’s so innocent in his incompetence, so fully ensconced in his errors that it comes across as visionary, not vile. Now, thanks to the random Rob Zombie-ing of TCM’s Underground, two of the masters amazing mess-terpieces are available for sampling. While Plan 9 is the more noted of the two, Bride of the Monster has its own calculated cool. Together, they tell a decidedly different story about who Ed Wood was, both as an artist and a misrepresented legend. (21 April, Turner Movie Classics, 2AM EST)

Additional Choices
Priest


Rife with scandal the moment it was released, this look at the hypocritical conceit that exists between religion and reality doesn’t follow the standard storyline. Instead of pedophilia, this movie mocks the traditional vow of celibacy, and how harmful it is to both individuals and their faith. The title character, a cleric torn between the Lord and his gay lover, illustrates all these points in passionate, perplexing form.  (23 April, Indieplex, 11:15PM EST)

Rope


It’s often considered one of Hitchcock’s failed experiments, a standard murder mystery made up of a series of four to ten minute “continuous takes”. Entire scenes were filmed without edits, meaning camera movement and angles had to be carefully choreographed around the acting of the cast. For this reason, many find the movie mannered and obvious. But if you can ignore the stylization, you’ll be rewarded with another of the Master of Suspense’s visionary wonders. (25 April, Retroplex, 6:35PM EST)

The Solid Gold Cadillac


Poor Judy Holiday. She was a classic city gal trading on her metropolitan moxie to bring a level of intelligence and strength to the basic dumb blond roles she was given. Sadly, her death from breast cancer at the age of 43 kept her legacy from fully developing. Still, the Tony and Oscar winning actress is very good in this corporate comedy, a typical late ‘50s laugher about bumbling big businessmen and the outrages of industry. What makes this a passion pit presentation is a real head scratcher. (26 April, Drive-In Classics, Canada, 9PM EST)

 


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