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Thursday, Nov 9, 2006


Remember how, a few weeks back, we here at SE&L warned you about getting a hobby and avoiding the weekly offerings posted by your favorite premium movie channel? Well, we hope you heeded said sage advice since the selections up for grabs this weekend are about as poor as the Republicans’ showing on election night (rimshot, if you please). From another chance to see how Hollywood views the South to incredibly bad kid vid, it’s a bad bet all around. Those who still believe that there is magic left in a certain Mr. Lucas’ slowly evaporating space operatics, will probably be pleased by the day long celebration of his fiscal fame on Cinemax. And believe it or not, a certain German director who is more than happy to put his boxing gloves where his talent isn’t, has a few demented defenders as well. But when it comes right down to it, unless you’re willing to wait until mid-week to see some stellar presentations on the lesser-known pay cable channels (read; IFC and Sundance), you’re stuck with some mighty mediocre fare. The flaccid foursome making your Saturday, 11 November night noxious are:


HBOThe Dukes of Hazzard*

Ouch! Here’s a film so painfully pathetic that SE&L has a hard time even THINKING about it, let alone discussing it. Marketed to make money by trading on Johnny Knoxville’s Jackass fanbase, as well as Jessica Simpson’s dumbass personality, the end result was a one note novelty that proved the potential of the adolescent male demographic to show up for almost anything. Following this formula, it won’t be long before someone supes up Nanny and the Professor with the Pussycat Dolls as a determined group of barely dressed babysitters, and Bam Margera as the lonely widower teacher desperate for help raising his wee ones. Now just add Li’l Jon as the nutty next-door neighbor and you’ve got another hap-Hazzard style payday. After soiling Cinemax, it’s now HBO’s turn. (Premieres Saturday 11 November, 8:00pm EST).


 


CinemaxStar Wars – a.k.a. Star Wars - Episode IV: A New Hope*

Apparently, Cinemax has stumbled over to the dark side of the filmic Force, joining up with that money-grubbing maniac George Lucas in the continual raping of the entire Star Wars legacy. Not only will the channel by showing all SIX of the Wars films, in order, in HD, for the first time ever, but they are apparently featuring the “Special Edition” versions of the original trilogy, confirming that, when it comes to cinema, commerce supplants before art every time. If you love the latest prequels in all their hideous Hayden Christensen hackwork, by all means, break out your simulated light saber, a package of sugar-coated midichloreans and your Chewbacca underoos and settle in for some lame sci-fi escapism. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, Star Wars made some movie magic. Now, its creator is just concerned with merchandising this mythology to death. (Saturday 11 November, 10:00pm EST).


 


StarzDoogal

How does an independent film company without its own animation department compete with the studio big boys in the ultra-competitive (and costly) world of computer generated junk? Why, you import a sappy French revamp of a British kiddie ‘classic’, re-dub most of the voices to maximize the mandatory stunt casting conceit of the genre, and fool the wee ones into thinking its another Shrek sequel. This mediocre mumbo jumbo about magical diamonds that can freeze the sun and a dog-led gang of heroes hoping to thwart evil is so faux hip, so wannabe cool that it collides with its own pointlessness to create a black hole sized void of ineptitude. It is possible that some of the more mentally challenged members of the intended demographic could look at this lousy CG cartoon and find something to celebrate, but with so many superior efforts available elsewhere, why even bother? (Premieres Saturday 11 November, 9:00pm EST).


 


ShowtimeBloodRayne

Dr. Uwe Boll may be able to kick some online film critic buttocks, but he is still incapable of making a professional grade film. Part of the problem is that he continually focuses his careless cinematic efforts on adaptations of subpar video games. The other reason, however, is that Boll is basically inept when it comes to putting a narrative together. This scattered, slipshod attempt to fiddle with the vampire mythos contains nothing but lame action sequences, non-existent characterization, and enough disinterested acting nods (from Ben Kingsley, Billy Zane and Michael Madsen, specifically) to guarantee a bad time at the movies. Then Boll works his own Teutonic talentlessness on the entire process, and what was merely a bomb becomes an abomination. Making House of the Dead look decent is a hard feat to accomplish. BloodRayne manages to do that…and not much else. (Saturday 11 November, 9:15pm EST)


 


 


The Cream of the Crop

In honor of IFC’s month-long celebration of Janus Films, SE&L will skip the standard daily overview of what’s on the other movie-based cable outlets and, instead, focus solely on what it and the Sundance Channel have to offer. Beyond that premise, however, we will still only concentrate on the best of the best, the most inspiring of the inspiring, the most meaningful of the…well, you get the idea. For the week of 11, November, here are our royal recommendations:


IFC

: Every Tuesday in November is Janus Films night. For the 14th, the selections are:



The White Sheik
Before he was the master of the absurd, Fellini was creating, warm, witty fables like this one, revolving around a newlywed, her honeymoon, and the actor she idolizes.
(9PM EST)


Mr. Hulot’s Holiday
Combining slapstick with satire, French film legend Jacques Tati created the classic title character for this unflinching comedic look at how the leisure class lives.
(10:30PM EST)


Loves of a Blond
As part of the “Czech New Wave” future Oscar winner Milos Forman came to the attention of the West with this wonderful ensemble comedy.
(12AM EST)



Sundance Channel


11 November - Fahrenheit 451
Though somewhat flawed, François Truffaut’s adaptation of Ray Bradbury’s topical sci-fi novel still has plenty of prescient bite.
(11PM EST)


13 November - Pink Flamingos
The film that turned director John Waters into a Midnight Movie icon, this masterpiece of contemporary cynicism is just as joyfully jaded 34 years later.
(2:40AM EST)


14 November - Brazil
Mired in studio politics and misunderstood upon its initial release, Terry Gilliam’s future shock send-up is today one of the director’s most beloved and brave works. 
(10PM EST)


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Wednesday, Nov 8, 2006


Sometimes, it’s hard for a critic to sum up his or her feelings about a film. It usually occurs on those rare occasions – and they are indeed few and far between – when a movie literally makes you forget all the reasons why you are viewing – and eventually reviewing it - in the first place. The narrative catches you completely off guard, the plotting provides more intrigue and enjoyment than you could have possibly imagined. Even better, the themes and emotional underpinnings which motivate the expertly drawn characters are so involving and deep that, before you know it, you’ve completely forgotten about deadlines, word count and being a clever cinematic scholar. All you care about is the spellbinding experience in front of you. This is indeed what happened to me as I settled in to take on Christopher Nolan’s latest mindblowing masterwork, The Prestige. After 135 minutes of nearly flawless filmmaking, it is safe to say that I had lost all concept of critical impartiality. This film is, without a doubt, one of 2006’s greatest artistic achievements.


Nolan, a motion picture non-entity nine years ago when he arrived on the scene with his whimsical short Doodlebug, argues for his place among the seemingly small class of post-modern, post-millennial auteurs with this fascinating, finely tuned effort. With only five full length feature films under his belt – 1998’s Following, 2000’s Memento, 2002’s Insomnia, 2005’s Batman Begins and now The Prestige – this amazingly gifted Brit continues to baffle as well as make believers out of fans who just can’t figure out how he does it. Before he came along, the murder mystery was seen as an old fashioned b-movie subject. But Memento‘s backwards narrative audacity avoided obvious gimmickry to redefine the genre and become an exceptionally fine film. Similarly, big budget superhero movies were a dime a couple dozen in the free-spending Hollywood of the last decade, and yet Nolan managed to make Batman viable again by positing The Dark Knight with a real and recognizable psychological underpinning. The result? One of last year’s best efforts.


And now we have The Prestige. How does one begin to describe how delicate and demanding this movie is? How to be respectful without resorting to full bore film geek love. It is safe to say that the remarkable ensemble cast that Nolan compiles – including award worthy turns from Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale, Michael Caine and, believe it or not, David Bowie – is matched in majesty only by the brilliant script adaptation that the director and his screenwriting brother Jonathan carved out of Christopher Priest’s prized novel. This is not a film about how certain tricks are accomplished (though we do learn a few secrets along the way), nor is it merely the tale of an increasingly antagonist rivalry between two talented magicians. Instead, The Prestige takes its title literally, asking us to believe in the power that stature and esteem has over two dark, desperate men, to witness how far both will go to achieve it for themselves…and more importantly, prevent it from happening for the other. The plot is complex, weaving in and out of obsession, doubt, ovations and despair. In Nolan’s completely capable hands, what could have been muddled or melodramatic is monumental – and quite moving.


This is indeed the kind of experience one goes to the movies for. It’s escape, but not the pure popcorn and eye candy kind. Like a rich meal or a decedent desert, The Prestige is the kind of motion picture meal you savor, a movie that requires your utmost indulgence to deliver maximum satisfaction. If a cutthroat competition between two incredibly multifaceted men that skips across time and place to deliver its layers of intrigue and eventual decisive denouements leaves you cold, if you would rather see a pretty period piece, unevenly executed and lacking a real feel for the era in question, then by all means avoid The Prestige and pick out something else to spend your hard earned leisure lira on. But if you don’t mind a test, if you’re up for experiencing the sights, the smells, and the sensations of a turn of the century world, if brilliant acting by performers getting completely lost in their characters fills you with the kind of cinematic joy that’s rare in this pre-packaged and focus grouped entertainment environment, then this is the film for you. It is indeed rare when a movie can make your forget the very reasons why you came to the theater in the first place. Like all the elements that make up this stellar motion picture, it is all part of The Prestige‘s amazing magic.


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Wednesday, Nov 8, 2006


In my opinion, wasted potential is at the top of the list of a filmmaker’s greatest disappointments. When a great director, or at least a director of great potential, seizes a topic - especially one filled with richness and vigor - it is assumed that he or she will dive into it greedily, basking in its power. The result should be the creation a cinematic vision that will remind the viewer of the power of film. But when that individual instead takes such sound subject matter and prefers only to graze the surface, favoring sloth to imagination and assumed self-importance rather than deference to the craft, it is truly a tragedy. And in this particular case, the disaster in question is called Heading South (“Vers le Sud”), Laurent Cantet’s French/English film from 2005 that explores sex tourism in 1970s Haiti.


More specifically, the film follows Brenda (Karen Young), Sue (Louise Portal) and the queen bee herself Ellen (Charlotte Rampling), middle aged white women who come to Haiti annually. There, they provide cash and gifts to young, impoverished Haitian men in exchange for sexual favors and their company. Legba (Menothy Cesar), the resident hottie and particular favorite of both Ellen and Brenda, becomes caught (naturally) in between the growing feelings of each woman. As I watched the story unfold, I became increasingly disillusioned as Cantet. Here was a filmmaker quite content to create a story set in late ‘70s Haiti, and yet never once did he even attempt to explore the nation’s rule by Jean Claude Duvalier.


A determined despot, Duvalier and his crew ruled the island with a violent, bloody fist. Colonialism, poverty, class, race, and political oppression are all salient themes for a film of this nature. Sadly, each is barely addressed within the confines of the story. It makes me question why Cantet would prefer to sell his subject short, creating a film that is in many ways equally insensitive and offensive to Haiti’s heritage. He could have made a film that created a nuanced portrait of a topic riddled with dimensionality. Instead, he chose the easy way out.


Not only did Cantet - whose previous films Ressources Humaines (“Human Resources”) and L’Emploi du Temps (“Time Out”) received immense critical acclaim - feel content to bask in the glaring omissions in his art but so did The New York Times. In a review of the film, Stephen Holden makes no mention of the issues of race and class, when he should recognize that said subjects are implicit in the very nature of the film. Neither is there a mention of the overriding issues of colonialism. What then is the duty of the filmmaker to his/her subject? Can art fail? What is the burden of the creator? Heading South is only one example of many of promise wasted and inherent richness taken for granted.


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Tuesday, Nov 7, 2006


There is a grand distinction between being antisocial and being insane. One does not necessarily follow from the other, and people who are psychotic often have their tendencies misdiagnosed as against society when they are really anti-everything. No, people who prefer their own company have reasons for the self-imposed exile, most of them very private and very prickly. They tend to see themselves as isolated, islands in a large sea of dissimilar personalities. Such a sense becomes a barrier, a constantly refortified buttress that must be maintained and rebuilt whenever anyone attempts to break through it. With each advance and repair comes psychological scar tissue, formed from the anxiety of interaction and the tranquility of evasion. It’s no more Pavlovian than that—people cause stress, the lack of same causes peace. As we are creatures of comfort by nature, the tendency toward unfriendliness is not unexpected. It is just not a state of being we usually relish.


But for those with a delicate artistic temperament, for anyone who has ever felt stigmatized or marginalized because they were different—physically or socially, for people who perceive the world as a great big playground that they are not allowed to enter, a desire to alienate and retreat from the human condition is part of the process. It’s art’s mandate. It’s emotion’s missive. Frankly, there is nothing wrong with wanting to be far from the maddening crowd, or lost in a world of your own devising and design. It’s when the outside realm not longer has meaning, when the brain confuses fantasy with fulfillment that problems occur. For the painfully shy Janet “Jean” Frame, a poverty-stricken existence on the outer edge of New Zealand was already about as removed from civilization as one could get. But with her wholly introverted manner and lack of interpersonal skills, tragedy and truth ganged up on her, leaving her vulnerable and violated. She would be hounded by claims of mental illness all her life, even hospitalized for it. But she always had a savior, a guardian at her side. As Jane Campion shows in her amazing film from 1989, Frame had writing. Her love of language and the written word saved her. It was an angel at her table.


Janet “Jean” Frame was the miserable middle child in a household constantly falling into financial ruin. Her father worked for the New Zealand railroads, and her mother was a mighty matron trying to raise four girls (Janet—or Jean—was one) and an epileptic son. As she grew, Jean’s childhood was a series of isolated instances: making and breaking friendships, scolding and holding blames. By the time she reached adolescence, she was socially stunted and emotionally crippled. Tragedy seemed to be eroding her fragile psyche when she least expected or wanted it, and there was never any support, either from peers or parents.


Still, Jean loved to write. She worshipped poetry and found herself humbled by prose. She would spend hours poring over books and filling her journals with stanzas and skylarking. While away at teacher-training college, her mournful, saddening sonnets got the attention of the faculty. One thought she needed help, and it wasn’t long before Jean was a resident of Seacliff, one of the country’s most notorious mental hospitals. She spent eight years in asylums, receiving over 200 electro-shock treatments to “cure” her misdiagnosed schizophrenia. Again, it was her words that saved her. An administrator discovered that one of Jean’s short-story collections had been published, and was the winner of a prestigious award. She was soon back home, and well on her way to becoming one of New Zealand’s, and the world’s preeminent authors. Jean eventually chronicled her collapse in a trilogy of insightful memoirs—To the Is-Land, The Envoy from Mirror City, and An Angel at My Table.


It was Harlan Ellison who once said, and this is pure paraphrasing, that one of the most important parts of maturity is learning to understand the difference between being lonely, and being alone. When you learn to stop feeling lonely, and learn to enjoy being alone, you enter the realm of true wisdom and earn a key to that most misunderstood of realms known as adulthood. Why people panic about being alone is an interpersonal mystery of many facets. Sometimes, it’s the way one was raised that affects this emotion. Individuals who enjoy families filled with love, those blessed with best friends and a substantial social calendar may seem lost without a constant stream of humanity humming about them. Others whom like the connection between people and places may appear alarmed when not surrounded by the pulsing and pushing of life. But when you can be by yourself, and not feel frightened or fidgety, that is a sign of development. It is an acknowledgment of individual mortality. It is recognition of personal worth.


Besides, being alone has its benefits. It is the catalyst for self discovery, and a way of learning about preferences and proclivities. We uncover much more about our own way of being when we are by ourselves than any amount of interaction with siblings or confidants. It’s like looking in a metaphysical mirror, and trying to see what’s beneath the forced facade of communal dictations and cultural signs. That journey, and the eventual discovery of the hidden human treasure inside, is one of the great voyages anyone can ever go on. Being lonely has its side effects as well. Alienation and isolation can come calling as companions to the state of longing, and without immediate gratification or the promise of a people fix, the addiction drives deeper and hurts harder. Soon, the need for another person becomes a plague, a tiny tendril of fear that eventually rages like a fever all over the body. Thoughts then become muddled, motives foggy and shrouded.


In Jane Campion’s moving and magical biography of New Zealand author Janet “Jean” Frame, we witness the cinematic expedition of one woman’s shift from painful loneliness to acceptable solitude. It’s a tragic tale of missed opportunities, lost loves, and many misconceptions. Frame found solace in writing, but it would not be an easy notebook to navigate. Throughout her growing years, Frame was an outcast, a lower-class bumpkin with an unruly mop of iconic red hair. Yet what we learn is that, once she understood that being different was all right, that there was nothing so terribly wrong about losing oneself in words and sentences, Frame found her own inner peace. That is why An Angel at My Table is such an epic undertaking. It moves from the miniature to the major, from a celebration of solitude to a statement about those wide-open personal spaces, both external and internal. Based on Frame’s own autobiographical trilogy and conceived for New Zealand television as a three-part miniseries, Campion reconfigured the long-form feature for a big screen release. And the results are resplendent.


This is indeed a movie in movements. Since it was conceived in segments, it is easy to view Campion’s command of the cinematic language in each and every phase. “To the Is-Land” is childhood as impressionism and rose-colored romanticizing. There is no real linear narrative in Part 1 of Frame’s life, just a series of shots and a collection of moments that begin to paint her person in broad, bravado strokes. We see Frame as a baby, wandering the overly green grasses of New Zealand’s farmland. Later, a more mature child walks down a long, lonely highway by herself, inner monologue working overtime about her outsider status among the community. Right from the start, Campion is emphasizing isolation. The young actress essaying the role of Frame is practically lost in the vastness of an opalescent Kiwi horizon. More parts are painted in—happiness and heartache, with everything being set up for the second section of the story.


“An Angel at My Table” shifts the focus to Frame’s college years, and does a more normative job of highlighting the girl’s tragic tale. The main focus here is Frame’s horrifying hospitalization. While avoiding Snake Pit-like proselytizing, we instantly recognize the indignity of placing a shy but talented girl who really only needs some attention and a kind hand into the barbaric restraints of the New Zealand mental health system. Seacliff is the most notorious of them all, a squalid place that we first view when a young Jean sees the city’s train station from a coach window. There, she witnesses the castoff mentality of the nation’s citizens as “loonies” wander freely, frightened and fighting their own angst-ridden demons. She immediately understands the reputation derived from a stay at such a place. Unfortunately, Frame stays for almost eight years. Campion depicts the passage of time in tableaus of decreasing conditions. The beginning phases are seen as almost tranquil. But by the end, Frame is in fear for her mental life.


Many may wonder why this sequence is not the heart of An Angel at My Table‘s story. After all, the horrors of the psychology industry are at the heart of many melodramatic movies. Yet this is not really what Campion wants to discuss. Certainly, Frame’s stay is important, but it is more empowering than entrapping. Prior to her commitment, Jean is seen as scattered and unskilled. She wants to be a writer, but can’t find the way to make anyone understand it. When she has her first breakdown (during a teacher’s evaluation), it’s a sign. It’s her mind telling her to quit this mundane masquerade and get on with the art. So Campion is out to show how the written word saved Frame’s life—and indeed it does. It is her prose that frees her from the institution. It is her poetry that questions the diagnosis of intellectual dysfunction. Once “cured” by the love of language, Frame simply has to find her place in the world. Once again, writing would come to the rescue.


“The Envoy from Mirror City,” the last act in the story, differs dramatically from the other sections in Campion’s film in many ways. Parts 1 and 2 take place over years, time having no meaning or place within the main narrative drive. Events are used as accents, highpoints in an overall personality profile. But by the time we reach Frame in her late 20s, she has already suffered through death and defeat, experiencing a hundred lifetimes in the unruly one she’s been given. So Campion concentrates on a single section of Frame’s later story—a fabled trip to Europe and, most specifically, Spain. It is during this holiday from hopelessness that Frame finally grows up. She experiences responsibility and rejection. She looks for love and finds it. Sex shows up and divulges its secrets. And Frame finally discovers that there is more to life than writing. Throughout the final phases of the story, we see her happy and content—or at least as happy and content as she can be—and we realize that somewhere inside her is the capability of solace without language. Luckily, at the end of her adventures, she has both to keep her sane.


This is why An Angel at My Table is unlike any biography you will ever see. Part character study, part carefully crafted human sketchpad, we are prompted to view our heroine from the inside out, not the circumstances in. Indeed, Frame’s life—aside from her stay in the asylum—plays out like most notable stories of growing up. Sure, this little girl ages to be a published author, but there is a significant lack of skeletons and scandal in her closet. The most iconic element about Frame, and something Campion uses consistently as counterpoint, is her brazen bush of hair. Flaming red as if her mind is constantly alight with fires of inspiration and anxiety, this girl is a body under a halo of follicle happenstance. There is one amazing shot, after the bomb has been dropped on Pearl Harbor, where a pre-hospitalization Frame goes walking away from a group of friends. As the camera stays put, we see her silhouette fade off into the distant. Once it loses its human form, the image becomes symbolic. Frame appears as an object with a large, domineering dome situated on its apex. It marks her as a woman with a head loaded with ideas and talent. It also argues for an unfortunate whose psyche is about to burst.


Another reason An Angel at My Table is so unusual is that it has the feeling of a fairy tale, of a story unstuck in real time. Though world events touch this tiny part of New Zealand, the Frame family appears lodged at the literal fringes of existence. Campion paints her native country in as many mesmerizing strokes as fellow Kiwi Peter Jackson would in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Within this realm of real magic, Campion places her characters, and allows them to interact with the landscape. There are dozens of shots of people set against the horizon, of fences climbing hills and livestock overrunning the land. This director seems to be saying that Frame’s story of growing up and maturing is almost in sync with the expansion of New Zealand’s national identity. Both are closed off and isolated universes. Both contain talents and terrors. Each has a rugged desire to endure, and both come out as survivors of a sort in the end. It is not easy to name another film that allows tranquility to so readily slip into fear as An Angel at My Table. New Zealand is still a wild and woolly environment during Frame’s childhood, much like the girl herself.


Of course, Campion requires more than just beautiful backdrops to make her points. She needs actors capable of transcendence, performers blessed with unbridled tenacity. Required to carry the majority of the movie on her back, Kerry Fox is fantastic as the adult version of Frame. Though the actresses playing her younger selves (Karen Ferguson as the childhood Jean, Alexia Keogh as the adolescent Frame) add equal amounts of depth to the portrayal, Fox is left with the most complicated part of our heroine. She must transport all the youthful issues locked up inside the various stages of her saga and let them flow across her in a constant stream of psychological unease. It helps tremendously that Fox has a perfectly fragile voice. When she speaks, in a low lilting tone, it’s like listening to lace disintegrate. As her doomed sisters, Melina Bernecker (as Myrtle) and Samantha Townsely (as the feisty and fiery Isabel) also leave lasting impressions. They argue for what a non-artistic Jean could have ended up being. They are girls of the game, promiscuous and proud, using their physicality and sexuality to crawl out from under the paucity around them. They can’t help their sad sibling just as she cannot save them. Everyone is doomed, yet An Angel at My Table also argues that, sometimes, we hold our own salvation in our hands.


Interestingly, this is not a feel-good fable. There is no major amount of emotional uplift at the end of this story, no five handkerchief histrionics where life is reaffirmed and melancholy mopped up. No, for Jean Frame, there is just a happy state of solemn eccentricity. Established now as an author and her own person, she lives alone in a caravan, existing in a kind of nominal no-man’s land where everything is calm and creative. She has the world when she wants (or needs it). The same goes for her writing. It is a credit to Campion that we don’t obsess over this idea. We see it for what it is—the natural result of Jean Frame’s arduous personal journey. It was hard to even doubt she would ever make it. After all, she had art to look after her, and there is no better angel at one’s table than talent.


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Monday, Nov 6, 2006


Believe it or not, there are only seven full shopping weeks before something called Santa Claus teaches the wee ones of the world a lesson in misguided materialism and hope-crushing gift disappointment. Of course, this means DVD marketers industry wide are stuck trying to find creative ways of pushing the same product back into your already bloated gift sack. As you venture into your local technology center, wish list gripped firmly in hand, you will have to navigate shelves filled with box sets, special editions, limited releases and the always aggravating double dips. Still, if you look closely, you’ll see some very worthy fare out there – as well as a horrid comedy from three months ago that, hopefully, will die the oversized death its undersized storyline so richly deserves. With such a diverse selection to choose from, the only advice SE&L can supply is select wisely – oh, and anything from Criterion or Something Weird Video is always welcome under the blog’s bountiful Yuletide tree. The possible prizes awaiting your wampum for 7 November are:


Cars

*
Why, exactly, did critics pick on Pixar and this latest example of their anthropomorphic expertise? Is it all just a matter of success-based jealousy, or was there something really wrong with this story about a spoiled stock car who learns valuable life lessons at the hands of some backwater automobiles. For all the claims that this ‘only average’ entry in the company’s creative canon could not match the magic of Finding Nemo or Monsters, Inc., for SE&L’s money, this was some unbelievably fun stuff. Besides, the computer animation bar is set at right around The Incredibles for us, and all other offerings more or less pale in comparison. Still, Cars was a solid, sensationally realized effort that may have poured on the schmaltz, but still delivered an array of dizzying visuals that made the basic narrative explode with invention and wonder. If this is supposedly run of the mill animation, what does one label the frequently lame offerings from other cartoon creators?



PopMatters Review


Carousel: 50th Anniversary Edition

*
One of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s more inventive and evocative musicals, this forgotten gem gets frequently overlooked (along with the unworthy Flower Drum Song) when classic song and dance showcases are considered. And that’s too bad, since it features some of the duo’s more ambitions tunes and a pair of compelling performances from Gordon MacRae as Billy Bigelow and Shirley Jones as Julie Jordan. Granted, the subject matter here is much darker than in your standard Broadway show, and the operetta approach can throw some artform aficionados off their game, but this is still one of the best combinations of story, performance and melody the pair ever attempted. Long available on DVD, this new 50th Anniversary presentation promises commentary, cut songs and an overview of the production. Even better, you can round out your collection by picking up the Box Set edition which includes other timeless masterworks like The Sound of Music and South Pacific.



Cinema Paradiso: Collector’s Edition

*
What exactly, has happened to Giuseppe Tornatore in recent years? A look at his IMDb resume reveals a string of films since this 1989 Oscar winner for Best Foreign Language film, but after the solid follow-up, Everybody’s Fine, his efforts have never really made an impact outside his Italian homeland. While his 1998 movie The Legend of 1990 is plastered all over some pay cable channels, few of his other productions have made it over to our discerning shores. And that’s too bad, since this love letter to cinema is one of the best nostalgic narratives the medium has to offer. Tornatore, using a flashback style storyline, expresses everything that’s magic, maddening, and moving about motion pictures, and does so with limited sap and just a small amount of pap. Previous DVD editions have revealed differing cuts of the film, as well as limited supplemental elements. This newest presentation promises to include all available versions, as well as a few complementary surprises.



The Fallen Idol: The Criterion Collection

*
Carol Reed, the British director responsible for several of cinema’s more outstanding milestones (The Third Man, Oliver!) delivered one of the most devastating takes on hero worship and shattered expectations ever attempted. In this classic coming of age tale, a young boy looks up to the family butler, a secretive man whose life appears both purposefully enigmatic and oddly clandestine. When a murder forces the child to confront his issues of loyalty and adulation, the truth becomes more difficult to decipher than the mixed messages from the adults around him. Long lost to the occasional revival by a classic film channel, Criterion steps up and gives this minor masterwork the preservationist’s polish it so richly deserves. With a brand new black and white transfer, and a documentary about the filmmaker and his fascinating career, there is more to this release than just a chance to own a remarkable motion picture. It’s a chance to celebrate a forgotten artist as well.


 


Little Man
SE&L is sick and tired of every review of this film pointing out that the so-called story for this anti-comedy atrocity is lifted directly from the Warner Brothers cartoon “Baby Buggy Bunny”. Granted, this horrible hackwork by the used to be talented Wayans Brothers did lift a few of its fetid gags from the 1954 animated short, but there is a far more disturbing source for much of this movie’s Apocalyptic awfulness. In 1932, the Our Gang/Little Rascals starred in “Free Eats”, a slapstick send-up of poverty and the orphaned featuring – you guessed it – a pair of midgets pretending to be babies. Their ruse? To rob a rich matron of her fancy jewels. Since the dowager is throwing a party for the star unfortunates, the crooks come along for the toddler carriage ride. All manner of racially insensitive, but still quite hilarious, hi-jinx ensue. It’s the only thing that separates the humorous efforts of the past from the laugh-free lameness of this Summer of 2006 cinematic hate crime.



PopMatters Review


Oh! What a Lovely War!
Political satire usually comes in one of two distinct packages: outlandish and obvious, or subtle and subversive. Oddly, this 1969 British effort – clearly timed as a rebuke of the US involvement in Vietnam - wants to be a little bit of both. With an approach that’s more like a musical M*A*S*H* than an actual attempt at lampooning the events of World War I, Sir Richard Attenborough follows the infamous Charles Chilton play rather faithfully. He also gets magical performances out of UK staples Maggie Smith, Ian Holm and John Mills, among many others. There was a lot of behind the scenes intrigue during the making of this movie, and with its absence from the DVD domain, the newly minted special edition promises to address some of the scandal. In this time of war, where questions are being raised regarding the nobility of dying for an unjust cause, this ripping roast of the insanity of armed conflict may finally find an eager and accepting audience.


Wordplay*
It’s a hobby that can count such diverse persons as Bill Clinton, the Indigo Girls and Bob Dole as participants. It requires a knowledge of language, a skill at problem solving, and a mind that can strategize and extemporize equally well. Indeed, everyday, millions of people around the world sit down with their morning paper and don’t feel fully awake until they’ve had a crack at the crossword puzzle. This delightful documentary centers on the 28th Annual competition for “professional” solvers, and yet it’s the testimonials from the famous and the faithful that really resonate throughout. Watching people describe their ‘addiction’, admitting to themselves for perhaps the first time that their lives are undeniably linked to discovering a five letter word for “frequently indifferent” is truly enlightening. Bolstered by a wealth of added content, and a chance to see who actually wins the final round of the 2006 American Crossword Puzzle Tournament, this terrific title is enough to make you grab a pencil and start deciphering for yourself.



And Now for Something Completely Different:

In a weekly addition to Who’s Minding the Store, SE&L will feature an off title disc worth checking out. For 7 November:


Francis Ford Coppola Presents William S. Burroughs’ The Junky’s Christmas*
If you’re fed up of all the syrupy, saccharine holiday specials that seemingly clog up your TV screen about 30 seconds after Halloween ends, Francis Ford Coppolla and famed Beat author William Burroughs have the perfect antidote for you. This stop motion animated treat, based on the Burroughs’ story of the same name, centers around a recently incarcerated dope fiend desperate for a fix. When he finally scores, he’s forced into a position of either fending for himself, or helping out another in need. The work by director Nick Donkin is amazing, a kind of anti-Rankin/Bass approach where reality and surrealism are mixed together to form a unique combination of fact and fairy tale. Of course, Burroughs narrates this excellent adaptation, and his cracked, croaking voice adds just the right amount of seasonal cynicism. Presented along with a pair of short films that are equally evocative, here’s the perfect stocking stuffer for those who’d like to see the entire commercialized celebration blown up.



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