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Monday, Jul 30, 2007


If you didn’t already know it by now, Short Ends and Leader is one year old this week. So in celebration of such a monumental achievement, we’ll be forgoing some of the standard blog entries – at least for today – in order to offer up some perspective on the aesthetic behind this daily film discussion. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing but worthless digital dung being released at the local brick and mortar. In fact, two of 2007’s best movies are making their debut on DVD, and they’re well worth your cash consideration. While SE&L will not be reviewing them separately, here are links to our previous theatrical reviews. They more than make our feelings known. Yes, we really loved these films, and with the prospect of commentaries, interviews and other added content, you know our copies will be in the cart come 31 July:



Short Ends and Leader’s 300 Review



Short Ends and Leader’s Hot Fuzz Review


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Monday, Jul 30, 2007


He hadn’t made a theatrical motion picture since 1982’s Fanny and Alexander, vowing to retire after completing the highly autobiographical project. He spent his later years dabbling in theater, and working in television in his native Sweden. He even penned a few screenplays, some directed by his son Daniel, others directed by friends and former lovers. Yet it’s clear that, even in his absence, the influence and importance of Ernst Ingmar Bergman to the language and art of cinema remains as solid today as it did when he first splashed onto the international stage some six decades ago. With a creative canon that spans considered masterworks like Wild Strawberries (1957), The Seventh Seal (1957), and Scenes from a Marriage (1973), he almost singlehandedly defined the whole foreign film/arthouse genre. While many others can also claim part of this title, Bergman remains the consummate example of personal and professional philosophies folded into one other and presented—open handed and open hearted—for the world to witness.


Like a select few famous names—Kurosawa, Fellini, Hitchcock—that actually helped to evolve and develop the technical and aesthetic merits of film, Bergman was a true motion picture visionary. Some might argue with that determination, viewing his stark, darkness driven efforts as generic and plain, or worse, gloomy and dull. But with his reliance on extreme close-up, static tableaus, and monochromatic contrasts, he captured both the bitter cold of his numb Nordic home, as well as the often hidden yet simmering emotions of its people perfectly. Some considered him the consummate actor’s director. Others viewed his work in far more metaphysical, even ephemeral, terms. In true contrast to the pictures coming out of other countries—Hollywood’s sensationalized pulp fictions, Italy’s earthy Neo-Realism, France’s deconstructing New Wave—Bergman boiled down his awful early childhood (his Lutheran Minister father was a haughty and strict task master) into melancholy expressions of man’s place within God and nature’s overall design. In doing so, he elevated ennui into something close to epic.


The battle between religion and reality was essential to his creative concerns. He mused on faith, the power of personal belief, the notion of mortality vs. the promise of an afterlife, and the distinct tug of war between living, dying, and dealing with both. He could be arcane and obtuse, making his points with symbols and noticeably non- sequitored imagery, yet he considered himself a rather forthright presenter of existence’s larger mysteries. Whatever the case, few directors can claim influence over modern day moviemakers as diverse as Wes Craven (who based his 1972 breakthrough The Last House on the Left on Bergman’s 1960 The Virgin Spring) and Woody Allen, and yet such was this director’s strength that even the most divergent of artists could experience his work and take away something very personal, and very purposeful, from his oeuvre. Names as significant as Robert Altman and Andrei Tarkovsky more or less based their careers on his influence.


For some, his seminal effort remains 1957’s existential masterwork The Seventh Seal. An unusual narrative focusing on a medieval knight, fresh from the Crusades, traveling back to his home only to discover a country ravaged by plague, it offered the allegorical imagery of the hero—a golden Max Von Sydow—playing chess with a white faced, ghoulish Death. The stakes? The champion’s life. The motive? The meaning of life. In between, Bergman used clever iconography and fresh perspectives (a traveling caravan of circus performers, the ceremonial burning of a witch) to express the ongoing struggle between existence and the end, the significance of survival and the promised bliss in shrugging off this mortal coil. Very theatrical, almost Shakespearean in his approach, Bergman often stated that it was his belief in the intuitive relationship between actor and director, one where both worked together to achieve a greater, grander end, that marked the success of his films, not the ideas or issues they raised. Seal certainly celebrates both.


Through a Glass Darkly

Through a Glass Darkly


Yet the ‘60s/‘70s remain Bergman’s main decades of artist triumph and acclaim. He won two Oscars (out of a total of three) for Best Foreign Film—for The Virgin Spring and 1961’s Through a Glass Darkly—and would go on to receive nine more nominations over the course of his time behind the camera. His name became synonymous with the growing movement toward the incorporation of world cinema in the discussion, and along with other noted names mentioned before, formed the basis for much of the film scholarship of the era. Indeed, it’s clear that Bergman remains one of the several noteworthy components that ended up transforming into the post-modern aesthetic that’s driven cinema over the last 30 years. Thanks in part to his scattered output over his so-called ‘retirement’, the current cinephile tends to relegate this formative founding ‘father’ among the artifacts of an important, if no longer resonant time.


Persona

Persona


By doing so, they are missing out on some of the most profound and provocative films of the 20th Century. Bergman remains a true lyricist within the medium, translating unspoken thoughts and unexpressed feelings into novel-like narratives filled with inference and depth. But he’s not merely an intellectual—he’s a devotee of all the artform’s facets. There’s the dreamlike imagery of Persona (1966) and the brilliant cinematography and oversaturated colors of 1972’s Cries and Whispers (contrasting the film’s dark obsession with death). There’s the cruelty and comeuppance of The Virgin Spring, the charming choice of rather risqué subject matter (sex) for Smiles of a Summer Night (1955), and the hidden evils of a post-World War I Germany in The Serpent’s Egg (1977). To his credit, Bergman managed to stay true to his austere and sometimes tragic designs while avoiding repetition. Some viewed his work as the perfect reflection of the environment in which it was created while others noted that, while subtle, the filmmaker appeared to be dismissing the detached, distant stereotype associated with Sweden. There was no denying the personal nature of his canon. In fact, the parallels between his life and his livelihood are almost too similar to compare.


Fanny and Alexander

Fanny and Alexander


For all the considered and/or perceived perfectionism on screen, Bergman remained a decidedly incomplete and flawed figure in his personal life. Married five times—four ended in divorce, the last with the death of his wife from stomach cancer—he fathered nine children. A man of complicated political views, he waged a rather public battle with the Swedish government over charges of tax evasion (he eventually left the country for Munich until 1982, when he returned to make Fanny and Alexander).  While some considered him warm and kind, others noted a tendency toward highly strung behavior and a very quick temper. Often, his interpersonal problems were blamed on an early life overloaded with discussions of sin and confession, allegiance and conformity. As much as he fictionalized his life through his films, Bergman truly remained forever linked to the emotional complexity and metal malaise found in his characters.


And now, with his passing on 30 July, 2007 at age 89, the last legitimate old school cinematic giant has fallen. He follows other luminaries into the realm of legend, and eventually through time, into the epiphany of myth. There will be retrospectives and reissues, fans will muse on what could have been while novices will note waiting too long to discover his undeniable talents. Yet all one has to do to see Bergman’s lasting impact is recall the numerous noteworthy films they’ve seen by students of this amazing auteur. Had he continued contributing directly to film post-Fanny and Alexander, had he not decided to divide his time between personal projects, stage work, and the occasional documentary foray, it’s possible that he’d once again remake movies in his own aging image. For what it’s worth—and it’s a great deal indeed—Ingmar Bergman will be forever associated with the maturation of the motion picture paradigm. Its influence will shroud cinema in the shadows of the man who made such a visual dichotomy possible—and poetic. 


Trailer for The Seventh Seal


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Sunday, Jul 29, 2007


It’s unfathomable, how it continues to happen. Armchair pundits are ecstatic that it does, as are various members of the media’s comedic circus. No one can deny how realistically heartbreaking it is, since no one likes to see innocence sullied so. And of course, there are scapegoats in abundance – distance deadbeat dad, disconnected insufferable stage mother, a populace who enjoys watching its celebrities ascend and shatter. But the real reason behind Lindsay Lohan’s undeniable fall from grace has less to do with her inability to stay sober (or sane), and much more to do with a culture of morbid curiosity that validates the slightest amount of talent for all its tacky tabloid potential. Ms. Demeanor is just the latest figurine is a museum of mean spiritedness that your average fame whore fan can’t stop frequenting.


It’s hard to imagine how the little girl who charmed crowds with her spritely spunky spirit in The Parent Trap and Freaky Friday remakes managed to turn her wide open fate into that of a less pretty Pete Douherty, and yet she’s now an official pariah. One need look no further than the 27 July premiere of her latest acting atrocity, I Know Who Killed Me for proof of such a stigma. A sodden psychological thriller that wants to be both clever and creepy, it barely managed a meager $3 million in turnstile twists. And the sad fact is, it’s just one in a long line of borderline bombs (Just My Luck, Georgia Rule) that have rendered the plain sight party gal virtually unhireable. While the Internet Movie Database lists Poor Things as her next project, the rest of her potential career arc has vanished, replaced by conflicting criminal testimony, uninsurability, and a magic bag of disappearing/reappearing cocaine.


Of course, personal responsibility is not being ignored here. As a 21 year old capable of driving (recklessly), drinking (excessively), and dying for her country (here’s hoping), Ms. Lohan cannot just wish away her clear culpability. Yet apparently she sees herself as the victim, a DUI collecting case of misspent (and understood) youth wrongly relegated to the archetypal child star destiny. But to toss around a right reliable proverb, actions speak louder than words, kiddo. Recent news stories have Li-Lo yelping, in sure self-deluded fashion - “I can do anything I want…I’m a fucking celebrity”. In retort, The Village Voice’s Michael Musto made a very salient point: “Like calling yourself ‘fabulous’, identifying yourself as (a star) automatically disqualifies you from being one.” Consider said standing revoked.


You’d think that the spat that arose between the actress and Morgan Creek Production’s CEO James G. Robinson would have knocked some sense into the spoiled star – or at the very least, disturb those leeching off her massive meal ticket position. Her last disaster, George Rule, was consistently undermined by the young performer’s ‘lack of professionalism’ – arriving late, absenteeism from the set, stints in the hospital for mysterious “illnesses”. Indeed, by the beginning of 2007, much of this troubled gals life was accented by air quotes, the truth of what was happening blatant, and yet still spun by those paid to make the famous appear flawless. But it was clear Lohan needed help. That being said, when a studio suit, the man who signs the checks and approves the budgets, belittles the proficiency of you’re A-list ATM, the time for intervention has long passed.


Miss Creant is not the first of her kind to go bonkers for basically no reason. The boulevard of broken dreams is paved with the puke of hundreds of these failed kidiots – underage actors who’ve falsely believed that success at six will translate into fun at 15, and an Oscar after adolescence. Unlike others who’ve drunk and drugged their way into an early grave, or a job working security at the local mall, Lohan seemed lucky. It appeared that, as she aged, the only transitional issue she had to worry about was her ever increasing bustline. And if she could handle the “real vs. fake” debate, the constant questioning over the nature of her knockers, she’d make it to the next step. But she discovered the joys of gin and the pleasant pain-numbing of nose candy, and the so standard descent began.


Still, someone should have told her that joining the ranks of Paris and Nicole, the Simple Life savants who’ve cornered the market on movie of the week behavioral blunders (porn, eating disorders, stints in the big house), is not the accepted rite of passage. If you’re looking for a young girl who made it to big time star with her integrity intact (and her criminal record clean), Jodie Foster is the role model to follow. Yet these young girl guns would rather trade body shots for Academy Award nominations, meaning their in it for the notoriety, not the notices. Of course, this suggests they have the talent to go the distance as well. It’s a concept to save for consideration another day.


Perhaps the most inexplicable element here, however, is the perception that females more than males are catching all the flack right now. Maybe Joe Jackson was right – it is different for girls. Matthew McConaughey can play naked bongos or go bat guano on an island seashore, cameras in full aperture observation mode, and he still manages to walk away as a slightly screwed up hunk. Tom Sizemore crystal meths up his life, plugging as much poison in his body as he can, and yet people pass it off as the regressive ravings of a man in need. Yet when Courtney Love acts in a similarly sloppy manner, mistaking her position as the fabled ex-wife of a dead rock icon as an excuse to forcibly feed her head, she’s citizen skank number one.


It may have something to do with the paternalistic perception of sexual weakness. As strong as women actually are – they grow and nurture the children, they survive the piggish slings and arrows of amorous, instinctual males – society loves to turn them into Cupie Doll drones, waiting for “daddy” or “big brother” to step in and rescue them. And yet, said sense of helplessness doesn’t then translate into acquittal. Instead, it appears to make the guilt even more monumental, as if to punish the lady for failing to see the error of her man-less ways. Again, context is everything here. Age can remove much of this mindset, as can a blatant disregard for direction. So not only does someone like Lindsay Lohan appear as a needy child avoiding the onus of socially acceptable behavior, she’s coughing up gold flecked vodka in their face.


This leads to another, more personal reason why people continue their fascination with such false idols – call it the pissed off public syndrome. You see, as much as we like to consider ourselves outside the ability to be swayed and influenced, to be more than easily lead cattle clinging to every piece of nonsensical news that stumbles upon the 24 hour cable callbox, we are indeed sheep to the sensationalized slaughter. When Paris Hilton was released from jail (the last time, not the times in between), the massive media presence wasn’t due to the noteworthy nature of the event. It was because they knew there was a realistic ratings share waiting to be tapped into. You see, as unhappy participants in a life that’s undeniably unfulfilling, the average Joe or Jolene sees the stumbling star and muses “how can they do that?” Inside their pork rind and Splenda soaked brain, they recognize the rarified air these pop culture accidents breathe, and make a mental note that they would never respond in a similar manner, should they win such a lifestyle lottery.


So they continue to watch – in judgment…in contempt. In Lohan’s case, there’s the additional facet of plausible performance deniability. She’s never really been great in a film – especially once she sprouted breasts – and yet the acting/singing/posing possibilities kept piling up. She worked with Robert Altman for Christ’s sake (A Prairie Home Companion), quite the CV statement for an unproven talent, while her controversial co-starring stint alongside Jared Leto as Mark David Chapman in Chapter 27 has yet to find full distribution. Even Disney couldn’t deny her, determining that an awkward phase Lindsay could helm their NASCAR based resurrection of the Love Bug franchise (they were wrong). From a minor role in Bobby to a couple of incomplete star turns, with every flop, every fading filmic fortune, no one really ripped into our out of control chanteuse. No wonder she wears a veil of invincibility. She’s never seriously been taken to the woodshed of opening weekend worth.


Until now. As I Know Who Killed Me begins to disappear from local screens, as its distributor determines the best route toward some rapid turnaround DVD profits, as those who’ve supported the falling star finally start giving up on her – Britney style – there remains two schools of thought on the Lohan longevity front. Some are convinced she can overcome this, do a Drew (as in Barrymore) and come out a confident, major league Tinsel Town player. In ten years, her ‘youthful indiscretions’ will be footnotes in an uplifting autobiography (soon to be a warts and all biopic). On the other hand, with an ex-convict pappy who “feels” for his child as he continues to milk her for money, and a thick as a post mother who fancies herself a more mature version of her offspring (including the deluded notion of celebrity), this could be one doomed damsel in a whole world of distress. The title of her latest movie may seem prophetic, but it only works if she recognizes the reflected irony. It’s a safe bet that she’s probably blamed everyone else by now. 


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Sunday, Jul 29, 2007


As part of a new feature here at SE&L, we will be looking at the classic exploitation films of the ‘40s - ‘70s. Many film fans don’t recognize the importance of the genre, and often miss the connection between the post-modern movements like French New Wave and Italian Neo-Realism and the nudist/roughie/softcore efforts of the era. Without the work of directors like Herschell Gordon Lewis, Joe Sarno and Doris Wishman, along with producers such as David F. Friedman and Harry Novak, many of the subjects that set the benchmark for cinema’s startling transformation in the Me Decade would have been impossible to broach. Sure, there are a few dull, derivative drive-in labors to be waded through, movies that barely deserve to stand alongside the mangled masterworks by the format’s addled artists. But they too represent an important element in the overall development of the medium. So grab your trusty raincoat, pull up a chair, and discover what the grindhouse was really all about as we introduce The Beginner’s Guide to Exploitation.


This time out: Grindhouse goofball Barry Mahon blows a spy spoof gasket.


There’s no more perplexing combination in all of exploitation than Barry Mahon and James Bond. No, the infamous grindhouse director had nothing to do with Ian Fleming’s classic spy, but when Dr. No became the genre redefining action thriller that every espionage fan went ga-ga over, he, like the rest of the men responsible for the raincoat crowd’s entertainment, stood up and took notice. In fact, no one embraced the genre more often than this flesh peddling “M”. Before you knew it, the careful plotting and shoot ‘em up violence of these calling cards of cinematic cool were being stripped down – literally – to their sexy swagger, with bare bodkin replacing bald bravado in the secret agent’s arsenal of efforts. Instead of putting the kibosh on international terrorism and ridiculously rampant communism, it was nothing but nookie for our ‘undercover’ experts.


Case in point – Something Weird Video’s Mahon double feature release for July: 1967’s Run Swinger Run and Sex Club International. In fact, if you include the truncated version of 1964’s The Adventures of Busty Brown (included as part of the DVD presentation’s added features), you’ve got three evocative examples of conspiracy as carnality with private dicks and slinky chicks smack dab in the middle of it all. Run is a regressive romp featuring a callgirl who ends up working for a UN approved ‘escort’ service. She learns a few diabolic details that were better left undiscovered. As for the partner picture, seedy PI Lucky Bang Bang (an investigator so unctuous he comes in Regular, High Test, and Ethel) stumbles upon some ‘legitimate’ brothels that decide to get into the blackmail racket. He must protect certain clients from having their perversions exposed, less the rest of the reprobate think badly of them. Along with our double D detectives attempt to rescue a kidnapped Asian gal, we’ve got a trio of tripe that stinks like a stopped up septic tank. And better yet, they’re all helmed by big bad Barry himself, a filmmaker not known for his subtlety or tact. 


Run Swinger Run

Laura’s life really sucks. One night, while in a typical adolescent repose, she’s mauled by some freeloader living in her mama’s boarding house. This leads, naturally, to a stint as a runaway. Hoping to seek solace and shelter from an old family friend, our heroine soon learns that her pal pushes dope to school kids – and she’s planning on using Laura as her newest drug selling jailbait. On the move again, our leading lady winds up part of a high class hooker syndicate, providing favors for important politicians and world leaders. When she beds a shady general from Korea, she soon discovers that the bastard is buying arms from the US – and then selling them to Vietnam! We’re helping kill our own troops! Outraged, Laura contacts the FBI, who laughs in her face. But they soon stop chuckling when a sniper tries to take her out. Landing in the lap of a hapless passerby, our marked maiden spills the beans to her shocked chauffer. No wonder she has to Run, Swinger Run! She’s more dangerous than the Black Panthers and the Yippies combined!


If you like your ‘good girls gone bad’ movies on the sleep inducing side, you’ll absolutely adore Run Swinger Run. Overloaded with plot and purposefully tied into the politics of the day (who knew Mahon was such an anarchist), this undeniably bizarre road picture starts out skuzzy and just gets scummier from there. Let’s face it; any narrative that begins with a pedo-defiling is really ratcheting up the raunch. Of course, what makes matters even worse is that we learn that Laura…liked it (EW!WWWW!!!). After that slog through the cinematic cesspool, director Mahon has a lot to live up to, and for a while he maintains Swinger’s seedy designs. When actress Elizabeth Bing (whose a lox as Laura) wanders into her supposed friend’s house, only to discover their desire to make her into a middle school mule, your eyebrows raise once again. Offering recreational pharmaceuticals to the pre-pubescent set? How shocking? Since we know our heroine is running for her life (the assassination attempt – while she’s bathing topless – happens before the opening credits), our curiosity is peaked. With everything that’s already happened, it must have taken a real risqué riot to get her in this much Dutch. Sadly, the reason is more Saigon than sin based. 


Indeed, Run Swinger Run decides to put a damper on the squalid stuff the rest of the way through the movie. After Laura hooks up with the comfort for cash enterprise, we get lots of standard Mahon moments – read: women sitting around, chewing the fat, naked bustline blowing in the wind. Instead of focusing on the psychological scarring they’ll suffer the rest of their lives, or the unmentionable reality that they’ll probably never leave said employment ‘alive’, these girls go on about making money, servicing the swarthy, and handling the kinkier clientele. It’s like listening to Heidi Fleiss and Sydney Biddle Barrows exchanging trade secrets. By the time we get to the last act car chase, complete with a stop over at a local roadside motel for necessary thriller ambience, we openly wonder how our star skank will get out of this mess. Turns out, Mahon believes in a slight variation on the whole Deus Ex Machina ideal – let’s just call it a last minute “cop” out and leave it at that. In fact, forgetting most of what you see as part of Run Swinger Run may be a very good idea. It’s a delightfully dopey mess, making its points with sledgehammer like precision. But unless you like your skin flicks dripping with unnecessary exposition and espionage, you’ll consider making a break for it as well. 


Sex Club International

Carol Kane is an enterprising young lass. Recognizing the obvious need amongst wealthy industrialists, high ranking cultural attachés, and similarly well to do gentlemen for readily available strings free fornication, she decides to open up a few selective social organizations. At first, she’s happy with the $5,000 franchise fee and the occasional perks of being a professional prostitute shill. But when low level gangster Dan Gray discovers the pure profit enterprise, he reacts how every good racketeer does – he tries to horn in on the action. At first, Ms. Kane is not interested. But the lure of more money gets the best of her, and almost overnight, each and every one of her exclusive erotica guilds are installing surveillance equipment and blackmailing the befuddled customers. That’s when hunk for hire Lucky Bang Bang steps in. Working for an undisclosed country, he must infiltrate the local Sex Club International and regain some in flagrante delicto footage before these VIPs experience something they’re not used to – public scrutiny and embarrassment.


There are two things that keep the amazingly dopey Sex Club International from falling completely apart – and neither have to do with supposed star Lucky Kargo (brother Clutch must be so embarrassed). No, our lumbering lead, a man with more bourbon and bankruptcy miles on his cracked kisser than an entire suburb full of insurance middle managers, is supposed to represent the suave and debonair element of our otherwise all girl gawk fest. A stuntman by trade and actor by apparent accident, this Vitalis fueled fool tries his damnedest to be the schlock cinema version of Sean Connery. Sadly, he’s barely his hack brother Neil (star of Operation Double 007). Whether it’s reading his dialogue – rather poorly, mind you – from noticeable off camera cue cards, to bopping around like a shaved ape on uppers during the fight scenes, he’s incompetence complicated by a total lack of charisma. Mahon tries to make him into something special, starting the film with a title card that reads “The Adventurous Lucky Bang Bang in…”, but all the audience can do is imagine other “A” adjectives that better suit this ersatz-spy-stud: anemic, awkward, and/or appalling. And since he spends the first 50 minutes of this one hour nude-a-thon sitting on a couch and yakking his head off (he tells us the entire story until his turn to bust things up), we recognize his action adventure ineptness right off the bat.


No, what saves Sex Club International, turning it from a lazy man’s Lazenby to a goofy pseudo-spoof is the character of Carol. Looking like a much more world weary Kathy Griffin (the D-list was never this nasty), bleached blond hair buttressing a ‘surely has seen better days’ face, our notable non-actress has a singular talent that makes all other exploitation queens quake with fear – she’s amazingly proficient at taking off her top for absolutely no good reason whatsoever. Let’s say she’s a little tired and needs a nap. Off comes the blouse. Some of her franchisees need retraining on the fine art of selling sex. Down comes the dress. Whether it’s explaining the finer points of seduction (“slowly, and more serious”) or taking a much needed exercise break (complete with free weights!) this is one carnal entrepreneur who really ‘backs up’ and exposes her product. And the other selling point? Mahon’s demented decision to offer an entire overlong sequence on a rule-less game which could best be described as “Pin the Bra on the Bimbo”. Various anonymous cast members take turns being blindfolded, undergarment in hand. They then roam around aimlessly until they stumble into someone else. As punishment – or pleasure??? – the loser gets to wear the lingerie. Then it’s their turn. All one can say after that is – HUH?!?! Indeed, that’s the perfect reaction to much of Sex Club International. It’s corporeal confusion offset by copious amounts of nudity. In Mahon’s world, that’s all that matters.



Of course, Something Weird wouldn’t let us walk away after only two hours of Barry badness. No, they add in an edited version of The Adventures of Busty Brown (along with a selection of trailers and Mahon nudies loops) to keep the cinematic sludge flowing. Nothing more than Mr. Bang Bang’s boorishness heaped on a gal with gignormous lungs, this softcore search and rescue is regressive in its race baiting (some of the action takes place in a decidedly celluloid version of Chinatown) and hilarious in its haplessness. Laurie Dane is uninspired as the private eye, her only viable asset being her ‘above the gut’ reactions. Since the narrative is sliced and diced into sequences of needless plotpointing and topless go-go dancing, all we can hope is that Mahon manages to pull it all together. As usual, he doesn’t even try. At least James Bond got narratives that attempted to tie up all its loose ends. In the wacky world of Barry Mahon, spies don’t need explaining. That’s why he will always be more 1967’s Casino Royale vs. the sleek slick 2006 type. And the grindhouse wouldn’t want it any other way.


 


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Saturday, Jul 28, 2007


Sunshine is a film about sacrifice. It’s a movie that asks the big questions and waits for the inevitable answer. It’s the kind of intellectually driven science fiction that Hollywood can’t be bothered to make nowadays. Instead of staying betrothed to the George Lucas School of Speculative Design, where everything is techno-wow and movie serial sodden, director Danny Boyle and writer Alex Garland have gone back to the original source of serious future shock – Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 – and fashioned their own post-modern, post-punk space odyssey. The results resonate inside the brain in a way few films in recent memory can claim, awakening long dormant desire for truth and explanation. This is the kind of movie that stimulates debate as it mires us in the mysteries of the cosmos. It sings – and it also saddens.


Sunshine is also a movie about faces – culturally diverse and individually indelible faces. A real rarity in the world of forward filmic thinking (unless you are The Matrix), this global collection of scientists and scholars are out to achieve a single goal. It’s the year 2057 and the sun is dying. Hoping to jumpstart the giant star, an interplanetary mission known as Icarus I was sent out to plant a bomb inside the core. It was never heard from again. Now, Icarus II is retracing the previous crew’s path, hoping to complete the objective and discover what happened to the other vessel. A series of semi-serious incidents put the operation in jeopardy, and when they suddenly stumble upon the abandoned wreckage of Icarus I, all hope appears lost. Little do they know, but something else wants to prevent them from achieving their aims, and they won’t stop until everyone, everywhere, is dead.


While the narrative seems lifted from several other extraterrestrial epics (Alien, Event Horizon, Solaris), what Boyle and Garland accomplish here is nothing short of a miracle.They manage to allude to previous motion pictures and yet make the riffs and references seem wholly their own. You never doubt the impending threat facing the Icarus crew, and each individual crew member is so well defined that you understand the unreal pressures and personal quandaries they’re going through. This is a movie that demands you pay attention, that states its purpose clearly and convincingly, but doesn’t continuously backtrack to fill in all the blanks. Either you get it or you don’t, you identify the real danger to both astronauts and Earth, or you’ve long since zoned out, dulled by the filmmakers request that you think.


But if you situate your brain into it, if you avoid the laziness that comes with most Hollywood hackwork and draw your deeper thoughts around what Sunshine has to say, you’ll be rewarded with one of the greatest insular extravaganzas ever. One of this film’s most fascinating achievements is how it can conjure up real terror and solid suspense without an overwhelming amount of visual flash and/or CGI splash. Yes, the F/X are amazing, especially the varying versions of the sun in all its gaseous glory. But because it takes its time to establish the personalities of the people piloting the ship, as well as the gravity of the solar system’s extinction, we come to worry over every single thing that’s happening, no matter how seemingly small or insignificant.


Boyle relies on his brilliant cast to keep his constantly shuffling story elements in play, and they never let him down. Cillian Murphy as Robert Capa, the crew physicist and only man capable of controlling the nuclear payload being used to revitalize the star, is absolutely outstanding. At first, we fear he will be nothing more than a science-minded doormat, the kind of character who has the tight ethos, but lacks the fortitude to push his plan. Yet even when casual circumstances force him into the position of mission scapegoat, Murphy makes sure we see Capa’s calculated focus. It makes his last act switch into pseudo-action man mode all the more believable. Similarly, Fantastic Four’s Chris Evans is given the thankless role of being the ra-ra American smartass who thinks he has everything under control. Yet his performance shades the standoffish brute, bringing him back down to reality just long enough to help sort-of save the day.


Equally impressive are unusual turns by Hiroyuki Sanada as Captain Kaneda, Benedict Wong as navigator Trey, and Michelle Yeoh as brittle biologist Corazon. In a narrative made up of consistent crisis and considerations, these brilliant Asian performers each get a single sensational sequence to shine. This is especially true when Yeoh discovers life inside a burnt out interstellar terrarium. With Whale Rider’s Cliff Curtis as a shipboard psychiatrist who may be cracking up himself and Rose Byrne as the Icarus’ pilot and chief emotional sounding board, we end up with human beings instead of heritage, a collection of strong willed but basically breakable people who must face the ultimate question – how far will you go to try and save your fellow man?


This altruistic agenda, this “the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the one” position may remind audiences of the whole Gene Roddenberry school of sci-fi scripture. But unlike the Star Trek take on the subject matter, Boyle and Garland want to strip away the nobility and focus on forgotten ideas like courage, fear, free will, and human error. The Icarus II becomes endangered because of a calculation blunder. The Icarus I imploded over ideas both spiritual and sinister. Sure, act three of this fine film can feel like a well thought out and brilliantly made horror show, complete with untimely death and unseen forces stalking our heroes, but our filmmakers are going for much more here. They are trying to tap directly into the make up of the individual mind, and deciphering what would make it snap – and then turn scary.


Luckily, Sunshine doesn’t supply simple answers. Like the overall complexity of its look and the authentic feel of its science, this is pristine puzzlebox asking for help in deciphering its hidden secrets. Such cinematic confrontation is unique, and argues for Boyle’s brilliance. A true renaissance filmmaker, seemingly capable of functioning well within any genre, his work here behind the camera is also impressive. Unlike the quick cut cacophony of his Trainspotting style, or the overcranked digital dread of 28 Days Later, there is a solemn, lax approach here, a matter of fact motion picture presentation that allows us to drink in the amazing art direction and awe-inspiring vistas. This is an incredible looking film, one that instantly draws you in and grabs your imagination. And thanks to the undercurrent of mental and cosmic disorder, we are left dangling dangerously over a precipice of perception that’s awfully hard to shake.


Yet, in the glow of a dying sun, we’ll still remember those faces – those determined, endearing facades forced into situations that no human being can possible fathom. How they manage such insurmountable stresses, how they retreat into themselves and discover hidden strengths and support is why Sunshine succeeds. You can have you space race dog fights with motion controlled starships laser blasting each other into carefully greenscreened oblivion. You can continue to believe that Star Wars is the final word in intergalactic excellence. As Danny Boyle and Alec Garland prove, there is much more to the genre than wookies and womp rats. Science fiction infers a level of intelligence – smarts that Sunshine delivers in droves.



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