Call for Essays About Any Aspect of Popular Culture, Present or Past

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Thursday, Jun 7, 2007


Unfunny comedies. Pathetic popcorn flicks. Feel good sports flops and forgotten gems from filmmakers better known for their blockbuster efforts. That’s what’s on tap this week for those of you curious about the potential pay cable choices. As summer starts to swelter, as the theatrical release continues to dominate the entertainment dialogue, the premium pay channels are resting on their overpriced laurels, providing the barest in legitimate fair before returning to their previous position of junk, junk, and more junk. Some networks, like Showtime, have even abandoned the whole “weekly premiere” ideal to focus on their far more successful series (said channel is practically a 24 hour love letter to The Tudors right now). So if your social life is such that Saturday Night means a bowl of corn in front of the flat screen, here’s what’s waiting to perplex your pixels on 09 June, including another reluctant SE&L selection: 


Premiere Pick
You, Me and Dupree


We hear at SE&L have, for a while now, lamented the lack of decent mainstream motion picture comedy. While fans can point to the horrible hackwork of someone like Sacha Baron Cohen (can we all agree now that Borat is not groundbreaking, just occasionally funny?) or the overdone dopiness of Will Farrell (more like Clichés of Glory), the truth is that they just don’t make big screen laughfests like they used to. Case in point, this slacker shuck and jive posing as viable cinematic wit. Kate Hudson, Matt Dillon and Owen Wilson all should have known better. Indeed, spoofs about misfits and their inability to fit in only work where there is an audience able to either identify with, or root against, the problematic protagonist. In this case, Dupree is sort of a post-millennial poster boy, a man so in touch with his raging inner child that it’s like some new kind of metaphysical pedophilia. The film itself is equally uncomfortable. (09 June, HBO, 8PM EST)

Additional Choices
Poseidon


It should have been so much better. A series of stereotypical characters climb aboard a big boat. Boat gets hit by rogue wave. Boat flips over. Things go boom. People try to survive. So why is Wolfgang Peterson’s CGI heavy take on Irwin Allen’s ‘70s disaster classic so crappy? Perhaps because we could care less who lives and who dies. That’s never a successful cinematic formula. (09 June, Cinemax, 10PM EST)

Invincible


Mark Wahlberg stars in the supposedly uplifting story of Vince Papale, a 30 year old bartender who became part of Coach Dick Vermeil’s revamp of the late ‘70s Philadelphia Eagles. While the notion of fulfilling one’s lifelong athletic ambitions can and does make for riveting big screen storytelling, this overly sentimentalized (and sensationalized) version of the tale is more ra-ra than dra-ma. (09 June, Starz, 9PM EST)

 


The Weather Man


Many moviegoers overlooked this excellent Gore Verbinski film (didn’t know he made films sans pirates, did ya?) for one very poor reason – the shortsighted suits at Paramount couldn’t figure out how to promote it. They tried the screwball comedy approach. They even went the way of sentimentalized schlock. But the truth is, this desperate dark satire sits somewhere in the middle of crazy and considered. It deserved better than to be marginalized by misguided marketing. (09 June, ShowCASE, 9PM EST)

Indie Pick
Kill Bill Vol. 1 & 2


As part of a big fat celebration of the many martial arts, the Independent Film Channel is offering up both halves of Quentin Tarantino’s amazing homage to all things Shaw Brothers. Combining the three elements he does best – dialogue, story strategy, and directorial showmanship, the bad boy of Indie auteurism delivered on his long simmering desire to bring wild world cinema to the Western mainstream. With the unbelievable Uma Thurman in the lead (Ms. T deserved an Oscar for her tremendous work here) and a veritable who’s who of US and Asian acting names (Michael Madsen, Sonny Chiba, Lucy Liu, Darryl Hannah), Tarantino combined action with arch emotional content to weave a complex narrative of revenge, honor and motherly love. Part two is often cited as the more subtle or the pair, but that’s just because the action is amped down in favor of a conversational confrontation between Thurman’s Bride and the title icon (played perfectly by David Carradine). Some can complain about this filmmaker’s decision to cannibalize an entire culture’s movies for his own artistic ends, but when the results are this spectacular, who cares. Besides, IFC has enough examples of the real chopsocky genre on view to override the sense of filmic colonialism. (09 & 10 June, IFC, 9PM EST)

Additional Choices
The Corporation


It’s a terrible given within the business world, but everyone knows that corporations are wholly and significantly corrupt. What this amazing documentary does is argue that direct dishonesty has been part of the overall business plan for centuries. Perhaps its most memorable conceit? When profiled as a “person”, these nefarious multinational entities are labeled as antisocial psychotics in their actions. (11 June, Sundance, 10:30PM EST)

Lorenzo’s Oil


George Miller, who made his name giving Max his madness, and a group of CGI penguins their happy feet, is actually a real life physician. Perhaps that’s why this unique medical drama has such a heartfelt, personal perspective. Nick Nolte’s questionable Italian accent aside, this stunner delves deep into a mysterious illness, the child challenged by it, and the parents who never give up hope. The result is both gut wrenching and spirit soaring. (12 June, Sundance Channel, 6:45PM EST)


Outsider Option
The Sadist/ Wild Guitar


It’s the Cabbage Patch Elvis himself, Arch Hall, Jr., stirring up things in a repeat from last November’s TCM Underground entry. As the featured atrocity, the boy with a thorn in his side first stars as a quick tempered killer out for standard crime spree kicks. Talk about your suspension of disbelief. Arch is hard to buy as a homicidal maniac ala Charles Starkweather. But it’s the second feature that pushes the limits of legitimate believability even further. As part of an actual push by his film producer father to make Arch both a music and movie star (both on screen and off) our pie-faced putz suddenly shoots up the charts as an overnight pop sensation. Of course, he has a hard time living the rock star celebrity lifestyle. Yeesh. While we here at SE&L would normally scoff at such a regular rerun ideal, you can never have enough Hall in one’s retro retard film diet. (08 June, TCM Underground, 2AM EST)

Additional Choices
Humongous


Like the baffling Beast Within, this is another tale of a gal getting diddled by some manner of monstrous fiend and eventually giving birth to a murderous maniac freak baby. Naturally, a group of teens runs into the creature several years later, and few survive to tell the tale. While there are much better versions of this kind of ‘dirty little secret’ scare film, this one takes the human oddity cake. (12 June, Drive-In Classics, Canada, 7PM EST)

Gozu


Friend of both Tarantino and Roth, Takashi Miike has come to symbolize the splatter facet of Japanese cinema with his bold and bloody motion pictures. For this slightly surreal effort, the director mixes comedy, craziness, and a vanishing corpse to tell an equally strange tale of Yakuza criminals at a moralistic crossroads. Some may see it as a lesser Miike, but it plays directly into the filmmaker’s foul domain. (13 June, Showtime Extreme, 2:05AM EST)

The End of Violence


There are those who believe that it takes an outsider to accurately reflect America’s obsession with certain suspect ideas – be it sex, power or violence. But Wim Wenders (Wings of Desire) may not have been the best candidate to take on big screen brutality. This overdone tale of an action movie producer whose run in with real hostility provides a late in life change of heart is heavy-handed and hokey. While the intentions are good, the follow through it significantly flawed. (14 June, Indieplex, 10:50PM EST)

 


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Wednesday, Jun 6, 2007


He is, perhaps, the single most important voice in post-modern minority moviemaking. Sick and tired of the way blacks were portrayed in Hollywood’s lamentable history, he set out to make his own statement about the viability of putting people of color in something other than the role of a servant or criminal. In the process, he reinvented urban cinema, starting a wave that would later be known as blaxploitation. He also gave rise to a fresh and vibrant voice – a decidedly non-Caucasian voice – within the standard cinematic ideal. And what did he get for this innovation? Was he celebrated and kept as part of the legitimate legacy of the motion picture artform? Was he rewarded with more opportunities to prove his creative and philosophical mantle? Is he currently in demand as a past master still worthy of appreciation? The answer for maverick Melvin Van Peebles is cruel and very cutting. Instead of being a celebrated star in the world of film, he’s a fading force best known almost exclusively for his usual named singular breakout hit.


Thanks to the brilliant new documentary by first time filmmaker Joe Angio, provocatively titled How to Eat Your Watermelon in White Company (and Enjoy It) – new to DVD from Image Entertainment - all that just might change. At the very least, individuals who only know his name because of his famous son Mario, said child’s amazing motion picture Baadasssss! or the movie that actually put Melvin on the map – 1971’s Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song – will learn that there remains much more to this multitalented Renaissance rebel than a simple stint behind the camera. After spending 90 mersmerizing minutes inside his individual sphere of influence, we learn of previous careers as a French satirist, a foreign filmmaker, an unlikely Tinsel Town token, a self-made musician, self taught poet, pilot, Broadway showman, impresario, porn lover, stock trader, and cabaret act. Easily a Jack-of-all-Trades and a master of many, Melvin made his name by breaking the rules and challenging convention. Sometimes, he even ignored logic and common sense to achieve his amplified ambitions.


Now nearly 75 – and looking as fierce and determined as ever – this international icon to grit and resolve is not necessarily looking to rest on his laurels. If anything, this glimpse into his personal and professional life is meant to breathe context into his career both as an important cinematic artist and an influential racial pioneer. Melvin is often considered the Black Panther movement of moviemaking, and when a former member of the radical black organization steps up to confirm how important Sweetback was to the party, the connection is crystal clear. Recognizing that son Mario did a remarkable job of explaining how and why said seminal blaxploitation pic became a cultural phenomenon, Watermelon doesn’t go overboard addressing the subject. Instead, it becomes part of an overall whole where one project or personal obsession becomes a piece in the neverending (and puzzling) myth of this incredibly complex man.


It would be easy to argue that Melvin is a master at undermining his own aims. After convincing the studio suits that he was the right man to make the race baiting comedy Watermelon Man (a slick satire starring Godfrey Cambridge as a white man who suddenly turns black overnight) he quickly became difficult, demanding certain creative controls while wasting whatever leverage he had. Then, when Sweetback went on to change the face of ethnic filmmaking, he basically gave up on cinema, arguing that he only wanted to make the movies ‘he felt like’ making. In truth, his success without the studio saw the industry purposefully avoid him. When his musical muse no longer spoke (Melvin’s sing-speak style is often cited, along with the equally influential Last Poets, as the precursor to rap), he went on to write shows for the Great White Way. Never one to compromise, his confrontational efforts were respected and praised, but acted like box office poison to the typically snobby New York theater crowd. 


Angio also argues that Melvin occasionally expected too much from those who championed his cases. While desperate and destitute in Holland (where he went after a stint in Korea as part of his ROTC scholarship commitment), he finds his short films being celebrated in France. But when a well-attended screening failed to deliver financially, he felt hurt and humiliated. It’s clear from several of the insightful interviews presented that Mr. Van Peebles has a 40 acres and a mule sized chip on his shoulder, and logically, he should. After all, as a well spoken artist who was capable of great creative leaps in any medium he choose, he had to live with the concept that skin color consistently blocked his all-important options. Whether rightly or wrongly, he chose to wear those rejections like a brash badge of dire dishonor. It made his often entertaining work seem difficult and unapproachable.  It’s to this film’s massive credit that we can crawl underneath the blustery bravado to see a thoughtful performer perplexed as to the ongoing prejudice in a supposedly rational world.


He gets a lot of help in that regard. Angio has rounded up a nice selection of connected talking heads, people who can easily speak about working with, living around and admiring the man. Children and ex-lovers, colleagues and brothers in arms do their best job of backseat psychiatry, refusing to fully categorize Melvin as a troublemaker, a troubadour, or an acquired taste. Spike Lee does an astonishing job of insinuating his influence, while several French cartoonists call their former co-worker a brilliant force of nature. If Van Peebles was looking for accolades, he certainly finds them throughout the film. But there is also a subtext of skepticism in Watermelon that really works to broaden the subjective scope. While trying to record a new song, we see Melvin in the studio. Cursing up a storm and chomping on his ever-present cigar, he is part egotist, part asshole, and all intensity. He wants to get things right, and doesn’t want to waste time goofing off.


In fact, one could argue that this enigmatic individual has been like an imaginative shark, constantly moving forward and around to avoid the death of his talent – or capture by the roving band of great white hunters looking to land him. It was a clear theme in Sweetback, and it runs like a thread throughout the entire documentary. We even see the spry septuagenarian on his morning jog, bounding around Manhattan like a man several decades younger. Similarly, during a shoot on his last full length feature Bellyful (2000), we witness Melvin rushing from set up to set up, hoping to complete his filming before some unseen force decides to close him down. Whether he is standing on the stage delivering a dopey version of Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do” or poised in the trading pit, battling it out with other stock exchange employees, Melvin always looks like a criminal about to get caught. He’s dead convinced that somehow the Establishment will eventually find him guilty and throw the karmic book at him.


Thankfully, Angio was around to catch him before he finally went AWOL, and while the director takes some strange stylistic chances (he wraps up Melvin’s early life as a young Chicago geek and angry ex-patriot in a surreal Citizen Kane inspired mock newsreel), he ends up delivering a nicely rounded portrait of the man. Certainly this is a slightly single-minded love letter, a blemish and all attempt at reestablishing Van Peebles name as part of the legitimate history of film. But all is not kid glove and kisses. Mario himself makes a strong case for his continued exile simply be being irascible and unshakable in his convictions and beliefs. As a matter of fact, he may be the only remaining legitimate element of the counterculture underground left standing some 40 years after the fact.


It’s great to see someone finally stepping up and giving this American original the due he so richly deserves. There is a wealth of information in How to Eat Your Watermelon in White Company (and Enjoy It) as well as a lot of serious and substantive food for thought. The impression one takes away from this amazingly dense documentary is that, given a different Hollywood mentality – say the pro-auteur era we are currently residing in – Van Peebles would be more important than Gordon Parks, more successful than John Singleton, and more pissed off than Spike Lee. While he was indeed his own worst enemy, he also never shirked on his perceived responsibilities or sold out to a situation that saw nothing in him but stereotypes. Like the title argues, Melvin wanted to embrace his heritage and be respected for it. He desired consideration for his basic humanity, not for what he could bring to the bottom line. He never really struggled, but he never really succeeded either. This highly recommended documentary should stand as the start of his eventual reward.


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Tuesday, Jun 5, 2007


The great debate among Godzilla fanatics goes a little something like this. On the one side are the purists, the people who scoff with sour indignation at the very idea of this venerable Japanese kaiju having to suffer through poor English dubbings, badly mangled prints, and edits mandated to make Western audiences more comfortable with the genre. For them, it’s pure untouched Toho or nothing at all. And then there are those on the side of the Saturday matinee, the generations who grew up with the whole man-in-suit ideal and embraced it as a combination of camp and cross culture craziness. In their mind, the mismatched voices and mediocre miniatures give anything Godzilla a true kitsch quality that definitely gets lost when you return to the source material. Unfortunately, DVD has only made the problem worse. Due to its inherent nature as a preservationists medium, the lovers of the original giant lizard have bemoaned the consistent release of poorly framed, faded versions of their favorite movie monster’s oeuvre.


So, how does one appease the persnickety while indulging the memories of those lost in front of a 19” ‘60s TV screen, bag of Cheetos clutched to their chest? Well, if you’re Genius Entertainment and Classic Media, you pow wow with the holders of the Japanese rights, make a deal to deliver the best Godzilla product possible, and come up with a combination disc that holds both the original Toho release as well as the mangled Americanized efforts. Making their first appearance on the digital medium as part of the heralded Master Collection, the fifth and sixth films in the Gojira franchise – Ghidorah: The Three Headed Monster and Invasion of the Astro-Monster (later renamed Godzilla vs. Monster Zero) - show the scaly reptile with a prehistoric penchant for kicking creature keister as feisty as ever. They also argue for a clearly defined formulaic approach to this type of monster movie that would, initially, keep audiences clamoring for more. Eventually, such sloppy storytelling would drive the series to ridicule and ruin.


In Ghidorah, the story picks up just after the events of Mothra vs. Godzilla. The larval offspring of the giant insect have defeated our Hellbent hero and have slinked back to Infant Island, Lilliputian tenders (the then famous Japanese singing duo The Peanuts) in tow. A massive meteor shower brings a big interstellar bolder to a mountainous region outside Tokyo. A new beast named King Ghidorah springs forth, determined to wreck his own special brand of three headed menace on the populace. The cosmic anomaly also takes its toll on a potential political assassination. The Princess of some far off fictional country is almost assassinated. She is saved by the spirit of a spaceman from the planet Venus and arrives in time to warn the world about the upcoming creature chaos. Sure enough, Godzilla and Rodan are roused from their slumber, and with the help of the minute minders of Mothra, everyone gangs up to send the nasty newbie back from whence it came.


As for Invasion of the Astro-Monster, a joint American/Japanese space program discovers a new satellite traveling around Jupiter – Planet X. The two man crew of Glen and Fuji go off to explore, and soon find themselves face to face with the sunglass wearing, underground dwelling residents of this weird world. Technologically superior, the aliens have a big problem for which they require the Earthlings help. They are terrorized by an entity known as Monster Zero (actually King Ghidorah given a mistaken extraterrestrial moniker), and want help destroying it. Their plan? They will trade the ability to cure cancer (?) for Godzilla and Rodan. Seems like a win/win situation for all involved. But soon the swindled Earth men learn the truth – the X-men are actually evil, and want to use all three beasts to destroy mankind and take over their terrestrial territories. And without another supersized beastie to battle on their behalf, everyone’s doomed.


Clearly benefiting from the bigger budgets that international popularity can provide, both Ghidorah and Astro-Monster offer up the two major components of successful Godzilla films – surreal storylines and lots of special effects. To many of the uninformed, a cursory explanation of the kaiju film usually states “giant monster is awakened and goes on a destructive rampage”. But the truth is, by this time in the series, the concept of nonstop spectacle was no longer an option. Indeed, almost all the Godzilla films are parables, using current political or social problems to highlight Japan’s inner anxieties and post-war identity crisis. The first film was a clear allegory to the horrors of nuclear technology run amok. The Mothra film that predated these was linked to a heavy handed environmental message. Ghidorah has an unusual combination of peace and politics. By placing the endangered member of an unknown nation’s royal family into the role of chief spokesman for the planet, her predicament and its pro-life focus is even more severe.


Astro-Monster, on the other hand, is all about invasion. It’s the Godzilla series answer to war, about a desire to work with - not against - America this time around and defeat an enemy greater than our own. The Planet X types are pure fashionista fascists, the kind of sinister slicks who easily sway and betray. Their desire to use might (Godzilla, Rodan and Ghidorah) instead of their remarkable scientific advances (why not work those tractor beams over a few nuclear silos, guys?) plays directly into the fear of technology failing in its ultimate goal to protect and serve us, while the underlining subplot involving the inventor who has the potential defensive weapon right under his nerdy nose is another parallel to the ultimate value of knowledge and skill over power and heft. Part of the reason that film fans respond to these movies with such ardent attraction are the rather obvious themes at play. Similar to how horror defines a society and its approach to art, these films are like windows into the uneasy world of ‘50s – ‘70s Asia.


Of course, the fabulous old school rubber and balsa wood F/X are a heck of a lot of fun as well. More money meant more attention to detail, and master craftsman Eiji Tsuburaya really outdoes himself here. While campy and kind of crude, the spaceships and Planet X interiors present in Astro-Monster are pure pop art poetry. In addition, King Ghidorah is an equally impressive creation, its flailing heads looking like death-dealing chaos personified. There will be those who giggle at the model tank/plane/car/truck/ dynamic at play in the action scenes, and our creatures do possess some very odd voices (King G’s is nothing more than vibrating notes on a Hammond organ). But when you consider the near flawless recreations of the surrounding landscape, the massive explosions of dirt and debris, the relatively realistic use of water and other natural elements, the Toho kaiju films are very impressive. So what if the buildings blow apart like badly set up Lincoln logs. The combination of filmmaking and finesse more than compensate for such quibbles.


Even purists can breathe easy thanks to the relative respect these movies are given via these delightful DVDs. Preserved in their original aspect ratios with as close to a pristine print as possible, we are treated to wonderful widescreen images, vibrant colors, crystal clear detail and the original Japanese language soundtracks. In addition, a wealth of entertaining and informative extras is provided, including commentaries, biographies and original trailers. When you consider you get both versions of the title along with all the other goodies, there should be very little to kvetch about.


One would also be remiss for failing to mention what an important undertaking this is. DVDs’ lasting legacy appears to be rescuing marginalized movies from the pigeonholing chasms of popular culture. Prior to embarking on this remastered retrospective, Godzilla and his ilk (Gamera et. al.) were relegated to a kind of entertainment exile, deemed either too infantile for adults or too oddball for the wee ones. As a result, our humungous heroes have been cast aside as a dated dimension of an equally antiquated cinematic aesthetic. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. When viewed through the veil of their original creators’ intentions, when comparable to their effervescent US counterparts, when contextualized by individuals who spent their lives trying to decipher the many layers of meaning buried within these oversized metaphors, any previous discrediting seems petty at best.


Still, the battle wages on. With the help of these amazing digital dossiers, perhaps one day a peace can be brokered. It will be difficult, but not as tough as trying to change 40 years of drive-in b-movie madness. Godzilla in all his forms was always much more than a science fiction schlock jockey. Ghidorah, The Three Headed Monster and Invasion of the Space Monster is definitive proof of that.


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Monday, Jun 4, 2007


It’s another odd week for the home video aficionado. On the one hand, you’ve got a true celluloid auteur getting the digital admiration he so richly deserves. On the other hand, you’ve got the clear frontrunner for Worst Movie of 2007 – maybe of all the ‘Naughts’. There’s a new take on the same old moldy J-Horror, an even older Oliver Stone effort, an imaginative take on a silent classic, and a callous cash grab for fans of a certain comic book foursome. When you add in the completely gratuitous sex comedy from the late ‘70s, and the rest of the aluminum disc dregs, the payout potential is limited at best. But it’s a weak Friday for first run films (your choice – another Ocean’s sequel or more Eli Roth ‘gorno’) and Lord knows what the pay cable channels are about to cough up. So do yourself a favor, stick with the rock solid SE&L pick and kiss the rest goodbye. It will make your 5 June all the more productive:


The Sergio Leone Anthology


Drop whatever you’re currently doing, grab your cash card, and head out to the local B&M the minute it opens and plunk down your pennies for this amazing spaghetti western box set. Featuring the entire Man with No Name Trilogy (A Fistful of Dollars, For A Few Dollars More, and The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly) along with Leone rarity Duck, You Sucker! , all four films are given a Special Edition treatment that is long overdue. That means you get a quartet of Italian gunslinging goodness, eight DVDs, and lots of cinematic supplements for a minor monetary outlay. And if you want to add a copy of the director’s masterpiece, Once Upon a Time in the West, to your shopping cart along the way, no one will complain. Long considered a filmmaking genius, Leone’s legacy has only grown in the DVD era. Perhaps it’s because the format fits his wide open epics so well, giving them room to breathe and grow. Or maybe it’s his amazing artistry. Either way, it’s film fans who win.

Other Titles of Interest


The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari


This is either a really creative idea or cinematic sacrilege. Using modern technology and the original film’s inventive Expressionistic designs, writer/director David Lee Fisher scanned the original sets into a computer and then digitally inserted his modern actors. The story’s the same, and in this version, the characters speak for themselves. Think of it as Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow mixed with the classic silent film and you get the idea.

Fantastic Four: Extended Edition


How do you make a mediocre movie a little less lame (and a lot more profitable)? Simple - revamp the narrative with added scenes, reconfigure the film for DVD, and sell it just as the real sequel is about to hit theaters. That’s the case with this rushed to retail redux of the mangled Marvel mess. Initial reviews claim the changes are for the better. Considering the source, that’s not saying much.

The Messengers


The Pang Brothers, Hong Kong’s premiere horror maestros, come to America at the very end of the Asian angst fad and proceed to sink the final nail in the slick subgenre’s coffin. Aside from the fact that they’re three years too late, the subtle scares of the whole ghost world spook show have long since been decried and dismissed. Not the best showcase for a pair of foreign fright film icons.

Norbit


Oh Lord, this is BEYOND bad. Everything you’ve heard is true – this is a ridiculous, racist mess, the kind of unbelievably bigoted filmmaking that should set the cause of African American pride back 400 years. Eddie Murphy is awful, desecrating geeks, the obese, and Chinese people everywhere. This entire film feels like the beginning of a mean-spirited gag that never discovers its punchline. Sadly, the joke appears to be on us. 

Seizure


Here’s an intriguing title finally arriving on the digital domain. It stars Dark Shadow’s Jonathan Frid and Fantasy Island favorite Hervé Villechaize, and was co-written and directed by a young maverick named Oliver Stone. The plot sounds like the ‘Old Dark House’ married to a proto-slasher feast. Could be good. Could be garbage. Whatever the case, it could make for an interesting night of early auteur nostalgia.


And Now for Something Completely Different
H.O.T.S.


This film always tried to position itself as the modern female equivalent of Animal House. Part of the problem of course is that the National Lampoon classic was more concerned with satire and less with skin. All this film has going for it is boobs, boobs, and more boobs – that and some very gratuitous Danny Bonaduce (who actually looks halfway human here). The title sorority – the name is taken from the four main girls (Honey, O’Hara, Terri, and Sam) in the club – is the bane of Fairenville University, or F.U.’s, existence. There’s a crusty old dean, some snobbish villains, and a last act game of strip touch football.  Along the way, our gals discover sex, self-esteem…and umm, more sex. Indeed, softcore eros is the point behind this collegiate comedy. If you’re looking for story, move along. If all you’re interested in is curvaceous pre-‘80s flesh, then step right up. This so-so silliness will be your cup of carnal tea. 

 


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Sunday, Jun 3, 2007


That’s it. Mark it on a calendar. 2007 is the year where we officially no longer matter. Film critics, that is. Where once we set the standard for discussion on film, we’ve been marginalized by a medium that believes us to be out of touch, self important and far too fanatical in our devotion to quality over quantity. Newspapers are dropping us for generalized wire service hype. Messageboards are alight with conversations and condemnations of our efforts. Even fellow members of the Fourth Estate are tearing us a new class hole. David Poland, former film festival director and currently owner of industry information source Movie City News recently ripped into reviewers who loved Judd Apatow’s latest comedy classic Knocked Up. He did so with a joke that marginalized anyone adoring the film into a “middle-aged person who is so tired of studio movies that you will desperately overpraise a so-so film”. As Allison Porchnik once said, you gotta love being reduced to a cultural stereotype.


This is what film criticism has been condensed into—personal attacks/obsessions passing as viable cinematic analysis. It’s prevalent. Someone hates Mel Gibson for the horrendously racist things he said last August, and said writer translates that anger into a complete dismissal of the actor/director’s inventive action film Apocalypto. Then there are those so-called journalists who can’t make up their own minds. These supposed writers scan fan forums and other analytic websites to get ‘impressions’ of what the average man and/or woman is thinking about a specific film. They then roll all those thoughts into pure populist pap and pawn it off as well considered conclusions. Perhaps the worse example of this trend remains the film fetishists. To them, everything they love is legitimate, from the best example of Hollywood’s Golden era to a wonky little horror film that no one has ever heard of. In both cases, however, their overdone praise moves from meaningful to sickeningly sexual in its depth of desire.


Part of this is in response to the new found community of self-described know-it-alls called the Internet. In a realm where everyone has a forum, it logically figures that everything would be legitimized. There are six billion potential pundits in this world, meaning that all entertainment genres, from mystery to science fiction, action to heartbreaking drama will definitely find their champions. Taking it even further, within each subset will be people who love/hate a particular product with as much sense/insanity as they enjoy/despise something else. It’s an inferred universe without consensus, a place where even a one time motion picture masterpiece—say Citizen Kane—will eventually find an entire website devoted to how overrated and unremarkable it really is. And since there is no true guiding aesthetic (this is everyone out for themselves, remember), nothing is held in particular esteem. That means everyone is right. It also means that everyone is wrong. It’s merely a matter of perspective.


Take last year’s amazing movie The Fountain. Critics couldn’t handle its intertwining storylines and emotional reach. So instead of meeting it somewhere around the middle, they declared Darren Aronofsky the latest Emperor auteur and helped the viewing public rent his brand new cinematic skivvies. Similarly, Zak Snyder’s 300 burst onto movie screens back in March with a wave of invention that few films in the last few decades have managed to muster. But since the narrative was mired in old world machismo and dotted with homoerotic leanings, the proud carriers of the pro-PC banner took the movie to task. Some even disregarded it as being too action/aggression oriented. Last time anyone looked, the movie was about a battle between badly outnumbered Spartans and invading Persian hordes. So where, exactly, is the subtlety supposed to go? There are weekly examples of this kind of critical contradiction. Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End will be both vilified as an overstuffed example of Hollywood hubris while simultaneously being celebrated by those who believe it to be a throwback to the original ‘70s blockbuster.


Because of the number of outlets for so-called legitimate cinematic reportage, because of the lack of an ongoing critical accord on what constitutes art and what equals artifice, because we can no longer sit idly by and watch geeks give us the metaphysical finger, we’ve decided to bite back. And the wound is now fully festering and gone gangrenous. We currently exist in a freakish film industry time when Grindhouse, a well received revamp of the exploitation film earning an 81% overview rating on Rotten Tomatoes (a database for storing critic scores), is considered a massive flop, while two atrocious titles from the same time—Norbit and Wild Hogs can earn a 9% and 16% rating respectively and still be massive mainstream hits. Some would call such movies ‘critic proof’, but there’s more to it than that. Bad is bad, but somehow, that message is not translating to the public.


And those who argue that it shouldn’t matter do indeed have a point. Movie reviewers, by their very nature, are product testers. They sample the motion picture wares coming out each and every week and let you know how their particular tastes reacted to it. From then on, the next step is wholly your own move. You don’t have to agree, and you may go into a screening and have the exact opposite reaction. But in the end, all the writer is providing you is an opinion. Sure, it may be steeped in a great knowledge of the medium or a singular joy for cinema, but these are not Gospel conclusions. They are—for the most part—the genuine reactions of a film fan. So Norbit should not live or die by what 123 critics from around the globe say it is. If you go to the theater and enjoy it, more power to you. And it’s that previous statement that sets up a potentially dangerous precedent.


While it may have at one time been about creativity, 2007 Tinsel Town is definitely a cash and carry conglomerate, period. Dollars are the determinative factor in why many films are made. Sure, we can see occasional gambles (the aforementioned 300, Apatow’s previous hit The 40 Year Old Virgin), but the major motion picture studios have the profit margin down to a slick hard sell science. They don’t go into a Little Man believing in failure. Indeed, they view certain production plans (horror sequels/prequels, comic book characters franchising) as money making its way to the bank. So when Disney greenlights two more Pirates movies on the back of the first one’s success, they are counting on a pair of separate yet simultaneous situations: (1) that the eventual release on home theater will continue to whet your appetite for more and (2) that their experience in repeated past successes is astute enough to get them through this risk.


Thus a critic proof film is not really able to avoid a journalistic smear campaign. No, what the film is truly protected from is any negative impact from the audience. What Hollywood has gotten dead brilliant at is marketing movies in such a way that, even if your best friends told you it was the biggest stinker this side of Waterworld, you’d still get in line on opening weekend to see for yourself. And this of course ties in directly to the Internet ideal. Since the number of websites catering to criticism have skyrocketed in the last few years, as well as the availability of high profile portals (blogs, myspace pages, YouTube) for opinion placement, the mainstream media no longer holds any sway. Norbit may hold a less than 10% approval rating from regular reviewers, but on a place like The Internet Movie Database, the score goes up to over 30. Such a strident difference empowers the audience and leads them to believe that their own conclusions are valid—even more so – than the person who makes viewing film their career.


Are there pompous scribes who ruin it for everyone? Absolutely. Are there people in the film fussing trade so out of touch that they can actually champion something like Are We Done Yet? over David Fincher’s fabulous Zodiac. Definitely. Is there someone already chomping at the bit, ready to scream that both films deserve to be dumped in the nearest cesspool as examples of cinema at its most stagnant? You know it. But something odd has happened over the last couple of months. The loudest voices are not only being heard, they are drowning each other out, creating a weird wall of sound that turns off everyone who comes in contact with it. Mr. Poland himself is one of those individuals who likes to say “it sucks, because I said so” and then tosses in a few rationales for his rejection before moving on to his next insider tip about the future of film.


Again, what’s missing is context, the notion that cinema is not a disposable commodity easily interchangeable with any other kind of pulp product. Disregarding critics is similar to stating that superficial summer paperbacks represent literature as its most artful. Popularity does not equal perspective. Instead it’s a sign of mere mass acceptance. Independence Day is not a great science fiction film, just a well liked one. Similarly, 2001: A Space Odyssey remains a fixture on Best Of lists because individuals with a wealth of experience in the medium recognize its inherent value. Sometimes, a movie can combine the two (Pulp Fiction, for example). But without a voice outside the din discussing the difference between the two, the result is a watered down aesthetic—and the current state of mainstream moviemaking.


You think endless sequels and slight summer blockbusters are seen as proud accomplishments by the studios? No, they represent the fast food of the business, the guaranteed dosh makers that allow them the luxury of jeopardizing their revenue on a few prestige pictures come Awards season. They want you to believe a critic doesn’t know what he or she is talking about because it protects their investment and leads to greater returns come opening weekend. Thus the continuing decline in preview press screenings. Of course, they don’t mind turning around and using contextually suspect blurbs to support their hype machine, and they love to tout the number of Year End lists their movies appear on. Talk about your hate/tolerate kind of relationship.


When you boil it down to its basics, criticism is suffering because, in general, it’s poorly thought out and equally illiterate. Scan the web for other reviews of Knocked Up and you will find people actually using the attractiveness of actor Seth Rogen (or repugnant lack thereof) as a means of rating the film’s comedic viability. Talk about using high school standards as a means of making adult decisions. Why not just have Paris Hilton tell the moviegoing public what’s “hot” and what’s “not”. From poor sentence structure and a self-determined desire to be cleverer than what you’re reviewing, the critical community continually shoots itself in the foot. But instead of being merely hobbled, it looks like, this time, the damage may be permanent.


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