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

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Tuesday, Nov 20, 2007


Music is given credit for a lot of things. It forms the soundtrack of our lives, has charms to soothe the savage breast, and expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent. It’s our heartbeat, our sense of spirit, and exposes the depth of our very soul. It is also a callous and cruel mistress, messing with us when we don’t want to be manipulated and infusing us with aspirations we may never attain. Because of its excruciatingly personal and private nature (one man’s Beethoven is another’s Ol’ Dirty Bastard), it makes for a rather tenuous cinematic base. While your story may be sublime, the songs or sounds you use to accent it can come across as atonal and discordant. Oddly enough, the exact opposite happens in Kirsten Sheridan’s disastrous August Rush. The melodic moments are some of the best ever captured on film. Too bad the rest of the narrative is as nauseating as a boy band ballad.


Living life as a picked upon orphan in the last Dickensonian home in all of post-modern society, young August Rush dreams of two things – finding his birth parents and making music. Seems he envisions his biologicals as a famed concert cellist and a punk spunky rock and roller. After a one night stand, a baby boy was born. Not wanting to see his daughter destroy her chances as a virtuoso, her domineering dad tells Lyla Novacek that her son died. At least she’s still part of the process. Moody frontman Louis Connelly tries to reconnect with his post-performance fling, but he’s instantly whisked off on the rest of his tour. Escaping to New York, August is befriended by Arthur, a young street performer. Seems he works for faux foster father figure Wizard. He and his other homeless youth play music around the city, and their glorified guardian collects a percentage. When August turns out to be a prodigy, Wizard smells success. But our undersized hero wants more than that. He could care less about concerts, or Julliard, or the debut of his first rhapsody. He just wants his parents – and his music just might be the means of bringing them together.


Heavy-handed, undeniably saccharine, and about as magical as a clown at a kid’s party, August Rush is an implausible, pus-covered pixie stick. It’s Oliver without the twist, a well-meaning lament fashioned out of arrogance, artificiality, and artlessness. You’d think that someone with director Kirsten Sheridan’s aesthetic lineage (her dad is My Left Foot/In America helmer Jim Sheridan) would be better at making magic out of such melodrama and music. But unfortunately, she’s unsure about how to handle such an ‘adult fairy tale’. Yes, August Rush is one of those films that announces its archetypal intentions from the very start. It salutes you with schmaltz and then turns up the convolutions until the clichés no longer have room to breath. Eventually, they die off in waves of unexplored potentiality, resulting in a literal ghost of a film. There are times when this maudlin muck is so lightweight and wispy, we fear a sudden sneeze from the audience will cause the screen to go blank.


Part of the problem is the story the screenplay sets up. Happenstance usually isn’t this hokey, but for some reason, writers Nick Castle and James Hart want to make every plot point as sappy and sentimental as possible. These are the same guys who turned Peter Pan into an adolescent rude boy filtered through Robin Williams’ hirsute persona in Hook, so perhaps there’s an excuse after all. Speaking of the cinematic Sasquatch, Mrs. Don’tfire is present as the Bono version of Dickens’ child exploiter and he’s about as manipulative as the Victorian pickpocket pimp. We keep waiting for the ghost of Oliver Reed to show up and beat him, and perhaps co-star Keri Russell to death. While the babe in the woods approach is nothing new to moviemaking, Castle and Hart make it so old and moldy that it makes us question such a founding formula. There is never a believable moment of reality or fantasy in this film. Everything feels forced, purposefully played for maximum mawkishness.


This includes the performances. Russell’s Lyla is so empty and unfulfilled she’s like a blow up doll. Even when desperate to locate her child, she comes across as calmly coming apart at the seams. Jonathan Rhys Meyers’ Louis is even worse. Morrissey was never this melancholy. Heck, Hamlet’s desperate to rise from the grave and sue this character for giving brooding male leads a bad name. Williams is his usual abominable self, reducing Wizard to the same six body gestures the comedian turned hack actor has milked since the Me Decade, and Terrance Howard (as the Child Protective Services officer) appears to have wandered in from another movie all together. He’s so out of touch with what Sheridan is striving for, you could almost blame the entire fiasco on his non-presence.


Sadly, that status goes to Freddie Highmore. Struggling between an unbelievable American accent and something best considered “Madonna/Tina Turner Ersatz English”, the one time child star stinks up the joint here. Instead of playing naïve and trusting, he’s like a common sense idiot savant. Show him the absolute worst decision to make, and he’ll embrace it like a lost puppy. And this is supposed to be someone with an innate, natural gift for music. True, Sheridan does handle his ‘discovery’ sequences well, the beating of a guitar’s strings, or the chording of a pipe organ having the necessary moments of majesty to move us. But then we come crashing back to quasi-reality, a place where Russell barely fingers her instrument and Rhys Meyers sings like a slightly more macho Billy Corgan. August Rush is not a movie about the harmony in our head as the conceived cacophony that passes for performance in film. Even our title character’s signature symphony is an amalgamation of staid sonic stigmas.


Still, this is the kind of movie that connects with audiences, possibly because they don’t know any better. Tears will well up as the completely predictable ending arrives, mechanical obviousness meshing with last minute personality reforms to destroy anything remotely suggesting cinematic credibility. Frankly, it’s impossible to imagine how any of this could have worked. Sheridan doesn’t demonstrate any real artisanship, but her failings don’t completely undermine the results. No, August Rush fizzles because of several unsuccessful factors. It is sloppily strung together, loaded with characters we don’t care about, and disrespectful to the elements that supposedly make up its meaning. Music may be the universal language, but this film speaks with the most misguided of mother tongues. August Rush is not a flight of fancy. It’s a dissonant plane crash.



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Thursday, Nov 15, 2007


The reason we respond to myth is simple. The epic paints the plainest of universal pronouncements – good vs. evil, right vs. wrong – in images so stunning that we can’t help but embrace the message. It simultaneously taps into our philosophical and faith-based pleasure centers while manipulating our impressions along massive moralistic lines. Still, this doesn’t mean that all legend makes great cinema. For every Lord of the Rings, there are dozens of preachy period pieces. Indeed, one of the main reason the classics avoid motion picture manipulation is that what sounded good as spoken history frequently plays as stodgy and almost inert on screen. Such is the case with Beowulf. Like a Woody Allen joke gone awry, anyone attempting to bring the story to life has had to overcome a litany of high school literature lessons. Luckily Oscar winner Robert Zemeckis was up to the challenge.


After his kingdom is continuously attacked by a wicked mountain troll named Grendel, King Hrothgar puts out a call to any hero who will slay the beast. For them, a solid gold mead horn and the honor of the royal bed is the reward. Into the fray walks Beowulf, legendary conqueror, slayer of all sorts of vile monsters. After being warned of the demon’s foul temper, our champion tempts fate and lures it to the Great Hall. There, they battle to the death. With victory in hand, Beowulf then heads into the caves to kill the wicked witch who begat such demonic despair. Instead of slaughter, however, he’s seduced. Decades pass, and with it, the infallibility of Beowulf’s rule. When a new creature arrives to destroy the realm, the longtime leader must face the mistakes he made in his arrogance, a chance to save his legacy once and for all.


Beowulf brays and boasts, it overwhelms and it soars. Like the tendency to exaggerate inherent in its hero, it’s a majestic movie that doesn’t quite add up to the epic we anticipate. But by pushing the very edges of the CG’s technological tolerances, and introducing the third dimension as a way to heighten the histrionics, director Roger Zemeckis has fashioned one of the most satisfying popcorn flicks of the year. No other film in what is rapidly becoming an impressive mainstream movie going season is as awe-inspiring, as totally given over to the visual splendor of the artform as this warhorse telling of the classic poem. Sure, the storyline has been retrofitted to encompass more modern ideals, and animation tends to dull what are usually overripe human posturing, but when it looks this good, and entertains this well, who cares if its cartoons doing the job.


Granted, these are some remarkable looking bitmaps, the realism missing from most of the medium’s stylized renderings in full effect here. Ray Winstone’s title character will make the maidens swoon, especially during his infamous nude battle with key monster Grendel. And Angelina Jolie is on hand to keep the lads lathered up, though her gold gilding and high heeled demon is a tad too modern for the era she exists in. From Anthony Hopkins portly king to John Malkovich’s conniving court advisor, the closeness to true human performance is absolutely astounding. Miles away from Zemeckis’ previous experiment in motion capture (the cool but quite plastic Polar Express) there is a roughness and a texture here that is hard to escape. When we see Beowulf in close-up, his chin stubble and wispy blond hair respond to every movement. Equally impressive are sequences where physical endurance and acumen must be recreated. Instead of robotic and limited, we see actual stuntwork and spectacle.


This is an eyepopping experience, especially given the fact that it is only being shown in either IMAX or standard 3D. Yes, you have to wear the goofy glasses (polarized, not the never quite effective two color kind) but it’s well worth it. The stereoscopic image is truly breathtaking. When we travel across the sea, watching Beowulf’s boat battle a series of Perfect Storm style waves, the terror and triumph of the sequence are unmatched. Similarly, the celebrated mead hall where much of the action takes place has the proper balance of video game perspective and backdrop believability. From the last act dragon attack that sees our hero literally hanging by a thread as the beast lunges and leaps from the bottom of the ocean to the top of the highest tower, to the introduction of Grendel with an amazing tracking shot that ends up on the creature’s throbbing eardrum and profusely bleeding head, Zemeckis and his artisans have amplified the aesthetic range of this kind of creativity.


That goes for the aforementioned fiend in particular. Voiced by the godlike Crispin Glover (who should be in every movie by cinematic mandate) and rendered rotting and repugnant, there is a true soul buried inside this crude collection of cartilage and pain. At first, one is unsure of the design being utilized. Zemeckis goes a tad overboard in turning Grendel into something all together otherworldly. His misshapen misery is so pronounced, it’s virtually intolerable. Add in the agonizing vocalizations by Glover and the tortured nature of the character is sickening. But when given over to quieter moments, when we see an injured Grendel speaking to his mother, the interaction is intriguing – and then enlightening. We grow in our appreciation of this fiend, and find ourselves missing him once the movie dispenses with his importance.


Indeed, once Beowulf moves into Act Two, it tends to lag a little. Hopkins’ boorish ruler does enliven things, but Robin Wright Penn is not the most compelling love/lust object. Her queen is too clued in, to post-modern manipulative to warrant a conqueror’s ardor. It’s a similar situation with Jolie. Unless we are to believe that every 6th Century Dane was incapable of refusing a vixen’s charms, her come hither slink smacks of Hollywood, not the hinterland. Indeed, the women are the weak link throughout Beowulf, and if there’s one lesson to be learned from the monster success of 300, it’s to keep the ladies as far in the background as possible. They need only be brought out as plot catalysts, not narrative foundations.


Similarly, the film fumbles its pacing. The first half, dealing almost exclusively with Grendel, is so adrenaline pumping and kinetic that whatever comes after is bound to disappoint. Even more telling, the next section more or less repeats what we’ve seen before. While not completely faithful to the original epic, the plot points from said literary hallmark are all in place. This means there’s a marginal predictability, a familiarity that may soften your initial enthusiasm. But when eye candy is this sumptuous, when we can literally watch a rat travel from great hall rafter to falcon’s claw, when our hero’s post-conflict sweat glistens with a real sense of exertion and effort, you know you’re in the hands of cinematic masters.


Beowulf will probably not be a hit, unfortunately. The storytelling is too fractured and the initial majesty muted by one too many maudlin heart-to-hearts. In an era when action typically means nonstop ballistics, where scene longevity trumps logic every time, Zemeckis’ recast myth is just too abjectly old school. It wants to luxuriate in its visuals and crush with the unbridled power of cinematic imagination. And for the most part, it does. Audiences may not appreciate the over the top tendencies and cheeky chest-thumping, but there is something delightfully appealing about such 3D bravado. CGI or not, this Beowulf demands attention. So what if it has to move a few outsized mountains to do it.



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Thursday, Nov 15, 2007


Whimsy is a tenuous cinematic element. Apply it too thickly, and audiences recoil under its treaclely tenets. Not enough, and viewers will wonder what the puff and stuff is about. Few filmmakers have actually managed the shaky aesthetic quality – and all of them are named Tim Burton. For all others, the quixotic or idealized becomes a motion picture burden that they are ill-prepared to bear. It takes the skills of a surgeon and the metal acuity of a genius to avoid the sappy, the sentimental, the predictable or the ditzy. Manage everything well and you have a lasting work of visionary art. Mess it up, however, and you’re stuck scrambling for significance. Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium suffers from some of whimsy’s generic blight. When it’s good, it glows. When it fails, it’s almost fatal.


After living to the ripe old age of 243, and down to his last pair of favored shoes, Mr. Magorium is preparing to permanently leave his amazing metropolitan toy store. Hoping that his protégé and long time manager Molly Mahoney will take over the shop, he confides his oncoming mortality to her. Things don’t go quite as planned. Mahoney fancies herself a composer and concert pianist, a fledging career as a prodigy cut short by her own self doubt. She’d rather explore the world of music than be stuck running the Emporium. Still, Mr. Magorium has his mind made up, and he hires a “counting mutant”/accountant named Henry Weston to balance his books. Oblivious to the wonders around him, the bureaucrat discovers a disorganized mess of out of date receipts and unpaid accounts. It will take a lonely child named Eric Applebaum to bring all three factions together. For him, life would be empty without Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium.


Featuring one of those Method actor turns that gives the post-modern movement a ridiculous, rose-colored bruise and just enough imagination to keep the protests at bay, Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium is a lighthearted and less noxious Night at the Museum. Where the god-awful Ben Stiller family film was a mess of maudlin eye candy and derivative showboating spectacle, Zach Helm’s take on the fanciful is a lot more appealing. Best known for scripting the Will Ferrell meta-comedy Stranger than Fiction, this first time director puts a whole lot of possibilities on his plate. He must contend with a goofball Dustin Hoffman, a slightly off-kilter Natalie Portman, a winning (if wasted) Jason Bateman, and the typical kid actor baggage of child star Zach Mills. Cram it all into a frame overloaded with CGI bewilderment and peppered with EST-level pronouncements re: finding your bliss, and you’ve got a New Age Roald Dahl without any of said author’s caustic commentary.


Indeed, Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium is so gosh darned closed off you wish it could find a way out. There has to be some reality to your daydreams or the whole thing plays like an elaborate joke – and the audience isn’t typically in on the punchline. That juxtaposition is crucial, since it sets up a frame of reference for us to work within. We buy the bedazzling that much more readily. Helm hasn’t quite figured this out yet. Indeed, when Henry the Mutant arrives, we think the film has finally found its fulcrum. All the jaw-dropping dizziness onscreen will finally be moderated by a “Bah! Humbug!” bad guy. Instead, Bateman comes across as trapped in his own bumbling officiousness. Instead of reflecting Magorium’s magic back at us, he thinks about the forms he has to fill out in order to maintain the plot’s purpose. This may be the first film that requires paperwork in order to settle its story.


Hoffman doesn’t help matters much, though he’s hardly a problem. Combing several previous over the top tendencies – the voice from Tootise, the false bravado from Hook – and adding the slightest lisp to remove any last trace of manliness, he’s an ephemeral imp, more noted for his shop’s otherworldly abilities than his own prestidigitation. We buy into the gimmick essentially because the actor seems to be having so much fun. Yet one can’t escape the ‘doing it for the grandkids’ motive of this one time above the marquee name. It’s almost impossible to believe that this is the same man who redefined the ‘60s with his turn as the ultimate counterculture hero in The Graduate. Apparently age and growing financial obligations will do that to an actor – just ask Robert DeNiro.


And then there’s Natalie Portman. Talk about your schizophrenic sidekicks. One moment, she’s happy as a couple of clams working the Emporium’s many mysteries. The next, she’s lost in a haze of self doubt and disgruntled employee ennui. We get some initial indications that she doesn’t believe the store is her life’s ambition, but the way she protects it from those outside the Magorium “family’ tends to negate such a stance. She’s a walking, talking, breathing, bewildering set of contradictions, and Helm does very little to straighten her out. This makes the last act epiphany emotionally hollow. Instead of celebrating her decision, we are left wondering how she arrived at it. While Bateman is just fine, and Mills grows on you after a while, our two leads make the going simultaneously smooth and oh so rough.


Still, if you can shake off their conflicting continence and simply enjoy the visual splendor and invention at hand, Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium will basically win you over. Unlike Barry Levinson’s Toys, which tried to impart a “No War” initiative onto what was, essentially, a veiled star vehicle for the then tolerable Robin Williams, Helm isn’t out to make some grand political or social statement. Instead, he just wants us all to revert to childhood and go with the flight of fancy flow – and in some cases, it’s dead easy. A room full of CGI balls is a wondrous treat, while a similarly styled collection of trains whisks us away on its HO scale scope. The Big Book, a tome that can instantly produce any item imaginable, gets a nice if far too short celebration, and a lone sock monkey seems to carry all the sadness and sentiment the rest of the movie misses.


Even better, Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium doesn’t test our sense of schmaltz – at least, not that often. It wanders between sharp and sugary, honest and hokey, and never offers up the kind of cynical, post-modern bill of goods that leaves films like Museum struggling for sustainability. Of course, what’s missing from this and other examples like it is a sense of timelessness. While it may be perfectly feasible for a festive holiday getaway, a chance to park the kiddies while you gird their advancing materialism with more examples of the season’s crass commercialization, it just doesn’t have much staying power. Indeed, when it comes to future viewings, it’s hard to see the wee ones scrambling to stick this into the DVD player over and over again. As a one time experience, Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium is fresh, fun, and deeply flawed. There’s a great story buried inside its uneven tone and lack of creative classicism. It’s good, but not great. 



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Thursday, Nov 15, 2007


When it was first announced that Todd Haynes, the idiosyncratic mind behind the deconstructionist dramas Safe and Far from Heaven, was tackling the life and times of one Bob “Zimmerman” Dylan, few balked. Sure the protest poet laureate and last legitimate link to the more idealistic and inventive elements of the ‘60s seemed like an unusual choice for the filmmaker, but this was a man who had previously tackled the days and death of Karen Carpenter, and a revisionist view of Iggy/Bowie glam rock. So a musician, even one of his import, wasn’t out of the question. No, what raised many eyebrows was Haynes’ decision to cast five different actors as Dylan, including a young black boy and a woman (actress Cate Blanchett). Again, few should have stirred. This is the man, after all, who used Barbie dolls to tell the tragic story of the anorexic AOR star. A little invention should have been anticipated.


What couldn’t have been predicted is how brilliant the end result would be. I’m Not There, a vignette oriented tale of the folk singing troubadour told in distinct personality ‘acts’ is wildly over the top and often too enraptured by its own chutzpah. It shouts when it should whisper and defies when it should redefine. But when it’s wrapped up in a visual grace this astounding, and populated with performances that actually boggle the mind, we can forgive the loftier, sometimes loony ambitions. Breaking down Dylan’s personality into his roots (African American adolescent Marcus Carl Franklin), his workingman blues (a fierce Christian Bale), his poetic side (Ben Whishaw), his superstar sizzle (the magnificent Ms. Blanchett), his personal life struggles (Heath Ledger), and his old age iconography (Richard Gere), we get biography as ballyhoo, the truth tempered by the surrounding myths, folklore, rumors and innuendos that tend to make up a legend’s aura.


It all takes a bit of getting used to at first. While Haynes tosses in enough asides, in-jokes, and visual cues to keep us connected, seeing a small boy of color mimic Dylan’s earliest poses is just flat out puzzling. As he makes his way from locale to locale, hoping trains and trading war stories with his fellow hobos, we see the dream being formed in a young Minnesota child’s head. But that doesn’t explain the weird, almost off kilter design. Dylan’s youth wasn’t factually similar to the events that happen here. Instead, Haynes appears to be reaching across a more metaphysical interpretation of the man’s make-up. He may have been an old soul at a very young age, but there was much more calculation in the musician’s career arc than how it’s portrayed in this section.


Once we get to Bale, however, the cinematic stars literally align. Frankly, had Haynes decided to make a straightforward biopic with the superb UK young gun as his muse, no one would have complained. He’s got the Greenwich glower of the coffee house Dylan down pat, and when he lip syncs to versions of the bard’s best songs, he really does capture the subject’s stern determinism. Granted, Bale is a little too hunky to play the whisper thin folkie (all that Batman bulk just can’t be hidden), but from an inner angst standpoint, he’s amazing. So is Heath Ledger, as long as we’re talking about enigmatic men. Alongside Gere (who we’ll get to in a moment), the too pretty Aussie performer has a very odd chapter to deliver. He’s the private Dylan – married man, cheat, father, deadbeat – and it’s often not a pretty picture. Indeed, there are times when we think we’ve stumbled into a classic kitchen sinker, not some manner of musician overview.


And then Cate Blanchett arrives. To call her work here magnificent is too undeserving an understatement. She is regal, almost unrecognizable. She masterfully morphs into the pot-scented genius who ruled his world with a typewriter and a six string. She is I’m Not There’s trump card, its piecemeal paradigm of fame, disillusion, influence, and flaws. If there is any justice in the award season shuffle (and Lord knows there usually isn’t) she’d win the Oscar as both Best Actress and Actor. Again, Haynes could have simply hired the Australian beauty and built an entire narrative around her pre-electrified edifice. During a fictional recreation of Dylan’s disastrous Newport Jazz Festival plug-in, Blanchett is so callous and cool we can feel the vibe resonating off the screen. If she manages to go unrecognized throughout the year end Best Ofs, it’s a critical crime.


This just leaves Whishaw and Gere. Of the two, the Perfume: Story of a Murderer star comes off best. He’s not given much to do. He simply stares at the camera and reads off a list of inspired Dylan witticisms. He definitely looks the part – naïve wordsmith playing with his philosophies – but his purpose is much harder to define. Things are even worse for Gere. Clearly the weakest link in this material, his Dylan as resident of a surreal turn of the century backwater burg is supposed to be referencing a combination of the artist’s ‘70s stigma (aging rock act) with dribs and drabs of Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid. The Wild West inferences seem especially odd, particularly when the midsection of his career is so intriguing (we do see Bale, momentarily reprising his role, during Dylan’s conversion to Christianity).


In fact, anyone coming to I’m Not There hoping to see a realistic, fact-based overview of the seminal pop culture figure’s life will be antsy within the first five minutes. This is not Walk the Line, or even Ray. It’s more like Lisztomania, and other outrageous biographical freak shows created by that cinematic savant Ken Russell. In fact, with a few more bloody crucifixes and a rasher of naked girls, this could be a hidden gem from the now 80 year old English oddball. Haynes treats his creative canvas like a slightly less sloppy Pollack, infusing his images with a contrasting color/black and white visual friction that breeds both contemplation and contempt. Even more confusing, we get actual Dylan recordings juxtaposed against obvious imitators. It’s as if Haynes decided to throw out the motion picture playbook this time and simply go on instinct. Luckily, most of his impulses are dead on.


Of course, none of this addresses I’m Not There’s lingering question – will anyone outside the Dylan devotees and fans of aesthetically challenging cinema find this film entertaining. It does occasionally feel like a work of wounded art that experts stand around and shame you into enjoying. For every life affirming sequence of Blanchett paling around with a cartoonish bunch of Beatles (or the time when she calls the Rolling Stones “that cover band”), there are instances when you wonder what the positively 4th street is going on. Then, just as Gere is dragging down the entire experience, Haynes interjects one of Whishaw’s rants, or puts Ledger back into failed family man mode, and all is forgiven.


If you want a realistic recreation of Dylan’s cultural impact, of how he turned a love of Woody Guthrie and traditional music into a significant social stance, grab a copy of Martin Scorsese’s magnificent documentary No Direction Home and enjoy. If, on the other hand, you don’t mind a wonderful, if slightly uneven, look at how one man becomes many, figuratively redefining his art along the way, stick with I’m Not There. It’s a daring, difficult masterwork. 



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Thursday, Nov 15, 2007


Somehow, you get the impression they are doing it on purpose. After a pair of underperforming efforts (the tame Intolerable Cruelty and the way too reverent remake of The Ladykillers) Joel and Ethan Coen are back – and they’re trading on their unmitigated masterpieces from the past to achieve something quite startling. As with any great artist, the threads of their genius are laced throughout all facets of their work. And in the case of the majestic No Country for Old Men, the brothers have fashioned a clever combination of everything they’ve tackled before – the Southwestern dread of Blood Simple, the cruel criminality of Miller’s Crossing, etc. – and wound it up into a tight little ball of cinematic razor wire. And as viewers, we are lucky enough to traipse through the stealthy steel death trappings of what is instantly 2007’s best film.


While on a hunting trip, Llewelyn Moss stumbles across a massacre. Bodies are strewn across the desert, cars and trucks riddled with hundreds of bullet holes. Following a trail of blood to a nearby tree, he discovers another corpse – and a case containing over $2 million. Wise enough to realize someone will come looking for the cash, he sends his wife off to her mother’s and prepares to make off with the loot. Unfortunately, insane hitman Anton Chigurh is instantly on his scent. Armed with a pneumatic bolt gun, the kind used by butchers in the slaughter house, he is making a murderous bee line to Moss and the money. The only thing standing in his way – aside from various criminal types and innocent victims – is Sheriff Ed Tom Bell. Grizzled and wise, he’s seen it all. But with blood flowing this freely and no end to the carnage in sight, he may have finally met his metaphysical match.


Shockingly effective and incomprehensibly great, No Country for Old Men proves that the Coen Brothers are America’s reigning motion picture Gods. Looking over their creative canon, a body of work that includes Oscar nods, a single win, several career defining films and more than a couple cult classics (“We want the money, Lebowski!”), they argue for their place among the artform’s true greats. Sure, some find them unusually quirky and lost in their own insular world of homages, references, and crudely hidden in-jokes, and in the past, all of those caveats would be concerning. Fact is, they are painted over every frame of their consistently fascinating flights of fancy. But No Country for Old Men is different. Instead of going outside their sphere of influence to the cinematic stalwarts that defined the medium, the Coen’s are riffing on themselves – and by doing so, they forge a near flawless filmic experience.


Acting has never been a problem for the boys. They consistently cast people clued into their eccentric, distinctive style and watch as they deliver performances of stunning depth and clarity. It’s the same here. Josh Brolin moves instantly into the A-list with his turn as Llewelyn, a man just smart enough to stay one step ahead of a psychopath, but too brazen and bullish to see the fatality of such a decision. He’s not really a tragic character in the traditional sense – his smugness is not a flaw so much as the main facet of his personality. But when he finds himself in harm’s way, we do sympathize. That’s because Javier Bardem’s Anton is so horrific. The man is literally evil incarnate. He is instantly one of the top five movie villains of all time.


From the opening sequence where he’s handcuffed and wide-eyed, strangling a police officer with a glee that’s almost erotic, we sense something unhinged about this hired killer. Bardem plays him stealthy and closed-off, trapped in his own realm of murderous intent. When he asks a passing motorist to stand still, bolt gun poised precariously on the forehead of said intended victim, we wince at the proposed slaughter. With his bad Beatle haircut, matinee idol glare, and dogged determination, he electrifies every moment in the movie, even when he’s not onscreen. Like the Terminator (except far more lethal) or a mindless disease, he is terror brought home, an interpersonal plague that has no intention of stopping.


Acting as equalizer between the two is the magnificent Tommy Lee Jones. Completely in his element here and given loads of well written bon mots by the brothers, it’s an Oscar caliber turn by the Academy recognized star. Unlike other small town lawmen that the Coens have focused on (Marge Gunderson in Fargo), Jones is a more seasoned, less naïve peacemaker. He recognizes the inherent wickedness in man, and doesn’t deny it within himself. During No Country for Old Men’s last act, when faced with a particularly difficult decision regarding Llewelyn, the look on his craggy, character-riddled face is almost priceless. It argues for his brilliance as an actor, and the boys’ decision as directors.


Indeed, the Coens typical cinematic fluidity and love of the camera is in full effect here. No Country for Old Men may play out in places that are dry as a dead coyote’s coat and as tumble down as a collection of knotted sagebrush, but these are filmmakers who understand the natural beauty in a desolate landscape, the innate malevolence in a roadside motel. Aside from their typically brilliant compositions and framing, they fill the image with depth and deliver astoundingly pristine tableaus. Forget Grant Wood – this is the real American Gothic. Like the best kind of fright film, No Country for Old Men doesn’t give its characters – or the audience – a break. It’s relentless in its pursuit of pure, unadulterated thrills.


And don’t let others sell this movie short. Some have argued that the ending lacks the vigilante snap we’ve come to expect from our crime genre. Without giving much away, the Coens track the conventional confrontations that should come with this type of material and then throw said motion picture principles right out the door. Things happen to characters that we don’t expect, action plays out in the moments before we, the audience, arrive on the scene. Playing with time and frequently fooling the viewer with the actual continuum of events, such a narrative strategy leaves a lot of air in No Country for Old Men. But when a movie is this tightly wound, when the open prairies of Texas feel as claustrophobic as a locked vehicle on a scorching summer’s day, we’ll gladly take the space.


Lacking anything remotely resembling a weak link and populated by supporting players – Barry Corbin, Woody Harrelson, an almost unrecognizable Kelly Macdonald – that illuminate the screen with their talent, No Country for Old Men feels like the culmination of something significant for the Coens. Maybe it was the need to shake off the criticism of their previous passable misfires and find a way back to their almost universally acclaimed past. It could be a simple case of cause and effect – a great project produced an equally stellar film. Perhaps the boys work best when they’re the underdog, shaking off commercial success and mainstream popularity to worm their way along the fringes once again. Whatever the case, they’ve created one of their finest films ever. No Country for Old Men is indeed masterful. That will teach us to doubt Joel and Ethan Coen ever again.



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