With only a half dozen films in his little over a decade old canon, Christopher Nolan stands at the crossroads of artform greatness. Not just being the best of his kind, but as an auteur worthy of names like Kubrick, Hitchcock, and Lumet. He’s no “next Spielberg” Shyamalan or foot draggingly difficult David O. Russell. Instead, he’s the bellwether for a new kind of filmmaker, one that successfully merges Hollywood classicism with the best of the post-modern revision. Looking at the six films he’s made since emerging in 1996, one can witness the development and growth of an innovative icon, someone schooled in the old ways of working while finding novel means of making his far reaching, philosophical points. With The Dark Knight about to signal his ascension into undeniable importance, let’s look back over his oeuvre to see just where it all started - and how he earned his new illustrious rank.

Following (1996)
Offering an initial glimpse into what would soon be a full blown motion picture aesthetic, Nolan’s no-budget debut is a celebratory shape of good things to come. Few have seen this minor monochrome masterwork, a combination of the best that noir and the post-modern approach to film has to offer. Intercutting between a writer’s unusual obsession (he follows people inconspicuously as they go about their daily life) and a pseudo crime caper involving a burglar and a babe, Nolan acknowledges his limits while simultaneously using every deception he knows in the language of film. Filming with amateurs over a year of weekends, the resulting 69 minutes stand as a blueprint for what would soon be a career to be reckoned with.

Memento (2000)
With its eccentric cast - Carrie-Anne Moss, Joe Pantoliano, Guy Pearce - and equally unusual premise and presentation, Christopher Nolan declared his artistic worth with this wildly successful indie effort. Built out of his brother Jonathan’s short story Memento Mori, and applying a backwards story structure that bested Pulp Fiction for narrative ingenuity, the filmmaking novice vaulted past many other outside amateurs to step front and center into the critical limelight. While some argued that the movie was more gimmick than engaging, others find the mystery in reverse tactic more satisfying than the standard whodunit. Even today, eight years later, many marvel at its unique structure and cinematic daring.

Even more telling, Memento suggests the specific elements that would come to make Nolan a true directorial talent. The painstaking attention to details, the unbridled character depth, the desire that everything onscreen, from the smallest moment to the biggest big picture pronouncements, make sense are literally encased in his creation. Many miss the fact that Nolan is a brilliant writer as well. He has had a hand in every screenplay he’s ever filmed, and you can see the connection and consistency up onscreen. A movie like Memento could easily go perplexing and pear-shaped, especially in the hands of one of Hollywood’s journeymen. This is one time where high concept met even larger ability - and the result was magical. 

Insomnia (2002)
It’s never easy adapting a popular foreign film for Western tastes, especially when said movie is this laconic, spellbinding thriller from Sweden. The original starred
Stellan Skarsgård as a sleep-deprived detective on the case of a murdered girl. It exposed director Erik Skjoldbjærg to audiences worldwide, and was so well considered that the Criterion Collection gave the film one of its well-deserved Special Edition DVD treatments. So Nolan definitely had an uphill battle, especially with this being his first studio feature. Saddled with a cast that included a peak Al Pacino, a rising Hilary Swank, and a misplaced Robin Williams, the filmmaker fashioned a kind of sunlit noir, a world where the darkest elements exist within the never-ending Alaskan days. 

It’s not just that the former stand-up turned middling actor is horribly wrong for the role of a sleazoid killer. Nor is it the oddball juxtaposition of European angst coming out of the mouth of high profile Hollywood faces. No, the true issue with Insomnia is one of “why bother”. Sure, Nolan seamlessly weaves the worlds of memory and immediacy, effortlessly swinging between flashback and fact, and he makes the most of his frozen tundra location. But Skjoldbjærg’s version was just as good, and Skarsgård gave a heartbreaking performance. So a remake was merely a matter of foreign film snobbery. No matter the genius of the man behind the lens, this version of Insomnia still seems unnecessary.

Batman Begins (2005)
It was a monumental task that any director would find daunting. Warner Brothers, desperate to revamp the Caped Crusader after Joel Schumacher and his day-glo frightmares more or less killed him off, was looking for some fresh new talent to take over the franchise. While names like Tarantino and Aronofsky were tossed about, Nolan got the nod. From the very beginning, he put his stamp on the project. He hired Christian Bale to play a decidedly tormented Bruce Wayne. He focused on less famous villains like Scarecrow and Ra’s al Ghul. He wiped away the cartoon sheen suggested by the material and set all the action within a dire, depressively realistic Gotham City. This new approach clicked. Audiences adored Nolan’s aggressive update, and critics applauded his originality and artistry.

This is definitely not Tim Burton’s Batman. Gone are the Goth tinged tricks and A-list anarchy. In their place are real performances from actors doing everything to make this material feel fully realized and totally authentic. Bale is especially good, though his breathy ‘Bat whisper’ gets the occasional fanboy in a lather. Yet Nolan wisely surrounded him with a supporting cast including old world wonders like Michael Caine (great as Alfred), new school sages like Liam Neeson, and up and comers like Cillian Murphy (hauntingly creepy as Scarecrow/ Dr. Crane). With a clockwork narrative allowing all plot points to neatly fall into place, Batman Begins represented a new era for the comic book movie - one that Nolan would again redefine five years later.

The Prestige (2006)
In the year that passed after Begins broke through both critically and commercially, everyone wondered what Nolan would do next. While many wanted to see another installment of Gotham in chaos, they would have to wait for a future opening day. Instead, the director and his gifted screenwriter brother created a remarkable adaptation of the Christopher Priest novel. Oddly enough, of the two films centering on old world magicians to arrive that year (along with The Illusionist), Nolan’s was the lesser mainstream hit. But what it lacked in financial windfalls it made up for in motion picture artistry. In a year that celebrated Martin Scorsese’s Departed with an Oscar, and saw stellar work arrive from Darren Aronofsky in the form of The Fountain, The Prestige was the year’s best film. 

At its core, The Prestige plays with notions of fascination, dedication and deception. It starts out as a professional battle of wills between two talented men, and ends up a sad comment on how low mere men will go to best each other. Bale is back, becoming a seasoned member of the Nolan creative company with his turn here, and Hugh Jackman delivers yet another insanely good performance as the showman who’s more flash than onstage substance. While both parts offer their fair share of nuance, the Aussie bests his British rival, reveling in a snarky kind of smarm that makes your skin crawl as your heart breaks. A few years from now, when Nolan has settled into his multiple award winning career, The Prestige will be seen as his strong creative breakthrough. It stands as one of cinema’s strongest statements.

The Dark Knight (2008)
With his last film underperforming and the studio anxious for more Batmania, Nolan began the process of revisiting Gotham by looking for his next supervillian. At the end of Begins, Gary Oldman’s Sgt. Gordon (soon to be Commissioner) shows the Caped Crusader a piece of evidence - a playing/calling card for someone known as the Joker. With this dynamic already set up, the director started casting. Several people suggested Michael Keaton as the character, a nice bit of symmetry to the previous run of films. Others suggested Crispin Glover, Mark Hammill (who voiced the character in the cartoon update), and even an aging Jack Nicholson. Nolan went with Heath Ledger, the Australian actor best known for his work in Monster’s Ball, Brokeback Mountain, and I’m Not There. It turned out to be an inspired choice…and a tragic one. After filming was completed, Ledger would die of an accidental drug overdose.

A combination of menace and melancholy looms over The Dark Knight, painting its masterful crime epic sweep in uncomfortable shades of interpersonal doom. Nolan’s latest is indeed a masterpiece, albeit one that avoids all the pitfalls that come with being yet another Summer box office draw. Blockbusters don’t get much darker and demanding than this, a 150 minute descent into the fractured psyche of four unflappable men. Along with Bale and Ledger, Oldman returns for more Gordon drama, and just when you thought we’d found a hero to save Gotham, Aaron Eckhart’s Harvey Dent goes from conqueror to conquered in a literal blaze of g(l)ory. His Two-Face is just one of many amazing features in this Oscar worthy effort, a true indication that Christopher Nolan is the best director working in films today.

—Bill Gibron

Guillermo Del Toro should be Peter Jackson. He should be sitting on a multi-billion dollar franchise, a few Oscars, and that rare combination of mainstream movie studio cred and overwhelming geek love. Granted, the Mexican maverick has gained a couple of these career accolades over the last ten years, his resume overflowing with awards, appreciation, and the kind of adoration reserved for rock stars. Heck, he’s become so powerful within the closed community of Hollywood that he managed to get a sequel made of his amazing Hellboy, even though the first film was no blockbuster, and there was no great grassroots groundswell to revisit the franchise.

When Columbia Pictures bailed, more or less dooming the director’s proposed trilogy, Universal came in and scooped up the series. At the time, it was seen as a major gamble. Even with his Blade II commercial rep and Devil’s Backbone/Pan’s Labyrinth aesthetic aura, Del Toro was not a guaranteed box office hero. In retrospect, it was a genius play on the part of the powers that be. In between greenlighting the return of everyone’s favorite cat and candy loving demon superhero, the Academy came calling, and so did Middle Earth. Indeed, Del Toro is now in preproduction to bring The Hobbit (as well as a follow-up linking film) to the big screen. For the next four years, JRR Tolkien will be his life, and just like the man who he should be, it will be a make or breakthrough for the filmmaker.

Like Jackson, Del Toro really doesn’t require the need of that famed work of fantasy literature to establish his true cinematic value. He is responsible for some remarkably visionary works, from the giant insect deconstruction of Mimic to the vampires as vultures/victims in his take on Blade. A love of old school horror has made him dabble successfully in the genre (Cronos) as well producing the brilliant ghost story by Juan Antonio Bayona, The Orphanage. An appreciation of comics brought him to Mike Mignola’s usual graphic novel, and always the outsider, Del Toro delivered a big screen action film without a major star (Ron Pearlman as the lead?) or well known marketing icon. Yet thanks to his undeniable passion and kid in a candy store scope, he evoked the best of what makes movies magic - the pure power in visuals. It has become his considered calling card.

Looking over Del Toro’s oeuvre, it’s clear that the image is everything. Take the genetically altered cockroaches in Mimic. Their ability to resemble humans, combined with the inherent terror of their oversized awfulness, makes them an endearing bit of macabre. Similarly, his Blade gave neckbiters a mandible to be wary of, while the first Hellboy filled the screen with all manner of heretofore unseen monsters. But it was his smaller films, his work in Devil’s Backbone and Pan’s Labyrinth that sealed the spectacle deal. From the unforgettable symbolism of the unexploded bomb in the children’s home courtyard to the Great Faun, its bent-back legs and elongated limbs suggesting an ancient folklore façade, Del Toro definitely believes that a picture is worth a thousand words - and a million narrative possibilities.

With Hellboy 2: The Golden Army, the man’s imagination machine goes into overdrive. It’s a movie that literally fills the screen with optical eye candy. The moment our hero’s father figure - Trevor Bruttenholm - tells the story of the truce between mankind and magic (illustrated in a stop motion puppetoon style that suggests the very best of George Pal), we know we’re in for a major treat. That things only get better from here is a testament to Del Toro’s constantly churning creativity. Doors are complex puzzle boxes, rock formations the humanoid gateways to other worlds. Even when he applies a standard physical F/X motif to his work (the mesmerizing Troll City), we can sense the purpose and playfulness in his stratagem.

Some suggest that Hellboy 2 has too much visual splendor, that it allows excess to overwhelm both its sensible and supernatural approaches. Actually, this is not a criticism so much as a reflective and rather damning disclosure. The reason most people feel that the film offers too much in the way of wonder is because so many so-called fantasies are absolutely bereft of same. The sequel may play like Ghostbusters on steroids, but Del Toro isn’t doing anything that his fanbase hasn’t complained about and then embraced for the last ten years. The Star Wars prequels were some of the busiest, most CGI-laden examples of overindulgence ever, and yet no one is giving George Lucas grief for his images (his casting choices and script writing, on the other hand…).

No, what makes Del Toro’s tapestry so dense and daunting is its connection to tradition and old world mythology. You see, films like Hellboy 2 and Pan’s Labyrinth rely on a knowledge of legend and fable as a means of making sense of their often symbolic substance. When a city sized Elemental attacks our gun-wielding Hellspawn, its purpose is not just to destroy. No, it wants to reclaim the natural order, the delicate balance that once allowed it to live in harmony with all others. Similarly, the faun is not testing Ofelia by having her fight any particular set of creatures. Each of her challenges represents a step in the maturation process, a point of reference that will make her last act sacrifice seem majestic, instead of meaningless.

All of Del Toro’s nightmares and dreamscapes work this way. The villainous Prince Nuada doesn’t want to simply destroy all humans. He wants them to understand the pain they’ve inflicted on the otherworldly realm. His goal is both nasty and noble, which makes his efforts both ghastly and somewhat valiant.  As with many characters in the Del Toro canon, the complexity fills many functions. A champion is never pure, the wicked never wholly so. Evil comes in a compelling visage, while good can always screw up and shift the eternal equilibrium. Beyond the way they look and they way they fight, the most fascinating element in a Del Toro movie remains how he can turn the tiniest of pixies (the Golden Army‘s beguiling Tooth Fairies) into the most voracious of horrors.

That is why he should be Peter Jackson. That is why he should - and probably will - share the New Zealand auteur’s place among the vaunted visionaries of our generation. For both of these amazing men, vistas come with a value, an unspoken price to be paid by the protagonists who populate them and the antagonists who want them destroyed. For both, story is simply a place to put characters, a chance to allow narrative to strengthen personality and illustrate inclination. For both, technology is the canvas, not the brush. It’s the mind that does all of the heavy inventive lifting. For them, cinema represents the ultimate expression of man’s inspired soul, a picture book as philosophy, film as a force of fate.

In the years to come, we’ll be the lucky ones. We’ll be able to relate our accounts of coming across Dead Alive for the first time, or seeing Pan’s Labyrinth with a paid audience (and not a dry eye in the house). We’ll recall the interviews which made madness sound sane and personal daring appear cautious. Most importantly, we’ll rejoice in seeing the very boundaries of an important artform stretched to their very limits, redefined, and then put back for others to enjoy. And we’ll recall the moment when Guillermo Del Toro moved from the fringes to the front row, bringing his own overflowing mind’s eye with him.  If he’s not already Peter Jackson, he should be. On the other hand, here’s hoping he stays forever himself. He’s pretty great the way he is.

—Bill Gibron

The Ruins

Director: Carter Smith

Cast: Jonathan Tucker, Jena Malone, Shawn Ashmore, Laura Ramsey, Joe Anderson

DreamWorks/Paramount; US: 4 Apr 2008; UK: 11 Apr 2008; 2008

Trailer

Official Site

Sometimes, you have to wonder what goes on in a marketer’s head. Let’s say you have a good movie - granted, a niche genre effort, but a good film none the less. Now, you know that most critics are going to crucify it, demeaning what it stands for merely because of the type it represents (in this case, horror). And from past experience, you are aware that this kind of narrative appeals to a certain sort of audience, one that needs to be ballyhooed right up front in order to earn the maximum opening weekend returns. These movies don’t have legs, and you understand that. So it’s now or never; pile on the hype and hope for the best.

In the case of The Ruins, however, the advertising took a decidedly odd approach. Instead of discussing the film as a throwback scarefest, a work worthy of early Stephen King or grade-A Romero, it took the tired, torture porn route. Indeed, many of the trailers accented the foreign locale, the strange native threat, and a clear corporeal putrescence. It was all blood, badlands, and bad guys. Nowhere was there a suggestion that suspense would be part of the mix. There was hardly a hint of the survival story involved. And at the end of the day, when potential has to be measured, the viewership was considered too stupid to accept the premise or the pay-off, and so a classic bait and switch was used.

Now, this is not new. It’s the premiere tactic of a business model that bases success on a few weeks at the Cineplex, not the artistic value or commercial longevity of a project. True, it’s all part of some bizarre vicious cycle, a self-fulfilling prophecy that sees stars and directors rewarded for putting butts in the seats early and often. Rare is the certified sleeper, a film that plays for months on end before becoming a cultural lynchpin. No, what Hollywood specializes in is the notion of instant gratification and planned obsolescence - especially during certain ‘seasons’ (read: Summer and Oscar). It won’t wait for a movie to build a following. If it hasn’t shown significant “buzz” during the first 10 days of a release, it is forced off screens to make room for the next bit of grand mal gambling.

And this flies directly in the face of a film like The Ruins. This is a movie that needs a couple of weeks to clean the Hostel taste out of a potential ticket buyer’s mouths, to reestablish itself for what it truly is - a taut and rather terrifying little thriller. It employs the classic creepshow elements: exotic locale, unexplained evil, the possibility that anyone could die at any time. It’s a morbid little work, the combined talents of novelist/screenwriter Scott Smith (of A Simple Plan fame) and director Carter Smith. Together, they eschew the recent trend in over the top grotesqueries, instead metering out their gore with the same sense of style and resolve as the rest of the film.

The story takes place in Mexico, where four friends are trying to find ways to pass the time during their last few days on vacation. They meet up with a German tourist who has a map to some ancient ruins. His brother has been investigating the site, and he’s anxious to find out what he’s up to. Agreeing that a little sightseeing would do them good, they all head off into the jungle. Within hours, they come face to face with a giant temple, an abandoned archeological dig, and a group of murderous natives who want the “gringos” quarantined to the very top of the structure. At first, our quintet isn’t sure what’s going on. But slowly they realize that something among these ancient rocks is unbelievably evil, incredibly relentless…and very, very hungry. 

From this point on, the movie takes many intriguing twists and turns. Some of them are so shocking as to stay with you for days (can you say “impromptu surgery”?). Others are so sensationally schlocky that the resulting cheese threatens to undermine everything that came before - or after. But thanks to the Smiths, who constantly keep things in focus and in check, and their incredibly earnest cast who sells everything - even the most implausible facets - with drive and determination, The Ruins works, and works well. It becomes a wonderful little gem, the kind of unsung macabre that has fans wondering why it seemed to get so little favorable fanfare.

Naturally, the horror maven understands the limited appeal of their particular poison, especially from a critical standpoint. The Ruins rates a dismal 44% on Rotten Tomatoes, with a total of 68 so-called journalists voicing their support/disapproval. Oddly enough, Hancock, which earns an even worse 37% rating, was seen by 166. Almost 100 more. Back when we discussed the bias against fright flicks, there were numerous examples of this discrepancy. The Strangers managed a much better 113 reviews, even if it too ranks lower than The Ruins (at 41%), but this can’t compare with 234 for the fourth Indiana Jones pic. While numbers are usually arbitrary, and anyone can read anything into them, there are some trends that can be surmised here.

First, part of the reason The Ruins has less write-ups than The Strangers is that most markets did not screen the movie for critics prior to release. Strike that, some did, but many saw the Smiths’ effort at a late night preview the THURSDAY before it opened. This guaranteed that several senior critics would not and could not run reviews. Unlike online scribes who can usually get something posted within 24 hours, print (and other mainstream) publishing has an editorial pecking order that must be abided by. Some papers demand material three to four days before, meaning that if you have not seen a certain movie before that time, a day/date review will not go up.

Secondly, the studio behind The Strangers obviously believed they had a hit on their hands. They ran screenings at least a week before opening, and in some cities, there was 10 days or more between the advance and the street date. This meant that (a) more critics could come, and (b) more reviews could be written. So from a pragmatic standpoint, The Ruins suffered from stealth like cloak and dagger design. But there is more to it than that. The Strangers had recognizable names (Liv Tyler, Scott Speedman), while The Ruins did not. Somewhere, in some office, an agent is collecting his bonus for making sure his client got a decent chance at some quality opinions.

Thirdly, the suits are still scared spitless of the messageboard mentality that guides the Internet. Well aware that negative rumor-mongering can begin as quickly as the script stage, they (falsely) believe that keeping a film away from the blog-posting masses will guarantee that none of said bad vibes will rub off on their product. Aside from being incredibly narrow minded and racked with logic loopholes, the situation does stand the other way as well. If you have a “good” film (and The Ruins is a good film), then holding back on any publicity means that you have the standard set of voices giving the final word. And since there is an automatic bias against the genre, said flawed thinking turns fatal.

You see, most surveys suggest that critics only matter when it comes to bad films. Take The Love Guru, for example. Sure, word of mouth more or less killed it, but the consensus was already out there, thanks to at least 105 bad reviews. The press agreeing with your best buddy just adds supportive insult to established injury. Yet the Fourth Estate could clamor all over a film - as they usually do with Awards season selections - and if viewers aren’t interested, they will stay away in droves. So to think that advance word does anything other than sway a few turnstile twists pro or con is ridiculous. On Broadway, yes, but not when it comes to the tween/teen demo that determines most movie sales.

With The Ruins coming to DVD this Tuesday (8 July), here’s some friendly advice to the paid professionals behind the push. Up front, learn your real target crowd. There are many horror buffs in the 30 and older category, their teenage years spent in a pot smoke haze at their local drive-in drinking in the latest terror show. Heck, even Boomers enjoy an occasional scare now and then. So stop thinking that disaffected Goth types and bored PG-13 year old geeks are your prime audience. Broaden the scope. And then accept the fact that you are fighting a major battle when it comes to the critics. Less than 25% are open minded when it comes to fear, and of them, less than half would claim it as their favorite cinematic style.

So here’s an idea - find those journalists who might favor fright and play to them. Offer them special screenings, interviews with cast and crew, sneak peeks that your typical tabloid-esque rag might simply ignore. DVD does this really well. Sites like Bloody Disgusting, Gorezone, and Fangoria are frequently seen quoted on direct to format titles. This is done because these distributors understand the weight of consensus and suggestion in horror fandom. Trust is paramount among the macabre devotees, mostly because they can’t rely on their local paper or favorite website to give dread a fair shake. By finally accepting that you can broaden the demand for something that’s normally rather limited (ala The Blair Witch Project), you can reap undeniable rewards.

This means, of course, destroying the current model. Movies like The Ruins might muster up a few million come opening weekend, but in order to have any longevity whatsoever, these films have to find their core constituency - and then expand on it. Current belief sees women as the next untapped fanbase, filmmakers aiming the experience at a group that’s not normally considered fright friendly. It may have been the basis for The Strangers‘ above-average box office ($60 million and counting) or the outpouring of affection for Neil Marshall’s The Descent (a very girl power drive experience indeed). Until then, individuals inclined toward the creepy and spooky will simply have to hunt and peck for a theater playing their eerie entertainment of choice - or worse, wait for its digital equivalent. Clearly, it’s the marketers, not the movies themselves, that are ruining things for everyone. Sometimes, you have to wonder.

—Bill Gibron

WALL∙E

Director: Andrew Stanton

Cast: Ben Burtt, Elissa Knight, Jeff Garlin, Fred Willard, John Ratzenberger, Kathy Najimy, Sigourney Weaver

Walt Disney Pictures; US: 27 Jun 2008; UK: 18 Jul 2008; 2008

Trailer

Official Site

You sometimes have to wonder if Disney knows what it’s doing. From a business perspective, the pick-up of Pixar was a no-brainer, the kind of slam dunk corporate decision that instantly made the House of Mouse the premiere CG cartooning co-op in show business without ever having to prove their own 3D mantle (isn’t that right, Chicken Little/Meet the Robinsons?). And thanks to the stellar output from the maverick animated moviemakers, Uncle Walt gained a crystal clear cash cow, and now has a series of family classics that match up alongside the pen and ink wonders from decades past.

So imagine one’s shock when a superlative sci-fi fable, the wonderful WALL*E, walked into theaters this week reeking of cutesy kid vid cloy. From the trailers and TV spots, one expected a kind of Charlie Chaplin meets Armageddon ideal, with just a little automaton love tossed in for good marketing measure. Never one to miss a promotional opportunity, Disney decided the best way to sell this occasionally bleak, cleverly cautionary tale was by centering on the film’s action figure-able hero and avoiding any of the film’s second half space-satire. In fact, if you watched any of the media material, you’d never know that this film was really a sophisticated screed about humanity, nature, and the environmentally charged clash between the two.

Now, before we go any further, a SPOILER warning is in order. If you have not seen WALL*E, and want all the plot twists and story surprises left intact, ignore the next few paragraphs. You see, in order to decipher Disney’s decision on how best to present this movie to the masses, the narrative has to be broken down and discussed. Sure, one could hint around and try to avoid outing the second and third act specifics, but in attempting to understand how a studio surveys its potential demographic, and reacts to same, learning all there is to know about this film’s fascinating premise is crucial to seeing where those so-called sophisticated suits may have dropped the ball.

When we first meet WALL*E, it’s against a backdrop of corporate America gone undead. Within a landscape strewn with Big -N- Lard hard-sell advertising and mega-mall come-ons, the last remaining Waste Allocation Load Lifter, Earth-Class left on the desolate, decimated planet goes about its pre-programmed tasks. In service for nearly 700 years, our valiant little robot spends its days cubing up trash (and building unbelievable garbage skyscrapers), his nights picking through the various treasures he discovers as part of his duties. From extra parts for a little self-repair to more enigmatic objects like cigarette lighters and rubber ducks, the diminutive machine has slowly ‘evolved’ into something akin to salient.

Naturally this leads to WALL*E’s biggest dilemma - how incredibly lonely ‘he’ is. Throughout the opening of the film, we see unfathomably empty vistas, locales where nothing has lived for a very long time. During these scenes, our hero expresses his angst through two clever conceits. One is ‘his’ obsession with the musical Hello Dolly, and in particular, two key songs: “Put on Your Sunday Clothes” and “It Only Takes a Moment”. One tune suggests the return of people to the planet, a celebration of happiness inside a realm ravaged by our own hubris. The other is a simple lament, a song of longing for a being that has learned to feel as part of its centuries-long purpose.

The other facet is his connection to his collection of scavenged relics. Like Ariel in The Little Mermaid, or Edward G. Robison’s Saul in Soylent Green, their existence is a connection to a reality no longer available. It’s archeological in nature, this kind of assemblage. But it’s also an act of desperation, a way for someone - or in this case, something - to find a means of making sense of the everyday grind. What WALL*E worships clearly argues for his passion for the human race, or at the very least, his longing for those who created the fascinating objects he spends his time toiling over.

Together with his far too cute cockroach friend (apparently, the last of his kind on a terrain that should be swarming with same), there’s a Boy and His Dog feel to everything. This runs in sharp contrast to the film’s second half. We learn that, eons ago, inhabitants of the dying planet took off in large spaceships, a five year mission of waiting while the Earth was being cleaned up. That such a short time ended up lasting 700 years is indicative of the mess we made, and WALL*E‘s pro-ecology message. This is further accented when EVE arrives, and finds a tiny sprout of a plant, the only green thing we see in most of the movie. The small vegetation becomes the catalyst for a space mutiny, a homage to HAL of 2001, and a true denunciation of what we, as materialistic consumer blobs, have literally become.

To fashion social commentary into a piece of speculative fiction is nothing new. Outside the Star Wars-ing of the genre, it’s the main reason sci-fi exists. But to add it into something that’s being sold as a G to PG rated family film, especially one from a company not known to expand the boundaries of the genre, is a marvel to behold. Some critics have complained about this material, marking it as too obvious within the spectrum of what’s being offered. And, granted, one is taken aback by the Idiocracy like lummox-ness of the space humans. It’s clear that Hollywood believes the suburban sprawl is a physical as well as a real estate predicament, and the instant-Internet-cellphone-socialization of the overweight lard-asses that use to be people is laughable.

But there is another element here, something that speaks to a growing disconnect from the viewership. By presenting the ship bound future citizenry as nothing short of out of shape sponges, absorbing any media mush that’s doled out to them, Pixar seems to be taking the same stance as Mike Judge did last year. Mocking your potential audience is never a good idea, and yet WALL*E stands to avoid many angry reactions because of its penchant for pretty colors and feel good philosophizing. In fact, one woman at a screening this critic attended sat blissfully back in her seat, ample belly overflowing with nachos and popcorn, and giggled uncontrollably at the sequences aboard the Axiom. That she could have been a live action extra in the film speaks volumes for the movie’s more subliminal suggestions.

And, of course, the film goes slightly conventional once in space. We have the same hero vs. villain ideal (since none of the humans know that they’ve been in space so long, the computers onboard have been following a Presidential mandate to remain away from the planet), and there are lots of clever - and merchandisable - robo-extras to keep everyone interested. Yet there’s a reserved darkness that overpowers the supposedly sunny ending. Even as the humans return, and see how worn their ancestral wasteland has become, they celebrate in optimistic glee. The parting shot of a valley overflowing with little sprouts means that - as usual - nature has found a way to circumvent man’s evil hand.

So again, the question becomes, did Disney serve the best interests of this film by selling it as something that it clearly is not? Well, let’s go to another screening reaction for some guidance. When the main character first appeared, a row of hyperactive kids who were sugared and soured by lots of concession stand treats, calmed down considerably, and started to mummer the robot’s name under their breath. All throughout the opening prologue, as WALL*E roved across the deserted cities and streets, the children reacted with wide-eyed (and occasionally open mouthed) awe. But after a while, after the first sandstorm and the threat that came from the peculiar, pessimistic tone, the wee ones began to balk. You could literally feel the crowd becoming antsy, wondering where their slapstick comedy caper went. It’s clear that anyone under 10 was feeling inadvertently ripped off - even if they didn’t understand why they felt so gypped.

WALL*E would eventually regroup and win them over, the Axiom material with its funny looking people and comic relief machines more than enough to wash away the taste of a post-title traumas. Yet in some ways, Disney couldn’t sell the film in any other fashion. Had they told the truth, fanatics and critics would have complained that the company had spilled the beans in an act of frantic disbelief. It would indicate a lack of faith in a subdivision that was purchased because of its undeniable winning streak. And then there is the focus itself. Would teens really come out to see a movie that seemed made for their grade school siblings? Would the die-hard futurist find the Disney/Pixar name a distraction instead of an advantage? Does WALL*E deliver the kind of dystopian spectacle that makes serious science fiction saleable?

The answer seems to be caught up in what movies have become since the advent of home video. On the one hand, something as flawlessly executed as WALL*E deserves the title “art”, and definitely defines the term “artform” in reference to animation. On the other, parents have relied on Pixar to be the preeminent digital babysitter for their easily entertained offspring. Their DVDs don’t sell in the billions because everyone’s a collector. Instead, movies like Toy Story and Finding Nemo are the new best friends of a tech-spec species that’s forgotten how to moderate media input. Viewed as safe and harmlessly wholesome, a Pix-flick takes the place of education, morals, and parents. In their place is an endlessly rewindable window into bona fide brain stimulus.

But just like Ratatouille last year, WALL*E deserves better. Cars was probably the first Pixar film that flaunted the notion that kids were not the only reason to make computer generated gems. Its Route 66 nostalgia was founded in a Baby Boomer chic. But Brad Bird’s Oscar winning wonder plainly avoided many of the genre’s junk tenets in order to capitalize on character, narrative, and actual emotion. There is no rule that anthropomorphic entities need to be wise-crack pop culture riffing retards. They don’t have to have stunt voices, or be recognizable Central Casting types. No, ideas can be just as important as instant recognizability, and not every Pixar film has to be product as well. Sadly, this appears to be the exact opposite approach to what Disney is doing. Sometimes, you just have to wonder.

—Bill Gibron

Wanted

Director: Timur Bekmambetov

Cast: James McAvoy, Morgan Freeman, Angelina Jolie, Terence Stamp, Thomas Kretschmann, Common, Marc Warren, David Patrick O'Hara, Konstantin Khabensky, Dato Bakhtadze

Universal Pictures; US: 27 Jun 2008; UK: 25 Jun 2008; 2008

Official Site

Hollywood is notorious for repeating ideas. When something is successful, you can guarantee studio suits are desperate to find a way of copying it. With this Friday’s release of Wanted, something even more unusual takes place. While it’s clear that this movie borrows liberally from the Wachowski’s action packed bullet time virtual reality revisionism, it also incorporates much of Fight Club‘s insignificant rebel in a crass corporate pond philosophizing. Together, the combination adds up to a strangely unique experience. On the one hand, you easily recognize the various references. On the other, Russian director Timur Bekmambetov uses the homage as a means of manufacturing his own incredible vision.

As with many post-millennial movies, Wanted is based on a series of graphic novels. Like the best of those adaptations, screenwriters Mark Millar and J. G. Jones use the foundation of the series as a jumping off point, a place to explore elements within our society that the comic couldn’t (or wouldn’t) address. In the main character of Wesley Gibson, the film finds a disgruntled everyman, an empty Google search drone who has done literally nothing with his life. As the perfect contemporary protagonist, the movie proposes the latest nerd as closet gladiator, an archetype that seems to never lose cinematic weight. It then pits him against the classic cabal, a secret society that’s been doing the world’s dirty work for so long that we can’t imagine life without it.

Toss in terrific performances by James McAvoy, Angelina Jolie, Morgan Freeman, and Thomas Kretschmann, a twisty plot that never gets too tangled in its own contrivances, and more insane, inventive action than a John Woo-ping Yuen fever dream, and you’ve got one of the most amazing movies of the Summer. Even better, it’s poised to dominate the more adult oriented end of the 27 June box office. While the kiddies are clamoring for more of Wall*E‘s robot allegory, teens and those prone to masterful machismo will be lining up to see gunshots curve, wound curing paraffin baths, and a certain actress’s tattooed backside. And if they’re not careful, those Marvel superheroes better watch out. Wanted could usurp their position as 2008’s best popcorn escape.

Most of the success for this film rests rightfully on the shoulders of Bekmambetov. Among genre film fans, he’s best known for the vampire deconstruction of Night Watch and Day Watch. Named his country’s best young director in 1997, he clearly shares the sensibility of his Hong Kong based Asian brothers. Wanted is like The Killer with more car stunts, a baffling battle royale between forces that defy physics while simultaneously stoking audience appreciation. Bekmambetov clearly understands character and he takes time throughout the arc to stop and let layers of personality slowly expand and contract. By the end of the narrative, when weapons have replaced wisdom, we develop a real rooting interest in who lives and who dies.

In fact, what makes Wanted better than either Iron Man or The Incredible Hulk is the abject joy that filmmaker Bekmambetov brings to the project. Jon Favreau used a no-nonsense approach to realizing Tony Stark and company, and Louis Leterrier applies a MTV style of calculated quick cuts to infer action and tension. But the fast-slow sensibility of the 47 year old Russian auteur serves his spectacle flawlessly. It’s the most exquisite match between visionary and vision since the Chicago born comic book geeks gave us Neo, Agent Smith, and a war for survival across virtual reality.

What seals the deal, of course, is the Chuck Palahniuk-esque sentiments running through the story. Wesley narrates some of the action, his acid tongue takedowns of those he works for and with enough to recall Edward Norton and his razor sharp social commentary. The main theme of Wanted explores the victor inside the seemingly anemic, the superstar stuck inside the cubicle klatch of a nameless corporate ogre. The notion of a nobody able to wield god-like powers over life and death more or less defines our current cultural climate, a place where the standard rules of success no longer seem to apply. Even better, the film throws such sad sack sentiments back at the viewer, confronting them at every level into answering that most probing of Generation Hexed questions - what have you done with your life.

Such a crowd-pleasing confrontation is destined to get film fetishists and messageboard mavericks in a lush, liquid lather, and of course, they’ll be chiming for more, more, more. Unfortunately, while there’s been talk of a sequel, anyone who has seen the film will argue that a follow-up will be kind of tough. Not impossible, but one guesses somewhat incapable, of filtering the same material into the current cocksure slam dunk - at least from a practical standpoint. And who knows, maybe the audiences won’t turn up. After all, there is blood and guts o’plenty, and the kind of violence glorification that gets nosy mothers and grass roots campaigners up and active. If Grand Theft Auto meets with a mountain of negative press the day of its release, this bullet through the brain bravado is guaranteed to get under someone’s skin.

Yet even if it fails to meet its box office goals (ala Fight Club) and has to find a clear cult fanbase on DVD/Blu-ray (as with The Matrix), Wanted will remain a bright spot in a season soured by limp comedies, clammy kid fare, and a regressive reliance on things that were popular five years ago. Granted, 1999 is a mere decade past, but at least this film mines some of that year’s more meaningful entries. Whenever anyone successfully imitates efforts from the past - John Carpenter channeling Alfred Hitchcock for his brilliant B-movie Halloween, Woody Allen working through the entire Bergman/Fellini oeuvre - the results are telling…and usually terrific. Wanted is poised to be the next big thing, and it has a couple of previous honorees to that crown to thank for it.

—Bill Gibron

The Love Guru

Director: Marco Schnabel

Cast: Mike Myers, Jessica Alba, Justin Timberlake, Romany Malco, Verne Troyer, Meagan Good, Manu Narayan, Ben Kingsley

Paramount Pictures; US: 20 Jun 2008; UK: 1 Aug 2008; 2008

Official Site

It stands as one of the most unusual, and blinkered, boycotts ever. For the last few months, self-proclaimed Indo-American leader Rajan Zed has been waging a one man campaign against Mike Myers’ latest live action comedy, The Love Guru. Pointing to the fact that the film features an American Born master who comes back to his native land to help a hockey player in distress, Zed has launched a bi-weekly (and sometimes more) email “awareness” campaign, demanding everything from the MPAA labeling the movie “NC-17” to requesting the same body suspend Paramount for “unethical practices” (anyone whose seen This Film is Not Yet Rated knows that ain’t happening anytime soon).

Naturally, all of this comes from someone who, admittedly, has not seen the final film. Nor can he site specific allegations against Myers and company. All he can do is complain about the trailer “lampooning Hinduism and Hindus and using Hindu terms frivolously”. And without said personal perspective, his screeds come across as horribly misinformed. Over the course of the last few weeks, Zed has also come under fire for mixing fact with a little propagandized fiction. Back in April, he announced that the British Film Institute (better known by the initial BFI) had no intention of supporting, or in their words “screening” the film. Turns out, that’s standard policy for the organization, a procedural loophole victory at best.

As for the rest of his rants, Zed has tried everything and anything. He wanted advance screenings, and when he was awarded them, he still complained. When Paramount finally withdrew the offer, he called conspiracy. He supposedly rallied other religions to his defense, only to have them back off any major pronouncements with a “wait and see” attitude. Now, there is nothing wrong with one ethnic culture or race responding with concern when it appears that someone is about to ridicule their religion or heritage. Even worse, The Love Guru looked like it would indeed use every known concept of Hinduism and Eastern philosophy to fuel yet another regressive Mike Myer’s comedy.

Specifically, the simplistic narrative follows Maurice Pitka, a Western orphan who finds himself learning the ways of the guru alongside the now more famous Deepak Chopra. As he ages, our hero is sick of the comparison, and is looking for a high profile case to bring him to the attention of Oprah, and as a result, the American mainstream. As luck would have it, star player for the Toronto Maple Leafs, Darren Roanoke, is having marital troubles. His wife has left him for the notoriously well-hung goalie of the Los Angeles Kings, Jacques “Le Coq” Grande, and as a result, he can no longer score goals. With team owner Jane Bullard and Leaf’s coach Cherkov desperate, they turn to Pitka and his ‘DRAMA’ method to rekindle Roanoke’s romance and save the organization’s Stanley Cup hopes.

In the end, Zed shouldn’t have bothered. Certainly, The Love Guru gives certain Indian stereotypes a tweaking or two. Ben Kingsley, revered for his Oscar winning performance as the nation’s heroic Gandhi, pisses all over the famed pacifists legacy by playing a cross-eyed ashram teacher who gained his horrendous eyesight from years of masturbation. He speaks in a silly voice, makes students fight with mops soaked in his own urine, and gets a juvenile kick out of keeping Myers’ Pitka in an unnecessary vow of chastity. If it was possible, Zed and his gang should ask the Academy to take back the British thespian’s award. He does more damage to the Asian country’s people and reputation with this performance than all the good his 1982 biopic did.

Similarly, Myers does make it seem like all gurus are money grubbing materialists who pervert faith and inner peace into a series of babbling best sellers and a collection of high concept catchphrases. Pitka is always ending his mantras with a tiny “TM” tag, indicating that the wisdom he just quoted is trademarked, and therefore subject to copyrights and royalties. He has personal servants who handle all of his affairs, including a few that are far more intimate than one imagines real gurus require, and there’s a seismic, show business flare to everything Pitka does. Alongside his hopped up horndog tendencies, Myers makes his hero so flawed that we’re not sure if he’s meant as a comment on, or a crass, crude put down of, true Indian wise men.

Such a confused purpose regarding the source material leaves Zed and all others on the outside looking rather confused. Myers personal adoration for Chopra is legendary, and interviews add another level of respect to a figure the comedian feels helped himself - and millions more - find some manner of ersatz enlightenment. So it’s clear the actor would claim comedic poetic license when it comes to how he depicts guru nation. In addition, Pitka’s pitch works. Whatever wacked out system of suggestions and rituals he demands seem successful. Roanoke gets back with his wife, he leads the Leafs to the final game of the Cup, and he even overcomes his phobia regarding his mother. Of course, it takes a pair of elephants having sex to cure that sports performance anxiety ailment.

Indeed, if Zed wants to really get angry about something, one suggests he take the MPAA to task for awarding this tawdry, salacious comedy, overflowing with as many dick and diarrhea jokes as possible, a lowly PG-13 rating. That’s right, kids between the ages of eight and twelve, guided by the unmitigated buzz of an MTV saturated media hype, will be able to witness more penis humor than a dorm room full of drunken frat pledges. The movie starts with a dong joke and goes from there - and repeats said wang witticisms over and over again. If Myers is not making fun of Vern Troyer’s size (a given in this kind of film) he is finding new and novel ways to reference the male member. To say it grows tiresome would be giving tediousness a bad name.

Similarly, Myers clearly believes that Judd Apatow and his go-to gang of regulars have failed to fully develop and explore all levels of gross out juvenilia. So The Love Guru skips things like characterization, plot development, drama, insight, and substance to swim in oceans of personal offal. There are farts, snot rockets, dung, numerous mention of skidmarks (and other verbal variations on the dirty drawers), and the aforementioned wiener-palooza. While the sequence with Kingsley and the nauseating pee fight tops them all, there is still enough mind numbing noxiousness to get your gag reflex good and active. While Apatow can claim scatology with subtext, Myers is like a monkey, flinging his poo at the screen for audiences to enjoy.

Zed is wasting his breath if he thinks anyone will actually boycott this unsuccessful swill. The demographic - read: teen boys and their text-tweener dates - will giggle their way to a Summer full of sympathy mimicry, and Pitka is so completely unrealistic that anyone thinking Hindus are being defamed will look like an idiot in the claim. In fact, The Love Guru has so many insider winks to the viewer that it seems to have anticipated the fuss and foiled it by taking absolutely nothing seriously. Had this campaign actually raised the hackles of grass roots organizations everywhere, there would have been a lot of wasted protest breath. Myers’ intent is obvious - do anything, including the slightest of ethnic slams, for a laugh.

Sadly, the only honest snickers will come from anyone who has read Zed’s missives over the last few months. This does not defend The Love Guru - it’s a god-awful anti-comedy, unfunny in unfathomable, almost heroic ways. But it should teach anyone who wants to openly complain about an upcoming project (and the supposedly negative depiction within) to get their facts straight before starting to complain. This is one of those cases where everything, and nothing, could be twisted into being racially insensitive or just downright dumb - and sometimes, both.

Rajan Zed has every right to protect his people and his place among them. He also has the freedom of speech to voice his well meaning and thoughtful concerns. But like the boy who cried wolf, arguing against something you’re not sure exists means that, when the time comes to really go after an abuse, you’ll be viewed less like a savior and more like a stooge. One imagines that no one could stop Myers in pursuit of his big screen muse. It’s too bad Zed didn’t wait until he knew what he was actually attacking before taking up the cause. Anything to keep this crappy movie out of the cultural mainstream would definitely been welcomed. 

—Bill Gibron