Fight Club (1999)

Jingoistic garbage. These two words rolled around and around my head for the nearly two and half hours that I subjected myself to the most overblown, nonsensical film that has ever been my displeasure to see permeate pop culture and develop into something more than cult status. It is superbly directed and features three very strong performances, but in the end it is maddeningly self-indulgent. If it meant to be the comedy David Fincher said it was then it falls flat; if it was meant to be the elevated, spiritual drama that I saw it as, it succeeds at being nothing more than pretentious drivel.

Edward Norton stars as the worker bee Narrator, an insomniac, white-collar, corporate type with an Ikea decorated condo and nothing offering him relief in life but attending support groups everyday of the week. I found the first 30 minutes of the film to be quite funny, watching him attending meetings for people with testicular cancer, brain parasites and half a dozen others, only to be enraged when a chain-smoking "tourist" named Marla (Helena Bonham Carter) encroaches on his territory.

After a freak fire in his apartment, the Narrator moves into a condemned house with the mysterious, hunky and very charismatic Tyler Durdan (Brad Pitt), a soap salesman whom the Narrator met on a plane. The two soon form a strong relationship built on Tyler's principals of relinquishing material possessions and living in the now, driving ever forward to rock bottom. This Zen outlook is met with the two men's new form of therapy -- beating one another into pulp. The concept catches on, soon forming Fight Club, a testosterone-propelled spinoff of cage fighting without the money, which Tyler then uses for his own ulterior ends.

By all accounts I should be in love with this film. Although I have disliked all of David Fincher's work that I've seen, it stars three very fine actors and is a violent exploration of the subconscious and man's innate, animal behavior. It explores philosophy which I myself believe in and it takes a no-holds-barred approach to delivering that vision to us.

Why then should I hate this movie so much? It was impossible for me to listen to the dialogue without imagining the face of screenwriter Jim Uhls and novelist Chuck Palahnuik sitting in front of their typewriter with big, ugly smiles on their faces. "Fight Club" reeks of self-satisfied fumes belched out by the writers and wafted into the faces of the audience. It is simply a nauseating attempt to be unique and dangerous and daring and poetic, and what makes me angrier is that for most viewers it succeeds at being just that.

The story chides us for being slaves to consumerism, but look at what it glorifies. A culture of chauvinism in which we --meaning men-- need to wake up to the fact that we have lost our so-called masculinity by wearing Calvin Klein boxer-briefs, and the only way to restore that is by destroying the nation's credit system and throwing us into anarchy?? I suppose it makes sense if you make the leap in assuming that if nobody has credit it might somehow relinquish us from the grasp of the corporations and by some magic we shall all then rediscover what it means to be a man. I guess...whatever.

As stupid as the film is and as ugly a depiction of the human race it gives, that is not even the greatest why I am anti-"Fight Club". What makes me so angry is that all of these components come together and pander to a very select audience who then feed off of the smugness that oozes out of the script and they themselves feel like elevated moviegoers. It targets the densest balls of male hormones, tells them they are great, ought to feel great and instructs them in saying anarchy will be last way to achieve that ultimate greatness. And these balls of raging juices will nod their giant heads and grin their stupid grins. Their blunder is mistaking lofty for clever. I have no doubt that there were groups of men who watched Fincher's story and formed their own clubs in the same way gangs of boys dressed like little Alex and his droogies after first watching "A Clockwork Orange". The difference of course was that Kubrick could make something worth watching. He painted the Mona Lisa, Fincher graffitied the side of a whorehouse.  

The first rule of Fight Club: You do not talk about Fight Club. I wish nobody would ever speak of it again.

0.5/4

The Wind That Shakes the Barley (2006)

The 2006 recipient of the Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival, "The Wind That Shakes the Barley" is Ken Loach's unflinching look at two brothers' involvement in the IRA during the time of the Irish War of Independence. Hearkening back to his excellent movie "Land and Freedom" of a decade earlier, Loach has again proven where his politics and his heart lie, that he is with and of the people.

Cillian Murphy gives a strong leading performance as Damien, a country bumpkin of the great pastoral Irish green, who is excited into arms by the ruthless encroachment of the British into his little town. Once a coward, now a patriot, he and his brother Teddy lead a resistance group of terrorists - though I doubt they would call themselves that - aimed at reclaiming Ireland for the Irish. National loyalties gallop into the forefront of everyone's mind and the divides run deep.

At times I felt lost while watching as I am not comfortably familiar with the events of the War or the surrounding politics, and this film did not make any sort of attempt to reveal the background of the conflict to the audience. I like that; I never like being treated as though I'm ignorant or need to have my hand held while going through a story. "Barley" dumps us right into the middle of the fighting, providing no preamble and it ends with no resolution. The story is not so much about the events of the war, but about personal resistance. Once we determine this it is far easier to fall into the film and enjoy it.

The IRA's struggle turns the fighting into a more personal, silent war full of assassinations and scare tactics issued to show the British that the everyman is proud of their democracy and their republic. It is a rather fragmented and hurried film, though the running time stretches over two hours, which made it difficult to connect to the characters or see cause and reaction developments take place. As handsomely shot though it may be, I found the overall picture to be rather hard to puzzle out.

I somehow question how much of the story we can accept to be truth. Loach is the master at making historical drama with a documentary feel to them, but I felt the political commitment of the filmmaker clearly affected how the British were presented. It is rare in modern movies that one side of a conflict is presented so harsh and one-dimentionally, the Brits constantly screaming and waving their guns about. Again, I have little knowledge of the War, but the violence seemed a bit too arbitrary and unfeeling. It may be that his argument is that war turns men into beasts, corrupting them with the power that comes from a weapon, but that is rather too bleak and naive a thesis to make.

Still, it is full of rosy glasses clinging to a way of life long since lost and leaves with the smells of the coming Great War hanging in the air. The factionalism, the senselessness, the conservative spirit grieving over the realization that their world is all but lost foreshadows bigger, louder, deadlier wars to come. "This is an important fight," the movie says, "listen to me."

A lack of an ultimate argument and a very unfulfilling conclusion left me underwhelmed, though there were plenty of moments of very strong moviemaking. Loach's cast gave it their all and their efforts were well noticed. I'm not sure if writer Paul Laverty, though, had a clear enough idea of what it was he wanted his audience to take away from this, so in the end I'm not taking away much of anything. There are plenty of small points to be discussed here and this film could have been about any one of them, but instead it tried to give a wash of everything without explaining concisely enough its greater significance.

2.5/4

Boogie Nights (1997)

By show of hands, faithful readers, who here likes porn?

That's what I thought.

This is the second work from our great, modern auteur, Paul Thomas Anderson. Like Stanley Kubrick before him, the material Anderson has chosen to cover over the years varies widely, and his focus on the great antihero gives his work a dark, powerful edge over other moviemakers. I resent having only been seven years old when "Boogie Nights" premiered; what I would give to have taken Anderson's journey with him, watching his films as they grew and developed as opposed to watching them practically in reverse.

This is the film that rocketed him into stardom. An expose on the San Fernando Valley in the 1970s  and 80s, during the peak of the porn industry. The story follows a young man named Eddie Adams (Mark Wahlberg), a 17-year-old dishwasher with big dreams and a huge...ahem...personality. Spotted in a night club by the great XXX director Jack Horner (Burt Reynolds), Eddie is picked up and almost overnight transformed into the next great thing in smut.

Eddie is a completely counterintuitive new member of the world of sex. He is dumber than a sack of hammers, has a winning face, a rock-hard bod and absolutely no shame in whipping it out when asked. Before his discovery he made easy money masturbating for men at his job. But those are not reasons why he seems so out of place. Eddie is absolutely the cutest little ragamuffin, with a soft voice, an easy smile, naivety for days and a genuine caring for his coworkers. In what appears to be the cold, cold world of making hot, hot sex, Eddie is the heart somewhere in between.

This is the story of his rise and fall and rise again. Rechristened Dirk Diggler, I have no doubt that Eddie is metaphorical for Anderson's clever history of the adult entertainment industry, although I admit I don't have the knowledge to support that claim. His film struck me as being very reminiscent of "Pulp Fiction" and "Goodfellas", which no doubt have inspired Anderson, but unlike so many other movies of the 90s it was not a cheap ripoff of Tarantino and Scorsese's ideas. I've been trying to locate where and why I got those ideas and have yet been able to find them.

Anderson's wonderful film crackles with life, humor and heavy drama which it seems to dip in and out of with complete ease. A huge cast of terrific actors acting terrifically coupled with their director's "encyclopedic" knowledge of filmmaking delivers a product which zips along with electric, cocaine energy, kept in time by a full-out disco soundtrack. Its wit is crisp and clean, making a business that many find morally objectionable into something outlandish and occasionally hilarious. There are several moments showing the filming of an erotic scene which left me in stitches. If only some of these great actors made pornos...

Wahlberg does a great job as Eddie/Dirk. I have never been a huge fan of his work excepting "The Fighter", but my mind has been changed. Supporting him are great performances, particularly that of Julianne Moore who plays the actress Amber Waves, the coke-addicted, unofficial mother of all the young folk who float in and out of porn. Phillip Seymour Hoffman, John C. Reilly, Don Cheadle, Heather Graham and William H. Macy all have small but fantastic roles. Anderson's movie is full of damaged characters, but he skillfully disguises how ruinous the industry has been to them with great humor until the audience is too far along to recognize that the rug has been slowly pulled out from under them.

Before watching this film I had a conversation with a friend who was turned off by the idea of watching a movie about such a topic. After finishing "Boogie Nights" I had a nice sit and think, mulling over his words and determined that such a statement was rather silly. Labeling something as too taboo restricts us from exploring topics and forces us into a self-imposed state of ignorance. I have no intention of being an ignorant person. Anderson's movie is great and handles the content with the grace and respect we deserve while still being biting enough to show what he wanted to say. Is porn good or bad? That's irrelevant. The bigger question is the porn industry good or bad? That's too black and white. In the end, sex is natural and violence is not, yet we make a far bigger commotion when a breast or penis is shown than when a man is shot in the face. I say good for you, Paul! Tear down those ignorant walls and show us all of Wahlberg's 13 inch glory! I personally found the topic utterly fascinating.

And by the way, ladies, it's fake. I did my research.

4/4

Once Upon a Time in the West (1968)

Sergio Leone's sprawling epic is true testament of the filmmaker's vision trumping the stigmas of genre. This is the one Spaghetti Western I have seen which rises above the camp and cliche to create a masterfully shot, beautifully crafted tale of good versus evil, love and loss, which perfectly romanticizes that great American icon: the gunslinger.

The immense story is set in the wildest of the West, where people are few, guns are many and unbridled lawlessness is only kept in check by the honor of the vigilante. The medieval knight is refashioned in dusters and spurs; his lance has six deadly points. It is an unforgiving world where hands constantly hover over pistol holsters and rapists are offered cups of coffee by their victims. It is ruthless and barbaric land, driven by greed and fueled by fear. It is a "quiet, simple country life".

Jill McBain (Claudia Cardinale), a tough-as-nails prostitute from New Orleans, ventures out into the desert and discovers that her secret husband and his family have been killed by bandits. Suddenly she is finds herself at the center of a triangular conflict between an assassin hired by a railroad baron, a bad to the bone outlaw, and a mysterious desperado known only as Harmonica. Motives remain mysterious, as do allegiances, which slowly unfold themselves as the manliest men outwit and outgun one another.

Henry Fonda stars as the ruthless killer Frank, whose job it is to get rid of the widow Jill and seize her land for the railroad company. Fonda isn't normally the first man who pops into my mind when I think of villains, but Leone took one look his wolfish, ocean blue eyes and decided that was the look of evil. Indeed, Fonda is as cool a bad guy as they come, who is calm in demeanor and draped all in black with nothing but those two specks of piercing blue flashing into the camera. He towers in his stoic nature.

Charles Bronson plays Harmonica, the spurned man in the white coat out for revenge. There is little development in his character, but the harsh lines on his face speak clearly enough. The end of the film has the climactic shoot out of white versus black, God and Satan, which was a little too blatant, but what can you do? And finally there is the convict, Cheyenne (Jason Robards), who is a very fun antihero. Most of the humor comes from his character and he also has the best shootouts.

No Western would be complete with out some good ol' pistol fights, and here they are fantastic. Leone was smart in raising the drama, but keeping the spectacle in a believable plane. At times the film is almost operatic in its gravity, but the shootouts were never more than men with pistols. One iconic scene involves Cheyenne on a train which is brilliantly choreographed and which tons of later films have ripped off.

This film took me by surprise. All of the elements of the film fight convention, yet come together so perfectly to create a really interesting, fun, exciting, intelligent film. For Leone, the gunslingers were Titans and he gave them a story worthy of that lofty thought. The score, set and costumes are all terrific, but it is the performances and the arresting cinematography that really make this movie shine. I felt a keen awareness of the passage of time and the pumping of blood in my veins while watching this. I realized it wasn't out of boredom, but rather it was because that was what Leone wanted of me.

4/4

Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001)

A "slip of a girly-boy from communist East Berlin, and internationally ignored song stylist." That's Hedwig. Born the year the Wall went up, Hedwig (formerly Hansel) was taken to the Russian Zone by his good communist mother where he was self-instructed in all ways American rock. An American G.I. and a botched sex-change operation brought the newly womanized Hedwig to the States where one pitfall after another was her fate. Reviled, graffitied, spit upon, she finally found solace in her other half, Tommy Speck. After months of love and musical collaboration, he stole their music, ran off and became the superstar known as Tommy Gnosis.

"Hedwig and the Angry Inch" is the off-Broadway rock musical written, directed and starring John Cameron Mitchell, and tells Hedwig's life story as she tours the nation, playing her music at fish buffets, out to expose Tommy for the fraud he is. It is a quest for recognition and redemption, and the film adaptation is the rebirth of the dead art of movie musicals.

There are tons of interesting, multi-layered aspects to the story and the film. Not all of them work and at times the movie feels a bit disjointed as Hedwig's past is told in choppy flashbacks, but the spirit of the film shines so passionately and so angrily that one can easily overlook its flaws. This can be firmly attributed to the powerhouse performance by Mitchell, who plays the part with heart and soul, and infuses all the eccentricities into the story with complete and utter conviction.

Hedwig is a damaged human being, both physically and emotionally. Time and again her heart has been ripped apart, her art stolen from her, and she has been made a laughing stock. Dolled in enormous blonde wigs, massive heals and enough makeup to make Liberace blush, that pained soul is disguised in a larger than life stage persona. Mitchell handles the intricate balance of camp, outrageous humor and deep pathos very carefully, and he succeeds fully. He is the anchor to the movie, and so he should be. I had the chance to see the stage production after watching the film many times, and was surprised to learn that it is almost a one man/woman show. It makes sense then that the movie should largely be a character study.

The songs are catchy and really awesome. They probably don't rock as hard as they think they do and the music itself is largely simplistic, but it was written for the stage. The lyrics are clever and beautiful, and Mitchell sings them with passion in his alien-sounding voice. If you remember nothing else, you will leave remembering "Origin of Love". What I enjoy so much about the music is that they are not there for filler to show off the talent of the musicians, but that they are a framing device which reveals a singularly unusual biography of a very peculiar character.

This is a loud, colorful film and one of my favorite movie musicals. It works so well at blending the strange and taboo with an entertainment factor and watchability, which is so rare. More than that, there is enough in this movie to rewatch it again and again. I've seen it at least half a dozen times, and in this last viewing I only now believe that I fully understood the ending. That is either the mark of a stupid film blogger, a convoluted narrative, or a very smart movie. I happen to think it was the latter.

3.5/4

The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)

Maria Falconetti gives the single best female performance that I have ever seen playing the French heroine Joan of Arc, who helped drive the English out of France, inspired by God. This is no film about her military exploits, but rather the story of her trial as a heretic and her eventual burning at the stake. We are left to ponder if she was really the Daughter of God sent to deliver the French from the tightening coils of their Britannic invaders, or if she was simply an illiterate, 19-year-old peasant who heard voices all in her head. I, personally, am of the belief that she was schizophrenic, but Falconetti almost makes a true believer out of me.

As it is a silent film, this is true testament to the power of the actor. All is stripped down and bare for us to see, and has none of the glitz or pantomime that one would generally find in a movie without words. Director Carl T. Dreyer played against convention by simply making this a character study, focusing on Joan with an intensity that swallows up the rest of the film. Falconetti wore no makeup, had simply dress and a cropped haircut that left nothing but the actress to look at.

I am an actor. Watching this for the first time some three or four years ago, I was stunned at what she could do with just her eyes. They are crystals containing all that is Joan, and every emotion streams out of them with utter purity. Dreyer brilliantly composed most of the film almost entirely with medium or close-up shots, blocking out the rest of the scene so we may see every thought in Joan's face, every feeling in her heart. There is no doctoring, only brilliant acting.

In the face of countless priests and judges preparing to condemn her--not her actions as a woman in the army, but because of her firm belief that she spoke with the angel Michael--we see only one frightened girl who contains her love of God. Her piety and devotion makes them waver in their sentencing, but history has already informed us of her fate. Dreyer portrays her as a martyr, and she is a beautiful one, humiliated though she is.

The script is as lyrical as the movie itself, with grand themes about the nature of God and religion. It is thematic in its very being--a film that practically demands that a choir of boys sing in thunderous harmony behind it. It commands our focus, for as Joan nears ever closer to her final end, shaved and abused, we realize that God is saving her from her prison. It is not a constructed jail, made of bricks and metal chains, but her body. Her mortal prison is the flesh she inhabits, and her stake is burned with the fire of the Lord.

Dreyer spent enormous amounts in constructing huge, lavish sets for the production, but on seeing the true powers of the unknown Falconetti he barely used them, instead delivering to us nothing more than a woman possessed by an historic ghost. The performance is as close to perfection as one can achieve, and Dreyer's sharp directing makes sure that the film as a whole equals her might. This is one of my all-time favorite movies and a must-see for those of you who can truly appreciate what it means to give oneself over to a role.

4/4

Midnight Cowboy (1969)

John Schlesinger's opus about the underbelly of New York City at the end of the 1960s is a curious beast. Now it is a relatively obscure film, though it won Best Picture at the Academy Awards and boasts the famous quote "I'm walking here!" It is a seedy, graphic, violent film, but I imagine that most people are more familiar with "A Clockwork Orange" which premiered just two years later. Why this film has fallen into a pit of obscurity when, in my opinion, it is still as shocking as anything modern is a mystery to me.

Jon Voight caught his break starring as Joe Buck, a would-be cowboy who travels to the Big Apple to work as a hustler. He is tall, goofy, handsome in a boyish way, those looks giving him an air of naivety. It is false. Although he is unlearned in the art of prostitution, there are secrets in his past which are not to be underestimated. 

The hustler is hustled, first by a lonely old woman (Sylvia Miles, in a brief but startlingly good performance) and then by a sickly man named Ratso Rizzo, a cripple, a down-and-out, an urchin of the underworld. Ratso is an extraordinary character of which countless others have ripped off. He is resilient like a parasite, but a good soul, eeking out an existence in a city which would like to squish him and be done with it. Dustin Hoffman gives my favorite of his performances as Ratso. This role came right off the heels of his work in "The Graduate" and showed him for the versatile and thoughtful actor that he is. It is amazing work.

Joe and Ratso form an unlikely bond as the film, which meandered for a considerable amount of time, finally becomes an exploration of loneliness and friendship. I wonder if there are not some homosexual undertones to their relationship. "Midnight Cowboy" is so much about the taboo that I was rather surprised that there was not an overt love interest. If it was there Schlesinger did a good job at keeping things platonic.

I imagine that this film was rather shocking when it first came out. It was during the Summer of Love and all bets were off. Cinema was still largely not exploratory in its subject matter, however, and I see this as a large departure for film-making. The content itself is dark, but more than that it is simply an erratic and aggressive piece in general. Frenetic editing and anchored by a disjointed match-up of characters, the movie seems to channel and harness the angry and vocal nature of drug-fueled youths of the time. 

Its story is let down by a clunky, corny opening and a rather unfulfilling conclusion. The hefty middle portion of the story is so subversive and filled with gritty energy, culminating in a hallucinatory party scene which I'm sure challenged everything that mainstream media wanted to talk about, that it seems a shame that the mood wasn't maintained throughout. Its excellence is hindered by the lack of complete dedication to the idea. The idea is terrific, but I didn't get the sense of a full release.

3.5/4 

Little Voice (1998)

Based off of the play "The Rise and Fall of Little Voice", Mark Herman's movie tells the story of a painfully shy girl named LV (Little Voice) who holds big, big talent. All in all this is a loud movie, a predictable one, and one that is neither funny nor moving, but it does feature a phenomenally good lead who holds big, big talent herself.

You may know Jane Horrocks from the hit British television comedy "Absolutely Fabulous"--she plays Eddie's baffoonish secretary, Bubble. Nothing in that role really gave the flavor of what exactly Horrocks is capable of, but here she gets a chance not to shine, but to knock you off of your feet. Her character, LV, is a mousy, squeaky, imp of a girl who is constantly under the barrage of verbally abusive, titanic mother (Brenda Blethyn). Little Voice has no friends except her impressive record collection handed down to her by her late father. All day long LV lives vicariously through her idols, finding quiet in her music.

One day a talent agent, Ray Say (Michael Caine), overhears LV singing and discovers that the next big thing in live entertainment is a girl who can barely say her own name. LV can sing, she can sang, she can blow like nobody's business. What's more, she (and therefore Horrocks) is an amazing impressionist, able to do Shirley Bassey, Marilyn Monroe, Marlene Dietrich, an uncanny Judy Garland and several others.

Of course there is going to be a story of Ray Say trying to get her to sing live which will be met with LV's crippling shyness, though it will finally be overcome and she will give her knockout performance. And then there will be trouble with her overcompensating, obnoxious mother, a love story with an equally unusual boy (Ewan McGregor), and an ultimate success, though I'll leave that for you to discover. All in all it's pretty flat.

That is until the end. The climax--after the showstopper--is bizarre and ultimately unsatisfying, as there are unusual and uncomfortable changes in character, and several questions that are never fully answered. Michael Caine's character is particularly bizarre, though it was an ugly and troubling performance to begin with.

I did not like this film. It is meant to be about little eccentrics in a little town who try and find a better place for themselves. It was, however, a fairly uninteresting story full of odious characters. That is, of course, when you aren't watching Horrocks be amazing. Close your eyes when you listen to her perform and you'll swear you were listening to the real thing. I was curious how the stage production could have been put on when basically everything rests on one woman being an outstanding impressionist. I figured that the film could not have been made unless the idea were pitched with Horrocks in mind. As for the play, I guess they would simply dub the music. The movie makes a special point at the end of letting us know that she did all of her own songs, but listening to her sing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" with all of Marilyn's smolder, I swear you could have fooled me.

I expect that there are plenty of YouTube clips of just Horrocks singing. Bag the film, watch the clips, and pick your jaw up off of the floor afterwards.

1.5/4