Crate expectations

I have a strong aversion to protagonists who lack moral ambiguity. I mean too perfect. Passively condescending. Arrogant. Delusional. Too close to real life how there are those self-righteous hypocrites whose squeaky-clean ethos is oppressively untenable. 

     Golden Age in Hollywood is where I find all the best templates. Lang paranoia. Screwball love grifters cheats prostitutes toxic matches. Wilder romanticized waif discarded sexpot suicidal self-destructive slighted emotional map of how the heart feels.

Wife of a Spy (2020, Kiyoshi Kurosawa) is one part smug oh look at how perfect we are couple. Especially the husband YUSAKO. But then it clicks it’s period appropriate. Especially the genre. Back in the Forties we wanted to see couples who were a more perfect version of ourselves. Do gooders. The life of means manners and marriage we should aspire to. It took me a while though with Yusako’s recurring defense I’m not a spy I’m acting out of my own self-interest I’m such a good person schtick. 
     But there’s more to what these period genre conventions are hiding. In Wife of a Spy the timeline has everything to do with the chronology of the War. The couple start out just as the history of cinema started out just as the world started out idealistic. Then comes the war. Then comes the darkness. Cynicism. Suspicion. Betrayal. Paranoia. Atrocities.
     What makes this strand of espionage suspense distinct unfamiliar and different striking off guard is its political stance. Because back then wartime means nationalism. Or at the very least civic duty. Chip in. Do your part. Maybe I’m naïve but I can’t think of any correlative frame of reference where the hero is so unpatriotic. Leaking information treason aiding enemies. But the empire of the sun looms ominously in the shadows as perpetrator of mass war crimes gradually methodically exposed infecting our moral codes as audience with its own akin to biological plague weaponized arc.
 
This hybridization of period and modern genre codes achieves the perfect pitch blending nostalgic sentimental escapism with disillusionment destruction detached no simple resolution profound disjointed culmination of enlightened despair. SATOKO wandering away from us into the air raid night with her country her life her psyche burning to the ground. The film and she don’t let her country of the hook either.
   We are meant to feel what she feels. And do. That’s what Wife of a Spy manages to achieve. We mourn that Yusako wasn’t portrayed as the kind of hero period propaganda would have dictated all the more because reality has sunk in by then. And we redefine our notions of heroism and projected outcomes with a little more weight because of it.

2020 COVID Year End List of Favorite Movies Seen in Theaters

 

1.  I'm Thinking of Ending Things (2020, Charlie Kaufman)

2.  Tenet (2020, Christopher Nolan)

3.  A Rainy Day in New York (2019, Woody Allen)

4.  The Grudge (2020, Nicolas Pesce)

5.  Mank (2020, David Fincher)

6.  Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn (2020, Cathy Yan)
7.  Promising Young Woman (2020, Emerald Fennell)
8.  Kajillionaire (2020, Miranda July)
9.  Wonder Woman 1984 (2020, Patty Jenkins)
10. Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019, Céline Sciamma)

IIII

Promising Young Woman (2020, Emerald Fennell) is a bubblegum black comedy revenge fantasy with an agenda. And what’s so satisfying about it is that it feels like what I want a Hollywood movie to feel like: assured, absurd, uncomfortable, relatable, relevant, serious, fun, silly, and structured. Well, what I want out of a movie that I guess could be called a date movie, or escapist, or popcorn; but intelligent, even Hitchcock-worthy in its strategies.

     The music works. So much of the tone of Promising Young Woman comes from the songs. The opening alone was worth the price of my admission. Seriously, Charli XCX? I already love it. “Boys” is Charli at her most playful, and its 8-bit NES coin sounds in the soundscape is not just fun, it says something about her demographic. But somewhere around the midpoint there’s a scene where CASSIE goes batshit aggro way over the top to the “Liebestod,” in a set piece that for me shows that character eschewing verisimilitude for emotional authenticity. That scene’s my whole basis for relating to her. And not that at this point I can even rank the music selections but there’s also a montage to Paris Hilton’s one hit, “Stars Are Blind,” that goes so far as to make me wonder why I can’t think of any other movie to knock me over with applause at the alchemy of worthless art into precious art.

 

     But no it wasn’t only the music. The narrative is an airtight genre psychological thriller morality trap. And it doesn’t cop out. Yet still it manages to stay dangerous. Its tone is traumacore. And the central protag is so volatile but not for one second would I say crazy.

 

12/23/2020 AMC Madison Yards 8

Atlanta, GA

DCP

The Parable of the Organ Grinder's Monkey

 Remember the first time someone told you there was a documentary about Apocalypse Now (1979, Francis Coppola) that was even better than the movie itself? How Martin Sheen had a heart attack while filming WILLARD’S breakdown? How Brando was so fat that KURTZ could only be filmed from the neck down, and hidden in deep shadows?

     And what about Heaven’s Gate (1980, Michael Cimino)? Which did you hear about first: the movie or Steven Bach’s Final Cut: Art, Money, and Ego in the Making of Heaven’s Gate, the Film that Sank United Artists?

 

     What is Citizen Kane (1941, Orson Welles) about? That’s a fun topic for conversation. Or a really boring one in an intro film theory context. In the latter it’s supposed to illustrate the point that there is no one definitive answer.

     What is Mank (2020, David Fincher) about? How the screenplay to Citizen Kane came about. And herein lies its weakness. Whereas Welles was a showman, Fincher is a craftsman. In her essay “Raising Kane,” Pauline Kael long ago fired shots at Welles usurping the credit owed to Herman Mankiewicz and Gregg Toland. So, we already have a detailed look at the intriguing making of Citizen Kane. When I say weakness, I mean the heart of the damn thing. Mank is hollow.

     For instance, take the protagonist of Citizen Kane, and for that matter, Fincher’s Citizen Kane: The Social Network (2010, Fincher). Kane and Zuck are mostly depicted as powerful rich men with fragile egos who build an empire but are fated to lose grasp of attaining the love of a woman they desire. What makes those films compelling are the tragic glimpses into their character; it’s the stuff we don’t like about them that makes us, if we’re lucky, identify with their humanity. Mank is in every way their opposite: weak (politically and professionally), far from Rockefeller (though by no means a pauper), with an invincible ego, and a loyal, perfect wife depicted as nothing more than an unquestioning longsuffering servant to him.

     Don’t mistake Mank for the cinnamon roll narratives of Citizen Kane or The Social Network either. Another way The Social Network is such a brilliant story in terms of point of view is that it’s not entirely focused on the making of Facebook. I mean it starts that way sure, but for me the moment it becomes sublime is when we begin jumping between the two litigation scenes, resulting in what we thought was the chronological order of the film being altered on the spot to become flashbacks. Or not only that, but take the Henley Regatta and its amazing opening with tilt shift lenses and Reznor-Ross electronic “In the Hall of the Mountain King” montage; what does any of it have to do with inventing Facebook in the sense of linear narrative? It comes out of nowhere. On the other hand, every scene in Mank is about the screenplay; its motivation; its obstacles; its method.

 

     But once the form of Mank becomes identifiable, the fun begins. It’s an historical comedy. (Fincher’s first comedy?) And finely crafted within the guise of resembling a creation of its period. Mank isn’t compelling as a character because he doesn’t need to be. He’s witty, wry, and hilarious. 

     And the imaginative pitch meeting at Paramount between Selznick, Von Sternberg and the writers takes routine exposition and springboards into an example of fine comedy timing, execution, and delivery. Especially Von Sternberg’s punchline. When before has Fincher been this steeped in classic comedy? I wasn’t sure if I was making a trite observation about the hubris symbolism in the scene where Mank tries to light his cigar in the inferno blasting from W.H.’s fireplace or if in fact Fincher intended it to be indicative of the type of rubbish one would find in the pretentious artiness of the period?

 

     Technically Mank is a marvel of Fincher’s powers of opulence. The framing and lighting of the black and white images is pristine. He throws in a nifty montage. I remain a subscriber to the cult of Fincher. There’s so much to be found in his choices. What about at the first Hearst dinner the way Thalberg sits next to Mayer sharing a settee, while Norma Shearer is in her own chair next to him? In every aspect it’s a movie about the love of movies for people who love movies made by one who love movies. And it is exhilarating to be transported during the third act into the completion of the screenplay. At 327 pages, crashing with a thud upon delivery to Houseman, with its original title framed upside down: American (maybe a little redundant that the effect is repeated again later), Mankiewicz’s first draft is a worthy subject of legend.

12/20/2020 Landmark Midtown Art Cinema

Atlanta, GA

DCP

Real Life is Fine for People Who Can't Do Any Better

The difference between Woody Allen and say, Todd Solondz or Charlie Kaufman, is Allen will do a romantic comedy without a hint of disillusion or angst. And the problem with a lot of Woody Allen reviews I’ve read is that if his newest film isn’t unexpected or profound they pawn it off as a stale retread—overlooking brilliance cloaked in subtlety.

 
     A Rainy Day in New York (2019, Woody Allen) is a confection of pure escapist romantic illusion that packages many of Allen’s most familiar trademarks except one: nihilism.
 
     What’s my favorite thing about A Rainy Day in New York? The dialogue. It’s like a buffet of delightfully witty one-liners that slowly pass right in front of you on an automatic conveyer belt for you to sit there and enjoy. Next is what the film says about romance.
 
     Or more specifically, what A Rainy Day in New York dreams of romance as. The leads are all young and good-looking. The main couple define the ideal chemistry of a perfect match by means of their matching of wits through intellectually comic sparring. And the characters don’t spend time talking about love or how they feel about each other very much, although when they do it’s about partners that aren’t exactly right for them. 
     But ultimately in Allen’s règle du jeu his most optimistic sentiment is that of how in a vast sea of vain searching only one couple actually get struck by fleeting Cupid’s elusive arrow, and once they finally realize it, the film is over. And this is why Allen can still craft a masterwork in a year of duds.
 
     I’m probably reaching and way off here, but I read some symbolism into how HOLDEN’S paramour wears a sweater and skirt. When he starts hanging out with the other woman CHAN, right after it rains she changes into a sweater and mini-skirt. Could it be the change in costume design is telling us how we can find our ideal where we would least expect to?
     Or maybe another bit of subtext could be how Holden never loses at poker, but with love he doesn't quite have the same luck? Or does he? Is Allen using poker as an analogy about love? Like losing a hand doesn't mean you still can't come back to win the pot?

10/11/2020 Landmark Midtown Art Cinema
Atlanta, GA
DCP

Old Dolio Dyne

Kajillionaire (2020, Miranda July) is an indie comedy set in LA mapping a moral profile of each of its four central protagonists. And none of them ever ring false. 

     I love this movie, is its modern, exquisitely designed narrative. At one point in the movie, OLD DOLIO is said to be incapable of tender feelings. When we think about it, we know this isn’t true. I first pondered the possible irony that for Old Dolio’s parents to even consider this, wouldn’t that mean they are incapable? For me Kajillionaire is about people struggling to deal with tender feelings—whether personal, filial, social or romantic.

     But what impresses me most is this sense of Miranda July really figuring out the trajectory of events and how the emotions of each character are constantly explored in context to their moral choices. And she does this in a way where it makes the film feel personal and not like the usually Hollywood commercial product. 
     The conflict is simple--$2500 owed for 3 months back rent. In Kajillionaire, July focuses and commits to this, wringing an entire microworld form it. Again, I really love how every single beat in this movie fits together and every moment is definitive in allowing us to know these characters.
 
     The wide angle compositions and cool color temperature give Kajillionare a distinctly stylized look. And the spacey dreamy score enhances it. But for me my only personal stumbling block is that Old Dolio dresses, talks, and dances like Napoleon Dynamite. That and her only friend is a Puerto Rican girl. Yeah I know his is a Mexican boy but for me I can’t shake the comparison. And okay maybe the dance comparison is a stretch, especially if you’ve seen The Future (2011, July). 
     In Kajillionaire Miranda July’s idiosyncratic imaginative craft is prevalent, and peerless.
 
9/27/2020 Landmark Midtown Art Cinema
Atlanta, GA

DCP

A Fresh Faced Protagonist

Tenet (2020, Christopher Nolan) is an action movie expressive of a personal style of filmmaking that never gets in the way of its commitment of being an action movie.

 

   You don’t have to think to enjoy action movies. Bunjeeing up a building of high-rise condos, high-speed car chases, or the inversion of time are the kinds of things that make Tenet a great action movie. So are the set pieces. Most great action movies have a standout set piece. Tenet is crowded with set pieces done so well that they hold their own against each other and make it hard to rank any one better than the others—although that’s not entirely true because it’s the freeway chase. And that’s not entirely accurate because which freeway chase? The one moving forward, or the inverted one?

   Along with spectacular feats of adrenaline inducing death-defying thrills, action movies have a battle of good vs. evil. Tenet’s hero, the PROTAGONIST, is pitted against villain ANDREI SATOR. And as action movies go, these two, along with what’s at stake should either defeat the other, fit all expectations.

 

   Allow me to now separate Tenet into two layers. Take the characters. The hero and villain each provide a distinct contrast to one another. To begin with, we have the protagonist. It’s as if he somehow represents the future. He’s cool—young, black and American. He’s got no name, no backstory, no family, no friends. He and his partner NEIL are professionals, and they work well together. The protagonist isn’t wealthy or powerful. But he has fun. He’s also so proficient no one ever makes him sweat.

   On the other hand, Andrei’s stuck in the past. He’s old, white and Russian. We get his life story. He’s got a wife and kid. He and his wife KAT can’t stand each other, and they’re constantly fighting. Andrei is a billionaire, powerful and connected. But he’s miserable. He’s also so stressed he’s constantly checking his pulse on a wrist monitor. The protagonist makes work look fun, whereas Andrei makes being rich look like life sucks.

   Where these two layers merge is what makes Tenet meaningful. The protagonist’s pure action genre along with Andrei’s human drama baggage culminate in something greater than either could be on their own. Cinema needs to look at the past and towards the future at the same time.

 

   Aesthetically, Tenet is as proficient in its pacing, sound, and framing as the protagonist is as field agent. Nolan’s style is sophisticated—invisible cinema. The least subtle aspect of Tenet is the score (and sound design). And that’s a good thing because its music cues are kinetic while traditional in the sense of classic Hollywood underscoring.

   With this much style to enjoy, it’s a treat looking forward to returning to Tenet in search of filling in some gaps that left me scratching my head.

9/06/2020 Plaza Theatre

Atlanta, GA

70mm print

Coming home is terrible, whether the dog licks your face or not. Coming home is terribly lonely, whether you have a wife or just a wife shaped loneliness waiting for you.

“Other animals live in the present. Humans cannot, so they invented hope.”

 

I’m Thinking of Ending Things (2020, Charlie Kaufman) is a comedy about a YOUNG WOMAN meeting her boyfriend’s parents. Okay, but the movie itself is really a dance between:

·      The interior sadness of the JANITOR
·      His object of hope, the young woman

   And it is through the process of simultaneously depicting these two ideas as art in which we move through a narrative relentlessly shifting its perspective instinctively and intellectually. The fun comes from how neither of these two inventions are straightforward. And thus, we get to explore this fictionalized psyche thinking of ending things for our own edification as audience.
 
   Maybe the best symbol of this quality can be seen as represented by the two Oreo Brrrs (a frozen treat akin to the Dairy Queen Blizzard). Early on as the couple are driving, they pass a billboard advertising the Tulsey Town ice cream stand. A disembodied voice says, “Come, join me.” The voice is creepy. One meaning that could be read into this is that of being lured into obtaining something through the suggestive thought implanted by advertising, here being code for a romantic relationship.
   Much later when JAKE decides to indulge in stopping for a Brrr, along with the young woman, he suddenly realizes he doesn’t even want it. More than that, now as he drives it starts to melt and he has to stop somewhere and get rid of it. Then he becomes distraught over thinking about how it’ll leave a sticky residue, nothing can calm him until he disposes of the dessert.
   In the dumpster where Jake’s thrown away his and the young woman’s Brrrs, there’s a shot of the two discarded confections still full, atop a heap of nothing but other empty Brrr cups. This image left me wondering what it meant long after the movie was over. Sure, there’s the link to nostalgia that comes with the Tulsey Town song, like this’s Jake’s “rosebud.” But that seems too easy. It’s more like the hope the Janitor’s invested in finding love with the right woman, then at the end of his life finally being disgusted by that desire, painfully desperate to rid himself of it and any trace of it entirely.
 
   I’m Thinking of Ending Things is so full of endlessly enjoyable self-reflexive occurrences. And these are what are so effective at defining its artistic tone. Take the pigs that died from being underfed. The way Jake describes it, the neglect happened thoughtlessly. Like it’s at the same time horrific and inevitable. And there’s a poignancy to the way he refers to both of the pigs being eaten alive by maggots. He doesn’t say how many pigs there were, but “both” seems to imply two—as in a couple. 
 
   Somehow this film is still always a comedy. Kaufman’s novel Antkind (published last month) is full of comic wordplay, including several different vaudeville acts and their routines. And though his screenplays have often played around with this kind of schtick, Antkind and now I’m Thinking of Ending Things present a phase where it’s used more often, and consistently.
   Also amped up more in Antkind and the as yet unfilmed Frank or Francis screenplay is Kaufman’s satirical contempt for Hollywood, which comprises a significant part of the comedy in I’m Thinking of Ending Things. Although on a lighter note, one comedic vignette that soars particularly high is when the young woman suddenly performs as both Gena Rowlands’ MABEL LONGHETTI (aided by a cigarette she smokes that appears out of nowhere) and recites by rote the infamous scathing Pauline Kael review of Rowlands performance of that role at the same time. 
   I don’t have any evidence to support this but, my final point I’ll end with is that I think the young woman met the janitor when he was around twenty, at the bar on trivia night. He asked for her number and she gave it to him. He called her and asked her out. And he never saw or heard from her again.


8/29/2020 Landmark Midtown Art Cinema
Atlanta, GA

Hello, San Dimas

 Sure, they’re a couple of idiots, but yet again their quest out does itself and challenges the duo with an adventure worthy of getting back in the phonebooth one more time.

   Bill & Ted Face the Music (2020, Dean Parisot) knows how to deliver jokes that are familiar to their brand without feeling stale. It’s a case where embracing the formula is the right thing to do. 

   What gives the film legs is having a dual-narrative. In the B-story we get a reboot where their two daughters time travel on a mission that depends on them seeking the help of an assortment of historical figures from different time periods. The actress who plays BILLIE steals the movie with her dead-on physical impersonation of Keanu’s snarls, head weaving, and incredulous shoulder posturing, complete with matching hairdo. The A-story is a sequel where Bill and Ted encounter an entirely new set of conflicts.

 

   Bill & Ted Face the Music is carefree because it’s not ashamed of being a Hollywood spectacle that’s got heart (and in the right place). And it’s also got a lean running time that’s continuously spoken aloud to remind us exactly how many minutes are left in the move, as displayed by a stopwatch inherited from Rufus.

8/28/2020 NCG Cinemas 

Brookhaven, GA

Submitted for the approval of the midnight society:

The New Mutants (2020, Josh Boone) is a YA horror movie constructed in a way that unifies the collective inner conflicts of its plural protagonist by making the right aesthetic choices.

 

   The inner conflict is the darkness caused by fear, shame, and self-destruction. And for each of the teens there is a trauma from their past that refuses to let go of them, which results in they’re being institutionalized together—providing the depressing premise which is The New Mutants. But not only am I in luck finding this gem of depression, it also has a minimalist quality going for it.

   The whole movie takes place in this giant spooky building that looks like it could be a hundred years old. But other than the five subjects being treated here and their doctor, there’s no one else around except the occasional orderly. We aren’t told hardly anything about this place like where it’s located or who runs it. And the subjects don’t have to do schoolwork. All they do is spend their time in a rec room where a TV runs a never-ending marathon of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

 

   Among the characters I find the most compelling are the ones whose sexuality plays some kind of role in their lives. First there’s the arrogant mimbo whose instincts for getting laid catch a hitch due to his arousal arousing his mutant power of human torching to manifest, which isn’t all that unique or original. But really, it’s the Irish teen lesbian who’s cute and sweet yet happens to have the mutant power of being a dog—keen sense of smell, fur, clawing and biting. And the dog girl’s trauma has something to do with her like being attacked by a Catholic priest, but she’s still Catholic. And, ILLYANA RASPUTIN...

 

   The New Mutants does well in focusing on these youngsters isolated and alone in the world who are incarcerated in this oppressive institution only to be stuck with each other, not in a peer group but only to find a different form of isolation and loneliness. It’s all an effective form of representing hormones, puberty and high school.

 

8/27/2020 AMC Phipps Plaza 14

Atlanta, GA

Birds of Prey

Céline Sciamma began with a trio of films about adolescents navigating through various phases of puberty, learning all on their own how to find their own identities (and genders). Among these films are some of the finest performances from non-professional actors I’ve ever seen.

     Yet without detracting from the quality of Water Lillies (2007, Sciamma), Tomboy (2011, Sciamma), and Girlhood (2014, Sciamma), after seeing Sciamma’s latest release, they resemble something like a sound check in preparation of what follows.

     Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019, Sciamma) is a period chamber piece romantic drama that sublimely invokes the very essence of our individual responses to art through its many forms—specifically from the perspective of woman, as both subject and agent of the feminine gaze.

     The best thing about Portrait of a Lady on Fire is that it made me see through the point of view of someone else—the other—and adapt my perception to theirs. And what makes Portrait of a Lady on Fire so thoroughly feminine is its gentleness. But also, formally speaking, the bonfire set piece is the core of the film; and what’s so transcendent is the way it becomes the language of cinema. Images say things without words. The women’s choir expresses emotions we share with the characters on screen. That sequence is art. It’s isolated from all around it narratively. It explains everything.

     Another motif that resonates profoundly is the repetition of images. The recurring portrait is continuously abandoned, modified, reconsidered, resurrected, destroyed, and yet again repeated. Portrait of a Lady on Fire is both artistic and speaks of the subject of art, expansively, reflexively, and conclusively.

     I cannot say enough about how much I enjoyed this movie. There’s so much to take from it. And some stuff I’m still wondering about. Like, there’s a scene where a housemaid gets an abortion and an infant frolics innocently and helplessly beside her face as it’s happening. Easily one of the coolest movies set during the eighteenth century since Barry Lyndon (1975, Stanley Kubrick) and Marie Antoinette (2006, Sofia Coppola).

Fun

Is there a difference between art and commercial product in cinema? What is it? In the 1950s when the auteur theory emerged, from Sarris to the Cahiers du cinéma group, aren’t most of the directors they’d singled out essentially mainstream? 

     I can’t even say that my personal experiences connecting with high art through film excludes superhero movies because of Ichi the Killer (2001, Takashi Miike), arguably the finest example of the crime genre I’ve found in any movie. And I realize it might be a stretch to call Ichi the Killer a superhero movie, but that seems to be the standard label used in terms of genre, even though I find comic book (or manga) more accurate.

     In my last post I attempted to express my view of a subcategory of films I group by their shared tone I deemed “depression.” Here I will now add “fun,” again, as a tone, not necessarily a genre. Coincidentally most of the movies I can think of that spring from my connotation of fun are based on a comic book. Most of the movies in the Marvel ECU, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010, Edgar Wright), Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets (2017, Luc Besson), and Alita: Battle Angel (2019, Robert Rodriguez). Then there are the Burton films, not based on comics: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005), Alice in Wonderland (2010), and Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children (2016). 

     But this brings up a point about year of release. All the movies I can think of were released in the 2000s. See, I’ll add all of the Star Wars movies made after the original trilogy. For me these fun movies are about not really having to think, being colorful, simple, imaginative. Yet the films in the original Star Wars trilogy really do make me think, they’re impressive; or maybe the distinction is that GOUT is too good for me to consider cult or kitsch.

     Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn (2020, Cathy Yan) is an R-rated action crime superhero comic book movie that delivers heavy on the action and combines traditional Hollywood formulas with a non-linear narrative on Adderall full of subjective devices like VO and on-screen titles, text (and emojis), to keep up its excessive pace. And I loved it. Gotham hasn't been this fun and colorful since Schumacher.

     Hollywood formulas are clichés that probably avoid the risks of alienating broad audiences. Cazart, maybe that’s the difference between an art film and commercial product! But what I’m alluding to here is HARLEY QUINN (Margot Robbie) begins the film having to escape every underworld character in every crime syndicate in Gotham, and the police, and then a bounty on her own head; but also rescues an orphan, and that most typical of all Hollywood formulae: grows and becomes a better (or “less terrible”) person while experiencing a life affirming catharsis in the end.

     So why do I love it? Because of the character Harley Quinn. In Birds of Prey: And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn, beyond an opening introduction outlining her dark past, “my dad traded me for a six-pack,” throughout the movie she’s treated like “an asshole and that’s why nobody likes you.” That’s when the movie won me. It’s this outsider, independent, strong, smart, coolness of her. 

     Robbie can cry and project vulnerability, pain, and emotions in a consistently believable manner. That’s tough. And I never get tired of that Brooklyn accent. Harley is fun. Also I’ve been on the set of The Suicide Squad (2021, James Gunn) since September 2019 and obviously I signed an NDA, but I will hint that one of the biggest things I’m looking forward to is hearing some of the music that will be in the finished work.

     The music in Birds of Prey: And the Emancipation of One Harley Quinn goes a long way in creating its feel. It’s manic eclectic blend of female artists like Halsey and Ke$ha are beside mostly electronic and rock adrenaline soliciting tracks from the score. Maybe the highlight of the movie is a fight scene where a pallet stacked high with cocaine in an evidence locker is shot with machine guns that Harley snorts, then goes on an aluminum baseball bat spree to a techno remix of “Black Betty.” 

     While I try to avoid commenting on political undertones, Birds of Prey: And the Emancipation of One Harley Quinn is overtly feminist, which is awesome. So, it’s great to have women directing, writing, producing, and starring in this. It’s empowering to see female characters bonding, working together, standing up for themselves, finding themselves, and enjoying life to its fullest. They’re cool. They kick ass.

     I’m just making an observation here about the current climate of acceptable values. Having an ensemble of ethnically diverse women, one of whom happens to be a lesbian (or bi, not that there’s anything wrong with that), and none of whom appear to be in a relationship with a man, all spend the duration of the running time assaulting men is what we all want to see. 

     Hurting women and children is bad. So is racism and homophobia. Throw in intolerance of those with physical disabilities and you’ll win an Oscar, i.e. The Shape of Water (2017, Guillermo del Toro). It’s time for more movies with a panethnic, pansexual, pangender gang going on a killing spree against evil white heterosexual men.
     But back to Birds of Prey: And the Emancipation of One Harley Quinn, I rooted for the anti-heroes. It’s a worthy entry in the crime genre. It’s cool. It’s fun. And the film wisely bookends its most elaborate set pieces, namely the amazingly choreographed opening party scene and Harley's roller-skate chase/fight sequence that caps the Booby Trap. And spoiler alert, the post-credit gag is Harley dishing that Batman fucks bats.

Lovecraft Country

The period between 1977-1986 is what I’ve always considered the Golden Age of modern horror movies. Recently I’ve found myself feeling as though maybe Brian Yuzna’s been unjustly neglected in my acknowledgement of influences. By no means am I an expert on his work, but Re-Animator (1985, Stuart Gordon) produced by Yuzna, From Beyond (1986, Gordon) produced by Yuzna, and Society (1989, Yuzna) have long been among the finest horror I’ve seen. And by today’s standards, they’re even better.

     Color Out of Space (2019, Richard Stanley) is prestige horror. Mom and Dad (2017, Brian Taylor) struck me as a B-movie, and it is. But it was fun and edgy. Mandy (2018, Panos Cosmatos) struck me as a B-movie, but took me off-guard and had me simultaneously fascinated that I’d never seen anything quite like it’s metal/carny/blacklight/druggy airbrushed fantasy aesthetic; in other words, delivered a yield that exceeded its investment or something.

     Color Out of Space finds Stanley in command of his material, along with contributions from the camera operator, boasting a consistently flawless execution of composition through staging and blocking, . This movie’s got style. And it’s this aspect in which the whole thing feels like an A-picture. Next, I suppose it’s the subtle sound design and calmly eeire atmosphere score.

     It’s surprising that the film comes off so well done considering the excessively graphic horror images nestled within the nice peaceful family alone in the woods backdrop. But of course, like the rare exception Lovecraft himself, who wrote quality prose but found subtle ways to get lost off the traditional path and wander into demented stuff you’d expect in pulpier fare, Stanley blends high art with the deranged effortlessly. 

     And speaking of the nuclear family: mom, dad, two boys, a girl, with a cat and a dog, I love how I was unable to get a strong sense of their dynamic. At first, they’re practically so perfect it verges on cliché. But then, they all gradually kind of cuss each other out, which isn’t an error in tone, but the asteroid’s presence beginning to affect them. It's also where the movie really gets fun. Especially with Cage in full-on Vampire’s Kiss filing system mode.

     And, dig the poster art. I’ve been living in Atlanta the past couple of years and listening to trap and, maybe it’s just me, but the whole fuchsia world that manifests seems like the coolest version of the codeine crazy trip with slowly psychedelic visuals melting your face I’ve ever seen.

     So in conclusion, the Lovecraft tone is what makes Color Out of Space strong and most enjoyable, but it’s also got some throwback late 80s Yuzna vibe that made me love horror even more. 

Depression

After realizing that my taste in movies has always gravitated toward the dark, the next step is to narrow down what that means. Dark is too broad a term. I love depressing movies. This isn’t to say necessarily movies about depression, or movies dealing with depression. Returning to my fundamental categorization of films broken down into plot, character, dialogue, genre, and setting leaves out tone.

     Dark is an easy label to throw at a movie—even lazy. Depression is a tone. I argue here that my use of this term is based on my connotation of a film…

1.     with a protagonist played by an actor whose performance is detached: almost no emotion shown (with the exception of emotions like sorrow, sadness, despair, regret, etc…), often with very little dialogue.
2.       with a protagonist who lacks traditional narrative goals, or if present, goals that are destined to go unattained; typically set at a time when the character has what he or she wants, but is unfulfilled; no happy endings, no life affirming discoveries; although often loss or death as conclusion.
3.        a slow pace, little action or plot development.

     I’m not talking about depression really so much as I’m talking about the cinematic effect of a feeling of depression.

     So when did the depressing film start? The most obvious answer has to be film noir of the 1940s, but no. Maybe I’m out of touch with the canon, but none of the movies of the genre that I can think of fit the template. The one that comes closest is Night and the City (1950, Jules Dassin). It makes sense that it’s been one of my favorite film noirs because of how depressing its ending is. Night and the City’s fatal tone is crushing in its bleak depiction of how  HARRY FABIAN (a career-best Richard Widmark just kidding I hate this term “career best” it seems like all of the sudden there’s this new trend and it keeps popping up in writings about film it’s so stupid but seriously Widmark is amazing in it) loses all, yet he’s too outgoing, smooth-talking, and passionate to fit my definition.

     It seems the depressing film starts with Jeanne Moreau’s character in La notte (1961, Michelangelo Antonioni). Gorgeously photographed in black and white with a sexy cast of young bougee partygoers and a career best Monica Vitti—sorry, kidding again, but seriously Monica Vitti is intoxicatingly mesmerizing—the film is a classic of decaying decadence. It’s revolutionary in cinema. It feels like nothing that’s come before it, in the sense of how isolated the Moreau character is from everything, and how this in turn isolates us from any conventional identification of narrative development. Yet somehow Antonioni found an even colder tone with Monica Vitti, spectacular as woman-puzzle in the sublime L'eclisse (1962, Antonioni). And dealing with the same subject as La notte there’s also maybe the most colorful, romantic tone of depression in Le mépris (1963, Jean-Luc Godard).

     Anyway, next there’s my favorite movie of all time! No wonder I’ve always loved Au hasard Balthazar (1966, Robert Bresson). Again shot in black and white, the waif beauty Anne Wiazemsky’s career best turn as blank object of suffering anchors the narrative. Her character loves someone who only lives to hurt others. Also there’s the follow up: Mouchette (1966, Bresson), what could be more depressing than the premise of an 11 year old girl killing herself? Jumping ahead, I'll say that melodrama and brutal tragedy aren’t depressing, they’re disturbing. So stuff like Requiem for a Dream (2000, Darren Aronofsky) or Precious (2009, Lee Daniels).

    

     The next phase, our contemporary era of the depressing film, consists of Last Days (2005, Gus Van Sant), L’humanité (1999, Bruno Dumont), Synechdoche, New York (2008, Charlie Kaufman), Melancholia (2011, Lars von Trier), and Knight of Cups (2015, Terrence Malick). L’humanité I’d like to give special attention to as being remarkable due to its exceptional portrayal of a police officer who appears unable to experience emotion, yet not in the sense commonly associated with a sociopath. PHARAON is something different, with his childlike curiosity in emotions. Also L’humanité is proof of the tone from the beginning giving the film a constant feeling of something unlike normal movies. So that’s it. There’s the end of my list for now.

     Oh and Che: Part Two (2008, Steven Soderbergh) has to be included because it exemplifies a cohesively depressing tone in contrast to the joyful excitement of Che: Part One. Part Two is about Guevara’s failed Bolivia campaign. And from the beginning it’s as if it’s already apparent that the despair of imminent failure is upon us. I heard somewhere that Malick planned a movie about the Bolivian phase of Che’s life and I’m not sure if this had anything to do with Soderbergh’s film, but it sure is cool to imagine it was.

                   

     Yet another exception however, is the lone character within an ensemble: HELEN (a career best Lara Flynn Boyle) in Happiness (1998, Todd Solondz) or ZOE TRAINER (Lori Singer) in Short Cuts (1993, Robert Altman). Short Cuts is astounding because of how vast it covers the spectrum of human emotions through its ensemble of characters. In a twenty-four hour period, there are the vastly different deaths that bookend the narrative—a woman accidentally responsible for the vehicular manslaughter of a little boy/a man going psycho and responsible for sexual frustration unleashed through the murder of a young girl. But also it’s about how intricately each of these characters are connected to each other. Then there’s the sweet people like say, a career best Madeline Stowe playing a woman naturally beautiful in every aspect, contrasting someone like the career best Chris Penn character who is approaching evil (and gets there).

     But the Zoe character is detached in every sense of my definition. And what’s more enigmatic about the character is in one of the largest ensemble of stars, Lori Singer’s the only one I’ve never heard of before or since. And maybe that’s where this line of investigation has brought me—mystery.

     The Turning (2020, Floria Sigismondi) is way better than I was expecting. And yes, like The Grudge (2020, Nicolas Pesce), I’m excited to love a January release that’s gotten very bad reviews. (I fear the impact of review aggregators.) The Turning possesses a formidable mastery of tone, ultimately that of schizophrenia.

     But to begin with, The Turning is set during the mid-1990s and steeps itself in grunge mythos—namely depression. Then, depression becomes terror. And what’s wonderful is the gradual turning of the screw of it all. For a horror movie, for this horror movie, the unsettling tone is unified by baiting us, the audience, with a mystery that denies us any explanation; with characters whose motives, virtue, or position within the realm of sanity we will never know.

     There’s a plot device in The Turning where the governess (a career best Mackenzie Davis) gets a parcel delivered to her by MRS. GROSE over breakfast, and its contents appear to be a series of 8” x 10” charred negatives. What are they? For me, it’s what makes the film work. (I imagine for others they’re nothing more than a frustrating red herring.) During the film’s climax we find ourselves back in the black plates. Who sent the envelope? The governess says her mother did. But her mother is in an institution. MILES (a career best Finn Wolfhard) says that the reason he was expelled, his explanation for what led him to violence against other students was “they burned the only pictures he had of his dad.” Well, that’s scary. It’s mysterious. And The Turning is a movie that gives me all the answers I need. What ever happened to art?

     Another way the screw is turned is the kids, FLORA and Miles. Flora is alternately adorably precocious or mischievous, stock in trade for Brooklynn Prince—in a career best performance. And the mop-topped grunge-attired Miles is alternately misunderstood or diabolical. Are the children sweet or evil? Are they possessed by QUINT or is this all in the governess’ head?

     Adding to the atmosphere, beyond the gloomy grey overcast wet location, is the film’s score. It would have been really cool to use actual period grunge, or even at least like post grunge Olympia/pdx stuff like Elliot Smith or Sleater-Kinney, but if I’m not mistaken we get modern interpretations of that sound instead. I mean, good enough, I guess.

     So yes, The Turning utilizes a depression element in its schizophrenic tone that I find seldom used successfully within the horror genre. Also, an effect of the tone taking such precedence is how well the film works as a horror movie with so little violence. I mean, what’s there like one violent scene with MS. JESSEL or something? All in all fun, and well put together.

     

Reflections in a Golden Eye

Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (2003, Quentin Tarantino) generated a treasure hunt for finding the sources of its many references upon its theatrical release; Battle Royale (2000, Kinji Fukasaku) being the one most applicable to the point I’m about to make. But around this same period I became aware of Takashi Miike, and subsequently sought out as many of his movies as I could find—from boutique dvd boxset releases to illegal bootlegs. Yet adding to both of these occurrences this same period also happened to coincide with a new trend in cinema, the subgenre that gained popularity known as “J-Horror.” I’m saying 2003 was the year I watched more Japanese movies than American.

     It wasn’t long after that it seemed other than Ring (1998, Hideo Nakata), Audition (1999, Takashi Miike) and Ju-On: The Grudge (2002, Takashi Shimizu), there wasn’t really enough quality to support all the hype around J-Horror (or, at least nowhere near as much as 70s Italian horror). But Cure (1997, Kiyoshi Kurosawa), Pulse (2001, Kurosawa), and Dark Water (2002, Nakata) are really good.

     This brings me back to my ongoing introspection about why exactly I love certain “bad” movies. It’s not just to be provocative or offend sensibilities or for gratuitous shock value, as my friends have sometimes accused me of—which is fun I’ll admit—going back to when I wrote my first top ten list and included The Canyons (2013, Paul Schrader). All taste is is expressing your likes and dislikes and being able to support your opinions right? Anyway, I remember a time when I never would have believed that an American remake of a foreign masterpiece could improve upon it or be better. That is, until I found M (1951, Joseph Losey).

     The Ring (2002, Gore Verbinski) is my favorite horror movie. And if I were to watch Suspiria right now I’d go for the Guadagnino over the Argento. And Sam Raimi and Rob Tapert’s newest installment in The Grudge franchise just may be one of the best horror movies I’ve ever seen.

WHEN SOMEONE DIES IN THE GRIP OF A POWERFUL RAGE… A CURSE IS BORN.

THE CURSE GATHERS IN THAT PLACE OF DEATH.

THOSE WHO ENCOUNTER IT WILL BE CONSUMED BY ITS FURY.

     The Grudge (2020, Nicolas Pesce) is a reboot of the American remake franchise with a story that begins with the same traumatic death in the same house in Japan as The Grudge (2004, Takashi Shimizu), yet avoids nearly any mention of any of the secondary characters or events from the previous installments.

     For the rest of this post when I describe The Grudge, I’m referring to the 2020 release. The Grudge succeeds as a reboot for, among other reasons, setting itself apart from its predecessors by being darker. Its tone is sorrowful and established at the outset. Its characters suffer loss. They smoke. They drink. They’re desperate. In an unnamed town, despair engulfs the dramaturgy.

     The atmosphere of The Grudge becomes most apparent at night. This isn’t to say bad things don’t happen during the day, but at night the color is light through a straw filter; and this golden netherworld of nocturnal terror starts with sodium-vapor streetlights, then follows its characters indoors. Furthermore, these scenes invariably isolate the various characters. Alone, they find themselves apart from their loved ones, trapped in darkness and silence.

     And what enhances the proceedings most of all is the film’s cast. Anchored by a lead performance from Andrea Riseborough, who’s legitimately earned her clout in the horror genre after Mandy (2018, Panos Cosmatos), her physical appearance immediately distances the tone of The Grudge from its earlier incarnation. Whereas Sarah Michelle Gellar is probably the perfect balance of cute and sexy, Riseborough’s no make-up/no frills counter is the perfect balance of tough and emotionally-tortured. The ensemble of The Grudge includes: Demián Bechir (always glad to see a Mexican in a horror movie), Jacki Weaver, John Cho, Frankie Faison, William Sadler, and a memorably unnerving Lin Shaye. When’s the last time a really scary horror movie had a cast this good?

     I really love the narrative structuring of The Grudge. Its scares are more subtly placed, and there’s way less exposition. From the start, we move forward while simultaneously going back and tracing the steps that got us to where we are; so, parallel timelines running concurrently. And maybe what I dig most is that The Grudge never bothers with the why any of these murders occurred. That’s what truly made it scary for me. Now in comparison the whole oh that’s why the husband murdered Kayako and Toshio, we can solve the curse from the all the other movies is completely absent. That’s what most impressed me about the modifications in The Grudge, the attention and understanding of the horror genre—specifically, the lack of explanation, of closure, of hope.

     In closing I’ll add that this is the first film in The Grudge franchise to be rated R. And it is way gorier than I’d expected, disturbingly so. Like 80s Fulci gory. This isn’t the kind of stuff normally found in J-Horror. Oh how well executed the scene is with Jacki Weaver’s character wandering aimlessly into the meat section in the supermarket, as flies are heard, seen, the condition of the meat, the bizarre looking man at the counter.

     Is The Grudge too excessive? Yes. I felt gross. It crossed a line. But I like it. There’s another great scene where Frankie Faison’s character attempts to reconcile with the curse, understand it, accept it, find hope, the music swells, uplifts us… then Weaver’s therapist zips up a handbag or suitcase, some piece of luggage, and abruptly this zip violently cuts the sentimental music off short from the soundtrack. Exactly.