(movie review: Suspect Zero)
A VIEW TO A KILL
By David Hontiveros
A few years back, E. Elias Merhige gave us Shadow of the Vampire, the canny exploration of creativity set against the backdrop of the filming of the classic German silent film Nosferatu. Now, Merhige returns with Suspect Zero.
“A 50 foot shark. Ever see one?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”
FBI Special Agent Tom Mackelway (Aaron Eckhart) has been relegated to the Albuquerque field office after a six-month psych evaluation following a much-publicized breach of Bureau protocol. As it turns out, Mackelway has become the obsession of Benjamin O’Ryan (Sir Ben Kingsley), a man who claims to be a former FBI agent, and is apparently a remote viewer, a psychic individual able to “see” things happening in distant locations. Shortly into the film, Mackelway becomes embroiled in the investigation of a man murdered by O’Ryan, a man whose eyelids have been sliced off.
If you’re beginning to get the impression that Suspect Zero is a grisly, disturbing piece of film, well, you’re partially right. Though certainly nowhere near as grisly and sordid as Seven or Saw was, Zero is a subtly disturbing exercise in the building of mood. With masterful editing and the use of eerie audio tracks and an eclectic and interesting musical score, Merhige manages to construct a movie that keeps itself afloat by virtue of atmosphere.
“Okay, but a serial killer, by definition, is condemned to repetition, isn’t he? I mean, isn’t that what he’s all about?”
Where Zero falters however, is its script (by Billy Ray and Zak Penn), which doesn’t allow itself to build any momentum to carry us forward. The fact that there doesn’t seem to be any sort of urgency to solving the case doesn’t help matters much either. Unlike The Silence of the Lambs or The Cell, where we are given a specific victim in current jeopardy to identify with, the victims in Suspect Zero are too much of ciphers for the audience to care about, except in the most abstract of ways.
Though not as handicapped as Seven is when stripped of its technique, Zero nonetheless lacks a certain something to make it a film of substance. Or perhaps, there is a little too much there to make it a tight, coherent piece. Much like the frantic and cluttered writing and art of O’Ryan, one detects a certain busy-ness of plot elements and details that only serve to obscure the merits of what could have been an excellent film.
Fortunately, we have Eckhart and Sir Kingsley to keep us occupied. Eckhart, with his past work with Neil LaBute (In The Company of Men, Possession), has proven to be an engaging performer, and Sir Kingsley brings both a borderline psychotic intensity and world-weary humanity to O’Ryan that is a privilege to watch. Given that, it’s sad that Carrie-Anne Moss, who proved in Memento that she can do more than just fancy martial arts on wireworks, isn’t given much to do by the script.
And once again, the script is the culprit, which I believe is the case with practically all the post-Silence of the Lambs serial killer thrillers, including its sequel Hannibal, and its prequel, Red Dragon. Not even Sigourney Weaver and Holly Hunter could save Copycat, and as I alluded to earlier, bereft of David Fincher’s moody technique, Seven’s script isn’t a lot to write home about.
“We saw things men shouldn’t see. Agony. Torture. Evil.”
In trying, among other things, to posit a new sort of serial killer for the new millennium, the metaphorical “50 foot shark,” which may exist despite not having been seen by mortal eyes, Suspect Zero only succeeds in giving us a muddied view of a grab bag of ideas that never quite comes together into a cohesive whole. Perhaps if Ray and Penn had trimmed down some of the story’s minutiae, focused less on ideas and more on the story’s rhythm, Suspect Zero could have been the film it clearly wanted to be. As it is, though it isn’t a total waste of time, it also isn’t an entirely satisfying cinema experience.
Friday, March 17, 2006
(movie review : Paul Abascal‘s Paparazzi)
REALITY THROUGH A CRACKED LENS
By David Hontiveros
Mel Gibson returns to the secular world as one of the producers of Paul Abascal‘s Paparazzi, a revenge fantasy for those weighted down by the terrible burden of popularity.
Bo Laramie (Cole Hauser) is the up-and-coming star of Adrenaline Force, whose sequel is even now being filmed. But Laramie and his family quickly become the targets of a gang of paparazzi led by Tom Sizemore, who make the star’s life a living hell of popping flashbulbs and covertly-taken pictures. This harassment culminates in a car accident which injures Laramie’s wife (Robin Tunney), and puts his son in a coma. Unable to convince the police that the paparazzi caused the accident in the first place, fate conspires to put Laramie in a position to pass judgment over one of the guilty party. And thus begins his vendetta to punish those who have done harm to his family, while a detective, played by Dennis Farina, begins to grow suspicious of the action star.
Now, the inherent problem of the revenge fantasy as entertainment is the brand of morality it presents to the audience, given that these are films where individuals take matters into their own hands, and a body count is racked up, in the name of justice.
Laramie goes off the deep end and engages the sleazy paparazzi in a dangerous war to exact revenge. Okay. He does it since his family was hurt. We know this sort of thing happens.
The problem presents itself when there is no apparent consequence for the actions Laramie takes. There doesn’t even seem to be any psychological toll on him, for actions that include, among other things, premeditated murder. It seems to be just another script he’s acting out. Just another role he’s taken on: the alpha male defending his brood from predators.
And the paparazzi here seem like nothing more than a pack of ravening wolves, salivating for that next compromising photo, systematically destroying lives and reputations by distorting the truth to sell tabloids. Now, though it is possible that every single paparazzi in the world is irredeemable scum, it’s also entirely possible that they’re not. But as it is, in the film, it’s pretty black and white. These “photo journalists” are bad, and show no remorse whatsoever for the reprehensible acts they take to make a buck. So, in that sense, the film is definitely slanted. In that sense, there could possibly be a distortion of truth here as well; perhaps not on the level of the tabloids making up stories from thin air and suggestive photos, but a distortion nonetheless.
And though of course, granted this is a work of fiction, we must acknowledge that on a certain level, the revenge fantasy is a vicarious thrill for the audience. Every goon punched, every murderer shot, is a surrogate for every boss/employee/co-worker/random stranger we’ve ever had the irrational urge to hurt and maim. The revenge fantasy is exactly that: a fantasy that allows us to enact bloody, Technicolor surround sound rampages of righteous fury, while enabling us to go home with our hands and consciences spotless.
But when a revenge fantasy is presented to us as a real world scenario, as opposed to the hyperreal falsity of a Kill Bill, I feel there should be a responsibility to portray the consequences of the action on-screen. If the ostensible “good guy” is allowed to take the law into his own hands, and then allowed to get away with it without any scars, what does that say to us, the audience?
And don’t get me wrong. I’d hate to play the Morality Police. I just try to take any film on the ground upon which it stands. This is no hyperreal, ultraviolent tale that is so over the top, no one could ever mistake it for “reality.” Paparazzi is the story of a man, a husband and a father, pushed too far, who acts outside of the laws of man and God, to redress the wrongs done to him and his family.
What is doubly odd for me is the fact that Mel Gibson produced the film. For someone who faced so much furor over The Passion of the Christ because of his faith to back a film with a script such as this strikes me as strange.
But let’s leave that tack for awhile. Barring any sort of morality or message, the storytelling itself is just plain faulty. Laramie doesn’t get away because he’s particularly smart or has thought his way ten steps ahead of the paparazzi and the police; it just turns out that way. And quite suddenly, whatever suspicions the detective may have had just conveniently evaporate for no apparent reason. Plus, the cameos of certain Hollywood personalities are so gratuitous, they’re irritating. And I won’t even touch the Lady Di parallels.
Ultimately, Paparazzi is the worst sort of film to me: the kind that doesn’t seem to have consequences, where characters are allowed to act without any repercussions; the kind of film that seems to mirror not reality, but rather the false portrait of it Hollywood seems to favor. A world where we all have the impunity to do whatever we want, because in the end, just before the credits roll, everyone’s happy and smiling, safe and content in the knowledge that they have done right by acting in their own self-interest.
This is the world as seen through the lens of Paparazzi. I don’t know about you, but that’s not the world I choose to live in.
REALITY THROUGH A CRACKED LENS
By David Hontiveros
Mel Gibson returns to the secular world as one of the producers of Paul Abascal‘s Paparazzi, a revenge fantasy for those weighted down by the terrible burden of popularity.
Bo Laramie (Cole Hauser) is the up-and-coming star of Adrenaline Force, whose sequel is even now being filmed. But Laramie and his family quickly become the targets of a gang of paparazzi led by Tom Sizemore, who make the star’s life a living hell of popping flashbulbs and covertly-taken pictures. This harassment culminates in a car accident which injures Laramie’s wife (Robin Tunney), and puts his son in a coma. Unable to convince the police that the paparazzi caused the accident in the first place, fate conspires to put Laramie in a position to pass judgment over one of the guilty party. And thus begins his vendetta to punish those who have done harm to his family, while a detective, played by Dennis Farina, begins to grow suspicious of the action star.
Now, the inherent problem of the revenge fantasy as entertainment is the brand of morality it presents to the audience, given that these are films where individuals take matters into their own hands, and a body count is racked up, in the name of justice.
Laramie goes off the deep end and engages the sleazy paparazzi in a dangerous war to exact revenge. Okay. He does it since his family was hurt. We know this sort of thing happens.
The problem presents itself when there is no apparent consequence for the actions Laramie takes. There doesn’t even seem to be any psychological toll on him, for actions that include, among other things, premeditated murder. It seems to be just another script he’s acting out. Just another role he’s taken on: the alpha male defending his brood from predators.
And the paparazzi here seem like nothing more than a pack of ravening wolves, salivating for that next compromising photo, systematically destroying lives and reputations by distorting the truth to sell tabloids. Now, though it is possible that every single paparazzi in the world is irredeemable scum, it’s also entirely possible that they’re not. But as it is, in the film, it’s pretty black and white. These “photo journalists” are bad, and show no remorse whatsoever for the reprehensible acts they take to make a buck. So, in that sense, the film is definitely slanted. In that sense, there could possibly be a distortion of truth here as well; perhaps not on the level of the tabloids making up stories from thin air and suggestive photos, but a distortion nonetheless.
And though of course, granted this is a work of fiction, we must acknowledge that on a certain level, the revenge fantasy is a vicarious thrill for the audience. Every goon punched, every murderer shot, is a surrogate for every boss/employee/co-worker/random stranger we’ve ever had the irrational urge to hurt and maim. The revenge fantasy is exactly that: a fantasy that allows us to enact bloody, Technicolor surround sound rampages of righteous fury, while enabling us to go home with our hands and consciences spotless.
But when a revenge fantasy is presented to us as a real world scenario, as opposed to the hyperreal falsity of a Kill Bill, I feel there should be a responsibility to portray the consequences of the action on-screen. If the ostensible “good guy” is allowed to take the law into his own hands, and then allowed to get away with it without any scars, what does that say to us, the audience?
And don’t get me wrong. I’d hate to play the Morality Police. I just try to take any film on the ground upon which it stands. This is no hyperreal, ultraviolent tale that is so over the top, no one could ever mistake it for “reality.” Paparazzi is the story of a man, a husband and a father, pushed too far, who acts outside of the laws of man and God, to redress the wrongs done to him and his family.
What is doubly odd for me is the fact that Mel Gibson produced the film. For someone who faced so much furor over The Passion of the Christ because of his faith to back a film with a script such as this strikes me as strange.
But let’s leave that tack for awhile. Barring any sort of morality or message, the storytelling itself is just plain faulty. Laramie doesn’t get away because he’s particularly smart or has thought his way ten steps ahead of the paparazzi and the police; it just turns out that way. And quite suddenly, whatever suspicions the detective may have had just conveniently evaporate for no apparent reason. Plus, the cameos of certain Hollywood personalities are so gratuitous, they’re irritating. And I won’t even touch the Lady Di parallels.
Ultimately, Paparazzi is the worst sort of film to me: the kind that doesn’t seem to have consequences, where characters are allowed to act without any repercussions; the kind of film that seems to mirror not reality, but rather the false portrait of it Hollywood seems to favor. A world where we all have the impunity to do whatever we want, because in the end, just before the credits roll, everyone’s happy and smiling, safe and content in the knowledge that they have done right by acting in their own self-interest.
This is the world as seen through the lens of Paparazzi. I don’t know about you, but that’s not the world I choose to live in.
(movie review : BIRTH)
BORN AGAIN?
by David Hontiveros
You've been mourning for your spouse for the past ten years, and finally, you feel ready to move on. You have a fiancee who is devoted to you, and you've set the date for your wedding.
Then a ten-year old child comes into your home and your life, claiming to be your dead spouse, asking you not to get married. What do you do?
This is the predicament Anna (Nicole Kidman) finds herself in, in Jonathan Glazer's Birth. Taking this unconventional premise, Glazer is able to craft an elegant tale of loss and hope, of the possibility of finding love in the most bizarre of situations. He is also able to elicit yet another stunning performance from Kidman, who continues to mature as an actress after having left the blinding glare of being Mrs. Tom Cruise behind.
There is a definite European feel to Birth, with its studied and measured pace, and its muted emotions. Had this been a Hollywood production, the histrionics and manipulative tear-jerking scenes would have come fast and furious. As it is, there is only one real outburst of repressed anger and frustration; all else is even-toned conversations, teary eyes, and moments of silent, private agony, while the stirring score of Alexandre Desplat moves us to empathize with the characters' inner turmoil.
Though Birth could be considered a variation of the spouse-comes-back-from-the-dead scenarios depicted in films like Anthony Minghella's Truly, Madly, Deeply, or Steven Spielberg's Always, the tone and feel of Glazer's film is decidedly different. In this respect, it actually reminds me of Todd Haynes' Safe and Far From Heaven, both starring Julianne Moore, Kidman's co-star in The Hours, both equally measured in their staging and emotion.
There are no cathartic outpourings here, but rather, an almost gentle stirring of pain and longing, like a subtle undertow that, before you realize it, has drawn you out into the middle of the ocean. It doesn't drown you though; it just leaves you stranded.
That's one thing about Birth: the ambiguity.
Dialogue can get pretty sparse in the script (written by Milo Addica and Jean Claude Carriere), and since some actions of certain characters are pretty extreme, the lack of solid motivations could be a source of audience frustration. I'm all for ambiguity, so long as the audience is given enough clues and signposts to work with. In Birth, there is one major character action whose motivation is left hazy by story's end, and unfortunately, we don't know enough about the character to make any inferences, much less assumptions, regarding motivation, so that's a sad shortcoming of the film.
Also, I don't think we see enough of the reactions of the other characters to the return of the dead spouse (Sean) in the body of a ten-year-old. True, this is a love story of sorts, but why pepper the story with so many other characters if we don't actually see them as people? Certainly we know some characters are definitely on the side of, "No, he can't be your dead husband," but there are others who we can't really read properly. Lauren Bacall (who plays Kidman's mother) has one telling line of dialogue which could indicate why she takes her chosen stance on the matter, but we never really are certain what she thinks or feels, which is the way with most of the other characters. We're never truly sure if they just believe the ten year old Sean is lying, or they're unwilling to consider the impossibility of the situation.
For that matter, we don't see enough of the boy's parents to see how this strangeness is impacting on their lives. Not that I'm asking for a Hollywood cue-the-power-ballad moment when Sean's mother looks through a photo album wondering where her son has gone, to be replaced by this cold, detached stranger who claims to be some woman's dead husband. Certainly not that. But perhaps a little more parental presence would have helped the proceedings.
With all that said though, let me make it clear that I don't hate Birth. I don't even dislike it. I just don't think I actually love it. (Or maybe its ambiguity has rubbed off on me.)
It's a well-crafted film with a certain, assured pace that never falters in its storytelling, and in addition, has commendable performances. It is also able to pose questions, from the general-- Do you believe in reincarnation?-- to the provocative-- What would you do in this situation, given all that society says is taboo about romantic love between adults and children?
It's just that the emotional distance, coupled with the ambiguity, give it the sort of arty feel that makes the whole package a wee bit difficult to access. Call me a Philistine, but perhaps in this case, a little Hollywood may not have been such a bad thing.
BORN AGAIN?
by David Hontiveros
You've been mourning for your spouse for the past ten years, and finally, you feel ready to move on. You have a fiancee who is devoted to you, and you've set the date for your wedding.
Then a ten-year old child comes into your home and your life, claiming to be your dead spouse, asking you not to get married. What do you do?
This is the predicament Anna (Nicole Kidman) finds herself in, in Jonathan Glazer's Birth. Taking this unconventional premise, Glazer is able to craft an elegant tale of loss and hope, of the possibility of finding love in the most bizarre of situations. He is also able to elicit yet another stunning performance from Kidman, who continues to mature as an actress after having left the blinding glare of being Mrs. Tom Cruise behind.
There is a definite European feel to Birth, with its studied and measured pace, and its muted emotions. Had this been a Hollywood production, the histrionics and manipulative tear-jerking scenes would have come fast and furious. As it is, there is only one real outburst of repressed anger and frustration; all else is even-toned conversations, teary eyes, and moments of silent, private agony, while the stirring score of Alexandre Desplat moves us to empathize with the characters' inner turmoil.
Though Birth could be considered a variation of the spouse-comes-back-from-the-dead scenarios depicted in films like Anthony Minghella's Truly, Madly, Deeply, or Steven Spielberg's Always, the tone and feel of Glazer's film is decidedly different. In this respect, it actually reminds me of Todd Haynes' Safe and Far From Heaven, both starring Julianne Moore, Kidman's co-star in The Hours, both equally measured in their staging and emotion.
There are no cathartic outpourings here, but rather, an almost gentle stirring of pain and longing, like a subtle undertow that, before you realize it, has drawn you out into the middle of the ocean. It doesn't drown you though; it just leaves you stranded.
That's one thing about Birth: the ambiguity.
Dialogue can get pretty sparse in the script (written by Milo Addica and Jean Claude Carriere), and since some actions of certain characters are pretty extreme, the lack of solid motivations could be a source of audience frustration. I'm all for ambiguity, so long as the audience is given enough clues and signposts to work with. In Birth, there is one major character action whose motivation is left hazy by story's end, and unfortunately, we don't know enough about the character to make any inferences, much less assumptions, regarding motivation, so that's a sad shortcoming of the film.
Also, I don't think we see enough of the reactions of the other characters to the return of the dead spouse (Sean) in the body of a ten-year-old. True, this is a love story of sorts, but why pepper the story with so many other characters if we don't actually see them as people? Certainly we know some characters are definitely on the side of, "No, he can't be your dead husband," but there are others who we can't really read properly. Lauren Bacall (who plays Kidman's mother) has one telling line of dialogue which could indicate why she takes her chosen stance on the matter, but we never really are certain what she thinks or feels, which is the way with most of the other characters. We're never truly sure if they just believe the ten year old Sean is lying, or they're unwilling to consider the impossibility of the situation.
For that matter, we don't see enough of the boy's parents to see how this strangeness is impacting on their lives. Not that I'm asking for a Hollywood cue-the-power-ballad moment when Sean's mother looks through a photo album wondering where her son has gone, to be replaced by this cold, detached stranger who claims to be some woman's dead husband. Certainly not that. But perhaps a little more parental presence would have helped the proceedings.
With all that said though, let me make it clear that I don't hate Birth. I don't even dislike it. I just don't think I actually love it. (Or maybe its ambiguity has rubbed off on me.)
It's a well-crafted film with a certain, assured pace that never falters in its storytelling, and in addition, has commendable performances. It is also able to pose questions, from the general-- Do you believe in reincarnation?-- to the provocative-- What would you do in this situation, given all that society says is taboo about romantic love between adults and children?
It's just that the emotional distance, coupled with the ambiguity, give it the sort of arty feel that makes the whole package a wee bit difficult to access. Call me a Philistine, but perhaps in this case, a little Hollywood may not have been such a bad thing.
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