HEROES Season 1 Episode 13 (WARNING: SPOILERS)
“The Fix”
Of the major plot strands running through the show at the moment, by far the most interesting for me is Claire’s search for her biological parents, which leads her to Nip/Tuck’s Jessalyn Gilsig, who is apparently her birth mother. (“Apparently,” as all we have to go on at this point is her word.) Not only am I happy to see Gilsig join the cast, but that final shot of her lighting her ciggie has to be the Moment of the entire episode.
It’s also great that the nominal baddie of the show, HRG (a.k.a. Mr. Bennet), is clearly (among many other things), a protective and loving father. That dichotomy makes us uncertain how we really should feel about him, making him more than just your average villain. (Or, in Hiro’s words, “billen.”)
And, speaking of Hiro, he and Ando are abducted and brought before… “the Big Boss.” (This section of the episode seemed just a tad stretched out for me, possibly because I was aware of the guest shot and the role said guest was playing.)
Meanwhile, Nathan and Mohinder team up to track down Peter, only to have him escape them with the help of his reluctant mentor, “Claude.” (Eccleston makes the most of the limited screen time he has, and I’m looking forward to more of Claude in the episodes to come.)
And, oh yeah, Matt fixes the leaky pipes, and Mrs. Matt is pregnant!
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
SMALLVILLE Season 6 Episode 12
“Labyrinth”
Immediately following the Justice League episode, we have the Martian Manhunter episode.
This one though, was surprisingly far more watchable than “Justice.”
The premise, though not original, is still effective: after a brief sequence where Clark is struck down by an invisible force in the barn, he awakens to find himself in a mental institute. It turns out that the past 5 and a half years have been the elaborate fantasy of a paranoid schizophrenic, and the name “Jor-El” is a brand of liquid hand soap.
We, of course, know the truth, as does another loony (Phil Morris), who claims to be from (ahem) Mars. (If there hadn’t been so much press about this episode and who the guest star was going to be, I might have gotten a little fanboy thrill during the moment when a white-clad orderly waves a lighter flame in front of “the Martian.”)
The fact that it takes nearly 30 minutes of running time before they give up the game gives us enough of a chance to see this other world, where Clark and Lana have been sweethearts since kindergarten, where Lex lost his legs during the accident in which Clark should have saved him (way back in season 1), but didn’t, since he was really just a crazy who thought he was a superman, and where Martha has tied the knot with Lionel. Enough of a chance to see Michael Rosenbaum’s Moment, screaming legless from a wheelchair, as well as Allison Mack’s embarrassing death scene. Even Tom Welling manages to squeeze out some real emotion in a couple of scenes. (That’s one of the good things about these kinds of “alternate reality” episodes, as they give the actors a chance to explore their characters from some skewed angles.)
Of course, all this time spent in that false world leaves us just a smidgen of running time for the wrap-up, so the oh-so-brief appearance of the Martian Manhunter in the “real world” (indicating his impending return) will have to do for any J’onn J’onzz fans out there, as there has to be that final scene between Clark and Lana. And though I have made fun of Smallville’s tortured relationship hooey round these parts before, I must admit that this particular scene between these doomed lovers (`cause we all know he ends up with Lois, right?) struck just the right chord.
All in all, though light years from the best 40+ TV minutes I’ve ever seen, certainly a sight better than any of the season 6 Smallvilles I’ve seen thus far.
“Labyrinth”
Immediately following the Justice League episode, we have the Martian Manhunter episode.
This one though, was surprisingly far more watchable than “Justice.”
The premise, though not original, is still effective: after a brief sequence where Clark is struck down by an invisible force in the barn, he awakens to find himself in a mental institute. It turns out that the past 5 and a half years have been the elaborate fantasy of a paranoid schizophrenic, and the name “Jor-El” is a brand of liquid hand soap.
We, of course, know the truth, as does another loony (Phil Morris), who claims to be from (ahem) Mars. (If there hadn’t been so much press about this episode and who the guest star was going to be, I might have gotten a little fanboy thrill during the moment when a white-clad orderly waves a lighter flame in front of “the Martian.”)
The fact that it takes nearly 30 minutes of running time before they give up the game gives us enough of a chance to see this other world, where Clark and Lana have been sweethearts since kindergarten, where Lex lost his legs during the accident in which Clark should have saved him (way back in season 1), but didn’t, since he was really just a crazy who thought he was a superman, and where Martha has tied the knot with Lionel. Enough of a chance to see Michael Rosenbaum’s Moment, screaming legless from a wheelchair, as well as Allison Mack’s embarrassing death scene. Even Tom Welling manages to squeeze out some real emotion in a couple of scenes. (That’s one of the good things about these kinds of “alternate reality” episodes, as they give the actors a chance to explore their characters from some skewed angles.)
Of course, all this time spent in that false world leaves us just a smidgen of running time for the wrap-up, so the oh-so-brief appearance of the Martian Manhunter in the “real world” (indicating his impending return) will have to do for any J’onn J’onzz fans out there, as there has to be that final scene between Clark and Lana. And though I have made fun of Smallville’s tortured relationship hooey round these parts before, I must admit that this particular scene between these doomed lovers (`cause we all know he ends up with Lois, right?) struck just the right chord.
All in all, though light years from the best 40+ TV minutes I’ve ever seen, certainly a sight better than any of the season 6 Smallvilles I’ve seen thus far.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
SUNDANCE 2007
Since Steven Soderbergh’s Sex, Lies, and Videotape put Sundance on the film lover’s map, I’ve naturally kept my eye on what’s emerged from the snowy slopes in the initial months of any given year, and 2007’s bringing an interesting batch.
At the moment, some of the films that are really grabbing my attention are the ones from names we normally associate with in-front-of-the-camera work.
Away From Her (based on Alice Munro’s short story “The Bear Came Over the Mountain”) is brought to us by Sarah Polley. I’ve had a crush on Polley for the longest time. She’s come out in Doug Liman’s Go, Hal Hartley’s No Such Thing, Isabel Coixet’s My Life Without Me, and (surprise!) Zack Snyder’s remake of Dawn of the Dead. And now she’s directed her first feature, with the luminous Julie Christie (Polley’s co-star in No Such Thing) as a woman faced with the onset of Alzheimer’s.
Then there’s Slipstream, from the second Hannibal the Cannibal, Sir Anthony Hopkins. It’s about writers and the creative process, with a cast that includes John Turturro, Christian Slater, Camryn Manheim, and Sir Anthony himself. (As with Polley, this is the feature directorial debut of Sir Anthony.)
Then there’re the films from names I’ve come to trust in the director’s chair.
There’s Smiley Face, from Gregg Araki, the mad genius behind The Doom Generation and the incredibly moving Mysterious Skin. Araki’s back with this doped-up misadventure starring the funny Anna Faris (who most people will probably recognize from the Scary Movie franchise; see her in Sofia Coppola’s Lost In Translation, or Lucky McKee’s May, or even Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain—though she’s underutilized there).
There’s also Bugmaster, from Katsuhiro Otomo. Though widely known for his anime features, Akira and Steamboy, Bugmaster is actually Otomo’s second live-action feature, after World Apartment Horror.
There’s Teeth. Though I’m unfamiliar with director Mitchell Lichtenstein’s work, two words make me blazingly curious about this film: vagina dentata. Enough said.
A few more films round off my initial curious-to-see list: Robert Shaye’s The Last Mimzy (Shaye is better known as the founder of New Line Cinema) from an adapted script co-written by Bruce Joel Rubin (who penned the brilliant Jacob’s Ladder, as well as the mainstream crowd-pleaser, Ghost); John August’s The Nines (August’s directorial debut, though he’s written brilliant scripts for Go and Big Fish, as well as two other Tim Burton films, Corpse Bride and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; he’s also, much to my existential horror, penned the scripts for both Charlie’s Angels movies); and Andrew Currie’s Fido, where zombies have become indentured servants to humanity. Yes, you read right: zombies.
Wish I were in Park City right now, but I’m not. So here’s hoping these (and all the other good films at Sundance this year) get bitchin’ distribution deals.
See you at the movies.
Since Steven Soderbergh’s Sex, Lies, and Videotape put Sundance on the film lover’s map, I’ve naturally kept my eye on what’s emerged from the snowy slopes in the initial months of any given year, and 2007’s bringing an interesting batch.
At the moment, some of the films that are really grabbing my attention are the ones from names we normally associate with in-front-of-the-camera work.
Away From Her (based on Alice Munro’s short story “The Bear Came Over the Mountain”) is brought to us by Sarah Polley. I’ve had a crush on Polley for the longest time. She’s come out in Doug Liman’s Go, Hal Hartley’s No Such Thing, Isabel Coixet’s My Life Without Me, and (surprise!) Zack Snyder’s remake of Dawn of the Dead. And now she’s directed her first feature, with the luminous Julie Christie (Polley’s co-star in No Such Thing) as a woman faced with the onset of Alzheimer’s.
Then there’s Slipstream, from the second Hannibal the Cannibal, Sir Anthony Hopkins. It’s about writers and the creative process, with a cast that includes John Turturro, Christian Slater, Camryn Manheim, and Sir Anthony himself. (As with Polley, this is the feature directorial debut of Sir Anthony.)
Then there’re the films from names I’ve come to trust in the director’s chair.
There’s Smiley Face, from Gregg Araki, the mad genius behind The Doom Generation and the incredibly moving Mysterious Skin. Araki’s back with this doped-up misadventure starring the funny Anna Faris (who most people will probably recognize from the Scary Movie franchise; see her in Sofia Coppola’s Lost In Translation, or Lucky McKee’s May, or even Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain—though she’s underutilized there).
There’s also Bugmaster, from Katsuhiro Otomo. Though widely known for his anime features, Akira and Steamboy, Bugmaster is actually Otomo’s second live-action feature, after World Apartment Horror.
There’s Teeth. Though I’m unfamiliar with director Mitchell Lichtenstein’s work, two words make me blazingly curious about this film: vagina dentata. Enough said.
A few more films round off my initial curious-to-see list: Robert Shaye’s The Last Mimzy (Shaye is better known as the founder of New Line Cinema) from an adapted script co-written by Bruce Joel Rubin (who penned the brilliant Jacob’s Ladder, as well as the mainstream crowd-pleaser, Ghost); John August’s The Nines (August’s directorial debut, though he’s written brilliant scripts for Go and Big Fish, as well as two other Tim Burton films, Corpse Bride and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; he’s also, much to my existential horror, penned the scripts for both Charlie’s Angels movies); and Andrew Currie’s Fido, where zombies have become indentured servants to humanity. Yes, you read right: zombies.
Wish I were in Park City right now, but I’m not. So here’s hoping these (and all the other good films at Sundance this year) get bitchin’ distribution deals.
See you at the movies.
DEXTER Season 1
Dexter Morgan is a forensics expert who specializes in blood spatter analysis. He’s also a serial killer. And he is one of the most fascinating characters on television at the moment.
Though I’ve not actually seen it thus described, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if some critic out there labeled Dexter as “C.S.I. meets Silence of the Lambs.” And in a manner of speaking, I suppose it is, but to glibly describe it that way is ultimately reductionist and unfair.
Yes, Dexter capitalizes on the public’s fascination with forensics procedurals and serial killers, but it is also a show that explores the dense and complex psychology of sociopaths.* Based on the novel Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay, Dexter is one of those riveting shows that is pushing the boundaries of the television medium. It is a show that is dark and darkly humorous, with scalpel-sharp writing that cuts all the way to the bone.
It’s fascinatingly subversive the way the show gets you to actually root for a serial killer, for a self-confessed monster who has the greatest difficulty fathoming human emotions and interactions, and emulating them so as to appear “normal.” We actually sympathize and care whether Dexter’s mask is slipping, whether there are cracks in the façade he presents to the world.
And not only does Dexter succeed in delving into how love (which can take very bizarre forms) helps stem the tides of violence that surge within a cold and calculating killer, it also features a title character who is the darkest logical endpoint for all those socially maladjusted TV forensics experts (such as the ones in Bones) on display week in, week out. I mean, those guys are weird, right? You’re thinking no one normal could have a job like they do. Well, Dexter’s the King of Weird. Dexter is what each and every one of those labrats could very well be behind closed doors.
Having mentioned love, it’s interesting to note that love and betrayal are two themes that intertwine around each other and through season 1 like its genetic code, and there’s a wealth of secrets and lies planted through its dozen episodes for many a future season to come.
Aside from all of this, Dexter has also helped me formulate a theory that Miami is one seriously effed-up city. I thought all those psychologically damaged people who float through McNamara/Troy were bad, but Dexter trumps them all. Even Ava Moore and the Carver have to bow down to King Dexter. And please keep in mind, though Dexter is an excellent piece of evidence to support my theory, there is one irrefutable bit no one can argue with: David Caruso.
What did I say? Miami? Effed-up.
* Most forensics procedurals are so caught up in the how, they merely skim over the why (as if motive were purely incidental).
Parting shot: Dexter has the most strangely hypnotic (and unsettling) opening title sequence I have ever come across in a weekly TV series, which is notable considering all we’re really seeing is Dexter going through his morning rituals as he prepares for a new day…
Parting shot 2: I came to Dexter because I missed Six Feet Under and wanted to see Michael C. Hall in his new gig. He does not disappoint. (Another Six Feet Under alum on Dexter’s payroll is Michael Cuesta, who directed a handful of episodes of Dexter, as he did on Six Feet Under, and whose feature films include the caustic and moving coming-of-age tale, Twelve and Holding.)
Dexter Morgan is a forensics expert who specializes in blood spatter analysis. He’s also a serial killer. And he is one of the most fascinating characters on television at the moment.
Though I’ve not actually seen it thus described, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if some critic out there labeled Dexter as “C.S.I. meets Silence of the Lambs.” And in a manner of speaking, I suppose it is, but to glibly describe it that way is ultimately reductionist and unfair.
Yes, Dexter capitalizes on the public’s fascination with forensics procedurals and serial killers, but it is also a show that explores the dense and complex psychology of sociopaths.* Based on the novel Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay, Dexter is one of those riveting shows that is pushing the boundaries of the television medium. It is a show that is dark and darkly humorous, with scalpel-sharp writing that cuts all the way to the bone.
It’s fascinatingly subversive the way the show gets you to actually root for a serial killer, for a self-confessed monster who has the greatest difficulty fathoming human emotions and interactions, and emulating them so as to appear “normal.” We actually sympathize and care whether Dexter’s mask is slipping, whether there are cracks in the façade he presents to the world.
And not only does Dexter succeed in delving into how love (which can take very bizarre forms) helps stem the tides of violence that surge within a cold and calculating killer, it also features a title character who is the darkest logical endpoint for all those socially maladjusted TV forensics experts (such as the ones in Bones) on display week in, week out. I mean, those guys are weird, right? You’re thinking no one normal could have a job like they do. Well, Dexter’s the King of Weird. Dexter is what each and every one of those labrats could very well be behind closed doors.
Having mentioned love, it’s interesting to note that love and betrayal are two themes that intertwine around each other and through season 1 like its genetic code, and there’s a wealth of secrets and lies planted through its dozen episodes for many a future season to come.
Aside from all of this, Dexter has also helped me formulate a theory that Miami is one seriously effed-up city. I thought all those psychologically damaged people who float through McNamara/Troy were bad, but Dexter trumps them all. Even Ava Moore and the Carver have to bow down to King Dexter. And please keep in mind, though Dexter is an excellent piece of evidence to support my theory, there is one irrefutable bit no one can argue with: David Caruso.
What did I say? Miami? Effed-up.
* Most forensics procedurals are so caught up in the how, they merely skim over the why (as if motive were purely incidental).
Parting shot: Dexter has the most strangely hypnotic (and unsettling) opening title sequence I have ever come across in a weekly TV series, which is notable considering all we’re really seeing is Dexter going through his morning rituals as he prepares for a new day…
Parting shot 2: I came to Dexter because I missed Six Feet Under and wanted to see Michael C. Hall in his new gig. He does not disappoint. (Another Six Feet Under alum on Dexter’s payroll is Michael Cuesta, who directed a handful of episodes of Dexter, as he did on Six Feet Under, and whose feature films include the caustic and moving coming-of-age tale, Twelve and Holding.)
Heroes Season 1 Episode 12 “Godsend” (WARNING: SPOILERS)
So the next chapter of Heroes has officially kicked off, and it kicks off in grand style.
The confluence of characters continues, and as the tapestry gets more complex, not only does the main story become more involving, but some of the characters become even more interesting.
Seeing Hiro’s reunion with Nathan was a kick, and it’s good to see that Nathan’s humanity is resurfacing. He may be a jerk, but he’s a jerk who genuinely cares for his brother, so there’s still hope yet for Hiro’s favorite flying man.
And finally, Simone seems to be ready to get on the bus! At last! (Though I hope there’s some payoff here regarding Mr. Linderman’s apparent ubiquitousness. Apart from the symbol, Linderman seems to be the other common denominator of the show.)
Having mentioned the symbol, we also get to discover one of its meanings, as well as see Isaac’s “Hiro vs T. Rex” painting in real life! Heh.
But undoubtedly, the best bits of “Godsend” are Claire’s scenes, from her clandestine meetings with the Haitian (who is quickly becoming a character of interest for me; the hole Eden left must be filled!) to her attempts at once more becoming Zach’s friend (which leads to a wonderful reprise of our initial introduction to both characters from the pilot). Hayden Panettiere continues to be one of the best of the ensemble, as we clearly get to see the difficulty a teen-ager would have in her position, struggling with the isolation, dealing not only with her “very own private freak show,” but also with the lies her father has been feeding her, as well as his actions, which have compromised the memories of her family. (I’m also glad to see that Zach wasn’t prematurely written off the show, in light of not just what the Haitian did to him, but also the whole “is he or isn’t he gay?” brouhaha and Thomas Dekker’s having landed the role of John Connor in the TV series, The Sarah Connor Chronicles, a spin-off of the Terminator franchise. I just hope he sticks around and isn’t bumped off for his troubles.)
Top all that off with the introduction of Christopher Eccleston* to the cast, and we’re off and running.
* I’ve followed Eccleston’s work ever since I first saw him in Danny Boyle’s Shallow Grave. I’m curious to see what he’ll bring to the ensemble, and what sort of chemistry he’ll have with Milo Ventimiglia. (Reportedly, Eccleston’s character, Claude, will become a mentor of sorts to Peter.) I also hope he isn’t the just-one-too-many-characters straw that breaks the ensemble’s back.
Parting shot: Heroes has had an early renewal for a second season. Hurrah!
Parting shot 2: “Godsend” is the first of a straight 7 episode run, then the show goes on another break, after which, the season’s final 5 episodes air consecutively.
So the next chapter of Heroes has officially kicked off, and it kicks off in grand style.
The confluence of characters continues, and as the tapestry gets more complex, not only does the main story become more involving, but some of the characters become even more interesting.
Seeing Hiro’s reunion with Nathan was a kick, and it’s good to see that Nathan’s humanity is resurfacing. He may be a jerk, but he’s a jerk who genuinely cares for his brother, so there’s still hope yet for Hiro’s favorite flying man.
And finally, Simone seems to be ready to get on the bus! At last! (Though I hope there’s some payoff here regarding Mr. Linderman’s apparent ubiquitousness. Apart from the symbol, Linderman seems to be the other common denominator of the show.)
Having mentioned the symbol, we also get to discover one of its meanings, as well as see Isaac’s “Hiro vs T. Rex” painting in real life! Heh.
But undoubtedly, the best bits of “Godsend” are Claire’s scenes, from her clandestine meetings with the Haitian (who is quickly becoming a character of interest for me; the hole Eden left must be filled!) to her attempts at once more becoming Zach’s friend (which leads to a wonderful reprise of our initial introduction to both characters from the pilot). Hayden Panettiere continues to be one of the best of the ensemble, as we clearly get to see the difficulty a teen-ager would have in her position, struggling with the isolation, dealing not only with her “very own private freak show,” but also with the lies her father has been feeding her, as well as his actions, which have compromised the memories of her family. (I’m also glad to see that Zach wasn’t prematurely written off the show, in light of not just what the Haitian did to him, but also the whole “is he or isn’t he gay?” brouhaha and Thomas Dekker’s having landed the role of John Connor in the TV series, The Sarah Connor Chronicles, a spin-off of the Terminator franchise. I just hope he sticks around and isn’t bumped off for his troubles.)
Top all that off with the introduction of Christopher Eccleston* to the cast, and we’re off and running.
* I’ve followed Eccleston’s work ever since I first saw him in Danny Boyle’s Shallow Grave. I’m curious to see what he’ll bring to the ensemble, and what sort of chemistry he’ll have with Milo Ventimiglia. (Reportedly, Eccleston’s character, Claude, will become a mentor of sorts to Peter.) I also hope he isn’t the just-one-too-many-characters straw that breaks the ensemble’s back.
Parting shot: Heroes has had an early renewal for a second season. Hurrah!
Parting shot 2: “Godsend” is the first of a straight 7 episode run, then the show goes on another break, after which, the season’s final 5 episodes air consecutively.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Smallville Season 6 Episodes 10 & 11
Review by David Hontiveros
(WARNING: Contains Spoilers)
Review by David Hontiveros
(WARNING: Contains Spoilers)
Despite the fact that (or maybe precisely because) I’m such a big fan of Big Blue, I’ve never really followed Smallville with any solid regularity. Once again, live TV superheroics are marred by weak writing.
I mean, how many times must Lana get stalked by the Freak of the Week? How many times must Clark/Lana/Lex/Chloe/Lois get controlled by some external force, act all gonzo or evil or horny (or all three simultaneously), then have convenient amnesia once the dust settles? And just when does the madness end? The tortured relationships of Smallville put Dawson’s Creek’s to shame.
Still, I keep an eye out for specific episodes, just to see if, maybe, things have begun to look up on Smallville. Two of those episodes just aired.
Season 6 Episode 10 “Hydro”
I made it a point to watch this ‘cause I’m such a huge Tori Spelling fan.
Heh.
Aheh.
Aha-ha-ha!*
Actually, it’s because “Hydro” is Tom Welling’s directorial debut. So, I wanted to see if Clark could direct, as well as fly.
But what I got was your average run-of-the-mill Smallville with Tori S. as the Freak of the Week, some more tortured relationship hooey (Lex has proposed to Lana, Lana hasn’t given him an answer ‘cause she’s still in love with Clark, but she’s pregnant, blah blah blah, boo hoo hoo, ad nauseum), and yet another anticlimactic showdown with the aforementioned Freak of the Week.
I dunno. Why has this show stayed on the air for 6 seasons?
Season 6 Episode 11 “Justice”
Okay.
This just didn’t do it for me. Considering this was the Justice League episode, it was vastly underwhelming, with a negligible plot and mostly toilet paper-thin characterizations.
And the costumes…
Oh, the humanity…
This could conceivably have worked better as a multi-parter, but Smallville just doesn’t work that way. So we’re treated to 40+ minutes of good guys running around in bad suits, with the fanboy highlight apparently a shot of the “League” walking towards the camera in Hollywood action film slowmo as Lex’s evil lab explodes behind them. Yeesh.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d actually looked the heroic part, but those suits would just die on Project Runway. Nina Garcia would absolutely slay those outfits.
And the performances. Urrrr. Former American Idol contestant Alan Ritchson (Aquaman) does little except flash his smirky grin, walk around bare chested, and be the butt of fish jokes.
Justin Hartley (Green Arrow; he also played Aquaman on the failed TV pilot Mercy Reef) and Lee Thompson Young (Cyborg) don’t really elevate the acting either.
Kyle Gallner (Impulse; perhaps more widely seen on Veronica Mars) is the only one who actually registers, in that impish, precocious Bart Allen way. (This episode might even have been better off as an Impulse spotlight.)
And Lois is such a superhero groupie slut, it’s embarrassing. First she does the kissy-face with Aquaman in season 5, then is all hot and heavy and talking coitus without the interruptus with Green Arrow—though “Justice” does seem to put a punctuation mark on that relationship. Still. Slut. (Yes, she doesn’t know Ollie is Green Arrow, but can you imagine all the locker room talk on the JL Watchtower in years to come?)
And though I will admit that it was neat-o to see Chloe be this League’s Oracle, if you want to see the League done right, there’s 5 seasons of the animated series out there. Hop to it.
Again, why has Smallville been around for 6 seasons?
* Actually, I enjoyed Tori Spelling’s cameo in Scream 2’s metamovie. I’ll give her credit for that.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Gwoemul (The Host)
A review by David Hontiveros
A review by David Hontiveros
Having already made their presence known on the global cinema map with films like Ji-woon Kim‘s Janghwa, Hongryeon (A Tale of Two Sisters) and Chan-wook Park‘s Oldboy, Korea now gives us Joon-ho Bong‘s Gwoemul (The Host), a rollicking creature feature that puts to shame a whole gaggle of Hollywood’s most recent offerings in the genre.
Following the most unlikely of celluloid heroes, the dysfunctional Park family (made up of patriarch Hie-bong, his offspring, deadbeat Gang-du, unemployed graduate Nam-il, competitive archer Nam-joo, and Gang-du’s daughter Hyun-seo), Gwoemul kicks off with a brief prologue six years in the past, as a perfunctory (possible) explanation for the creature’s existence, before kicking into high gear with the initial attack, which sets up the central event that serves as the engine the film’s narrative runs on.
Having the Parks as the film’s main protagonists effectively puts the lie to the Hollywood adage that creature features need heroes who are either scientists or soldiers to work. (During the initial attack, we in fact are introduced to US soldier Donald—played by David Joseph Anselmo—who can’t help but pitch in and piss off the rampaging monster; you just know where that’s gonna end up…)
And of course, for a great creature feature, you need a great creature, and Gwoemul has definitely got that. Done in CG by San Francisco-based The Orphanage, Gwoemul’s beastie is convincing, particularly in the initial attack, in which the camera doesn’t really stand still, making the monster all the more real since it seems to be just another element in motion that just happened to be picked up by the lens, as opposed to some wide-angle Panavision shot displaying glorious SFX which blare, “Look at me! Look at me! I’m a CGI construct that cost an obscene amount of dollars to put on the screen! Look at meeee!”
There’s a certain stripped-down efficiency to Gwoemul that helps it tremendously, and even allows for some quiet little character moments amidst all the running about. And this, being a Korean movie, naturally displays moments of comedy (and with the Park family centerstage, there’s a fair amount of those to be had), though thankfully, the humor never devolves into goofy slapstick, as sometimes happens in Korean cinema. (Even Chan-wook Park‘s contribution to Saam gaang yi, “Cut,” had absolutely painful moments of crude humor that crippled an otherwise intense film experience.)
With just the right amount of suspense, humor, horror, and drama, Gwoemul is an entertaining 2 hour ride that is already being gobbled up by the Hollywood machine. (News has already broken of an impending English-language remake.) Despite some minor imperfections—notably a plot thread that doesn’t really go anywhere— Gwoemul is the best creature feature I’ve seen in quite some time. (Try and see it so you have a point of comparison once the glammed-up Hollywood version is unleashed upon us…)
Parting shot: Interestingly enough, the next film of Kang-ho Song (who plays Gang-du) is Bakjwi, its English title, Evil Live, which is the title of the movie-within-the-(short)-movie in “Cut.” Bakjwi is being directed by Chan-wook Park , and has been described as a “modern-day vampire story” (as we saw in “Cut”).
Parting shot2: Du-na Bae (who plays Nam-joo) can also be seen as Eun-suh in Dong-bin Kim’s Ring Virus, the Korean remake of Ringu.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
HEROES (a review by David Hontiveros)
***WARNING : REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS***
It’s the Friday before Heroes’ return to the airwaves and I am stoked.
What can I say? As a comic geek, it was only natural that I was gonna give Heroes a look-see when it popped up, and what I got from the pilot was a brilliant surprise.
Here was a very human show about characters who were quite a bit more than human. This wasn’t a show about codenames and powers (just one of the sins—in a long list—of X-Men: The Last Stand), but about people who suddenly realize they’re no longer as ordinary as they once presumed they were.
As much as I’m loving Heroes though, I will cop to the fact that I do feel there are too many characters running around (any ensemble show always runs the risk of overpopulating the screen), so much so that the ones I really like, I love, and the ones I’m less than interested about, I pretty much think are a waste of good air time.
I’ll try and stay on the positives, shall I?
Yeah, Hiro’s the breakout character of the show, and we all know why, right? He’s readily identifiable to any comic geek out there, and is the one person who has been the most enthusiastic about the discovery of his powers. There is a certain infectious positivity to Hiro that is a joy to watch, and Masi Oka is doing an excellent job of giving the role so much more humanity than mere comedy relief (which, let’s face it, is a major function of Hiro’s character).
Then there’s Claire, who has, over the course of 11 episodes, become one of my favorites. And those moments when Hayden Panettiere displays an uncanny maturity in her performance and I need to forcibly remind myself that she isn’t even 18…. Well, those moments make me love the character of Claire even more…
And yeah, Mohinder’s clearly the Prof. X figure, but he’s the character who is at once on the outside (for being the non-powered human), and at the center of the story (thanks to his father’s research). Mohinder is history’s (and humanity’s) witness to this singular moment in our race’s evolution.
I should also point out that I loved Eden . (And yeah, I was immediately hooked on her because Nora Zehetner did such an amazing job on Rian Johnson’s fantastic Brick, but Eden the character quickly became a point of fascination for me as well, with a power that had so much possibilities, and a past I was hungry to uncover.) So, seeing her die (presumably she’s dead) in ep11 (“Fallout”) was a great big bummer. (And the way she died seemed to be one of those “decisions-so-stupid-you-know-the-character-only-made-them-so-the-writers-could-bump-them-off” actions, it just really niggles at me like nobody’s business…)
But hey, I’m trying to stay on the positives…
So… just a few more days to go…
And yes, Peter’s discovery that he could very well be the cause of the impending nuclear explosion was a good cliffhanger, but hey, hearing the Haitian speak (and what exactly he said to Claire) has to go down as one of the great Heroes moments thus far…
Till next time, save the cheerleader, save the world
***WARNING : REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS***
It’s the Friday before Heroes’ return to the airwaves and I am stoked.
What can I say? As a comic geek, it was only natural that I was gonna give Heroes a look-see when it popped up, and what I got from the pilot was a brilliant surprise.
Here was a very human show about characters who were quite a bit more than human. This wasn’t a show about codenames and powers (just one of the sins—in a long list—of X-Men: The Last Stand), but about people who suddenly realize they’re no longer as ordinary as they once presumed they were.
As much as I’m loving Heroes though, I will cop to the fact that I do feel there are too many characters running around (any ensemble show always runs the risk of overpopulating the screen), so much so that the ones I really like, I love, and the ones I’m less than interested about, I pretty much think are a waste of good air time.
I’ll try and stay on the positives, shall I?
Yeah, Hiro’s the breakout character of the show, and we all know why, right? He’s readily identifiable to any comic geek out there, and is the one person who has been the most enthusiastic about the discovery of his powers. There is a certain infectious positivity to Hiro that is a joy to watch, and Masi Oka is doing an excellent job of giving the role so much more humanity than mere comedy relief (which, let’s face it, is a major function of Hiro’s character).
Then there’s Claire, who has, over the course of 11 episodes, become one of my favorites. And those moments when Hayden Panettiere displays an uncanny maturity in her performance and I need to forcibly remind myself that she isn’t even 18…. Well, those moments make me love the character of Claire even more…
And yeah, Mohinder’s clearly the Prof. X figure, but he’s the character who is at once on the outside (for being the non-powered human), and at the center of the story (thanks to his father’s research). Mohinder is history’s (and humanity’s) witness to this singular moment in our race’s evolution.
I should also point out that I loved Eden . (And yeah, I was immediately hooked on her because Nora Zehetner did such an amazing job on Rian Johnson’s fantastic Brick, but Eden the character quickly became a point of fascination for me as well, with a power that had so much possibilities, and a past I was hungry to uncover.) So, seeing her die (presumably she’s dead) in ep11 (“Fallout”) was a great big bummer. (And the way she died seemed to be one of those “decisions-so-stupid-you-know-the-character-only-made-them-so-the-writers-could-bump-them-off” actions, it just really niggles at me like nobody’s business…)
But hey, I’m trying to stay on the positives…
So… just a few more days to go…
And yes, Peter’s discovery that he could very well be the cause of the impending nuclear explosion was a good cliffhanger, but hey, hearing the Haitian speak (and what exactly he said to Claire) has to go down as one of the great Heroes moments thus far…
Till next time, save the cheerleader, save the world
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Of Fairies and the Ticking Crocodile (Being a Review of Finding Neverland, and Other Things Besides)
By David Hontiveros
Johnny Depp’s come a long way from A Nightmare on Elm Street and 21 Jump Street. He’s one of that rare breed of working actor who’s not just a celebrity, he’s also a talented, respected thespian. He manages to star in derivative Hollywood dreck like The Astronaut’s Wife and emerges virtually unscathed. He ended up on the Oscar shortlist, bizarrely enough, because of the film franchise he’s suddenly found himself a part of, Pirates of the Caribbean, a movie based on, of all things, an amusement park ride! He’s collaborated with Tim Burton three times, and has reunited with him for the long-awaited Charlie and the Chocolate Factory as well as the stop-motion animation film Corpse Bride. And at the tail end of 2004, he found himself playing J.M. Barrie, the Scottish author and playwright who wrote Peter Pan, in Finding Neverland.
Sometimes, though not often, he had dreams, and they were more painful than the dreams of other boys. For hours he could not be separated from these dreams, though he wailed piteously in them. They had to do, I think, with the riddle of his existence.
It’s 1903, London, and Barrie is just coming off his latest play, a resounding flop. His marriage to former actress Mary Ansell (Radha Mitchell) is becoming increasingly strained and loveless. He’s a man in danger of losing himself, when a fateful expedition and romp with faithful hound Porthos, crosses his path with that of widow Sylvia Llewellyn Davies (Kate Winslet), and her sons, George, Michael, Jack, and Peter. What follows quite literally changes all their lives, and becomes the inspiration for Peter Pan.
Marc Forster (Monster’s Ball) directs Neverland from a screenplay by David Magee, based on Allan Knee’s play “The Man Who Was Peter Pan.” Forster does a commendable job of handling this moving tale of growth and loss, of hope amidst pain, steering it clear of the overly maudlin, melodramatic waters that the usual Hollywood tear-jerker traverses.
The ingredients are there, after all. Four children bereft of their father. One in particular, Peter (Freddie Highmore), taking the death much harder than his siblings, withdrawing into himself, unwilling to play childish games of pretend. A mother beset by “chest colds.” A domineering grandmother (the still radiant Julie Christie as Davies’ mother, Mrs. Emma du Maurier). A troubled marriage. It’s all there, and yet Forster turns in a wondrously magical piece that not only evades TV movie of the week territory, but also makes believers of us all.
In Neverland, the harsh realities of life and the act of living are beautifully counterbalanced by Barrie’s fanciful view of the world, which turns an awkward dance with a dog into a stately fairy tale waltz. It’s to Forster’s credit that these sequences—often Barrie’s playtime with the Davies children—are transformed into subtly wondrous set pieces which are fantastical without being baroque or overly extravagant. In another director’s hands, the CGI would have run wild, the production design would have stolen centerstage. Instead, and paradoxically, the restraint effectively amplifies the wistful nature of these moments, fleeting as they are, like time, and fairy dust.
Odd things happen to all of us on our way through life without our noticing for a time that they have happened.
However, this being a film “Inspired By True Events,” some fudging is done, particularly with chronology. Whereas in the film, the initial encounter with Davies is in 1903, in reality Barrie met her and her children in 1897, while her husband Arthur was still alive. The events depicted in the latter section of Finding Neverland (which actually occurred in 1910) are likewise telescoped, and the 1902 publication of The Little White Bird—which mentions Peter Pan for the first time in print, before the play opened in 1904—isn’t even mentioned. Thus are the perhaps necessary pitfalls of the dramatization of real-life events. The slow, boring bits are excised, the drudgery of passing time erased, the terrible tick-tick of the crocodile, muted, so the pathos of the moment is magnified.
In cases like this, where history falls prey to drama, all you can hope for is that the spirit of the story is true to the lives of the people it depicts, and here, Forster and crew succeed admirably. Of Barrie’s fervent need to both rediscover a childhood he’d missed the first time around, and to ensure Peter doesn’t experience the same premature adulthood, pitted against the reality that that innocence we must treasure eventually flies away, oftentimes in a single, unheralded instant (the scene where Barrie acknowledges George’s passage into adulthood is a quiet, surprisingly moving moment); that, we are shown, in all its fragility and splendour.
And in the end, this is film after all (a rather good one, it should be emphasized), and not documentary. If facts are what one is after, there are biographies. Film, as with any story, is about drama, and about the paradox of finding truth within that fiction.
In that respect, Finding Neverland has much to impart, about pretense and truth, growth and change, and the possibilities of discovering one’s self in the face of loss.
“Pan, who and what art thou?” he cried huskily.
“I’m youth, I’m joy,” Peter answered at a venture, “I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg.”
This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook that Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of good form.
Quotes from James M. Barrie’s Peter Pan and Wendy (1911).
By David Hontiveros
Johnny Depp’s come a long way from A Nightmare on Elm Street and 21 Jump Street. He’s one of that rare breed of working actor who’s not just a celebrity, he’s also a talented, respected thespian. He manages to star in derivative Hollywood dreck like The Astronaut’s Wife and emerges virtually unscathed. He ended up on the Oscar shortlist, bizarrely enough, because of the film franchise he’s suddenly found himself a part of, Pirates of the Caribbean, a movie based on, of all things, an amusement park ride! He’s collaborated with Tim Burton three times, and has reunited with him for the long-awaited Charlie and the Chocolate Factory as well as the stop-motion animation film Corpse Bride. And at the tail end of 2004, he found himself playing J.M. Barrie, the Scottish author and playwright who wrote Peter Pan, in Finding Neverland.
Sometimes, though not often, he had dreams, and they were more painful than the dreams of other boys. For hours he could not be separated from these dreams, though he wailed piteously in them. They had to do, I think, with the riddle of his existence.
It’s 1903, London, and Barrie is just coming off his latest play, a resounding flop. His marriage to former actress Mary Ansell (Radha Mitchell) is becoming increasingly strained and loveless. He’s a man in danger of losing himself, when a fateful expedition and romp with faithful hound Porthos, crosses his path with that of widow Sylvia Llewellyn Davies (Kate Winslet), and her sons, George, Michael, Jack, and Peter. What follows quite literally changes all their lives, and becomes the inspiration for Peter Pan.
Marc Forster (Monster’s Ball) directs Neverland from a screenplay by David Magee, based on Allan Knee’s play “The Man Who Was Peter Pan.” Forster does a commendable job of handling this moving tale of growth and loss, of hope amidst pain, steering it clear of the overly maudlin, melodramatic waters that the usual Hollywood tear-jerker traverses.
The ingredients are there, after all. Four children bereft of their father. One in particular, Peter (Freddie Highmore), taking the death much harder than his siblings, withdrawing into himself, unwilling to play childish games of pretend. A mother beset by “chest colds.” A domineering grandmother (the still radiant Julie Christie as Davies’ mother, Mrs. Emma du Maurier). A troubled marriage. It’s all there, and yet Forster turns in a wondrously magical piece that not only evades TV movie of the week territory, but also makes believers of us all.
In Neverland, the harsh realities of life and the act of living are beautifully counterbalanced by Barrie’s fanciful view of the world, which turns an awkward dance with a dog into a stately fairy tale waltz. It’s to Forster’s credit that these sequences—often Barrie’s playtime with the Davies children—are transformed into subtly wondrous set pieces which are fantastical without being baroque or overly extravagant. In another director’s hands, the CGI would have run wild, the production design would have stolen centerstage. Instead, and paradoxically, the restraint effectively amplifies the wistful nature of these moments, fleeting as they are, like time, and fairy dust.
Odd things happen to all of us on our way through life without our noticing for a time that they have happened.
However, this being a film “Inspired By True Events,” some fudging is done, particularly with chronology. Whereas in the film, the initial encounter with Davies is in 1903, in reality Barrie met her and her children in 1897, while her husband Arthur was still alive. The events depicted in the latter section of Finding Neverland (which actually occurred in 1910) are likewise telescoped, and the 1902 publication of The Little White Bird—which mentions Peter Pan for the first time in print, before the play opened in 1904—isn’t even mentioned. Thus are the perhaps necessary pitfalls of the dramatization of real-life events. The slow, boring bits are excised, the drudgery of passing time erased, the terrible tick-tick of the crocodile, muted, so the pathos of the moment is magnified.
In cases like this, where history falls prey to drama, all you can hope for is that the spirit of the story is true to the lives of the people it depicts, and here, Forster and crew succeed admirably. Of Barrie’s fervent need to both rediscover a childhood he’d missed the first time around, and to ensure Peter doesn’t experience the same premature adulthood, pitted against the reality that that innocence we must treasure eventually flies away, oftentimes in a single, unheralded instant (the scene where Barrie acknowledges George’s passage into adulthood is a quiet, surprisingly moving moment); that, we are shown, in all its fragility and splendour.
And in the end, this is film after all (a rather good one, it should be emphasized), and not documentary. If facts are what one is after, there are biographies. Film, as with any story, is about drama, and about the paradox of finding truth within that fiction.
In that respect, Finding Neverland has much to impart, about pretense and truth, growth and change, and the possibilities of discovering one’s self in the face of loss.
“Pan, who and what art thou?” he cried huskily.
“I’m youth, I’m joy,” Peter answered at a venture, “I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg.”
This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook that Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of good form.
Quotes from James M. Barrie’s Peter Pan and Wendy (1911).
Welcome back to Stepford
by David Hontiveros
Like Keanu in bullet time, Nicole Kidman is dodging bullets as fast as they come.
An injury on the Moulin Rouge set forced her to bow out of David Fincher's Panic Room, which, along with The Game, turned out to be one of Fincher's least notable works. She was also supposed to star in Jane Campion's artily-shot but horribly flawed adaptation of In The Cut; Kidman remained co-producer, even as Meg Ryan ended up in the buff for the role.
At certain points in their development, Kidman was also attached to star in last year's Catwoman and The Forgotten, the less said of both, I believe, the better. Instead, for 2004, she starred in Jonathan Glazer's Birth, and Frank Oz's The Stepford Wives. And though neither was a box-office hit, either one was certainly better than The Forgotten, and, from all I've heard about it, Catwoman as well.
The review for Birth should appear in close proximity to this issue, but for now, we take a look back at The Stepford Wives, in time for its release on original VCD.
The Stepford Wives was originally a novel written by Ira Levin, the same man who gave the world Rosemary's Baby, Roman Polanski's film adaptation of which, in turn, gave us the enduring, indelible image of a frail, paranoid Mia Farrow, painfully pregnant with the Devil's child, on the run from a cult of Satanists. The Stepford Wives was no less frightening, though here, the terror was not supernatural, but rather stemmed from the realm of science.
A work that studied the horrors of conformity (for which the term "Stepford" has come to mean, informally joining the English language as an adjective), The Stepford Wives had a film adaptation in 1975. Directed by Bryan Forbes, that version delved more into the horror aspect of the tale. Frank Oz's version is, at first blush, a lighter, more comedic look at the material.
Career-driven network president Joanna Eberhart (Kidman) is suddenly and unceremoniously fired after an unfortunate incident during the unveiling of EBS' new season line-up. Following a nervous breakdown, she asks for a chance to start over with her husband Walter Kresby (Matthew Broderick) and their two children Kimberly and Pete. Off they go to the suburbs of Connecticut, to the exclusive community of Stepford, where all is not what it seems.
From its opening credit roll, accompanied by visuals from old adverts of the latest in modern technology, of products designed to make life easier and more convenient, it's evident that behind the comedic veneer of the film, there are some serious statements to be made, just as there is something deeper behind the Tupperware smiles of the eponymous Stepford wives.
In that respect, as well as its overt idea of a return to a simpler time-- in Stepford, there is "no crime, no poverty, and no pushing"-- it is similar to M. Night Shyamalan's The Village. (Incidentally enough, both are quite possibly last year's most misunderstood and underappreciated films.) But, whereas Shymalan never loses track of his narrative while aiming to get his Message across, Stepford's script by Paul Rudnick seems both weak in its rhythm, and genuinely confused as to the exact nature of the change the women undergo, not to mention rudely dismissive of Joanna's children, who are no sooner introduced, before they completely drop off the face of the film, mentioned thereafter, but never actually seen.
While the Stepford process in the original source material is pretty much straight-forward, in Oz's revision, there is talk of nanochips being inserted into the brain, chips which contain the Stepford program, which should mean these women are still organic after being "perfected" by the treatment. And yet we are treated to the sight of an eyeless and bald mannequin that is Kidman's dead ringer, as well as the ATM sequence (the single most chilling and disturbing visual from the entire film); both incongruous and illogical, if these are really still women with some computer chips stuck in their heads.
Given though that the narrative could have been stronger, the idea of perfection taken to its extreme, of the forced submission and commodification of women-- of a wife as the ultimate consumer product, complete with personalized remote control-- is difficult to ignore. Amidst the scathingly funny one-liners are harsh observations of the gender wars, of, to paraphrase the film, women wanting to become men, and men wanting to become gods.
Arguably, the reversal that comes at the film's climax might be seen, on the one hand, as a clever little reference to the third sequel of the 1975 version. On the other hand though, it could actually subvert the whole piece in one fell swoop, reducing the entire idea of homogenizing the world into the Stepford ideal as a plan born of lunacy, and not a cold, calculated conspiracy.
Whichever the case, this version of Levin's novel, with its wistful, pastel nostalgia for days long gone by, is funny. The script has zingy wit and irony to spare, and with a cast that includes Bette Midler, Christopher Walken, Roger Bart, and Glenn Close, the comic timing is near-perfect.
By and large, it's sad and ironic that the film doesn't live up to the Stepford ideal, and isn't the perfect movie it could have been. But then again, as Joanna says, perfect doesn't work. In this case though, imperfect doesn't exactly work, either.
Panned by the critics, by turns confused and narratively-challenged, The Stepford Wives is nonetheless a funny comedy, and has quite a lot to say about men and women, and the world they live in, and if only for that, must be seen. (And honestly, a couple of years down the road, should I find The Stepford Wives and The Forgotten both on cable at the same time, I know which film I'd zap myself to with the remote. Do you?)
The Stepford Wives is available on original VCD from MagnaVision.
by David Hontiveros
Like Keanu in bullet time, Nicole Kidman is dodging bullets as fast as they come.
An injury on the Moulin Rouge set forced her to bow out of David Fincher's Panic Room, which, along with The Game, turned out to be one of Fincher's least notable works. She was also supposed to star in Jane Campion's artily-shot but horribly flawed adaptation of In The Cut; Kidman remained co-producer, even as Meg Ryan ended up in the buff for the role.
At certain points in their development, Kidman was also attached to star in last year's Catwoman and The Forgotten, the less said of both, I believe, the better. Instead, for 2004, she starred in Jonathan Glazer's Birth, and Frank Oz's The Stepford Wives. And though neither was a box-office hit, either one was certainly better than The Forgotten, and, from all I've heard about it, Catwoman as well.
The review for Birth should appear in close proximity to this issue, but for now, we take a look back at The Stepford Wives, in time for its release on original VCD.
The Stepford Wives was originally a novel written by Ira Levin, the same man who gave the world Rosemary's Baby, Roman Polanski's film adaptation of which, in turn, gave us the enduring, indelible image of a frail, paranoid Mia Farrow, painfully pregnant with the Devil's child, on the run from a cult of Satanists. The Stepford Wives was no less frightening, though here, the terror was not supernatural, but rather stemmed from the realm of science.
A work that studied the horrors of conformity (for which the term "Stepford" has come to mean, informally joining the English language as an adjective), The Stepford Wives had a film adaptation in 1975. Directed by Bryan Forbes, that version delved more into the horror aspect of the tale. Frank Oz's version is, at first blush, a lighter, more comedic look at the material.
Career-driven network president Joanna Eberhart (Kidman) is suddenly and unceremoniously fired after an unfortunate incident during the unveiling of EBS' new season line-up. Following a nervous breakdown, she asks for a chance to start over with her husband Walter Kresby (Matthew Broderick) and their two children Kimberly and Pete. Off they go to the suburbs of Connecticut, to the exclusive community of Stepford, where all is not what it seems.
From its opening credit roll, accompanied by visuals from old adverts of the latest in modern technology, of products designed to make life easier and more convenient, it's evident that behind the comedic veneer of the film, there are some serious statements to be made, just as there is something deeper behind the Tupperware smiles of the eponymous Stepford wives.
In that respect, as well as its overt idea of a return to a simpler time-- in Stepford, there is "no crime, no poverty, and no pushing"-- it is similar to M. Night Shyamalan's The Village. (Incidentally enough, both are quite possibly last year's most misunderstood and underappreciated films.) But, whereas Shymalan never loses track of his narrative while aiming to get his Message across, Stepford's script by Paul Rudnick seems both weak in its rhythm, and genuinely confused as to the exact nature of the change the women undergo, not to mention rudely dismissive of Joanna's children, who are no sooner introduced, before they completely drop off the face of the film, mentioned thereafter, but never actually seen.
While the Stepford process in the original source material is pretty much straight-forward, in Oz's revision, there is talk of nanochips being inserted into the brain, chips which contain the Stepford program, which should mean these women are still organic after being "perfected" by the treatment. And yet we are treated to the sight of an eyeless and bald mannequin that is Kidman's dead ringer, as well as the ATM sequence (the single most chilling and disturbing visual from the entire film); both incongruous and illogical, if these are really still women with some computer chips stuck in their heads.
Given though that the narrative could have been stronger, the idea of perfection taken to its extreme, of the forced submission and commodification of women-- of a wife as the ultimate consumer product, complete with personalized remote control-- is difficult to ignore. Amidst the scathingly funny one-liners are harsh observations of the gender wars, of, to paraphrase the film, women wanting to become men, and men wanting to become gods.
Arguably, the reversal that comes at the film's climax might be seen, on the one hand, as a clever little reference to the third sequel of the 1975 version. On the other hand though, it could actually subvert the whole piece in one fell swoop, reducing the entire idea of homogenizing the world into the Stepford ideal as a plan born of lunacy, and not a cold, calculated conspiracy.
Whichever the case, this version of Levin's novel, with its wistful, pastel nostalgia for days long gone by, is funny. The script has zingy wit and irony to spare, and with a cast that includes Bette Midler, Christopher Walken, Roger Bart, and Glenn Close, the comic timing is near-perfect.
By and large, it's sad and ironic that the film doesn't live up to the Stepford ideal, and isn't the perfect movie it could have been. But then again, as Joanna says, perfect doesn't work. In this case though, imperfect doesn't exactly work, either.
Panned by the critics, by turns confused and narratively-challenged, The Stepford Wives is nonetheless a funny comedy, and has quite a lot to say about men and women, and the world they live in, and if only for that, must be seen. (And honestly, a couple of years down the road, should I find The Stepford Wives and The Forgotten both on cable at the same time, I know which film I'd zap myself to with the remote. Do you?)
The Stepford Wives is available on original VCD from MagnaVision.
The wonderful(ly dark) world of Snicket
By David Hontiveros
Little Red Riding Hood is eaten by the wolf. Sleeping Beauty is impregnated as she sleeps and wakes to discover she is the mother of twins.
These are just some of the fairy tales (or marchen, as they were called in German) in their original forms, before the Age of Enlightenment dealt them a crippling blow, and Disney all but obliterated them. They’re still there though, these dark, rather adult tales, there for the curious and the enthralled.
Which brings us, in a roundabout fashion, to Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, which is not unlike a dark, traditional fairy tale, though without the magic. What it lacks in spells and cantrips though, Series makes up for in mystery and deaths.
Oh, yes, there are deaths here, children. In fact, the film’s plot is triggered by death.
In one fell swoop, at the hands of a mysterious fire, the Baudelaire children (Violet, Klaus, and Sunny) suddenly find they are the Baudelaire orphans, left in the care of frustrated actor—and villain of the piece—Count Olaf (Jim Carrey). What follows is, as the title may suggest, a series of close calls, near-mishaps, and fatalities (both apparent and actual).
Clearly, this is not a Disney family movie, and early on, we are invited by Jude Law—who does a tremendous voice-over job as Lemony Snicket, relating the sad and woeful tale of the Baudelaire children to us—to leave the theatre, if we are expecting light, fluffy cuteness. He actually does this twice, and if by the second time, those of the audience who have no appreciation for the dark and the macabre are still in their seats, then they’ve effectively forfeited any right to complain.
Now, having firmly established its darkling nature, it’s time to examine the film itself.
To begin with, the star of Series is clearly its production design. It has that otherworldly feel peppered with Gothic chic that is Tim Burton’s greatest gift to mainstream cinema. Small wonder, as Series production designer Rick Heinrichs collaborated with Burton on the pretty-to-look-at-but-not-much-else Sleepy Hollow. The world of the Baudelaires is Dickens on absinthe: grand and gloomy, shadowy and cobwebbed, like a skewed cartoon where the figurative animals neither sing nor dance, but stare at you furtively from the nooks and crannies.
Don’t think this is another Sleepy Hollow though. You can actually look at other things aside from the sets. As I’ve already mentioned, Law is excellent here, as is Meryl Streep, as the overwrought, overly neurotic Aunt Josephine. As far back as She-Devil and Postcards from the Edge, Streep proved that she wasn’t just adept at accents and drama; she had a killer sense of the comedic as well, which serves her well in Series, so much so that you wish she had far more screen time than she actually does.
And Emily Browning and Liam Aiken, who play Violet and Klaus Baudelaire, respectively, though not giving breakthrough performances on the level of a Haley Joel Osment, are certainly a sight better than the three Harry Potter principals were in the first film of that franchise. (The comparison arises from the fact that Series is based on the Lemony Snicket children’s novels, The Bad Beginning, The Reptile Room, and The Wide Window, enjoying the current wave of popularity kid lit is experiencing in this post-Harry Potter world of ours.)
Given that Count Olaf is a central character to the tale, it’s sad then that the weak link, performance-wise, is Jim Carrey. Let me make it clear though, that I am not the biggest Jim Carrey fan; I find there is a certain tolerance level I have where he’s concerned, which, once crossed, subsequently makes me inured to his antics. In Series, I reached that level rather quickly, so much so that I found I was happiest when Count Olaf was off-screen. The script, with its occasional modern colloquialisms in its dialogue, isn’t much help either. (Of course, it’s tricky telling where the script ends and Carrey’s ad-libbing begins.)
It’s curious that Brad Silberling ended up directing Series, which is so far afield from his most recent film, Moonlight Mile, where Jake Gyllenhaal, Susan Sarandon, and Dustin Hoffman play the fiancée and parents of a recently-deceased woman, coping with their grief and sense of loss. Not only is the scope of Series so much larger than Moonlight Mile (or anything else he’s done for that matter), but the tenor of the piece is vastly different as well.
I bring this up not because Silberling botches the job, but rather because there’s nothing specific and peculiar to the direction of Series that makes it stand apart. For all I know, it could have been Barry Sonnenfeld—who directed The Addamms Family and its sequel, as well as the Men in Black films—at the helm. Perhaps if Series had been allowed to linger a little more on its characters, we might have seen some of the insightful character bits evident in Moonlight Mile. But, preoccupied as the script of Series is with how Violet, the family inventor, gets to McGyver her way out of the latest precarious predicament the dastardly Count has put her and her siblings in, there’s precious little time for those pesky things called “emotions” and “character development.”
Uneven as it is though, A Series of Unfortunate Events is an agreeable piece of macabre entertainment. It’s also a good introduction to the darkly wonderful world of Lemony Snicket. And the cameo by Dustin Hoffman (reunited with his Moonlight Mile director Silberling, and his Kramer vs. Kramer co-star, Streep, though they don’t actually share a scene together) is a nice touch, to boot.
Perhaps if we’d just seen more of the children, and more of Jim Carrey being Count Olaf (as opposed to Count Olaf being Jim Carrey), then we would have discovered characters equally as strange and interesting and darkly delightful as the world they live in.
By David Hontiveros
Little Red Riding Hood is eaten by the wolf. Sleeping Beauty is impregnated as she sleeps and wakes to discover she is the mother of twins.
These are just some of the fairy tales (or marchen, as they were called in German) in their original forms, before the Age of Enlightenment dealt them a crippling blow, and Disney all but obliterated them. They’re still there though, these dark, rather adult tales, there for the curious and the enthralled.
Which brings us, in a roundabout fashion, to Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, which is not unlike a dark, traditional fairy tale, though without the magic. What it lacks in spells and cantrips though, Series makes up for in mystery and deaths.
Oh, yes, there are deaths here, children. In fact, the film’s plot is triggered by death.
In one fell swoop, at the hands of a mysterious fire, the Baudelaire children (Violet, Klaus, and Sunny) suddenly find they are the Baudelaire orphans, left in the care of frustrated actor—and villain of the piece—Count Olaf (Jim Carrey). What follows is, as the title may suggest, a series of close calls, near-mishaps, and fatalities (both apparent and actual).
Clearly, this is not a Disney family movie, and early on, we are invited by Jude Law—who does a tremendous voice-over job as Lemony Snicket, relating the sad and woeful tale of the Baudelaire children to us—to leave the theatre, if we are expecting light, fluffy cuteness. He actually does this twice, and if by the second time, those of the audience who have no appreciation for the dark and the macabre are still in their seats, then they’ve effectively forfeited any right to complain.
Now, having firmly established its darkling nature, it’s time to examine the film itself.
To begin with, the star of Series is clearly its production design. It has that otherworldly feel peppered with Gothic chic that is Tim Burton’s greatest gift to mainstream cinema. Small wonder, as Series production designer Rick Heinrichs collaborated with Burton on the pretty-to-look-at-but-not-much-else Sleepy Hollow. The world of the Baudelaires is Dickens on absinthe: grand and gloomy, shadowy and cobwebbed, like a skewed cartoon where the figurative animals neither sing nor dance, but stare at you furtively from the nooks and crannies.
Don’t think this is another Sleepy Hollow though. You can actually look at other things aside from the sets. As I’ve already mentioned, Law is excellent here, as is Meryl Streep, as the overwrought, overly neurotic Aunt Josephine. As far back as She-Devil and Postcards from the Edge, Streep proved that she wasn’t just adept at accents and drama; she had a killer sense of the comedic as well, which serves her well in Series, so much so that you wish she had far more screen time than she actually does.
And Emily Browning and Liam Aiken, who play Violet and Klaus Baudelaire, respectively, though not giving breakthrough performances on the level of a Haley Joel Osment, are certainly a sight better than the three Harry Potter principals were in the first film of that franchise. (The comparison arises from the fact that Series is based on the Lemony Snicket children’s novels, The Bad Beginning, The Reptile Room, and The Wide Window, enjoying the current wave of popularity kid lit is experiencing in this post-Harry Potter world of ours.)
Given that Count Olaf is a central character to the tale, it’s sad then that the weak link, performance-wise, is Jim Carrey. Let me make it clear though, that I am not the biggest Jim Carrey fan; I find there is a certain tolerance level I have where he’s concerned, which, once crossed, subsequently makes me inured to his antics. In Series, I reached that level rather quickly, so much so that I found I was happiest when Count Olaf was off-screen. The script, with its occasional modern colloquialisms in its dialogue, isn’t much help either. (Of course, it’s tricky telling where the script ends and Carrey’s ad-libbing begins.)
It’s curious that Brad Silberling ended up directing Series, which is so far afield from his most recent film, Moonlight Mile, where Jake Gyllenhaal, Susan Sarandon, and Dustin Hoffman play the fiancée and parents of a recently-deceased woman, coping with their grief and sense of loss. Not only is the scope of Series so much larger than Moonlight Mile (or anything else he’s done for that matter), but the tenor of the piece is vastly different as well.
I bring this up not because Silberling botches the job, but rather because there’s nothing specific and peculiar to the direction of Series that makes it stand apart. For all I know, it could have been Barry Sonnenfeld—who directed The Addamms Family and its sequel, as well as the Men in Black films—at the helm. Perhaps if Series had been allowed to linger a little more on its characters, we might have seen some of the insightful character bits evident in Moonlight Mile. But, preoccupied as the script of Series is with how Violet, the family inventor, gets to McGyver her way out of the latest precarious predicament the dastardly Count has put her and her siblings in, there’s precious little time for those pesky things called “emotions” and “character development.”
Uneven as it is though, A Series of Unfortunate Events is an agreeable piece of macabre entertainment. It’s also a good introduction to the darkly wonderful world of Lemony Snicket. And the cameo by Dustin Hoffman (reunited with his Moonlight Mile director Silberling, and his Kramer vs. Kramer co-star, Streep, though they don’t actually share a scene together) is a nice touch, to boot.
Perhaps if we’d just seen more of the children, and more of Jim Carrey being Count Olaf (as opposed to Count Olaf being Jim Carrey), then we would have discovered characters equally as strange and interesting and darkly delightful as the world they live in.
Friday, April 28, 2006
(movie review: R-POINT)
Point not taken
By David Hontiveros
R-Point is Asian horror by way of Korea. Directed by Kong Soo-Chang from a screenplay he co-wrote with Phil Young-Woo, R-Point is set in 1972 during the Vietnam war and tells the story of 1st Lieutenant Choi Tae-In (Kam Woo-Seong), who must lead a group of eight men to uncover the fates of the missing soldiers from Battalion 53, their last known position six months ago, somewhere in the middle of R-Point, designated a “non-combat zone” in military jargon, but considered sacred ground by the Vietnamese.
Despite the welcome change of setting for an Asian horror film, sadly, R-Point doesn’t really show us anything new and also lacks any sort of real tension in its story and pacing. And though it tries to give us tiny character notes on each member of the squad to make them more than just mere cannon fodder, this is a tactic used in all war films, a convention of the genre, really, and thus, nothing new, either.
Liberated as we are from the usual urban or rural setting of the standard Asian horror film, it’s sad that the Vietnam setting isn’t exploited well at all. Adrian Lyne’s brilliant Jacob’s Ladder manages to do more in a single Vietnam sequence than R-Point does in an entire feature-length film. It’s unfortunate that Kong and his fellow scriptwriter didn’t pick up on the rich potential of distilling the true horror of the Vietnam conflict and transposing it onto the ghost story template. There isn’t even a hint of the idea of War as Death, as the ultimate faceless spectre which consumes lives indiscriminately, cutting them off short, possibly leaving hordes of restless souls in its wake.
The arenas of horror and dark fantasy have always been rich and interesting places from which to tell stories that reflect back upon the real world. An indie horror film like The Ghosts of Edendale, an allegory on the price of success and the difficulties of making it in Hollywood, is a good example of using the template to tell multi-layered stories. And though The Ghosts of Edendale was far from perfect and wasn’t really all that scary, it did have something it wanted to say. R-Point is a straight-forward ghost story with no discernible layers to it, which is, in and of itself, not necessarily a bad thing; but then, if it’s a ghost story that isn’t particularly scary in the first place, then what is it, in the final analysis?
There are, to make matters worse, plot holes that weaken the film even further. Was the Lieutenant that preoccupied that he didn’t even make a headcount? Is a battalion that big that a member of it wouldn’t even recognize a fellow comrade? (Of course, I’ve never been in a war myself, so maybe these are natural enough mistakes, but somehow, they just seem like conveniences to set up the film’s latest “scare.”) And the leaps of logic Lt. Choi makes in the final set piece—which seems terribly derivative of a similar scene in John Carpenter’s astounding remake of The Thing—are stupefying, to say the least.
By the film’s climax, the truth of R-Point is as much of a mystery as it was at the beginning, which may have been the idea, but such as it is, it’s a dissatisfied feeling I have coming away from the movie. At a time when the Asian horror film bubble is showing signs of strain, I had high hopes for R-Point, but it just doesn’t deliver.
Not particularly noteworthy as a war film or a horror film, R-Point doesn’t have all that much going for it, save for a couple of creepy moments. It feels rather like one of those ghost stories told to you by a friend or acquaintance: no real flair in the tale-telling, and the scares seem generic and tired.
With Asian horror films practically a dime a dozen these days, and where even the not-particularly-good ones are being gobbled up by the Hollywood remake machine, it’s only the exceptional ones that truly deserve our attention. The quiet, subtle horror of Fruit Chan’s Dumplings was way ahead of last year’s pack, including Takashi Miike’s One Missed Call. And ultimately, as far ahead as Dumplings is from One Missed Call, so is One Missed Call from R-Point. Though some might think One Missed Call is derivative of films like Ringu and Ju-On, it at least was saying something and was scary as well; R-Point is just limp and wan, an anemic entry in the Asian horror film scene, at a time when we need films with hot, boiling blood in their celluloid veins to keep the movement vital and alive.
Point not taken
By David Hontiveros
R-Point is Asian horror by way of Korea. Directed by Kong Soo-Chang from a screenplay he co-wrote with Phil Young-Woo, R-Point is set in 1972 during the Vietnam war and tells the story of 1st Lieutenant Choi Tae-In (Kam Woo-Seong), who must lead a group of eight men to uncover the fates of the missing soldiers from Battalion 53, their last known position six months ago, somewhere in the middle of R-Point, designated a “non-combat zone” in military jargon, but considered sacred ground by the Vietnamese.
Despite the welcome change of setting for an Asian horror film, sadly, R-Point doesn’t really show us anything new and also lacks any sort of real tension in its story and pacing. And though it tries to give us tiny character notes on each member of the squad to make them more than just mere cannon fodder, this is a tactic used in all war films, a convention of the genre, really, and thus, nothing new, either.
Liberated as we are from the usual urban or rural setting of the standard Asian horror film, it’s sad that the Vietnam setting isn’t exploited well at all. Adrian Lyne’s brilliant Jacob’s Ladder manages to do more in a single Vietnam sequence than R-Point does in an entire feature-length film. It’s unfortunate that Kong and his fellow scriptwriter didn’t pick up on the rich potential of distilling the true horror of the Vietnam conflict and transposing it onto the ghost story template. There isn’t even a hint of the idea of War as Death, as the ultimate faceless spectre which consumes lives indiscriminately, cutting them off short, possibly leaving hordes of restless souls in its wake.
The arenas of horror and dark fantasy have always been rich and interesting places from which to tell stories that reflect back upon the real world. An indie horror film like The Ghosts of Edendale, an allegory on the price of success and the difficulties of making it in Hollywood, is a good example of using the template to tell multi-layered stories. And though The Ghosts of Edendale was far from perfect and wasn’t really all that scary, it did have something it wanted to say. R-Point is a straight-forward ghost story with no discernible layers to it, which is, in and of itself, not necessarily a bad thing; but then, if it’s a ghost story that isn’t particularly scary in the first place, then what is it, in the final analysis?
There are, to make matters worse, plot holes that weaken the film even further. Was the Lieutenant that preoccupied that he didn’t even make a headcount? Is a battalion that big that a member of it wouldn’t even recognize a fellow comrade? (Of course, I’ve never been in a war myself, so maybe these are natural enough mistakes, but somehow, they just seem like conveniences to set up the film’s latest “scare.”) And the leaps of logic Lt. Choi makes in the final set piece—which seems terribly derivative of a similar scene in John Carpenter’s astounding remake of The Thing—are stupefying, to say the least.
By the film’s climax, the truth of R-Point is as much of a mystery as it was at the beginning, which may have been the idea, but such as it is, it’s a dissatisfied feeling I have coming away from the movie. At a time when the Asian horror film bubble is showing signs of strain, I had high hopes for R-Point, but it just doesn’t deliver.
Not particularly noteworthy as a war film or a horror film, R-Point doesn’t have all that much going for it, save for a couple of creepy moments. It feels rather like one of those ghost stories told to you by a friend or acquaintance: no real flair in the tale-telling, and the scares seem generic and tired.
With Asian horror films practically a dime a dozen these days, and where even the not-particularly-good ones are being gobbled up by the Hollywood remake machine, it’s only the exceptional ones that truly deserve our attention. The quiet, subtle horror of Fruit Chan’s Dumplings was way ahead of last year’s pack, including Takashi Miike’s One Missed Call. And ultimately, as far ahead as Dumplings is from One Missed Call, so is One Missed Call from R-Point. Though some might think One Missed Call is derivative of films like Ringu and Ju-On, it at least was saying something and was scary as well; R-Point is just limp and wan, an anemic entry in the Asian horror film scene, at a time when we need films with hot, boiling blood in their celluloid veins to keep the movement vital and alive.
Stale blood, rusty Blade
By David Hontiveros
Okay. First, score card.
Based on the adventures of the Marvel comic book vampire hunter, Blade was written by David Goyer and directed (using the term very loosely here) by Steve Norrington; for my money, the only saving graces of the film were Udo Kier and Stephen Dorff.
Then, Blade II came along, and Goyer seemed to understand (as he didn’t seem to on his first go-around) that a Blade film should be a Wesley Snipes action vehicle—let the man do what he does best. Well, Blade II was that. What’s more, as film is a director’s medium, a Blade film, like any other, needs a director; and Guillermo Del Toro (Cronos, and El Espinazo Del Diablo or The Devil’s Backbone) fit that role admirably, crafting a popcorn horror film smothered in butter, blood, and adrenaline. Top that off with key design people like comic book artist Mike Mignola (whom Del Toro would work with again on the film adaptation of Hellboy), and Tim Bradstreet (an artist who has made a name for himself doing art for, among other things, a role-playing game called Vampire: The Masquerade), who did “vampire design,” and you’ve pretty much got a kick-butt vampire movie.
Now, we’ve got Blade: Trinity, with Goyer not just returning as scriptwriter, but now also as director.
“In the movies, Dracula wears a cape, and some old English guy always manages to save the day at the last minute with crosses and holy water. But everybody knows the movies are full of sh*t.”
-- Hannibal King
That little bit of voice-over opens Blade: Trinity, and ironically enough, truer words were never spoken. The plot (such as there is) involves a group of vampires led by Parker Posey’s Danica Talos, who have just discovered the progenitor vampire (TV’s John Doe, Dominic Purcell, currently on Prison Break) who has gone by many names in his long existence, including… Dracula.
They’ve woken him up from his self-induced slumber to, 1) hunt and kill Blade (the raison d’etre of the Bloodpack in Blade II), and 2) perhaps make them able to walk abroad in daylight as well (Deacon Frost’s motivation for hunting Blade in the first movie).
Kick-starting their anti-Blade campaign by framing the vampire hunter for a crime he mistakenly commits, Posey and her Fang Gang manage to place Blade in a dangerous position, where even the government and local authorities are actively seeking him out as a menace to society. This might have been an intriguing angle from which to approach the story, if it hadn’t turned out to be a mere plot device to introduce Hannibal King (Ryan Reynolds from the TV series that began life as Two Guys, A Girl, and a Pizza Place) and his Nightstalkers, most of whom, predictably enough, turn out not to be characters at all, but rather, motivation for Abigail (Whistler’s daughter, played by Jessica Biel, from TV’s Seventh Heaven) to continue her vampire hunting.
Thus armed with a script that freely ransacks elements from his own closet of already-produced ideas, Goyer ends up giving us a film that serves generic, by-the-numbers action, when it should be knocking our proverbial socks off. There is no sense of the frenetic movement Del Toro brought to Blade II here in Trinity, and even the action sequences, normally a trademark of a Blade film, seem half-hearted, as if they’re there precisely because they’re a trademark, because they’re required, and not because there’s anything particularly new or even worthwhile to put on display.
Additionally, any film of this sort needs a good, charismatic villain. We had that in Blade II’s Damaskinos (Thomas Kretschmann, from The Pianist and recently, King Kong) and Nomak (Luke Goss), and as I mentioned earlier, Blade’s only good points were Kier and Dorff as baddies. Trinity’s Drake hardly registers as a character, much less an antagonist to be fearfully respected, or the ages-old bloodthirsty creature he’s supposed to be. He’s simply there, and it’s not just the performance that’s lacking; the script really doesn’t give him any sort of presence. As it is, Posey’s Danica is a more amusing villain to watch, thus making Drake’s final confrontation with Blade obligatory, rather than something the audience looks forward to with anticipation. Even Wesley Snipes, who has always brought a raw physicality to the role of Blade, seems abstracted here, as if he’s not all there, as if his heart really isn’t in it this time out.
To be perfectly honest, after having seen the not-too-thrilling Trinity trailer, my biggest motivation for actually watching it boiled down to Parker Posey. (What can I say? I love her.) Even then, we hardly see enough of her in the film, as a significant portion of screen time is handed over to Biel’s Abigail, the oh-so-cool-I-listen-to-hip-music-on-my-iPod-while-vampire-slaying hunter whom Marvel is hoping will beget a spin-off, as Jennifer Garner’s Elektra did from another woeful Marvel production, Daredevil.
Having mentioned Posey, it’s interesting to note that it took two of indie film’s best and brightest, Posey and Natasha Lyonne—who plays blind Nightstalker Sommerfield—to offset one WWE superstar (Triple H, as vampire Jarko Grimwood, who follows in the footsteps of fellow wrestlers The Rock and Rob Van Damme, in making a bid for big screen stardom). Two-to-one. Sad, but true.
Ultimately, Blade: Trinity joins two of my personal lists. It settles snugly beside Scream 3 and Josie and the Pussycats, on my list of Films Where Parker Posey Is One Of The Few Saving Graces, and joins the ranks of Bad Comic Book Films, where I’ve relegated recent Marvel movies like Daredevil and The Hulk. To make matters worse, Trinity is also a step back for vampire films as well.
As it is, it may take a while for me to wash the taste of stale blood out of my mouth.
By David Hontiveros
Okay. First, score card.
Based on the adventures of the Marvel comic book vampire hunter, Blade was written by David Goyer and directed (using the term very loosely here) by Steve Norrington; for my money, the only saving graces of the film were Udo Kier and Stephen Dorff.
Then, Blade II came along, and Goyer seemed to understand (as he didn’t seem to on his first go-around) that a Blade film should be a Wesley Snipes action vehicle—let the man do what he does best. Well, Blade II was that. What’s more, as film is a director’s medium, a Blade film, like any other, needs a director; and Guillermo Del Toro (Cronos, and El Espinazo Del Diablo or The Devil’s Backbone) fit that role admirably, crafting a popcorn horror film smothered in butter, blood, and adrenaline. Top that off with key design people like comic book artist Mike Mignola (whom Del Toro would work with again on the film adaptation of Hellboy), and Tim Bradstreet (an artist who has made a name for himself doing art for, among other things, a role-playing game called Vampire: The Masquerade), who did “vampire design,” and you’ve pretty much got a kick-butt vampire movie.
Now, we’ve got Blade: Trinity, with Goyer not just returning as scriptwriter, but now also as director.
“In the movies, Dracula wears a cape, and some old English guy always manages to save the day at the last minute with crosses and holy water. But everybody knows the movies are full of sh*t.”
-- Hannibal King
That little bit of voice-over opens Blade: Trinity, and ironically enough, truer words were never spoken. The plot (such as there is) involves a group of vampires led by Parker Posey’s Danica Talos, who have just discovered the progenitor vampire (TV’s John Doe, Dominic Purcell, currently on Prison Break) who has gone by many names in his long existence, including… Dracula.
They’ve woken him up from his self-induced slumber to, 1) hunt and kill Blade (the raison d’etre of the Bloodpack in Blade II), and 2) perhaps make them able to walk abroad in daylight as well (Deacon Frost’s motivation for hunting Blade in the first movie).
Kick-starting their anti-Blade campaign by framing the vampire hunter for a crime he mistakenly commits, Posey and her Fang Gang manage to place Blade in a dangerous position, where even the government and local authorities are actively seeking him out as a menace to society. This might have been an intriguing angle from which to approach the story, if it hadn’t turned out to be a mere plot device to introduce Hannibal King (Ryan Reynolds from the TV series that began life as Two Guys, A Girl, and a Pizza Place) and his Nightstalkers, most of whom, predictably enough, turn out not to be characters at all, but rather, motivation for Abigail (Whistler’s daughter, played by Jessica Biel, from TV’s Seventh Heaven) to continue her vampire hunting.
Thus armed with a script that freely ransacks elements from his own closet of already-produced ideas, Goyer ends up giving us a film that serves generic, by-the-numbers action, when it should be knocking our proverbial socks off. There is no sense of the frenetic movement Del Toro brought to Blade II here in Trinity, and even the action sequences, normally a trademark of a Blade film, seem half-hearted, as if they’re there precisely because they’re a trademark, because they’re required, and not because there’s anything particularly new or even worthwhile to put on display.
Additionally, any film of this sort needs a good, charismatic villain. We had that in Blade II’s Damaskinos (Thomas Kretschmann, from The Pianist and recently, King Kong) and Nomak (Luke Goss), and as I mentioned earlier, Blade’s only good points were Kier and Dorff as baddies. Trinity’s Drake hardly registers as a character, much less an antagonist to be fearfully respected, or the ages-old bloodthirsty creature he’s supposed to be. He’s simply there, and it’s not just the performance that’s lacking; the script really doesn’t give him any sort of presence. As it is, Posey’s Danica is a more amusing villain to watch, thus making Drake’s final confrontation with Blade obligatory, rather than something the audience looks forward to with anticipation. Even Wesley Snipes, who has always brought a raw physicality to the role of Blade, seems abstracted here, as if he’s not all there, as if his heart really isn’t in it this time out.
To be perfectly honest, after having seen the not-too-thrilling Trinity trailer, my biggest motivation for actually watching it boiled down to Parker Posey. (What can I say? I love her.) Even then, we hardly see enough of her in the film, as a significant portion of screen time is handed over to Biel’s Abigail, the oh-so-cool-I-listen-to-hip-music-on-my-iPod-while-vampire-slaying hunter whom Marvel is hoping will beget a spin-off, as Jennifer Garner’s Elektra did from another woeful Marvel production, Daredevil.
Having mentioned Posey, it’s interesting to note that it took two of indie film’s best and brightest, Posey and Natasha Lyonne—who plays blind Nightstalker Sommerfield—to offset one WWE superstar (Triple H, as vampire Jarko Grimwood, who follows in the footsteps of fellow wrestlers The Rock and Rob Van Damme, in making a bid for big screen stardom). Two-to-one. Sad, but true.
Ultimately, Blade: Trinity joins two of my personal lists. It settles snugly beside Scream 3 and Josie and the Pussycats, on my list of Films Where Parker Posey Is One Of The Few Saving Graces, and joins the ranks of Bad Comic Book Films, where I’ve relegated recent Marvel movies like Daredevil and The Hulk. To make matters worse, Trinity is also a step back for vampire films as well.
As it is, it may take a while for me to wash the taste of stale blood out of my mouth.
Monday, April 10, 2006
TAKOD, reviewed in Sunday Inquirer Magazine
http://news.inq7.net/sunday/index.php?index=1&story_id=72181
“Takod” by David Hontiveros, Visual Print Enterprises
http://news.inq7.net/sunday/index.php?index=1&story_id=72181
“Takod” by David Hontiveros, Visual Print Enterprises
SOMETHING’S rotten in what was once the little settlement of Mapayapa. And now, years later, Mike Lasombra returns to this place from his past with a curious pendant around his neck. After encountering a wizened old woman who knows more than she’s letting on, Mike will discover the throbbing dark secret of Mapayapa. The bloody, frightening shadow behind Mapayapa will require more of Mike than he ever imagined. All this, in straightforward horror and in allegorical manner, is stuffed into Hontiveros’s compact and creepy novella. RSDV
Friday, March 17, 2006
(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.
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.
(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.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Gift guide for the Goth at heart
By Ces Cabangon, 2bU! Correspondent
Inquirer News Service
http://you.inq7.net/2bu/stories/11292005/sto2-1.htm
GOTHS ARE STEREOTYPED often as depressed, angsty, gloom-and-doom sort of people. Usually they are depicted as people with heavy makeup, dominantly black clothes and pained facial expression.
Unknown to many, there are different types of Goths: Romantic Goths, Perky Goths, Cyber Goths, Punk Goths, Traditional Goths.
One does not have to wear black day after day to be a Goth. People join the Goth subculture for different reasons. They may be drawn to its art, literature, Victorian history, music or fashion.
This gift guide is for those who find beauty, consolation and meaning in the Goth darkness and embrace it.
"Nightmare Before Christmas" figurines and alarm clock. Start off the morning with a scream from Jack Skellington. An altar of these figurines brings the Halloween spirit right in the sanctuary of one's room.
Black Strawberry, Glorietta, from P900 to P1,000.
Dave Hontiveros' Penumbra novels. These books can be devoured in one sitting, with no particular reading order. The author's powerful writing captures the reader in a tight grip as it explores various themes in the realm of horror and dark fantasy. The dark humor, eloquent narrative and amusing social commentaries make these novels a bloody delicious read.
Available at National Bookstore, PowerBooks, and Fully Booked; P120 each.
Tarot Cards. Delve into the mystical arts and unlock powers of the unconscious. Tarot decks vary from the more traditional Rider Waite pack, to the more eclectic such as The Egyptian Tarot, The Buddha Tarot, The Celtic Tarot, and Gothic Tarot of Vampires. Fully Booked carries more choices to sort through with decks from P830 to P2,195.
Emily the Strange and "Nightmare Before Christmas" bags and accessories.
Let the rebel inside loose with pins, hair clips, wallets, bags and watches that express diversity, humor and witticisms of a darker blend.
Check out Iba 'Di Ba? stalls at Robinsons Galleria, Alabang Town Center, Tiendesitas Libis, and Greenbelt. They have a number of items with prices ranging from P10 to P1,100.
Role-playing games from White Wolf's World of Darkness. Be a werewolf, a mage or a vampire and discover delights the darkness has to offer.
Comic Quest carries RPG starter decks and RPG guide books from P1,800 and up.
The Simpsons' Treehouse of Horror Monopoly Board Game.
Monopoly has never been more evil and wickedly fun. Dig this at Hobbes Greenbelt 3; P2,960.
By Ces Cabangon, 2bU! Correspondent
Inquirer News Service
http://you.inq7.net/2bu/stories/11292005/sto2-1.htm
GOTHS ARE STEREOTYPED often as depressed, angsty, gloom-and-doom sort of people. Usually they are depicted as people with heavy makeup, dominantly black clothes and pained facial expression.
Unknown to many, there are different types of Goths: Romantic Goths, Perky Goths, Cyber Goths, Punk Goths, Traditional Goths.
One does not have to wear black day after day to be a Goth. People join the Goth subculture for different reasons. They may be drawn to its art, literature, Victorian history, music or fashion.
This gift guide is for those who find beauty, consolation and meaning in the Goth darkness and embrace it.
"Nightmare Before Christmas" figurines and alarm clock. Start off the morning with a scream from Jack Skellington. An altar of these figurines brings the Halloween spirit right in the sanctuary of one's room.
Black Strawberry, Glorietta, from P900 to P1,000.
Dave Hontiveros' Penumbra novels. These books can be devoured in one sitting, with no particular reading order. The author's powerful writing captures the reader in a tight grip as it explores various themes in the realm of horror and dark fantasy. The dark humor, eloquent narrative and amusing social commentaries make these novels a bloody delicious read.
Available at National Bookstore, PowerBooks, and Fully Booked; P120 each.
Tarot Cards. Delve into the mystical arts and unlock powers of the unconscious. Tarot decks vary from the more traditional Rider Waite pack, to the more eclectic such as The Egyptian Tarot, The Buddha Tarot, The Celtic Tarot, and Gothic Tarot of Vampires. Fully Booked carries more choices to sort through with decks from P830 to P2,195.
Emily the Strange and "Nightmare Before Christmas" bags and accessories.
Let the rebel inside loose with pins, hair clips, wallets, bags and watches that express diversity, humor and witticisms of a darker blend.
Check out Iba 'Di Ba? stalls at Robinsons Galleria, Alabang Town Center, Tiendesitas Libis, and Greenbelt. They have a number of items with prices ranging from P10 to P1,100.
Role-playing games from White Wolf's World of Darkness. Be a werewolf, a mage or a vampire and discover delights the darkness has to offer.
Comic Quest carries RPG starter decks and RPG guide books from P1,800 and up.
The Simpsons' Treehouse of Horror Monopoly Board Game.
Monopoly has never been more evil and wickedly fun. Dig this at Hobbes Greenbelt 3; P2,960.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Takod
by David Hontiveros
Chapter 1
[1] 1972.
She lies awake in bed, sweating, the house looming around her, like a crouching beast, oppressive. Summer has come early this year, the warmth like a herald for Semana Santa, an angel beating its wings, waves of heat radiating outwards from its divine being.
This is the time of death, and resurrection, though for the little girl, it is only the former she understands.
Death.
Death is when your father leaves one early morn, before the sun has even risen, leaves to make a living from the sea, a sea which betrays him, swallowing him whole, taking him into its cold, blue, bottomless throat.
Death, the little girl understands.
Resurrection, she cannot comprehend, a concept she cannot grasp, a word she cannot pronounce.
Outside, skeleton fingers scratch against the thin capis of her room’s window, as if the tree which towers over their home wishes entry. She stares at the window, at the vague shadows outside, not understanding why the tree is moving when she can hear no wind, when it seems too hot for any wind to even exist.
Or perhaps it is the wind from the angel’s wings.
(Her mother would disapprove of this fancy, so she pushes it from her mind.)
Then, as if summoned by her stray thought, a figure appears at her door.
Shadowed, silent, it is her mother.
She wishes her brother were awake, but he is not. He lies next to her, asleep, snoring softly. He looks exactly like her (for they are, after all, twins), and for an instant, she imagines it is she who is asleep, while her brother lies awake in the warm, humid dark.
Barefoot, her mother walks to their bedside.
She towers above them, her children; one asleep, the other, not. The little girl cannot see her mother’s face, cannot pierce the dark shadows which cloak it, like strands of long, ebony hair.
She watches as her mother leans down to plant a kiss on her brother’s smooth cheek. She remembers the Bible story of Judas, and again, pushes the thought away, mindful of her mother.
Then, strangely, impossibly, she watches as her mother, still on the opposite side of the bed, leans, and stretches towards her, somehow keeping her balance with both arms at her sides, as she moves to kiss her (and surely she can’t reach her, not with the bed so wide, not without having to lean over her brother).
She watches, frozen, her mother’s shadowed face moving towards her, dark hair like water, like spider’s silk, framing features she cannot see (and somehow, she knows, she would not want to see, even if she could).
And finally, finally, when her mother’s face is right next to hers, and she can feel the warm, fetid breath on her cheek, feel the feather touch of those dark strands of hair on her neck, she closes her eyes.
Then the wetness is on her mouth, and something slick finds its way past her lips, sliding along her tongue, something spherical and soft, tasting of mold and rot.
It slides down her tongue, her throat, and at last, she opens her eyes, to look upon the cold, blank face of darkness.
(TAKOD cover art by Wawi Navarroza)
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Excerpts from Prologue 1 of "Parman"Eric Ramirez holds his bright, shining future in his hand. In a perfume bottle, actually.
Estee-Lauder, he thinks. Or something like that.
It isn’t perfume in it now, of course. Not anymore. The liquid that’s in it is primordial. Seething with divine, miraculous power. Eric had seen what it could do.
He’d needed a demonstration, naturally. He wasn’t about to spend every single peso in his bank account (as well as every single dollar he’d stolen from work) on a few ounces of tap water in a used perfume bottle.
So he’d watched as the old man had taken the cat’s corpse, crawling with maggots and putrefaction, and flicked a single drop of the water on it.
It twitched.
Then it stood up, its head lolling. It was effectively blind, all that was left of its eyes leaking out of its sockets in a runny torrent. It was trying to meow, its legs shaky, in danger of collapse. It was making a strangled, liquid noise in the remains of its throat, a wave of maggots surging out of its mouth in a white, festering tide.
Eric was blinking madly, nodding his head, Yes. Enough. You’ve made your point.
And without a word, the old man raised the rusty shovel, and brought it down on the cat’s lolling, idiot head.
When the man in black smiles, Eric knows it is far too late.
“Our shadows have lives of their own. Did you know that?”
Eric begins to shiver.
“You dabble in the occult. Surely you know that many cultures, including some tribes in our archipelago, believe that a man has more than one soul.”
It is a shaking that borders on the violent, on a frenzy whose source, whose origin, is quite unknown to him.
“The soul that finds its shape and form in a man’s shadow is the most… unstable, the most volatile, of a man’s souls.”
Eric feels a tearing, as if his skin were being flayed from his body, and he screams, a long, drawn-out wail of agony.
Dimly, he realizes he is on the street, and the man in black towers over him, as does another man, a man too dark and hazy to look at, as if he has no features to boast of, though somehow, Eric senses something familiar about this man.
“Happy is he who speaks the tongue of shadows, for he can have an army at his beck and call.”
The man in black bends down, and reaches into Eric’s pocket. Feebly, Eric tries to stop him, but the other one—the dark man—takes hold of Eric’s wrist, and his grip is ice, is frost, and darkness, and Eric whines.
* * * * * * * *
PARMAN cover by Oliver Pulumbarit
PARMAN, CRAVING, and TAKOD are now available in Powerbooks. (Php120 each)
Find them in the Filipinina section of the store. You can also ask the people at the Customer Service Desk to help you look for them.
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