ON THE SILVER SCREEN: BRISTLING IN THE DARK (LIGHTS OUT)
By Brian Lafferty July 22, 2016 (San Diego) — Lights Out (David F. Sandberg, 2016) is for those who haven’t seen Insidious (James Wan, 2011), Annabelle (John R. Leonetti, 2014), or any other horror movie James Wan produced or directed this decade. It isn’t just a matter of “if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.” It is far too complacent in an era where the standards for these types of flicks are higher than ever. Lights Out’s premise is unique and promising for a modern B-movie horror film. Rebecca (Teresa Palmer) is estranged from her mother (Maria Bello), who has a long history of depression. Her mother’s current woes are only exacerbated by the gruesome murder of her new husband (Billy Burke). The culprit is a malevolent supernatural being she calls Diana, who appears only when it’s dark, and who is apparently her friend. When Rebecca learns that Diana is targeting her younger brother (Gabriel Bateman), she vows to protect him. Before I get into the movie’s multiple failures, it’s important to highlight the one thing it gets right. My cinematography professor once described the craft as “painting with light,” a most accurate definition when applied to Marc Spicer’s work here. His artificial light sources always hit their mark and are thoroughly distinguished. This is paramount in establishing the barrier between Diana and Rebecca’s family and boyfriend. Spicer proves adept at using only what little light is available, especially within the unfriendly confines of Sophie’s large house. Even in broad daylight, the house is almost completely dark, the only scant light source being whatever sunlight manages to pierce the closed blinds. Even though it is light enough that you can see everything clearly, that doesn’t mean Diana can’t appear at any time. Which brings me to the first issue I had with Lights Out. Every single scare is predictable right down to the second. Director Sandberg and his editors fall into a rhythm that never changes. Whenever a character turns off the lights, Diana instantly appears in the background. After several more flicks of the light switch, she’s still in the same place. At this point I knew she would be closer the next time. My prediction proved correct. Furthermore, I successfully called every moment when she attacked someone or screamed. After a while it turned into a little game. When I learned one of the editors was Kirk M. Morrie, I was stunned. He did a fine job on Insidious, which didn’t rely on traditional jump scares. That movie’s scares were of the “when you see it” variety; the menacing figures were already in the frame, but recognizing them after a few seconds provided quite a jolt. Lights Out left most of the audience in the packed theater screaming and gasping, while I only got goose bumps and shivers. The only time I physically jumped in my seat happened when Rebecca dropped a heavy box of files on a desk to open a shot. The premise begs for a solid execution. That it bogs itself down in less-than-dramatic exposition and clichéd dialogue is not nearly as objectionable as its treatment of mental illness. It’s bad enough when the movie suggests that Diana will disappear once Sophie takes her antidepressants. As someone who has battled depression, I would have found this laughable were it not so offensive. It takes more than just pills to get through depression. I believe on some level the filmmakers knew it, too. Which may partially explain why they crafted one of the most atrocious endings I have seen in a horror film. How I wish I could reveal the ending. The temptation is strong, but I am not that type of critic, so I will let you experience this odious ending for yourself. I cannot, however, let this go unsaid: it is not just offensive that the filmmakers used elements of horrible events that have been plastered all over the news in recent months, and have traumatized an untold number of people across America and the world. It’s also downright irresponsible and dangerous. It furthers the stigma that people with depression and mental illness endure from ignorant pundits and an uninformed public whenever there is a mass shooting or terrorist attack. It’s shameful. When the running time is so short, it’s usually a bad sign. It’s not surprising in this case because it was based on a short film the director made. It’s difficult to expand a three-minute short into a feature-length film. I’ve sat through 90 minute films that felt twice as long as this one. To my shock, as detestable as Lights Out is, its 81 minutes felt like 40 minutes. Even so, the movie couldn’t have ended soon enough. Lights Out is currently playing in wide release. A Warner Bros. release. Director: David F. Sandberg. Screenplay: Eric Heisserer, based on the short film by David F. Sandberg. Original Music: Benjamin Wallfisch. Cinematography: Marc Spicer. Cast: Teresa Palmer, Gabriel Bateman, Alexander DiPersia, Billy Burke, and Maria Bello. Runtime: 81 minutes. Rated PG-13. Brian Lafferty welcomes letters at brian@eastcountymagazine.org. Printer-friendly version
ON THE SILVER SCREEN: FOLLYWOOD (HAIL, CAESAR!)
By Brian Lafferty February 5, 2016 (San Diego) – Hail, Caesar! (Ethan Coen and Joel Coen, 2016) falls under a category I like to call a “Love Letter Movie.” Defining the term is hard. However, I can easily point to a classic example, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (John Hughes, 1986), which was the beloved director’s love letter to Chicago. It showcased Wrigley Field, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Von Steuben Day parade, and Chicago’s other fine attractions with affection and pride. Hail, Caesar! is the Coens’ love letter to classic Hollywood in much the same way. Josh Brolin leads the all-star cast as Hollywood “fixer” Eddie Mannix. As head of physical production at the fictitious Capitol Pictures, his main job is to make potential scandals disappear and preserve his stars’ squeaky-clean appearances. Over the course of one day, he deals with the kidnapping of hugely popular star Baird Whitley (George Clooney) by disgruntled screenwriters turned avowed Communists; pregnant actress DeeAnna Moran (Scarlett Johansson) who happens to be unwed (which is anathema if the year is 1951); and hopelessly typecast singing cowboy actor Hobie Doyle (Alden Ehrenreich) struggling with a more sophisticated role much to the frustration of a classically trained director (Ralph Fiennes). While contending with this craziness, Mannix spends his precious free time trying to keep nosy gossip columnist Thora Thacker (Tilda Swinton) and her identical twin sister Thessaly (Swinton) away. The Coens’ love for classic Hollywood is strongly felt and deeply reflected in every scene. The movie is chock full of references, tributes, and spoofs, but the Coens make everything their own. I found the Busby Berkeley-inspired dance number most indicative of this. This sequence begins underwater with showgirls diving into a large pool in a smooth rhythm, followed by Moran – as a mermaid – swimming toward the foreground. It then cuts to a shot directly above the pool, facing down. There, viewers are treated to an elaborately choreographed set of dances, the showgirls forming kaleidoscopic patterns not unlike those seen in Footlight Parade (Lloyd Bacon, 1933). The other films-within-the-film run the gamut of popular genres of the time. The singing cowboy western is parodied in the Coens’ inimitable style, blending silly songs not dissimilar to ones heard in Gene Autry films with visual references to more serious fare like Shane (George Stevens, 1953), plus stunt work involving horses, trees, and acrobatics. Of course, the good guy’s horse is white and the bad guy’s is black. The Coens also send up the epic with a subplot about a troubled production of a movie similar to Quo Vadis (Mervyn LeRoy, 1951) and Ben-Hur (William Wyler, 1959). The overwhelmingly lavish production design and the need to meet the approval of all religious denominations are satirically explored. The Coens go so deep that it at times acts as a time capsule of a different era of filmmaking. Every set appears as genuine as it would have been without a green or blue screen. If anything was added digitally in postproduction, the technicians did a remarkable job blending them with the physical sets. Hail, Caesar! was photographed on film by the esteemed Roger Deakins, the Coens’ go-to cinematographer since previous collaborator Barry Sonnenfeld ventured into directing after Miller’s Crossing (Joel Coen and Ethan Coen, 1990). I specifically mention the format because unlike digital video, the unique combination of grain and the movie’s unique color palette rigidly maintains the look associated with color movies of the era. I found one particular throwback both amusing and nostalgic, the old fashioned “day for night” filtered look, with the moonlight shining as bright as sunlight upon the ocean. Figuring out the references and tributes is a fun little game if your knowledge of movie history extends well before Jaws (Steven Spielberg, 1975) and Star Wars: A New Hope (George Lucas, 1977). Everyone else will get a laugh out loud funny film with the usual offbeat humor the Coens specialize in, and there’s nothing wrong with that. They just won’t know what they’re missing. Hail, Caesar! is now playing in wide release. A Universal Pictures release. Directors: Ethan Coen and Joel Coen. Screenplay: Joel Coen and Ethan Coen. Original Music: Carter Burwell. Cinematography: Roger Deakins. Cast: Josh Brolin, George Clooney, Alden Ehrenreich, Ralph Fiennes, Jonah Hill, Scarlett Johansson, Frances McDormand, Tilda Swinton, and Channing Tatum. Runtime: 106 minutes. Rated PG-13. Brian Lafferty welcomes letters at brian@eastcountymagazine.org. Printer-friendly version
ON THE SILVER SCREEN: AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE (BLACK MASS)
By Brian Lafferty September 27, 2015 (San Diego) – Black Mass (Scott Cooper, 2015) sounds like a video game title, but it’s definitely not fun and games. I went to bed a few hours after the screening unprepared for a restless night’s sleep. I endured a string of haunting dreams that was mercifully broken up by The Rascals’ A Beautiful Morning, the world’s best morning alarm. The story of monster mobster James “Whitey” Bulger inevitably attracted much interest among filmmakers following his federal trial and subsequent conviction for murder, racketeering, and other criminal transgressions. It began last year with the documentary Whitey: United States of America v. James J. Bulger (Joe Berlinger, 2014) from the director best known for his investigative documentaries about the West Memphis Three (Paradise Lost, etc.). This year, the story of South Boston’s arguably most infamous man gets the biopic treatment with Black Mass. The screenplay by Mark Mallouk and Jez Butterworth details the rampant corruption within the F.B.I. that enabled Bulger (Johnny Depp) to control South Boston at the expense of at least a dozen lives. As Bulger, Depp is cold, emotionless, and unpredictable. If looks could kill, his murder count would be in the triple digits; deep dark shadows cover his piercing blue eyes. He has only one facial expression, a penetrating scowl burned into his face. He speaks in a dead serious low tone of voice that never rises. His words flow out of his lips in an uneven rhythm, which slyly broadcasts his unstable mental state. These traits in concert form a wholly menacing personality that envelops every scene to the point where any scene when he’s not on screen provides respite. Every conversation witnessed between Bulger and other characters gives a sinking feeling that it could be his or her very last. It doesn’t matter if the person is a family member, trusted associate, or a stranger. It’s never clear if he’s being funny or if he’s serious. It’s never a matter of if but when he’ll lash out violently. Even if you know without a doubt he’ll kill someone, the filmmakers leave no indicators as to when exactly it will happen. Sometimes the most chilling acts of violence don’t necessarily require gallons of fake blood. Numerous people receive a bullet to the brain and others get a tremendous and bloody beating. Bulger’s most horrifying murders, however, don’t require a firearm, blunt object, or any other deadly weapon. In one scene, he bails a prostitute (Juno Temple) out of jail after he discovers his associate Steve Flemmi (Rory Cochrane) used her services. Worried that she talked to the police about him, he interrogates her. She’s an innocent woman, or at least as innocent as a prostitute can possibly be, with a sweet voice and a slightly cheerful disposition. She denies telling the police anything that would incriminate Bulger and his men. To a reasonable person she appears to be telling the truth. But Bulger is not a reasonable person. He drives her, Flemmi, and another associate to a vacant house. There, he lures her to a room and abruptly grabs her, puts her in a chokehold, and applies massive pressure. The look of horror on her face knowing she’s going to die is bad enough to see. The cold-hearted, unfeeling glare on Bulger’s face is worse. Then the camera moves to the left, focusing on Flemmi’s look of sadness and regret. It doesn’t get any better. Her cries diminish in volume with each passing second, and then reduce to squeaks until she goes silent. This strangling lasts for probably only thirty seconds, more or less. That doesn’t seem like much time. Considering the scene’s brutality, however, it feels like an eternity and a half. The screenplay is chock full of ear-pleasing dialogue, but the story structure leaves a little to be desired. Most glaring is the disconcertedly inserted subplot revolving around Bulger’s involvement in Jai Alai. The more I reflect on the movie, the more I feel this subplot is unnecessary. Encountering it is like reading an otherwise logically constructed and naturally flowing essay disrupted by a poorly written, irrelevant paragraph that somehow got overlooked during revision. Characters are introduced, never fully developed, and later killed. The only thing this Jai Alai subplot adds is padding to the runtime. While that subplot is easy to forget, at least the same cannot be said about the movie as a whole. It’s easy to call just about any excellent movie unforgettable. This one cannot be forgotten no matter how much you try. Before the screening, I ran into a co-worker at the mall. The next day at work she asked me if I recommended it. I had to think about it. After a brief rumination, I said yes. Whether I would want to see it again is another matter. Black Mass is currently playing in wide release. A Warner Bros. Pictures release. Director: Scott Cooper. Screenplay: Mark Mallouk and Jez Butterworth, based on the book “Black Mass: The True Story of an Unholy Alliance Between the FBI and the Irish Mob” by Dick Lehr and Gerard O’Neill. Original Music: Tom Holkenborg. Cinematography: Masanobu Takayanagi. Cast: Johnny Depp, Joel Edgerton, Benedict Cumberbatch, Dakota Johnson, Kevin Bacon, Peter Sarsgaard, Jesse Plemons, Rory Cochrane, David Harbour, Adam Scott, Corey Stoll, and Julianne Nicholson. Running time: 122 minutes. Rated R. Brian Lafferty welcomes letters at brian@eastcountymagazine.org. Printer-friendly version
ON THE SILVER SCREEN: TANKS FOR THE MEMORY (FURY)
“The first casualty of war is innocence.” – Tagline, Platoon (Oliver Stone, 1986) By Brian Lafferty November 18, 2014 (San Diego) – In the 28 years since Platoon’s release, its tagline quoted above has become more and more relevant in light of the world events that followed it. This includes, but is not limited to, the Gulf War, the Iraq War, and Russia’s invasion of the Ukraine. With the way things are going, it looks at this point like those are just for starters. Yet a lot of modern day war movies emphasize the glory of war and maintain a rah-rah enthusiasm, particularly World War II movies. It’s understandable, though. The Internet and social media have done nothing but amplify the horrors of world conflict. Why make them pay upwards of ten bucks a ticket for another dose of reality? Because this particular movie, Fury (David Ayer, 2014) is as entertaining as it is dour, and is as thought provoking as any war movie I’ve seen. Fury opens with titles spelling out the Germans’ desperate attempts at victory by conscripting men, women, and children into fighting while employing advanced weaponry against the Allied forces. The film then introduces a team of soldiers commanded by Sergeant Don “Wardaddy” Collier (Brad Pitt). His close-knit team includes Boyd “Bible” Swan (Shia LeBeouf), Trini “Gordo” Garcia (Michael Peña), and Grady “Coon-Ass” Travis (Jon Bernthal). Joining their group is clerk typist Norman Ellison (Logan Lerman). Having never seen battle, Ellison witnesses firsthand the horrors of the war while his team trudges along on a series of missions in their tank. Along the way, heads are crushed and blown up, men burn in flames, and others die miserable deaths. Believe it or not, those images pale in comparison to the surprisingly nongraphic ones, which show no blood or mayhem, but are hard to unthink. Bodies of children dressed in German war attire are shot, their bodies sprawled on the ground, the camera lingering on them. The introductory titles mention that the Germans conscripted everybody to fight, and this included children. But I cannot imagine anyone being prepared for what will come later. Perhaps it’s because of an unwritten rule about how children younger than a certain age are not supposed to die ( In one series of shots, the men pass by a village where they see the bodies of hanged German men, women, and children on full public display. It immediately conjures up a similar image of that in Braveheart (Mel Gibson, 1995). It is so unsettling that writing the last two sentences made me pause for almost a minute trying to get my thoughts together. Even now, I can feel my heart pounding and my head hurting a little bit. It’s one of those things that give pause in the theater, but eerily creeps up before it hits like a shot to the chest. Fury contains a startlingly unsettling character transformation, that of the green Ellison into a reluctant killer. After his reluctance in shooting German children soldiers results in casualties, Wardaddy takes drastic action. He physically holds down Ellison, puts a gun In his hand, and forces his finger to push the trigger and shoot a German in the back. This mentally scars him, but it turns out to be effective. However, when he does kill, he still doesn’t have his heart in it. You can tell by the lack of conviction in his voice, which also reveals his subconscious disbelief of his own actions Fury is Brad Pitt’s second film that centers around his character leading a ragtag team in killing Nazis, the first being Inglourious Basterds (Quentin Tarantino, 2009). Unlike Lt. Aldo Raine, Wardaddy feels little joy or pleasure when killing Nazis. He describes at one point his war background, in which he saw from Africa to Germany. This certainly explains why he’s so unapologetic and unafraid to shoot and kill anyone donning German war attire. It also furthers his credibility as an effective leader. Also worth noting is Shia LaBeouf’s performance. This is the first time I’ve been able to take Shia LaBeouf seriously. He no longer looks and acts like a teenage boy. He’s at his best during the battle sequences. He displays strong self-discipline and doesn’t overact even when his character and the others endure one deadly situation after another. The tank battles are, of course, the highlight. Although slowly paced due to the fact that tanks do not move fast, they are still as intense as any fast-paced battle sequence seen in such movies as Black Hawk Down (Ridley Scott, 2001), where combatants have more modern technology at their disposal. What brings these sequences in Fury to that level is the buildup of suspense and the feeling of being outmatched by an army that is suffering major losses. The Germans have a huge advantage with their more fortified tanks and advanced weaponry. That, combined with their defiant resilience, makes the Germans comparable to an annoying cockroach that won’t die no matter how many times it’s squished. Even when the American forces defeat them over and over, the price gets higher and higher, with heavy casualties. After a while, when the whole picture emerges, it becomes quite deflating. The claustrophobic photography in the tank calls for many close ups. These close ups reveal a lot of emotion in the actors’ faces, which in turn makes things up close and incredibly personal. During the battles, it gives a strong sense of what the characters face. Point of view shots of the outside via the periscope reveal how much precision is required by Bible when he fires artillery from the main gun. It isn’t any better outside the tank. The opening shot – that of a German soldier riding in through the fog before Wardaddy accosts him and slashes him to death – immediately establishes the air of depression and weariness brought on by the constantly present fog and gloom. There’s not a single spot of bright sunlight,
ON THE SILVER SCREEN: COLD AS ICE (WHITE BIRD IN A BLIZZARD)
By Brian Lafferty October 31, 2014 (San Diego) – For a film directed by Gregg Araki – well-known for anarchic, usually erotically charged films like The Living End (1992), The Doom Generation (1995), and Mysterious Skin (2004) – White Bird in a Blizzard is unusually peaceful. While small traces of his trademarks – teenage angst, sex, and homosexuality – appear, his latest film is his most accessible by far. Whether that’s refreshing or disappointing will depend on how much you’re willing to readjust your expectations. Based on a novel, White Bird is mostly set in 1988. 17 year old Kat (Shailene Woodley) and her parents Eve (Eva Green) and Brock (Christopher Meloni) live in a peaceful suburb. What goes on in their house is anything but: Eve and Brock constantly fight and haven’t slept in the same bed for years. Eve’s erratic behavior – walking in on Kat in the bathroom, seducing her boyfriend Phil (Shiloh Fermandez), and passing out on her bed at 5:00 in the evening – doesn’t help, either. One day she disappears, leaving Kat to wonder where she is while exploring her sexuality with Phil and the Detective (Thomas Jane) investigating the case. As is often the case with Araki’s films, White Bird is aesthetically pleasing. The crisp lighting enriches and slightly darkens the saturated color palette, which consists mostly of the secondary colors orange and green and their various shades. The dream sequences, set in a remote mountain and forest overtaken by a massive blizzard, consequently stand out. The ultra-strong white helps maintain the surrealistic qualities associated with strange dreams. In many ways it reminds me of the bleached-out dream sequence at the beginning of one of my all-time favorite films, Wild Strawberries (Ingmar Bergman, 1957). There are two distinct types of Araki scripts. Some of his films – The Living End, The Doom Generation, and Kaboom (2011) – are driven by chaos, violence, sex, and anarchy. The rest – Totally F***ed Up (1994) and Mysterious Skin to name a couple – are equally rebellious, but on a much smaller scale; they emphasize character development over plot and explore in great and incisive detail the (usually teenaged) characters’ inner torment, anguish, and unhealthy appetite for sex. White Bird, as you might have guessed falls under the latter category. While not as narratively experimental as Totally F***ed Up nor as erotically intense as Mysterious Skin, it nonetheless offers a richly detailed portrait of a teenage sexuality and an engaging mystery. Even though anybody who has ever watched TV’s 48 Hours, Dateline, or any crime drama will correctly guess what ultimately happened to Eve, the mystery is still gripping and it ends in a genuinely crazy twist that comes straight out of nowhere, but makes sense in the context of the events leading up to it. I can think of few actresses today more suited for the role of Kat than Shailene Woodley. The versatile and busy actress (White Bird is her third film released this year so far) is skilled at playing troubled teenagers; see The Spectacular Now (James Ponsoldt, 2013). Her performance here is much more subtle and quiet. Kat’s unhealthy appetite for sex is a lot less overt than what Araki’s characters usually display. It’s more private and deep down. It’s not dissimilar to how people really feel when they’re depressed, not like how obvious it’s portrayed in the movies. Her indifferent reaction to her mother’s disappearance is strange and unusual, but still makes sense when her relationship with her family is taken into account. White Bird is unusually serene for a director who specializes in anarchy. The atmosphere is calm and peaceful. The characters speak in soft tones of voice. The camera is mostly stationary and placed on a tripod. Of the films of his that I’ve seen – all except Smiley Face (2007) and those that haven’t seen a Region 1 DVD release – this is the most conventional. But as Araki demonstrates, even when his movies are set in (mostly) peaceful times, there’s no telling what will happen next. White Bird in a Blizzard is currently playing at the Landmark Ken Cinema. A Magnolia Pictures release. Director: Gregg Araki. Screenplay: Gregg Araki, based on the novel by Laura Kasischke. Original Music: Harold Budd and Robin Guthrie. Cinematography: Sandra Valde-Hansen. Cast: Shailene Woodley, Eva Green, Christopher Meloni, Shiloh Fernandez, Gabourey Sidibe, Thomas Jane, and Angela Bassett. Brian Lafferty can be reached at brian@eastcountymagazine.org Printer-friendly version
ON THE SILVER SCREEN: ASHES TO ASHES (HIROSHIMA MON AMOUR)
By Brian Lafferty October 27, 2014 (San Diego) — Only death could stop prolific French director Alain Resnais from making movies. Resnais passed away on March 1 this year, having directed 50 features, shorts, and TV series. Even at 87 years young, when he helmed Wild Grass (released in the United States to deserved critical acclaim in 2010), he was as much a master of cinema as he was at 37, when he directed the film that quickly established him as one of France’s preeminent filmmakers: Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959). Hiroshima Mon Amour is a simple tale of a love affair between a French actress named Elle (Emmanuelle Riva) and a Japanese architect named Lui (Eiji Okada). Both are married and apparently living happy lives. However, both become consumed with the unbearable knowledge that they will never see each other again. The movie is an extended conversation between the two augmented by flashbacks of World War II as experienced by the actress. Following the credits is an apparently symbolic shot of the couple making love in bed, their naked bodies covered in what appears to be ash and remnants from an atomic bomb explosion, before dissolving into one where they’re covered in sweat. Alternating with these shots are images of Hiroshima following its bombing, beginning with a hospital visit where a middle aged Japanese lady gazes confusingly and despairingly. Then it follows with a trip to a mostly empty museum, its exhibits a visual reminder of the devastation experienced by the citizens of Hiroshima, devastation nobody seems to want to confront. Following that are shots of the living victims, including burned babies, disfigured women, and deformed children born to mothers victimized by the bomb while pregnant. When these shots are juxtaposed with passionate lovemaking, the combination exhibits a dark subtext that further supplements the raw and visceral undercurrent omnipresent in the latter. The combined efforts of Sacha Vierny and Michio Takahashi result in an unforgettable ghostly black and white photography. Their lighting techniques hold the key to evoking the film’s themes of haunted pasts, guilt, and forbidden love, as well as the characters’ emotions as they confront these themes. The two cinematographers firmly establish this with the very first shot. Dark, barely lit, and shadow-heavy, it amplifies the aforementioned dark undercurrent already in place and ups the eroticism. When the story moves to the streets of Hiroshima, where Elle is shooting a movie, the lighting hits the actors and their surroundings in a manner that resembles the feeling of a pleasant dream that feels so real, you forget you’re merely sleeping. It’s not only the lighting that elicits these feelings. The camera mobility is also a major factor. Most unusual is the manner with which the camera moves. Using dolly shots usually moving from left to right, it adds a tiny layer of surrealism to certain scenes, notably the museum and hospital seen in the opening sequence. Hiroshima Mon Amour is not a collection of haunting images despite what this review may or may not have led you to believe. Marguerite Duras’ Oscar-nominated screenplay is a 90 minute long conversation between Elle and Lui about politics, war, and love. Duras and Resnais employ flashbacks to augment the dialogue-heavy scenes. They are not, however, the traditional sort. They are presented without sound or dialogue as Elle describes a period of time during World War II when she experienced a bout of madness over her parents forbidding her romantic involvement with a German soldier. Riva’s voice as her character talks is as haunting as what’s seen on screen. In fact, it takes this sequence to a whole new level by forcing audiences to fill in the audio blanks, which, combined with Riva’s narration, display her inner torment. The relationship between Elle and Lui is beautiful in its lust and tenderness. Seeing these two together makes the thought of them never again meeting as unbearable for me as it is for them. After 45 years and a newly restored print, Hiroshima Mon Amour still mesmerizes. To watch it is to watch poetry in cinematic motion. Hiroshima Mon Amour is currently playing at the Landmark Ken Cinema. A Rialto Pictures release. Director: Alain Resnais. Screenplay: Marguerite Duras. Original Music: Georges Delarue and Giovanni Fusco. Cinematography: Sacha Vierny and Michio Takahashi. Cast: Emmanuelle Riva and Eiji Okada. 90 minutes. Unrated. Brian Lafferty can be reached at Brian@eastcountymagazine.org. Printer-friendly version
ON THE SILVER SCREEN: HELL-O DOLLY! (ANNABELLE)
By Brian Lafferty October 10, 2014 (San Diego) – When I wasn’t covering my eyes, holding my breath, and jumping in my seat, I laughed inside and thought sarcastically, “I know Uncle John would just love Annabelle.” My Uncle John lives with my 99 year-old grandmother, who has collected many things over the years, including a doll that gives him and most of my family the creeps. It’s an old-school baby doll that looks, feels, and weighs the same as a real baby. When you walk past it, you get the feeling it’s watching you. And my grandmother insists on having it in her living room. Annabelle centers on a young expectant couple, Mia (Annabelle Wallis) and John (Ward Horton), living the typical happy suburban life. Their idyllic lives are shattered when their next-door neighbors are gruesomely murdered at the hands of their estranged daughter and her boyfriend, members of a satanic cult, who then invade their home. The boyfriend is shot to death by police while the daughter commits ritualistic suicide, clutching a doll gifted to Mia by John. Strange things then start happening. It begins with the sewing machine turning on by itself. Then the house burns down. Soon after, Mia experiences scary supernatural phenomena. Clearly, these horrific events are attributed to the doll, but screenwriter Gary Dauberman bides his time in dishing out how and why, making things a bit more terrifying. Just looking at the doll gave me the creeps. It looks like an American Girl doll manufactured from a factory in the depths of Hell. It’s as tall as a three year old. It has a cherubic face with bug eyes and big fat smiling lips smothered with maroon. And that’s before it’s possessed. Thereafter, with each passing shot, its closed-lip grin morphs into a wide diabolical smile. Unlike the Chucky doll in Child’s Play (Tom Holland, 1988) Annabelle doesn’t move on screen. I kept waiting for the horror movie doll clichés – head turning, walking, the usual – that prove the obvious, but the doll remained stationary. Because it doesn’t move on screen, the differences in positioning from shot to shot as a result of its off-screen movements are chillingly pronounced. It also heightens the already strong sense of being watched. Annabelle isn’t entirely cliché-free. Joseph Bishara’s discordant score squeals and pounds away. It’s a score that’s as expected for a horror movie like this as the song Fortunate Son is for Vietnam films. Bishara goes the obvious route and gleefully runs a marathon with it. Other clichés involve threatening characters walking slowly in the background Michael Myers style while the unwitting terrified heroes stand In the foreground. Evil beings suddenly appear in frame. Other times they’re seen deep in the background, but act and move unpredictably to the point where covering the eyes feels necessary. Even so, no matter how many times you’ve encountered these sorts of things, and no matter how much you think you’re prepared, very little can prepare you for them. Yes, they’re clichés, but they work because they’re perfectly executed. It’s all about the timing and how they’re shot. Set in 1969 or the early 70’s (based on news footage of Charles Manson and the moral panic following his cult’s slaughter of Sharon Tate and the LaBiancas), the art direction and color palette boast the lesser-intense garish colors and styles of the period. It’s the camera distance that sticks out, though. James Kniest, Director of Photography for only his second feature (and first in 18 years), favors medium to wide shots with piercing deep focus. The latter enables the movie’s scariest moments to flourish. Prominent among them is the scene where Mia sees a vision of little girl the size and height of the doll standing in the room across the hallway from her. The girl starts running and when she crosses Mia’s room, she suddenly morphs into the adult Annabelle who briefly attacks her. You could have told me every bit of detail about this scene beforehand, but it still wouldn’t have prepared me for it. It’s all thanks to the deep focus and camera distance. The camera is far enough away that you can’t see the girl in much detail. When she runs, it takes a few seconds because the distance is a few meters or so away, but it’s enough to spring on the audience a nasty jolt of a payoff. Annabelle is the latest jump scare film in the tradition of Insidious (James Wan, 2011) and The Conjuring (Wan, 2013). This isn’t surprising once you view director John R. Leonetti’s latest credits: he served as cinematographer for both films plus Insidious: Chapter 2 (Wan, 2013) and the TV series Sleepy Hollow and the ill-fated The River. His collaborations with Wan have certainly influenced his directorial work on Annabelle. This is not the type of film to watch if you have to walk alone outside at night afterward. Annabelle is currently playing in wide release. A Warner Bros. release. Director: John R. Leonetti. Screenplay: Gary Dauberman. Original Music: Joseph Bishara. Cinematography: James Kniest. Cast: Annabelle Wallis, Ward Horton, Tony Amendola, and Alfre Woodard. 98 minutes. Rated R. Brian Lafferty can be reached at brian@eastcountymagazine.org. Printer-friendly version
ON THE SILVER SCREEN: SPACE ODDITIES (GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY)
By Brian Lafferty August 3, 2014 (San Diego) – Guardians of the Galaxy leaves no time to rest and little time to breathe. I didn’t know what was happening half the time, but I didn’t care. Guardians of the Galaxy sacrifices much of its plot development for relentless cacophonic action. However, unlike most films directed by Michael Bay, it respects its audience. The story makes little sense, even after reading the Wikipedia plot summary multiple times, so I’ll forego the synopsis. What Guardians lacks in plot, though, it makes up for in character development. And what an assortment of characters! Peter Quill (Chris Pratt) doesn’t look the hero; he’s laid back, panics easily, and always makes precarious situations worse by acting on impulse. Yet these maverick attributes play a key role in his effective leadership of a team of misfits whose methods and personalities are equally unconventional. Rocket the Raccoon (voiced by Bradley Cooper), aggressively loud and obnoxious, is as thoroughly likable as any loud and obnoxious character can be. His wisecracks supply the bulk of the movie’s humor. His sidekick, Groot (voiced by Vin Diesel), mostly stays in the background and speaks only one line (“I am Groot”). He brings out the best in each character. His interactions with Rocket echo that of C-3PO and R2-D2. His verbal repetition humorously grinds on Peter, a running gag the stops before it gets old. Gamora is isolated, exasperated, and strong-willed – traits typical of Zoe Saldana’s characters – and is the best fighter of the bunch. She puts all of her energy into each punch, kick, and throw-down. Drax (Dave Bautista) is the muscular juggernaut with weak social skills. His inability to understand metaphors, slang, and certain gestures is hilarious. Like most Marvel Cinematic Universe films, audiences should expect a bevy of classic rock and pop tunes. More than a showcase of 70’s hits, the music serves multiple useful functions. It establishes the characters, as Redbone’s “Come and Get Your Love” does during the opening credits, occurring 26 years after Peter’s abduction. At this point, nobody knows anything about what’s become of him other than he was abducted by aliens as a kid shortly after witnessing his mother die from cancer. Once he presses “play” on his Walkman and the music blares, it reveals the once grief-stricken kid as a carefree, laid-back, and adventurous adult; he dances to the beat as he explores the desolate planet’s ancient ruins, and is bold enough to use a rat-like creature as a fake microphone. Other times, it amps the intensity of some scenes, like the planning of the prison escape. The Runaways’ “Cherry Bomb” increases the anticipation and excitement manifold. The action sequences occur so often and run for so long that the entire movie feels like one big action sequence. That’s not a bad thing here. Most scenes boast aggressive brawling, gunplay, and air fighting – usually all at once. The air fights run at a breathless pace, are cut with precision, and filmed from perfectly placed camera angles and distances to provide a strong sense of urgency and gravity equal to air fights seen in such films as Independence Day (Roland Emmerich, 1996). They are a select few CGI-assisted flight sequences that left me feeling I was right there in the cockpit. The sound design and mixing amplifies each projectile impact and explosion. The fight coordinators block each fight without pretense. Instead they aim for realistic fight scenes. Not like The Raid (Gareth Evans, 2012), but as natural and smooth as they can be in a space opera action film. Despite the intensity and chaos, the screenwriters leave ample room for humor, the funniest bit involving an inmate’s prosthetic leg. Rocket’s wisecracks as he assembles the materials necessary for the prison escape, while an army of prison guards is one projectile away from breaking the glass of their escape vessel, invigorate what could have been just a standard action bit. The filmmakers impart as much effort into the aesthetics as they do the action choreography. It’s a visual feast. Outer space sports a green, red, and yellow mixture. The prison is grimy and yellow, like caked-on urine. Xandar is bright, clean, and idyllic. It conjures up images of the blissful and futuristic upper class world in Zardoz (John Boorman, 1973). The mine is dark, industrial, and bathed in ugly shades of yellow and blue. The opening credits, set on a long-abandoned planet, feature rocky, crumbling ruins as haunting and empty as a California desert ghost town. As I left the theater, an eerie feeling crept over me. It was a feeling of intense carefree happiness and exhaustion, like a day at an amusement park. I then realized it was the same feeling I had when I came home from a day at Disneyland with my father in 1996, when I was in 5th grade. Guardians of the Galaxy is currently playing in wide release. A Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures release. Director: James Gunn. Screenplay: James Gunn and Nicole Perlman, based on the comic book by Dan Abnett and Andy Lanning. Original Music: Tyler Bates. Cinematography: Ben Davis. Cast: Chris Pratt, Zoe Saldana, Dave Bautista, Vin Diesel (voice), Bradley Cooper (voice), Lee Pace, Michael Rooker, Karen Gillan, Djimon Hounsou, John C. Reilly, Glenn Close, and Benicio del Toro. Running time: 121 minutes. Rated PG-13. Brian Lafferty is an award-winning film critic and assistant editor currently living in San Diego. He graduated with a B.A. in Radio-TV-Film from California State University, Fullerton. In 2013, he won a San Diego Press Club Award for his film criticism, taking third place for his review of Before Midnight. He welcomes letters at brian@eastcountymagazine.org. Printer-friendly version
ON THE SILVER SCREEN: GREED – FOR LACK OF A BETTER WORD – IS CRUDE (THE WOLF OF WALL STREET)
By Brian Lafferty December 25, 2013 (San Diego) – Marin Scorsese’s few forays into comedy thus far have been The King of Comedy (1983) and After Hours (1985). Both are delightful dark comedies. The former starred Robert De Niro as a delusional fan and stalker of a TV talk show host (Jerry Lewis). The latter was written by then-Columbia University student Joseph Minion for his thesis. It was a simple, yet uncommonly clever, a word processor’s (Griffin Dunne) crazy night. Neither film, however, is as pitch black as The Wolf of Wall Street, not only the funniest film of the year, but the best period. Leonardo DiCaprio, director Scorsese’s go-to actor for the last ten years, turns in one of his best performances of his career as young stockbroker Jordan Belfort, who picks the worst time to get into the business: Black Monday, October 1987. With the market for stockbrokers dried up, Belfort must settle for a job selling penny stocks at a small Long Island office. There, he impresses the uninspired staff with his aggressive sales tactics. Donnie Azoff (Jonah Hill) takes a liking to him, and they subsequently form a company that defrauds many investors in a massive securities scheme. Belfort dumps his wife (Cristin Milioti) to marry lusty blonde Naomi (Margot Robbie). When they aren’t having sex, Belfort snorts, pops pills, and engages in raunchy intercourse with other women while enlisting a Swiss banker’s (Jean Dujardin) help in hiding his massive amounts of ill-gotten money. Looking to bring down his empire of greed is FBI Agent Patrick Denham (Kyle Chandler). For 20 years, I’ve waited patiently for DiCaprio to give the same magnificent performance as Arnie in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. For a while after that phenomenal Oscar-nominated performance, he was relegated to teen idol roles (William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet, Titanic). In 2002, Scorsese cast him in Gangs of New York, and since then he’s starred in a string of impressive movies. As good as he was as the weird and enigmatic Howard Hughes (The Aviator) and the haunted Teddy Daniels (Shutter Island), for the longest time he’s been more charismatic and good looking than a great actor. His roles and performances are so alike that if they were a housing development, they would resemble those “Little Boxes” folk singer and activist Pete Seeger sang about in the early sixties, except they would be made out of marble, not ticky-tacky. DiCaprio finally does it again with a rare and long-awaited all-around performance. He has so much fun with his character that the resultant energy becomes infectious, which translates into a positive domino effect on the rest of the cast that never lets up. He’s at his funniest since playing Frank Abagnale Jr. in Steven Spielberg’s light-hearted Catch Me If You Can (2002). His timing as he speaks every funny line, his body language as his character ingests every drug, and his body language as he has sex with every woman couldn’t be any more spot-on. The more serious moments, such as when he attempts to kidnap his little girl after Naomi announces she’s divorcing him and seeking full custody, are as unforgettably solemn as his funny scenes are riotous. Roger Ebert’s edict in his brilliant Exit to Eden review – that sex in movies is only funny when taken seriously – holds true. The sex ranges from crude to sexy, but are funny because they are taken seriously by the actors, screenwriter Terence Winter, and Scorsese. One of the funniest scenes involves Naomi, wearing no undergarments, sexually teasing her husband, only to learn to her horror about the teddy bear placed on the bookshelf. It sounds juvenile, but trust me when I say that Scorsese transforms it from a tired scene that would be commonplace in an immature teenage sex comedy to something adult, sophisticated, and classy. The Wolf of Wall Street is marked by a frenetic energy not unlike that seen in Goodfellas (1990) and Casino (1995). Scorsese, known for his constantly moving camera a la Jean Renoir (Grand Illusion) and Max Ophüls (La Ronde), works with cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto (Argo) to construct an endless series of intricate camera movements that supply plenty of pep. Scorsese’s and Prieto’s strong sense of space, movement, and direction, combined with editor Thelma Schoonmaker’s equally strong sense of tempo and rhythm, sustain this energy for the entire three hours. This culminates in the funniest scene, which takes place later in the film, when Belfort and Azoff feel the effects of a long-outlawed drug that makes them look like they have cerebral palsy. In the funniest joke related to mental retardation since Tropic Thunder, DiCaprio goes all out with slurred speech, drool flying out of his mouth, and crawling around on all fours like a drunk dog. This scene goes on for at least five minutes – a risky length of time for a single joke – but because of the performances of the actors, who have such incredible timing for a scene that could easily go south in a hurry, and the energy of the camera movements and cutting, it’s funny to the very end. The Wolf of Wall Street stands tall in a year of many great films, the best year this decade. It easily draws comparisons to Goodfellas and Casino in terms of style and screenplay (especially the Henry Hill-style narration). It’s difficult, however, to draw any unfavorable comparisons. It only took into the last week of the year, but I can now say with absolute certainty which movie is 2013’s best. A The Wolf of Wall Street is now playing in wide release. A Paramount Pictures release. Director: Martin Scorsese. Screenplay: Terence Winter, based on the book by Jordan Belfort. Cinematography: Rodrigo Prieto. Cast: Leonardo DiCaprio, Jonah Hill, Margot Robbie, Matthew McConaughey, Kyle Chandler, Rob Reiner, Jon Bernthal, Jon Favreau, and Jean Dujardin. Running time: 179 minutes. Rated R. Brian Lafferty is an award-winning film critic and assistant editor currently living in San Diego.
ON THE SILVER SCREEN: A SPOONFUL OF TREACLE (SAVING MR. BANKS)
By Brian Lafferty December 20, 2013 (San Diego) – What in the world were screenwriters Kelly Marcel and Sue Smith thinking as they wrote Saving Mr. Banks, a colossal misfire in tone? And director John Lee Hanchock (The Blind Side), who thought the script was good enough to film? The upbeat, sunshiny trailers constitute fraud as far as I’m concerned. Saving Mr. Banks stars Tom Hanks as Walt Disney and Emma Thompson as P.L. Travers, the author of the Mary Poppins books that Disney wants to adapt. For almost twenty years, Travers refused to sell him the film rights on the basis that she felt nobody could do her books justice. Faced with financial hardship, she reluctantly options the movie rights to Disney – much to his delight – but with one proviso: she must be given script approval. This stipulation causes a major headache to everyone involved, as she demands many changes, from forbidding made-up words to changing the Banks’ mansion to conform exactly to that in the novels, right down to the color and square footage. On a related note, the color red is out for reasons that become clear during the flashback sequences. Travers, it turns out, had a less-than-happy childhood. Her father (Colin Farrell) loved her very much, but he was a drunk and irresponsible husband. He is also dying from tuberculosis (as foretold by the tell-tale movie cliché of coughing up blood, which invariably signals a character’s death). As her father lies dying, her mother, Margaret (Ruth Wilson), attempts suicide by drowning in a river, only to be stopped by her little girl. Desperate, Margaret hires a nanny that eventually becomes the inspiration for a beloved novel character for decades to come. The main story is fun, witty, and superbly acted by all involved. Tom Hanks portrays Disney as a mature, smart adult, but with a childlike optimism and outlook on life. While he’s serious about the business side of entertainment, Disney acts like he’s never forgotten what it’s like to be a kid. Thompson, however, is cynical and uptight. The supporting cast includes Jason Schwartzman and B.J. Novak (TV’s The Office) as the Sherman Brothers. Both are delightful and ebullient, another humorous contrast to Travers’ cold, humorless personality. Paul Giamatti plays a small, but memorable role as an eager-to-please chauffeur. The pleasure felt during these sequences dissipates every time the story flashes back. But before I go into how depressing and unwholesome these flashbacks are, I first need to air a grievance I have about the gratuitous transition effects. There are numerous, but I’ll cite the one in which Travers opens her hotel room window. Sunshine bleeds through and overtakes the frame before the camera pans down to an Australian farm. When the flashback is finished, the camera tilts up to the blue sky, which then transitions to a shot underwater, where Travers drops pears into the pool. Although editor Mark Livolsi (The Blind Side) thankfully dispenses with this less than halfway through, I nevertheless offer this unsolicited advice to aspiring film editors: the only thing worse than a gratuitous cut (the kind prevalent in Michael Bay’s films) is a gratuitous transition effect. They are distracting, obnoxious, and call attention to themselves. Even worse than these effects are the flashback scenes they lead to. It’s like driving from a clean, safe, and beautiful neighborhood with white picket fences, fresh green lawns, and children playing in the streets to a neighborhood lined with decrepit, ghetto houses with bars on the windows, dead grass, and people too scared to come out. I am certain that the filmmakers could have constructed these sequences in a manner at least consistent in tone with the main plot. It’s possible that they could have conveyed through these sequences how Travers’ father’s death and mother’s attempted suicide influenced her cynical outlook on life and why she didn’t want her father’s memory soiled without bludgeoning audiences with treacle and despair. But they don’t. They fail miserably. These scenes are tacky and are as grim and dark as they read, but with an unhealthy slathering of treacle and cloying sentimentality that only makes it worse. These scenes simply do not belong. To parents who are entertaining even the slightest possibility of taking your little ones to this film, I cannot urge you enough: please find something else to do. Don’t think that just because it’s rated PG-13, that it’s safe for little kids. There are better, happier ways to spend your holidays. This isn’t it. C- Saving Mr. Banks is now playing in wide release. A Walt Disney Motion Pictures release. Director: John Lee Hancock. Screenplay: Kelly Marcel and Sue Smith. Original Music: Thomas Newman. Cinematography: John Schwartzman. Cast: Emma Thompson, Tom Hanks, Colin Farrell, Ruth Wilson, Paul Giamatti, Rachel Griffiths, Bradley Whitford, Jason Schwartzman, and B.J. Novak. Running time: 125 minutes. Rated PG-13. Brian Lafferty is an award-winning film critic and assistant editor currently living in San Diego. He graduated with a B.A. in Radio-TV-Film from California State University, Fullerton. In 2013, he won a San Diego Press Club Award for his film criticism, taking third place for his review of Before Midnight. He welcomes letters at brian@eastcountymagazine.org. You can also follow him on Twitter: @BrianLaff. Printer-friendly version