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I know, I know. Everybody and their mother loves the new movie tribute to stunt performers and second unit directors, Mad Max: Fury Road. It’s received 98% on Rotten Tomatoes and has made a fortune at the box office.
But I just didn’t get it.
As far as I can tell, the plot of the movie revolves around The Man With No Name who helps an Amazon with one arm rescue a bunch of Playboy playmates from Bane and his army of albino soldiers who all have great six packs in a post-apocalyptic world of little water, and worse, little gas. Read the rest of this entry »
All the while, while watching Godzilla, the mega monster movie epic written by Max Borenstein from a story by Dave Callaham and directed by Gareth Edwards, all I could think is “where is Mystery Science Theater 3000 when you need them?”
(I remember this one moment, see, and this female MOTU, okay, she like passes over the central character, Ford Brody, and you can like see its testicular like sac carrying its eggs and everything, and, and I so wanted Crow, Tom Servo or Gypsy to call out, “Please don’t teabag me, please don’t teabag me”). Read the rest of this entry »
When Michael Haneke, the acclaimed filmmaker of Amour and The White Ribbon, came to the U.S., he met with a producer who gave him a script to consider. It was an action film of some sort, a WWII something or other, a story totally inappropriate to Haneke for anyone who knew anything about his films. To paraphrase his reaction, he asked, Is this what Hollywood is? A place where they just grab any old thing they have lying around in a drawer to give you that hasn’t been produced yet?
This is what I thought while watching the movie Stoker. It’s directed by Chan-wook Park, the popular South Korean director of Oldboy and Thirst, and though I can’t say that’s how he got hired to direct this film, it certainly feels like some producer just had it lying around in his drawer and foisted it upon him.
The film was written by Wentworth Miller (his first foray into screenwriting, but I guess he had to do something to pass the time while behind bars) with Erin Cressida Wilson (Fur, Secretary) given credit as a contributing writer. In many ways, it’s basically one of those women in danger films that almost every actress made at one time or another in the 1940’s and ‘50’s, from Barbara Stanwyck to Joan Crawford to Katherine Hepburn (yes, even Hepburn made one). As in those films, a psychopath or sociopath or psychotic sociopath or sociopathic psychotic worms their way into a household; anything from camp to high tension occurs (and usually both). In this entry in the once popular subgenre, when the patriarch of a wealthy family dies, his brother suddenly shows up at his funeral and takes a rather creepy interest in his niece (the man is called Uncle Charlie for those who like film references and have seen Alfred Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt). Various bad things happen as a result.
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the screenplay. It certainly gets the job done. At the same time, for someone of Park’s oeuvre, it’s rather routine. No, I have to be honest here. It’s very routine. No, that doesn’t quite do it. It’s ridiculously and insultingly routine. Is this really the best the U.S. can offer a filmmaker of Park’s stature?
To Park’s credit, he directs the hell out of the movie. He fills it with odd angles and creepy sounds (there’s suppose to be some through line about the niece, India, being able to hear things other people can’t, though there never seemed to be a pay off for it). There’re all sorts of overlaps and dissolves and plenty of visual metaphors (like a spider crawling up India’s leg and going between her thighs—subtle much?). Park gives it the old Orson Welles try (who also had to constantly flaunt his directing in order to cover up lackluster material as in Touch of Evil and The Lady from Shanghai). And it must be said, Stoker is often an effective and even beautiful movie.
But it’s also one of these stories where people go missing and no one seems that concerned about what happened to them, unless it’s convenient for the plot. Everyone who knows Charlie’s secret seems extremely worried about India, but not her mother, Evelyn, who in many ways is chopped liver by the time the movie is over. The two both share the same house with Charlie, but it’s only India who anyone is concerned about (I thought sure the big revelation was going to be that Charlie was actually India’s real father, but no, this interest of Charlie’s for India was left a bit vague for me). And the ending doesn’t really resolve anything or provide a satisfying emotional resolution. In fact, by the time it was over, I was wondering whether a bit too much of it ended up on the cutting room floor.
The movie is nicely cast for the most part. The actors do the best they can with the material. Mia Wasikowski is India and she’s fine (she’s very good at sexual yearning and having an orgasm while playing the piano with her Uncle). Nicole Kidman handles the material well in her roll as an escapee from a Tennessee William’s play. The strongest acting comes from that remarkable down under discovery Jacki Weaver, and her performance here may make her one of the finest character actresses in films since Thelma Ritter. Mathew (A Single Man, Matchpoint, Watchmen) Goode is Uncle Charlie; he’s lovely to look at, but his performance is a bit flat, like his American accent.
I know I’ve been really hard on this film. But I think it’s because Park deserves better. The U.S. film industry has chewed up and spewed out many an artist over the years and I would hate to have the same thing happen to Park. But Stoker is not a promising beginning for an American career.
I saw Jack the Giant Slayer. Yes, I did. It was at this nice theater I love to go to and there really wasn’t much else showing and a friend wanted to go for lack of a better movie out there to see, so we went. It’s not a disaster. If only it were; it would have been a lot more fun. It’s actually, in certain ways, better written and acted and at times cleverer than Stoker. It’s directed by Bryan Singer (are we ever going to have another movie like The Usual Suspects again), has four authors (yes, four), and stars Nicholas Hoult, Ewan McGregor, Eddie Marsan and Ian McShane, with Stanley Tucci as the gay character who can’t be identified as gay because that would be offensive. But one spends most of the time wondering why any of them actually wanted to do the film. It’s one of those movies in which a woman claims to be raised by her mother to be a feminist, but the chief lesson she was taught is to marry for love. It’s one of those movies meant for a family audience, but it has so many people being slaughtered, that it’s just kind of depressing. It’s one of those movies where the good guys’ army is being massacred, but they never seem to run out of soldiers. In the end, it’s just one of those movies, one of the worst things a movie can be.