Winter Break Movie Meltdown Part One

I am blessed to have working from home as a component of my job. Not only because it has made caring for my son over his Winter break and dealing with general Holiday madness a non-issue, it has afforded me an enormous amount of time to catch up on movies, both theatrically and and at home via my voluminous blu-ray backlog. So, without further ado, let us wrap up the final straggling cinematic strands of 2011.

We're lucky enough here in Minnesota to have one of the 42 true IMAX theaters in North America showing The Dark Knight Rises prologue before Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol. Thanks to some free passes, I've seen this presentation twice. Hugo showed us that 3-D can be quite enjoyable in the hands of a talented film maker, but 3-D is technically the past. It has been around forever and despite technological advancements, is at its core a gimmick, no matter how judiciously employed. IMAX is the future. It is true immersion into the world a film maker creates. A monolithic screen filled to the point of bursting with stunning detail, remarkable resolution and the most bowel rumbling sound system imaginable. The only drawback is being tipped off that an important sequence is about to begin due to the ever shifting aspect ration. Perhaps as the format becomes more reliably profitable and the technology is improved, it will become less prohibitively expensive to shoot in it.

Unfortunately, what you have heard is true. Bane is nigh indistinguishable in The Dark Knight Rises prologue. That quibble aside, it's a remarkable sequence that showcases Nolan's distaste for CGI, (SPOILER ALERT!!!!!) somehow filming a group of assassins repelling from one plane to another, mid flight, dismantling it and dropping it to the ground like a lifeless bird with broken wings, all the while using minimal if any computer assistance. There is one shot in particular as the plane is dropped and our perspective is from above, the enormous field of vision opening up as the vessel hurtles toward earth below two suspended characters, that frankly, well, let's just say I've never seen anything like it. Even though garbled, Tom Hardy's Bane is a formidably unsettling presence, exuding charisma and engendering terrified awe. This is THE film of 2012 for me. Nothing else even comes close. Well, maybe Tim and Eric's Billion Dollar movie.

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol (love that deliciously unwieldy title!) is a blast. A real return to efficient, eminently enjoyable action cinema. A handsomely crafted, high-tech, globe-trotting, spy yarn of the highest order. Sure it has neat gadgets and gargantuan set pieces (the 35 minutes spent inside and out of the Burj Khalifa is the most breathlessly constructed excitement of the year), but the real fun is in reveling in Tom Cruise's still luminous star power and watching this lovingly assembled team interact. It's a joy to see Simon Pegg in something like this, Paula Patton is wonderful and Jeremy Renner gets the rare chance to be fun and slightly off kilter. This film is the biggest surprise of the year for me, a late Christmas gift I had no idea I wanted, but enjoyed most of all once I tore off the wrapping.

I've never had any interest in The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. I tend to abhor literary sensations. You know, the sort of thing where one minute no one has ever heard of it, then suddenly every single person owns the book and is talking about it. The Davinci Code springs to mind. In any case, I had to see this because Fincher directed it and when it wasn't repulsing me, it was boring me to absolute tears. This is clearly an endeavor for the previously converted, because I found its mix of disingenuous fauxminism, fetishised misogyny and bloodless mystery an unpalatable concoction unworthy of the auteur treatment it received. This is aesthetic ground already well trodden by Fincher, sans the thematic weight of his previous triumphs of investigatory serial killer cinema, Se7en and Zodiac. Move along folks, nothing to see here.

Given my predisposal to dismiss the work of Diablo Cody and Jason Reitman after the self absorbed atrocities that were Juno and Up in the Air, Young Adult was something of a revelation. Poignant without being cloying and understated where their previous efforts were irritatingly insistent, this is a nicely quiet affair that manages to be funny and telling about the generation it documents. Charlize Theron is utterly fantastic in a complicated, inherently unlikable role. She plays off a similarly excellent Patton Oswalt in unexpected ways that illustrates each of their characters disgust and affection, toward themselves and each other. A very interesting film that figures out how to be amusing, uncomfortable, dark, depressing and uplifting all at once.

We Bought a Zoo is schmaltzy and predictable, but entertains and touches on the strength of its performances and in spite of its simplistic storyline. I wish Hollywood could get over the notion that for us mouth breathing audience members to care about a protagonist, we need their spouse or parent to have died. It's the easiest, hackiest way to establish an emotional connection to a character and it's long since devolved into self parody as a narrative trope. Put that shit to bed and find another inroad for crying out loud.

Tintin proves my Beowulf-era assertion that motion capture can open up camera movement and scene transition possibilities hitherto unimaginable to traditional film making. Unlike Beowulf however, it isn't in the service of anything deeper than an uninvolving action set piece generator of a storyline for a character we're never properly introduced to. I'm not familiar with this Tintin, and after seeing the picture devoted to him, don't think I need or want to be. He's a blank slate distinguished only by his shark fin hairdo and adorable dog. Nice to look at, but forgettable despite the involvement of truly talented folks such as Andy Serkis, Simon Pegg, Edgar Wright, Nick Frost and Joe Cornish.

Hey, we were all happy to see Robert Downey Jr. back in the game back when Iron Man came out, right? He's responsible for one of my all time favorite performances and characters with Wayne Gale from Natural Born Killers, so good for him that he cleaned up and found a way to bring his smarmy charm to the mainstream heading up Iron Man and Sherlock Holmes, both of which I enjoyed. Iron Man 2 and now this, Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows is where that goodwill runs out and Downey becomes an ingratiating husk of a performer defined by winks and tics that have become less rapscallion and more lascivious as his age advances. Never mind the fact his efforts are in the service of this dismal, dung heap of a film. Holmes innate detective skills have no bearing on his character, they seemingly exist solely as an excuse for camera tricks and obnoxious editing. Guy Ritchie's been flashing up that pan for far too long now and his all style, no substance approach reaches its execrable nadir here. A crashingly loud, thuddingly dull and painfully incomprehensible excuse for a film.

The Passion And The Hyperbole: 2011 In Review

With the year winding down, it's time to delve into the obligatory wrap-up of bests and worsts reminiscences. Sure, there are quite a few films left on the docket (most notably the new Fincher joint), but with the release dates so obscenely clustered around the holiday break, I doubt I will be afforded the time to give them the serious consideration and multiple theatrical viewings (the power of my cinematic OCD compels me) I deem necessary to properly pontificate. So, with the understanding that I will likely enjoy, but not have my life changed by Tintin, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, MI4: Ghost Protocol and Sherlock Holmes: The Return of The Slow Motion Explosion, let us begin analyzing 2011. The year I will best remember for my death, the boiling over of my disgust with Internet hatorade and my rebirth into cinematic ecstasy.

This year started off slower than any in recent memory. I didn't see anything in theaters until the Farrely's utterly forgettable Hall Pass in late February. At the risk of losing intrepid readers right out of the gate, I must admit the first movie to blow me away and my runner up for film of the year was Zach Snyder's audacious paean to auteur excess, Sucker Punch. His first wholly original project, Sucker Punch is a dynamic visual feast that has the audacity to focus on challenging themes that are rarely, if ever, addressed in modern fantasy action fare. Namely misogyny and the male gaze, and the derisive snorts issued forth from the provincial online detractors was as predictable as it was pointless. No one seemingly had a damn thing to say about how thematically bold it was or the truly next level film making going on. It was an inside hit job from the start. A retribution sacrifice carried out by disgruntled pedants and frustrated nerds for some imagined blasphemy committed on Watchmen perhaps? Whatever the reason for the hate it engendered or the box office catastrophe it became, when reactions are that volatile, some sort of magick is happening. Usually the kind that takes a few decades removal from to contemplate and comprehend. It's the H2 or Scott Pilgrim of the last year and like those other initially misunderstood gems, I eagerly await the time when people inevitably come around to its transgressive charms.

The summer doldrums were made all the more dismal by a slew of drooling junk food features aimed at grown men who wished they were still 11 years old. Thor and Fast Five were rousing enough with the latter a masculine, imbecilic blast and the former a histrionic delight. Captain America and Green Lantern were where it all fell apart for me. Paint by numbers drivel and excruciatingly unnecessary to boot. Sarsgaard's deliriously unhinged turn in Lantern was a personal favorite performance of the year for me admittedly, but both pictures were so hastily assembled and callously tossed out, it left a sour taste in my mouth toward superhero cinema. A distaste I hope The Dark Knight Rises will ameliorate this coming July. Transformers was its usual grating garbage. Overlong, ugly and every other negative adjective that's come to be associated with the execrable series. Harry Potter 7.5 was mightily impressive, especially considering how much I've loathed and felt distanced by the entire series. It was a film so well made and so blissfully expensive, I felt invested in the characters finally, primarily due to seeing them in action for 2 straight hours as opposed to droning on about nonsense that means nothing to a geriatric muggle such as myself.

On the Asian tip, I thoroughly enjoyed Miike's orgiastic tribute to feudal masculinity with 13 Assassins and was mesmerized by Jee-Woon Kim's serial killer tone poem I Saw The Devil. For underground fare, I fell head over heels in love with Hobo With A Shotgun and gave Christopher Smiths Black Death the grim appreciation it deserved. Troll Hunter was an absolute blast and along with Apollo 18, was a found footage type film I actually enjoyed for once. Kevin Smith's Red State was the best thing he's ever done by a damn sight and I implore him to keep directing if that's where his material is heading. I loved The Thing prequel and can't wait to pair it with Carpenter's forbear for a somber, icky, snowbound double feature. Immortals was gorgeous stupidity and Rise of the Planet of the Apes a welcome surprise that inspired me to revisit the original series, which happens to be no slouch itself.

The two worst film going experiences I had were the monotonous tedium of Don't Be Afraid Of The Dark and the masturbatory monstrosity Super-8. Both films were colossal let downs considering the pedigree behind them and how great the trailers looked. DBAOTD was simply a total misfire. All good intentions and zero invention. More of the same dark whimsy we've come to expect from DelToro, but entirely lacking in heart or purpose. I seriously considered walking out. Super-8 however, is the more egregious pile of manure betwixt the 2. It starts off well enough, but descends into a senseless, slavish recreation of Spielbergian tropes without bothering to make a lick of narrative sense. Featuring a bunch of kids ranging from unlikable to uninteresting and a monster that appears intermittently to disjointedly do only that which the ever changing whim of whatever particular scene demands of it, Super-8 is everything wrong with the creatively bankrupt, backward looking and nostalgia mythologizing generation of geeks holding the reins of blockbuster Hollywood today. Liking Suburban 80's Spielberg swill isn't enough J.J. You need earned character moments and a definitive thematic arc to cut the treacle and justify your leaden, lens flare laden CGI monument to riding your bike around the neighborhood. Grow up.

Insidious was terrifying. There's just no better way to put it. An anxiety inducing chill machine for the ages. James Wan and Leigh Whannell have my eternal devotion having now crafted 4 films I greatly enjoy, 3 of which I would describe as being touched by brilliance. Easily the best horror film of the year. Attack The Block was a real treat as well and a forceful calling card for its creator, Joe Cornish.

Hugo blindsided me as the original trailers had me expecting a waning master cashing in on 3-D with farcical kiddie garbage. What I got instead was Scorsese the master craftsman, stepping up his game exponentially by pushing past his comfort zone and giving us something new. Everything you've read about this ode to the majesty of the moving image is true. Don't miss it in theaters in 3-D, I guarantee you will regret it.

What more can be said about Drive? It is easily my favorite film of the year. I saw it 4 times theatrically and, despite the pervasive national punchline it became due to all the various spin off art it inspired and outraged reactions it caused, I still maintained my swooning, pubescent adoration of its effortless guile and poetic enchantment. It made me feel like I was 17 years old again and seeing Natural Born Killers, Se7en, The Crow and Pulp Fiction for the first time. Total cinematic intoxication. This film had such a profound effect on me, I chased its sense memory by revisiting Michael Mann films for the rest of the year after Drive left theaters, staying aloft on related fumes while awaiting the bluray. A movie like Drive is why I cherish the art form. A perfect synthesis of setting, sound, performance, writing and shot composition. It effortlessly enthralls and is one of many reasons and reminders I can glean from this year that I'm eternally grateful to still be around, enjoying my life and my passions with loved ones and fellow travellers. Here's looking forward to 2012.

Blue Velvet

The great thing about the Bluray medium, apart from the often stunning picture resolution and sound, is how catalog releases are beginning to take on the aura of transcendent rediscovery. Certainly we all love Taxi Driver, but seeing it in 1080p with that Bernard Hermann score swelling and enveloping in lossless 5.1 is akin to seeing it for the first time. A cinematic reawakening of sorts. The same goes for a bevy of classic films that instantly spring to mind (Metropolis, West Side Story, The Exorcist, Night of the Hunter, Se7en etc...) with untold more crying out to be spoiled with such loving treatment and sterling presentation.

Apart from the (again, often) uptick in the audio-visual department, these re-releases afford the compulsive cinephile an opportunity for reappraisal with a set of new, more mature eyes. Eyes that have witnessed adulthood and parenthood first hand. Eyes that have grown weary with the surfeit of evil, compromise and disenchantment spilling forth from the nightly news. Eyes that are ceaselessly shocked by the stomach turning depths of sick, publicly trumpeted self obsession spat out of the maw of the social networking revolution. Eyes that have read more and studied more films, whose interest and patience with the subjective nature of art has only grown with the passing years. It is with these eyes that I sat down last night to contemplate the MGM release of David Lynch's 1986 masterpiece, Blue Velvet.

I found the film to be terrifying frankly. It's a fairy tale nightmare world for adults where the psychologically damaged and the pathologically dangerous drown naive innocence in their putrid, prodigious wake. Compound soul sickness and salacious mental illness born of necessity, born of boredom, born of flat out meanness. Corrupted, barbarous lust poisoning and taking and retching boundless hatred upon weak willed misery receptacles. It's not a pleasant film, but Lynch's gauzy mise en scene makes the pill palatable, even soothing to swallow.

Billowing blue velvet curtains open up on a Norman Rockwell small town with worms burrowing just beneath the surface. Seedy, late night transactions set to the rhythm of a fey Dean Stockwell performing dreamy, trouble light karaoke. Trapped in the back seat of an out of control joyride that couldn't be any more joyless. Sandwiched between two leering, giggling goons, waiting for the beating you know is coming and are powerless to stop. Illicit debasement and an omnipresent threat to life, limb and reputation. Dark, disgusting secrets bubbling and boiling over, compulsively drawn back to the scalding, sickening pot of festering unease.

It's easily Lynch's most straightforward film and without having seen Inland Empire, I would say his best. There is a purity of purpose and intent at play here, a directness that empowers the film where his convoluted asides and baffling digressions weaken his later work. The art house auteur approach works best when the man behind the wheel remembers to keep it simple stupid. Trust us, the audience, to fill in the shadowy margins with our own sickly preoccupations. When a tone is this vividly established, it's awfully hard to not ruminate and mentally wander. Blanks tend to get filled in and uncomfortable connections are made. Blue Velvet is the cinematic equivalent and perfected personification of a Lynch motif. It is slowly walking down an ominous, ever darkening hallway, yet still opening the door at the end, regardless of the unfathomable blackness waiting on the other side.