The Dark Night Begins...Again
Now Playing: Batman Begins (Christopher Nolan, 2005)
Let me just say this: Batman Begins is a terrific film; a well-handled, mature treatment of a beloved hero that honors and assimilates elements not only of the comic book continuity, but the previous Batman films (well, the decent Tim Burton ones, anyway) as well. I have read a few negative reviews of the film, particularly David Denby’s pan in the New Yorker, and on most points I have to say: wrong, wrong, wrong! Everyone’s entitled to his or her opinion, but these reviews seem to have been based on a different film than the one I saw. To wit:

“The movie is too slow” – This from critics who have been banging the “Hollywood films are all big set pieces and no substance” drum for years? Yes, Batman Begins is paced more deliberately than your standard blockbuster. I liked the fact that it did not race from one outrageous set piece to the next. It gives the audience a chance to breathe, to get to know this film’s characters (as opposed to the ones we know from the books, movies, etc.) I never felt the movie dragging, or that a scene was unnecessary or went on too long. These are the hallmarks of a slow movie, not a dearth of giant explosions.

“Christian Bale is too wooden” – Perhaps years of mistaking overemoting by the likes of Al Pacino for acting has hardened some critics to a nuanced performance. It’s pretty difficult for anyone to convey emotion when concealed in a rubber bat suit. Bale does a better job than any of the previous incarnations (yes, Michael Keaton apologists, I include him) in the suit—-witness the barely controlled rage in his voice when interrogating criminals. Without the benefit of facial expression, we are made to understand the battle waged between the competing desires for revenge and justice within the character. In his scenes as alter-ego Bruce Wayne, Bale allows his seriousness to break in a few key moments that illuminate his character. Bale's Wayne has a mischievous side, which surfaces when he’s acting the part of the bad-boy billionaire. Diving into a decorative hotel water feature with his Eurotrash escorts or throwing guests out of his birthday party, we see that a part of him enjoys it. Might a tendency toward flaunting authority illuminate a person’s reasons for carrying out vigilante justice dressed in a freaky costume? And those who accuse Bale of humorlessness apparently missed the great moments between him and Michael Caine (as loyal butler Alfred) and Morgan Freeman (as Batman’s equipment outfitter, Lucius Fox). These are brief moments to be sure, but they go a long way in making the character sympathetic. Most of the time, Bale treads the line between driven and psychopathic that’s defined the character since Frank Miller’s seminal graphic novel The Dark Knight Returns, and he’s genuinely scary at times. Keaton’s portrayal was a typical Tim Burton freaky outsider, unable to fit in with regular society unless he’s wearing a costume. An interesting angle, but it ain’t Batman. Bruce Wayne’s cover is that of a wealthy socialite, for crying out loud. He can’t be too much of a loner.

“The production design is too drab” – This criticism is likely leveled by those who thought Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy represents the nadir of comic book-based films. Burton brought his unique vision to his films, courtesy of the great Anton Furst. Cool as it was, those of us who grew up on Neal Adams’ elegantly stylized art (and followed it through that of the gritty work of Frank Miller, Tim Sale, and others) longed for a Gotham City that looked like a real city—-one whose sense of decay and menace came from dark alleys and abandoned buildings, not from a stagy-looking baroque amusement park (and lest you think I’m picking on Burton’s films, let it be noted that I enjoyed those films for what they were—-Tim Burton films that weren’t necessarily trying to be faithful to the comic books-—and that I can’t even bring myself to discuss the crimes against cinema perpetrated by Joel Schumacher in the name of the franchise). Nolan’s Gotham looks like Chicago or New York, with a few nice stylistic touches, like a now-decrepit monorail bisecting the skyscrapers at the heart of the city. In the aerial shots of the city, as in the rest of the effects work, CG is integrated seamlessly, calling as little attention to itself as possible. Nolan’s city doesn’t look like a soundstage; neither does it look like Vancouver. It’s its own city, recognizable and perfectly realized in the production design. Which brings us to…

“Chris Nolan doesn’t leave his mark on the film” – No offense to Nolan, whose work I have enjoyed since Memento, but I don’t think he’s quite the auteur Denby seems to think he is—-not yet, anyway. Stylistically, his remake of Insomnia couldn’t be different from the edgy puzzle-logic structure of his studio debut Memento. That film’s aesthetic was tense, gritty, unhinged; Insomnia produced a sense of increasing disorientation from the stillness and perpetual daylight of its setting. When it was released, I was disappointed that Insomnia looked like a Hollywood film; I felt that Nolan had not fulfilled the promise made by Memento’s indie-film sense of style. After seeing Batman Begins, I think that Nolan’s visual strengths lie in creating atmosphere rather than in a trademark visual style. A Batman film needs atmosphere; Nolan supplies it in spades.

“The action scenes suck.” Actually, I can’t argue with this too much. The action choreography is my biggest complaint about the film. Shot in the super-quick cut style foisted on the viewing public by the Bruckheimer School, it’s confusing to the point of incomprehensibility. It’s possible to use quick cuts to make an effective fight scene, as in the Bourne films, but here the editing just looks like it was meant to conceal poorly executed fights. In a way, I think Nolan was on the right track, in that the action in the previous incarnations was hurt by the fact that a guy in a big rubber suit just doesn’t look all that mobile. Nolan sidesteps the problem by having Batman lurking in the shadows, often swallowing up unsuspecting bad guys in a flash, like something from the Alien movies. It reinforces the horror-movie aspects of the film, as well as the theme (present from the genesis of the comic book, and emphasized nicely in the script by Nolan and David Goyer) that Batman’s biggest weapon is fear. I like the idea of Batman as a guy who uses stealth to help overcome larger numbers, but in a film like this, you just can’t avoid some on-screen fighting. As the principals have been secured for a three picture deal, I can only say to Mr. Nolan: please, please, please, get an action choreographer and second unit director that know what they’re doing and can produce an exciting, comprehensible fight scene. If you’re not sure who to use, give Tarantino a ring—-I’m sure he’ll have all kinds of suggestions.

I’m not going to bother synopsizing the plot here; I’ll just say it’s a good reboot of the origin story (why, oh why do the studios think there are people out there that don’t know the origin of superheroes that have been around more than 50 years?) that features some good second-tier villains (Cillian Murphy as the Scarecrow is especially creepy, seemingly taking a cue from David Cronenberg’s mask-wearing psychopathic psychologist in Night Breed). The supporting roles are perfectly cast, and in addition to great work by Caine and Freeman, there are nice turns from Rutger Hauer, Tom Wilkinson, Katie Holmes, and especially Gary Oldman as the decent cop Jim Gordon. Nice to see him perform so well in this part after playing so many corrupt evil psychos his name had almost become synonymous with “bad guy.” And for those of you given pause by the ubiquitous online photos of the new Batmobile (of which I was one): Don’t worry. In action, it’s really cool.

Mr. XXXX
Now Playing: Layer Cake (Matthew Vaughn, 2004)
I’ve admitted elsewhere on this blog to being a sucker for crime-genre pictures. By that I don’t mean that I give these pictures a pass—-only that I don’t expect these movies to break much new ground but rather to respect the conventions of the genre and do what they do well. Someone who’s not a sucker for the genre might enjoy Sexy Beast yet wonder why someone like myself gets all giddy about it. Thus, I was anticipating the eventual arrival in Denver of Matthew Vaughn’s directorial debut Layer Cake, which promised a twisty journey through the back rooms of the London underworld. Vaughn previously served as a producer on two of Guy Ritchie’s exercises in style over substance (For the record: I didn’t like Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels; but I did like Snatch--virtually the same movie remade with a higher budget--due to its great cast and sheer exuberance), and stepped behind the camera when Ritchie bowed out of the production. It’s a good thing, for Vaughn proves to be a capable director, endowing the film not only with a distinctive visual flair (though thankfully not nearly as hyperkinetic as his former partner), but also with a moodiness that suits the material well.

Daniel Craig plays the unnamed protagonist, an upper-echelon drug dealer who’s essentially a middleman between the manufacturers and the dealers. He sees himself as a businessman, and abides by some rather strict rules of conduct which keep him and his close associates wealthy and out of trouble with the law. As the film begins, he has just completed a big cocaine deal that will net him a cool million pounds after the money is laundered. He plans to take his big paycheck and disappear into comfortable retirement. What, has he never seen a crime movie? Retirement plans never bode well for the (anti)hero, and here is no exception. Crime boss Jimmy Price enlists XXXX (yes, that’s how he’s listed in the credits) to unload a large quantity of ecstasy smuggled in from Amsterdam, and to find construction magnate Eddie Temple’s (Michael Gambon, at his reptilian best) missing daughter. Unsurprisingly, things get more complicated from there.

Craig’s performance is quite good—-he’s very believable as a man who has achieved his position by being smarter, quicker, and more careful than the competition. When his name was being bandied about as the next Bond, I didn’t see it—-I do now. He’s able to simultaneously convey smoothness and menace; he can seem sympathetic one moment and psychopathic the next. And he looks good in a tailored suit. There’s a large supporting cast, which includes Gambon, Colm Meaney (excellent as Price’s right-hand man), Tom Hardy (unrecognizable from his previous starring role in the last Star Trek movie), and many others; Vaughn handles them deftly, with the exception of the tiny part of Tammy (Sienna Miller) who plays the dual role of plot contrivance and sole female presence. He navigates the twisty plot with an assured facility, and though the accents are occasionally impenetrable, it’s not too difficult to follow along. Despite the flashy camerawork and pomo time shifts, Vaughn clearly owes more to the great French crime films of Becker and Melville than Tarantino. These films (as in the great Touchez-pas Au Grisbi and Bob le Flambeur) see the central conflict of crime films as rising from the disruption of the protagonist’s carefully ordered lifestyle by forces beyond his control, and Layer Cake follows this pattern closely. XXXX’s life is controlled to the most minute detail as the film begins; the journey of the film concerns its unraveling and XXXX’s attempts to stay one step ahead of the disaster that’s dogging him. It’s not an earth-shattering work, but those that enjoy such things will find the ride quite enjoyable.

Until the last scene. I won’t spoil the ending, but suffice it to say that there are about three ways crime films end, and Vaughn seems to be unable to make up his mind, so he gives us all of them in about a minute and a half. The last shot feels like a cheap betrayal of the audience’s emotional investment in the character. I have not read the novel upon which the movie was based, so perhaps it’s faithful. If so, it’s no excuse; Vaughn should have taken the opportunity to come up with something more satisfying.

The Hustler
Now Playing: Kung Fu Hustle (Steven Chow, 2005)
If you’re anything like me, you’ll leave Steven Chow’s latest suffering from exhaustion and sensory overload. As he proved in his previous film, Shaolin Soccer, his m.o. is "more is better"-—more gags, bigger stunts, visuals limited only by the processors on your rendering computers, and a complete willingness to go ever further over the top made that film irresistibly enjoyable despite the one-note simplicity of the plot. The good news: Kung Fu Hustle offers more of the same, with even more outlandish visuals and frenetic action. Those given to such things will find plenty to love in this film, which one-ups its predecessor while adhering to the same basic formula.

The story again concerns a ne’er-do-well who must learn to harness the mystical power of kung fu to overcome a powerful adversary. In this case, it’s the Axe Gang, a brutal triad that rules 1920’s Shanghai by freely exercising the eponymous hatchet and other brutal means of coercion. The residents of Pig Sty Alley are too poor to come to the attention of the gangs, that is, until Sing (Chow) stirs up trouble by grifting residents, claiming to be an Axe brother. When the gang retaliates, however, they find that all is not as it seems. The tenement is home to three kung fu masters who are living incognito, and the harridan landlady (Qiu Yuen, stealing the show) and her shrinking violet husband have some supernatural abilities of their own. Looking for a way to eliminate the protectors of Pig Sty Alley, the leader of the Axe Gang, Brother Sum (Kwok Kuen Chan) recruits Sing, who, despite a fundamentally kind heart, really wants to be a bad guy. Five hundred kinds of mayhem ensue.

Chow is quite gifted visually speaking, and Kung Fu Hustle gives him the right sized canvas. Where Shaolin Soccer’s low budget was sometimes evident, the follow up has a look as slick as anything out of Hollywood. The ‘20’s setting allows for fantastic costumes and sets, and Chow makes the most of them. An opening dance number introducing the black-suited legions of the Axe Gang establishes the right tone—something like a big musical production from the ‘50’s (although Chow drops the song and dance after that—probably too much for even him to juggle). Chow excels at using eye-popping special effects to create a live action cartoon, and he lets his Tex Avery fixation run wild. It bears notice in this sanitized age that slapstick is so-called for a reason. The violence certainly falls under the category of cartoon violence, but it seems strong at times, especially if you haven’t seen a classic Warner Bros. cartoon recently. It’s also bloodier (though hardly a gorefest) than American family fare. Still, it’s hard not to laugh when Landlady throws her hapless husband out of a top-story window and his crash landing is punctuated by the familiar flowerpot to the head, and a Roadrunner-inspired chase complete with legs motion-blurred into spinning wheels is delightful. Other sight gags are less successful, such as a number of obvious quotes from films from The Shining to The Matrix (whose legendary action choreographer, Yuen Wo Ping, also worked on this film). There’s no time to dwell on a failed gag, though—-think about it and you’ll miss the next ten. Chow throws it all up on the wall to see what will stick, and, at least in this case, more sticks than doesn’t.

Kung Fu Hustle is pure cinematic confection. You’ll leave the film with a big grin on your face, unsure of exactly what you’ve just witnessed and dubious about its nutritional value. But, hey—-sometimes you need a well-balanced meal; sometimes you just have to gorge on the sweet stuff. Kung Fu Hustle is a deep-fried Mars bar a la mode dipped in chocolate and topped with whipped cream and about fifty cherries.

DVD Roundup
Now Playing: Con Games
Steven Soderbergh has, throughout his career, confounded expectations through his choice of projects. His early body of work began with Sex Lies & Videotape?the film that arguably gave birth to the indie movement of the early '90's?continued with the difficult and idiosyncratic Schizopolis, and reached its zenith with The Limey. He then abandoned his art-house millieu to do Out Of Sight, a slick George Clooney vehicle that remains to this day not only the best adaptation of an Elmore Leonard novel, but the best Jennifer Lopez performance committed to film. It wasn't a box office smash, and Soderbergh counterpunched with Traffic, a large scale examination of the pervasiveness of the drug trade that seemed caluclated to hit with audiences and Oscar alike. It worked like a charm on both counts. After Traffic, Soderbergh's films seemed to follow the pattern of the indie director who, in order to secure financing for smaller, personal projects, makes the occasional Hollywood blockbuster. His remake of the Rat Pack heist film Ocean's 11 (renamed Ocean's Eleven, perhaps in a display of Soderberghian playfulness) was a huge success, allowing both his remake of Tarkovsky's Solaris and the disastrous digital video improvisationFull Frontal. How surprising then, that instead of the expected Hollywood slam-dunk sequel, Ocean's Twelve ends up looking and feeling more like an effort from the earlier period of Soderbergh's career.

Still essentially an excuse to get a whole bunch of stars in a room together, Twelve's action hangs on the barest framework of plot. Terry Benedict (Andy Garcia), the mobbed up target of the first film's heist, has tracked down each of the members of Ocean's Eleven and presented them with an ultimatum: return the stolen money plus interest in two weeks or die. Not one to shrink from such a challenge, the gang's ringleader Danny Ocean (Clooney), who has been, with much difficulty, playing it straight with wife Tess (Julia Roberts), assembles the team and embarks on a series of heists throughout Europe to recover the money. Thwarting them along the way are an Interpol agent (Catherine Zeta Jones) who, improbably, is a former lover of Ocean's right-hand man Rusty Ryan (Brad Pitt); and an aristocratic French cat burglar, The Silver Fox (Vincent Cassel), who is out to prove his superiority to Ocean.

As in the first film, the viewer's pleasure comes not from the intricacies of the heist, as in traditional heist movies, but from the riffing of a big group of stars of varying magnitudes. It's clear that everyone is having a blast, and this lessened the first film for me?-the sense that there was a joke the audience wasn't in on soured the experience somewhat. That this film is more successful is, I think, owing to Soderbergh's stylistic decisions. Instead of delivering a stylistic copy of the first film, Soderbergh switches things up, directly quoting sixties ?Swinging London? era films, from the grainy film stock look to the hip looking sans serif title cards that guide us as we jump around times and locations. The film just feels playful, and it suits the actors, of whom there are so many that, save for the leads, their parts of necessity become glorified cameos. For their part, the actors are game, though it hurts a bit to see Bernie Mac's part reduced to a single gag and the estimable talents of Chinese acrobat Shaobo Qin used only for a joke about lost luggage at the airport. Elliott Gould and Carl Reiner, the best things about the first film, are barely in the film at all.

Soderbergh and screenwriter George Nolfi smartly realize that in order for the film to have the necessary lightness, it won't do to delve to deeply into details. Rather than give us a detailed scene in which Zeta Jones' character breaks down a captured man for information, he uses visual shorthand, pulling the camera back to the other side of the two-way mirror and having two police comment on the difficulty of the achievement even as he shows the suspect breaking down at a few words whispered in his ear. In one of the film's best sequences, Matt Damon and Don Cheadle (British accent unimproved from the first outing) trade fictional schemes for stealing a Faberge egg, one-upping each other with each one (sample: [I'm paraphrasing] ?Baby With the Bathwater.? ?No. You need five guys and anyway, you'll never train a cat that fast.?) It has the feel of two actors improvising and having a blast doing it. Knowing the plot is slight, Soderbergh keeps us entertained by means of his directorial bag of tricks?at one point, he cuts away from a burglary in progress, then shows us Zeta Jones' investigation the following day to show us how it went wrong. There's even a metafictional gag where Tess has to pretend to be Julia Roberts. If we dwell too long on any of this, the seams begin to show. Soderbergh keeps things moving with good energy and a groovy sense of style that was lacking in the first film. No, it's not a crime caper that even approaches Out of Sight in terms of satisfying construction and narrative. But it's a much better ?famous people having fun? lark than the first film. I mean, what other reason is there for this kind of film's existence if it ain't fun? Now, if Soderbergh takes the same approach of trying something new for his next ?indie? effort, we may be in for a real treat.

Criminal, an American remake of the Argentinian con film Nine Queens, was produced by Soderbergh and Clooney's Section 8 Films. It satisfies in all the ways a con movie should, and is helped along by a lean plot and a talented ensemble including John C. Reilly, Diego Luna and Maggie Gyllenhaal. However, it begs the same question as all remakes of foreign films: why? One assumes that the usual reason is to Americanize the more foreign aspects of a film for a US audience. However, Nine Queens already follows the template of that most American of genres, the con. It was shot in the gritty, handheld camera-style that is prevalent in Hollywood today?-in short, it's a very American-feeling film presented in another language. One might also assume that a reason to remake a foreign film is for an American writer to riff off the themes present in the original in order to approach the same themes from a different perspective. It was with this in mind that I watched Criminal, and was disappointed to find that the writers, Gregory Jacobs and "Sam Lowry" (none other than Soderbergh himself), follow the plot points of the original beat for beat. Aside from a couple of completely superficial changes (the opening scene takes place in a casino rather than a gas station; the con centers around a forged treasury note rather than a forged set of stamps), the film follows the original to the letter. Why on earth did they bother? Unlike say, The Ring, Nine Queens enjoyed first run art-house distribution in the States, and was readily available on home video, having built a modest following thanks to good reviews. I can't necessarily say the new version isn't as good as the original on its own merits, but its superfluousness makes it so. Still, I enjoyed the film, thanks mainly to its appealing cast. If you haven't seen Nine Queens and can't abide subtitles, this film is for you. If you enjoyed the original and would like to see different actors in the roles, by all means check it out. If you haven't seen either, and if you love con films and can read, I'd say the original is best.

DVD Roundup
Now Playing: Mikey & Nicky
Elaine May’s 1976 Mikey & Nicky, now available on DVD from HVE, feels kind of stagy, not visually, but in May’s dialogue and the rapport between the two leads, played by John Cassavetes and Peter Falk. One could imagine the movie as an off-Broadway play during the heyday of Sam Shepard and Lanford Wilson. May, of course, was a product of the theater scene, so it’s not surprising to learn from the interviews on the disc’s special features that the movie industry types were often exasperated by her actorly approach to the material. Off-and-on DP Victor Kemper and producer Michael Hausman recount the filming of one scene, in which May was oblivious to the fact that the cameras had long since run out of film, not wanting to interrupt Falk and Cassavetes’ inspired ad-libbing. In another anecdote from Kemper, May upbraids a veteran cameraman for cutting a scene in which the two had wandered out of frame because, “they might come back!”

May’s unwillingness to play by the established filmmaking rules leads to its share of amateurish mistakes, like a boom mike that comes into frame several times during a key scene, or the famous graveyard scene with an all-too-apparent lavaliere mike (Paramount head Barry Diller, finally seeing a rough cut after attempts to edit the million feet of film May shot had stretched into a two year ordeal, remarked, “I love the film…but why is there a microphone on Peter’s tie?). Other decisions, which might be seen as naive, work better, such as May’s decision to shoot the entire film in continuity at night, which expertly conveys the nightlong journey of the characters. As a whole, the film is remarkably assured, thanks to the chemistry between Falk and Cassavetes and the work of the much put-upon photographers and gaffers.

A description of the film’s premise sounds like a run of the mill crime story. Small-time hood Nicky (Cassavetes) has stolen money from his boss, who has put a contract out on him. Desperate, he calls on his oldest friend, Mikey (Falk) to help him get out of town. Mikey, torn between loyalty to his friend and boss, offers to help Nicky, but is also setting him up for the hitman (a good and creepy Ned Beatty) hired by the boss. But this is just the framework of the film, which is more concerned with the relationship between the two. Nicky is a self-destructive brat who really only cares about himself; Mikey is loyal, but has been pushed too far by the selfish Nicky, who belittles him publicly and only calls when he’s in trouble. We’ve all had a friend like Nicky—and the relationship usually self-destructs around a long dark night of the soul like the one portrayed here. The journey progresses through bars, across darkened city streets, to a girlfriend’s apartment, ending in the inevitable fistfight—and it’s almost uncomfortably familiar if you’ve been through a similar experience. Cassavetes is perfect as a handsome guy with a child's emotional maturity who instinctively sabotages every chance at salvation, while Falk evokes empathy as the put-upon friend (and makes his eventual betrayal is all the more devastating).

HVE’s transfer is quite good considering the source material, which has a grainy 1970’s verite feel which belies the experience of the crew. Extras are limited, but the interviews with Hausman and Kemper are quite good and offer insight into the film and its difficult production (Hausman’s irritation with May’s “artistic” temperament comes to the fore a number of times), giving the viewer hope that when artists and industry tradespeople get together, the result isn’t always disastrous.

He Stomped On The Terra
Feeling sad and kind of numb to learn of Hunter Thompson's passing. Nobody thought he'd go out in a hospital bed wired up to a bunch of tubes and machines, but the suddenness of this is shocking. Thompson, for better or worse, lived the way he wrote and practiced what he preached. To some degree, he seemed a prisoner of the larger than life persona he created, but unlike, say, Kurt Cobain, he lived fully within that persona and used it to accomplish things no ordinary journalist could. He was an authentic human, and we shall not see his like again, I fear.

Here in Colorado, just about everybody has a Hunter story. Whether you stopped in at the Woody Creek Tavern for a beer and happened to meet the man as he held court with his customary Wild Turkey, or he stopped into the place where you worked, he always seemed willing to deal with the public as generously as his current mental state allowed. I saw him speak up at the University of Colorado a few years ago, and while his ramblings that night were largely incoherent, here and there were interspersed some very funny remarks and incisive observations on the state of the government (this was before W would give Hunter a renewed source of vitriol against the Whores and Greedheads that run our country)--frankly amazing, seeing as he sampled a wide variety of the pills, joints, and other unidentified consumables (including a container of what seemed to be raw ether) that came flying onstage from the audience. And when he was finished, he simply stood up and walked offstage. No curtain calls or bouquets of flowers for him. The moderator, a bit surprised at the guest of honor's sudden departure, announced that Hunter would return after a brief intermission, but we knew he wasn't coming back. It just wasn't him.

There are a couple of filmic journeys into the world of Gonzo. A DVD of Where the Buffalo Roam was recently released--it's a valiant (if flawed) effort to transcribe Hunter's "greatest hits" to the screen. It doesn't hold together as a narrative, but it's got some very funny bits, and Bill Murray is quite good as the good Doctor. Peter Boyle, while not the Dr. Gonzo that I pictured (that would be Benicio Del Toro's iconic performance), is also memorable.

I'll be putting in the Criterion edition of Terry Gilliam's excellent Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, a fairly faithful adaptation of Hunter's best-known work, featuring Johnny Depp's note-perfect portrayal of Raoul Duke and Del Toro's force of nature turn. I won't hear them, though, because I'll be listening to Hunter's brilliantly unhinged stream-of-consciousness commentary. And sipping a little Wild Turkey to help dull the pain of being a man. Godspeed, Hunter.

DVD Roundup
Now Playing: Ray (2004, d. Taylor Hackford)
As the Academy Awards draw near, one can notice a certain cloying stench in the air...ahh, yes, there it is again. It's coming from that Oscar staple, the biopic, which invariably reduces the complexities of a life to cheap theatrics and obvious messages, capping off the wretched concoction with a rote feel-good ending. It's a recipe that Academy voters can't seem to get enough of, and so we have Jamie Foxx's portrayal of soul legend Ray Charles as the presumptive favorite for Best Actor honors this year. The buzz around Foxx's performance was so positive that I thought perhaps it would be enough to elevate (the aptly named) Taylor Hackford's film above the level of tear-jerking pablum. Wrong! Foxx's impersonation of Charles is dead on, and his musical performances unquestionably great, but the award is not called "Best Mimic" or "Best Singing and Piano Playing." Foxx proved he can act in Collateral--if there was any justice (and when it comes to Oscars, there isn't) he'd have been nominated in the Best Actor category for that role. In this film, he just isn't given anything to work with outside of a legendary stable of songs to perform.

The screenplay, credited to James L. White (from a story by White and Hackford) lays on the biopic conventions: a childhood tragedy that haunts the protagonist; a tough mother (shown in incessant flashbacks) that helps the protagonist overcome his handicap, the protagonist's struggles against adversity (racism, philandering, heroin addiction--take your pick), and a joyful ending in which our hero conquers his demons and the world. The problem is that there's no connective tissue. We know Ray's a genius not because of anything we see on screen, but because we're told so repeatedly by the characters. We know Ray must conquer his heroin habit because drugs are bad (mmmmkay?), but there's no evidence that his shooting up and fooling around had any negative effects on his personal or professional life. Sure, it annoys his faithful wife, gospel singer Della "Bea" Robinson, but that's not enough to get him to change his ways (a scene examining how she came to terms with her husband's wild road life would have been nice). Nor are the earnest entreaties of Atlantic Records chief Ahmet Ertegun (Curtis Armstrong, playing perhaps the first sympathetic record company honcho in movie history), whose vision catapulted Charles to stardom. Nope, Ray just quits heroin (we're never told if he stopped sleeping around) because that's what people do in biopics. And because he has a nice vision where he makes up with his mom and dead baby brother.

Worst of all, the movie shortchanges Charles' undeniable creative genius. Songs spring fully formed into his head, without even a cursory nod to the creative process. Maybe Ray really did write "What I Say" extemporaneously to fill time when a club owner demanded he play 20 more minutes, but would his full band just be able to pick it up on the spur of the moment, complete with finished horn parts and backup vocals? Seeing the group struggle to keep up would have added some interesting tension, but apparently Ray's genius was so great that it extended to anyone who got onstage with him (I know for a fact this isn't true-more on that in a moment). We're shown again and again how Ray's personal life informed his art. Hey, it can't but be the case for all artists, so why does it feel so fake in this movie? The most odious example is a scene in which Ray has just broken off a long affair with backup singer Margie Hendricks (Regina King). He cruelly tells her it's now strictly business from now on, then breaks into his new tune, which just happens to be "Hit the Road, Jack." Of course, Hendricks tearfully breaks into the response part and nails it, having only just picked up the sheet music that Ray, despite his blindness, has somehow been able to write. It was all I could do to keep my eyes from rolling clean out of my head.

From all evidence, Charles was a bit of a bastard. He cheated on his wife, shot horse, mistreated his musicians, and screwed the record company that gave him his first break by leaving to write bland, string-laden crap for big bucks at ABC. To his credit, Hackford doesn't soft peddle this behavior. But instead of drawing a portrait of a complex and conflicted genius, he uses Charles' character flaws as mere signifiers for what he sees as the greater psychological conflict which must be overcome for him to succeed (never mind that Charles wrote his best music during the tumultuous early years). It's complete horseshit. Interestingly, Hackford includes a scene in which Charles stops a performance to berate a musician who's not up to snuff. In the movie, this is to show that despite his addiction, Ray never went onstage high and wouldn't tolerate it from his musicians. When I saw Charles perform several years ago (long after he was supposed to have conquered his addictions), he did the exact same thing, bringing a song to a crashing halt to lay into the drummer, who was filling in that night for the regular drummer, who was ill. It was completely embarrassing. My question is: if the real Ray was a jerk, horse habit or no, wouldn't that make a more interesting film? Well, that doesn't fit into the formula that dictates our protagonists must conquer all their demons by the end of the film. Bring on the gold statuettes!

I couldn't bring myself to delve into the full slate of extras on the double-disc DVD, which include director's commentary, two featurettes, and two uncut musical performances. I will warn potential purchasers about the "extended version" touted on the box. This is not a director's cut; rather, 25 minutes of deleted scenes are branched into the theatrical cut without any editing. It's a jarring experience-when you come to the point where a deleted scene is inserted, the player pauses and then jumps to the scene, and then jumps back and resumes, often right in the middle of a scene. Fortunately, this feature can be turned on or off, but come on-don't bill this as the "extended version."

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!
Ever since my faith in the Academy Awards was crushed by Dances With Wolves' Best Picture win over Goodfellas I have tried not to get too worked up over the Oscars. Everyone is well aware of the shortcomings of the system, the tendency to recognize style over substance, etc. But the omission of Paul Giamatti in the Best Actor category is simply unconscionable. I don't think I've seen a single review of Sideways, pro or con, that didn't single out Giamatti's extraordinary performance. Jeff Wells has advanced the theory that Academy voters reacted adversely because his character is none too admirable, stealing money from his mom and getting drunk at inopportune moments. In the absence of a better explanation, I guess I have to concur. But, voting bluehairs, this is precisely the reason you should have nominated him. Giamatti's Miles is not a guy you automatically root for, like Depp's or Cheadle's characters; nor is he given a larger than life role to chew like DiCaprio in The Aviator. But, thanks to Giamatti's nuanced performance, you feel for the character, hoping he finds a measure of happiness at the end. Paul, you deserved better. More on this in my "If I Picked the Oscars" column, but I can't say this is a good sign--usually it's at least a couple of weeks before I start to feel "blah" about the Oscars.

The Best Films I Saw in the Theater in 2004
Not that anyone asked for it, but here's the year-end best-of list. The usual caveats apply: these lists are meaningless and subject to change; I didn't see every film that was released this year; not all films on the list were released this year (but, as the column title indicates, they were released in Denver theaters this year). Onward!

Sideways (d. Alexander Payne)

Payne eschews the superciliousness regarding his characters that marred About Schmidt and Election and produces a heartfelt and moving (not to mention hilarious) portrait of midlife crisis. Not that he's getting all gushy; Paul Giamatti's Miles Raymond is a depressive borderline alcoholic and his pal Jack (Thomas Hayden Church) is an inveterate womanizer whose mental age seems to have been arrested at about 16. Their adventures on a trip through wine country are the stuff of a good novel. Not having read the novel upon which the film was based, I can't speak to the faithfulness of the adaptation, but Payne succeeds where so many others have failed, creating a film that's tonally novelistic but thoroughly cinematic in execution. This marks the second year in a row that a film starring Giamatti has topped my best films list, and it's not coincidental. He's one of the best actors working in film today, able to convey a broad palette of emotions with his soulful eyes alone. His looks generally get him cast as losers and outcasts, but just as with last year's American Splendor--in which he found a buried vein of humanity in misanthropic cartoonist Harvey Pekar (which many have claimed doesn't exist in the real Pekar)--he doesn't play types. He embodies characters, which is altogether more difficult for the actor and more satisfying for the viewer. But I'm a card-carrying Giamatti fan; the surprise is that the other actors keep up. Hayden Church is perfect as a has-been actor unable to commit to a monogamous relationship, and Virginia Madsen is luminous as a divorcee who forges a tentative connection with the emotionally fragile Miles. Even Sandra Oh, who's given the least to work with, hits all the right notes as an outwardly free-spirited "pour girl" who's really looking for a father for her daughter. To his credit, Payne doesn't go for the "home-run" Oscar-bait emotional scene, which makes Miles' life of quiet desperation all the more heartbreaking. The comedy sparkles, too: I still chuckle when I think about the scene in which Miles snatches a bottle of wine and careens down a hillside, chugging as he tries to evade the pursuing Jack. And the line "I'm not drinking fucking Merlot!" may prove to be the catch phrase of the year.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (d. Michel Gondry)

Charlie Kaufman is one of the best screenwriters (if not the best) working today. Yet if you think his scripts are impossible to screw up, take a gander at Gondry's so-so Human Nature. The announcement that Gondry was taking on another Kaufman project filled me with apprehension, which proved to be misplaced. Eternal Sunshine employs Kaufman's metafictional (metacinematic?) bag of tricks to produce a melancholy exploration of memory and regret through the lens of a failed romance. If anything made me more apprehensive than the selection of Gondry, it was the announcement that the film would star Jim Carrey, whose best performance as an actor was to mimic the quirks of Andy Kaufman. This, too, proved unfounded-Carrey is just fine as the jilted loner Joel (if anything, he's too subdued). Even better is Kate Winslet as the flighty Clementine, giving some emotional weight to a character that we all know (or have dated): the person whose outward exuberance and spontaneity are a carefully constructed fa?ade concealing deep emotional wounds. Frankly, I don't understand the complaints that the film is too hard to follow. Once we accept the premise that the events of the film are a journey through Joel's memories as he attempts to have them erased, there is logic (more correctly, dream logic) to all the weirdness. And, as in all of Kaufman's work so far, it's not weirdness for weirdness' sake. True, Kaufman isn't afraid to shatter the traditional barriers of "realistic" film, but it's all in service of the story. I don't mind being reminded that I'm watching a film, as long as it's a film worth watching. The critic Walter Chaw suggested that Kaufman is the nexus of Orson Welles and Preston Sturges. I'd go one better and say that he may be the missing link between Borges and the Marx Brothers.

The Incredibles (d. Brad Bird)

In this time of comic book movie saturation, simply making a good superhero movie is a notable accomplishment. Brad Bird and Pixar went one better and produced a movie that stands as not only one of the best of that genre, but with the best animated films ever made. It's certainly the best-looking CG film ever made, from the first rate scenic design to the fabric of the super-suits. The action is expertly staged, making use of all the wowee capabilities of the format. Thankfully, the filmmakers realized that while these elements are essential to a first-rate production, they are nothing without a first-rate script. Funny throughout yet capable of genuinely emotional moments, the script acknowledges our ironic distance from the superhero concept without stooping to wink-wink irony for its humor. The Incredibles is pure joy for those of us who spent too much of our formative years buried in comic books, but it's not just a love letter to the geeks of the world. In fact, it's hard to imagine any future list of the best animated films without this film (and Bird's previous effort, the criminally underseen The Iron Giant) very near the top.

Gozu (d. Takashi Miike)

Shock-auteur Miike sidelines the over-the-top gore (well, mostly) in favor of a Beckett-inspired aesthetic, with haunting and thought-provoking results. Unfettered by the restrictions of conventional plot structure (more so than usual), Gozu takes the audience into a dreamlike state, weird and funny and frightening all at the same time. I recently read a review of the film that made much of its homosexual subtext. It's there, no doubt--on reflection, I'm surprised I didn't get it the first time I watched the film. I prefer to think that Gozu is "about" coming to terms with repressed homosexuality in the same way the Waiting for Godot is "about" looking for God. Yes, it's there, but as with all real art, it's just one level. Gozu takes all the traditional themes of the Yakuza movie--honor, loyalty, violence (and, yes, homoeroticism)--and marinates them in a heady broth of striking visuals and bizarre characters, baking the concoction under the stage lights of the Theater of the Absurd to come up with a truly unique dish. Miike is a consummate craftsman and a director of unique vision, even in his less arty direct-to-video films; he's truly worthy of the auteur tag. Let's be grateful that he has thus far resisted the trend of Japanese horror directors coming to Hollywood. I don't think he'd do too well in today's bottom line-driven, mediocrity-championing American film industry. Though I would like to see his vision of Bush-era America...

Collateral (d. Michael Mann)

Essentially a two-man piece, the interplay between Tom Cruise's self-actualized hitman Vincent and Jamie Foxx's procrastinating cabbie Max is so good that one forgives any number of holes in the high-concept plot and a final act straight out of Hollywood Action Hack Screenwriting 101. As a thriller, it ain't all that, but as the story of a character's dark journey toward a kind of authenticity, it's compelling. Cruise, who has always been a solid (if overeager) actor, proves that he's much more interesting when he gets a chance to explore the darker aspects of human nature. Foxx proves beyond any doubt that he is, in fact an actor and not simply a gifted performer. The largely digital photography should be singled out for some kind of special award--the ability to shoot at night and in low-light situations is something that wasn't possible before the digital revolution, and while you'll never see me aboard the "film is dead" bandwagon, Collateral is a great example of how the medium can enhance the right story.

I Heart Huckabee's (d. David O. Russell)

Russell's giddy screwball take on existentialism shouldn't have been any good at all. At various points throughout, I found myself wondering if there was anything beyond a freshman philosophy-level intro to existentialism to be found in this story of an overearnest young environmentalist (Jason Schwartzman) who experiences an existential crisis in the midst of his battle against Wal-Martesque superchain Huckabee's. There may not be, in fact, but I was grinning throughout the film, and it stayed with me long afterward, begging for subsequent viewings. It says something about our society that a dead philosophical movement seems uniquely suited to address the difficulty of finding meaning in post-9-11 America. Perhaps it's philosophy itself that's the con game, promising answers, which are really just riddles and intellectual evasions. One thing is certain--Mark Wahlberg should only be allowed to work with Russell, who finds depths in the former underwear model that other directors are unwilling or unable to bring out. Wahlberg's painfully earnest, anguished Tommy Corn gives humanity and gravity (not to mention some great yuks) to what might have been a weightless intellectual exercise.

Kill Bill Vol. 2 (d. Quentin Tarantino)

Whether it was always intended to be so (as QT has claimed in interviews) or not, the second part of Tarantino's epic revenge pastiche managed to be quite a tonal shift from the first installment. Gone is the adrenaline-fueled nonstop action of the first film, replaced by a more contemplative pace and an almost mournful feel. In Vol. 1, Tarantino paid homage to the gods of Asian action cinema; the spirit of Sergio Leone seems to guide this second installment. As usual, Tarantino's myriad influences are on display (the Shaw Bros. tribute of the "Cruel Tutelage of Pai Mei" chapter is so dead-on as to transcend any thought of parody and proceed directly to coolville), but they seem on the whole to be more of a piece this time out. But what really makes it work is love: Tarantino's love of cinema, the love of the actors for the material, and especially the main characters' love for each other. David Carradine's performance gives an elegant answer to the question of why Bill would slaughter the Bride's entire wedding party, and meaning to his enigmatic opening monologue ("...this is me at my most...masochistic.") Uma Thurman adds depth to her character, too--in the fantastic final confrontation, it's clear that she still loves Bill, even though she must kill him. After Vol. 1 hit, I wondered whether the two parts would have to be edited together to make a truly great whole--I can say now that the two parts stand just fine separately. QT gets the revenge thing right: Vol. 1 ramps up the bloodlust; Vol. 2 has the appropriately elegiac feel of the end of the quest.

Shaun of the Dead (d. Simon Pegg)

Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright's "Romantic Zombie Comedy" (RomZomCom!) managed to have more warmth, humor, and genuine fun than just about any genre movie this year (though the first 15 minutes of the Dawn of the Dead remake are spectacular). Just a few of the many great moments: Lucy Davis' master class on how to act like a zombie. The wonderful tracking shot of the hungover Shaun walking to the local store, oblivious to the zombification around him. "Well, they were a bit bitey." Sade as a zombie-killing weapon. Shaun is everything films should be when they are made by fans of the source material: passionate, clever, and well-executed; it contains enough inside jokes to keep the fanboys happy but doesn't rely on them for its appeal. The film hits exactly the mark it's aiming for, nothing more and nothing less. That in itself is rare enough in movies; so is the fact that it's so damn fun to boot.

Honorable Mentions:

The Bourne Supremacy (d. Paul Greengrass) - It's saying something about the current state of action films that this well-executed, well-acted, workmanlike spy thriller seemed somehow exceptional. In the end, the plot just wasn't involving enough to earn it a spot with the year's best, but this was a great time at the movies.

Baadasssss! (d. Mario Van Peebles) - Mario conjures up and exorcises the spirit of his father (yes, I know he's still alive) in this involving, honest account of the making of the first blaxploitation film. Mario's portrait of his father in unsentimental and unsparing, showing Melvin's passion and vision right alongside his destructive obsession and failings as a father (the scene where Melvin offers up the prepubescent Mario for a sex scene is particularly chilling, more so because it really happened). Vital indie filmmaking that puts most big-budget biopics to shame. All is forgiven for Posse.

Fahrenheit 9-11 (d. Michael Moore) - Yes, Moore is a self-important, manipulative ass who may have had a hand in losing the election for the Democrats. Yes, this film uses questionable tactics to make its points and ends up preaching to the choir. So what? Who says films can't be polemics; that they can't aim to rile people up? In this time of political and media conformity, voices that challenge the company line are needed more than ever. The film's enormous box-office proved that by preaching to this particular choir, you're speaking to at least half the country.

Spider-Man 2 (d. Sam Raimi)
Hellboy (d. Guillermo del Toro)

Two comic-book adaptations that provided the requisite big screen thrills, but relied on characterization and small moments for their effectiveness. Tobey Maguire's Peter Parker embodied everything that made Lee and Romita's unlikely hero connect with generations of young people, and Alfred Molina's Dr. Octopus was such a well-drawn character that his descent into super-villainy conveyed a true sense of tragedy. In Hellboy, del Toro again showed that a passionate and able filmmaker doesn't need Bruckheimer-sized budgets to look great and supply blockbuster thrills. The best thing about the movie, though, was Ron Perlman, whose ability to project soul through pounds of makeup applications was more amazing than anything conjured up by a computer this year.

Under the Sea
Now Playing: The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou (d. Wes Anderson)
Wes Anderson's films are often accused of keeping their ironic distance at the expense of emotion. His immaculately detailed frames and deadpan direction certainly aren't suited to the big emotional moments we are given to expect from Hollywood movies. I'd argue that Anderson's style (along with his preternatural adeptness selecting background music) perfectly conveys a range of emotions; just not the play-it-to-the-back-row bag of tricks we expect. Consider the sublime moment in Rushmore when Bill Murray's Herman Blume calmly drops off the diving board and sinks to the bottom of his swimming pool, cigarette still gripped in his mouth, seemingly oblivious to the choas of his boorish sons' birthday party all around him. Without a line of dialogue, we know everything about the emptiness of Blume's life and his desperation to escape. Or the scene in The Royal Tenenbaums, where Luke Wilson's Richie Tenenbaum, to the tune of Elliot Smith's haunting "Needle in the Hay," shaves off his long hair and beard under the clinical fluorescent glare of a bathroom fixture, and then, almost as an afterthought, slashes his wrists. It's a shocking moment, but it feels true precisely because Anderson hasn't let us get inside Richie's head. We know he's withdrawn and deeply disturbed, but the extent of his alienation doesn't become clear until then.

It is with some regret, then, that I must report that Anderson's latest, The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou, is perhaps the most emotionally barren of Anderson's films to date. It's got all the elements: a fantastic ensemble cast, an incredibly well-realized world (including a fantastic cutaway-view set of Zissou's ship, the Belafonte), deadpan line delivery, Seymour Cassel. But, except for a few isolated moments, we don't really connect with Bill Murray's Zissou, a self-centered middle aged Cousteau-like filmmaker who undertakes to find and kill the elusive Jaguar shark that ate his first mate, Esteban (Cassel) during the filming of Zissou's last underwater adventure. We're told that Zissou cared deeply for Esteban, but we're never given any reason why (other than the fact that he's played by Cassel---seriously, how can anyone not like that guy?), and given the way he mistreats everyone else in his sphere of influence, his love for his friend seems kind of fake. Zissou is a mightily flawed man and a grade-A sonofabitch, just like Gene Hackman's Royal Tenenbaum or Murray's Blume; unlike those characters, Anderson can't seem to find a way to make us feel for him despite ourselves.

Joining Zissou on his quest are a crew led by the creepily loyal Klaus Daimler (Willem Dafoe, sporting a weird German accent), a pregnant reporter (Cate Blanchett, luminous and sporting a bit of her Katherine Hepburn accent), a recently-introuced young man who may be Zissou's bastard son (Owen Wilson, mostly able to maintain a southern drawl), a Bond Company Stooge (Bud Cort), Zissou's wife (Anjelica Houston, doing her icy society matriarch thing), and a guy (Jorge Seu) whose only function seems to be providing scene transitions by way of singing David Bowie songs in Portuguese. Along the way, Zissou is daunted by his wife's former husband, the much more successful oceanographer Alistair Hennessey (Jeff Goldblum), Filipino pirates, and his own inability to accept his fatherly responsibilities, complicated by competition for the affections of the reporter. And that's just about it. All the elements are there, but they just don't add up to a fully satisfying whole.

And yet I feel I may be being too hard on the film due to Anderson's track record of consistent greatness. The Life Aquatic is thoroughly enjoyable in many ways---the quirky sense of humor, the performances of Murray and the rest of the cast, the minute details of the costumer and set designer. Some critics have argued that it's time for Anderson to move past the aesthetic of his past three films. There may be some truth to that; any artist's aesthetic must evolve or become stale. I don't think it's time for Anderson to move in an entirely new direction, however. His gift is the ability to conceive of entire self-contained worlds as they might appear in the thoughts of a precocious twelve year old and translate them faithfully to the screen. When his films work best, it's through the juxtaposition of adult problems with this whimsical worldview, as in Rushmore, when Max is exiled from the "green world" of Rushmore Academy and forced to attend public school; or the reverse in Tenenbaums, when the various members of the clan retreat to the fantasy world of their childhood home. The Life Aquatic's world is brilliantly conceived and executed, from Team Zissou's matching uniforms to the magnificent Henry Selick-designed animated fictional sea life, but there's nothing grounded in reality for us to grab on to--when the film's few emotional beats come, they seem forced, out of place.

I read much of the film as Anderson's reflections on the filmmaking process. Zissou struggles with the usual bugaboos: hostile film festival audiences, financing troubles, mutinous crews. Zissou is on the downside of his career, having lost whatever joy he presumably used to find in his work. Anderson's too crafty to include a nakedly autobiographical character, but it's possible that Zissou doesn't resonate as strongly with the audience because Anderson is already too close, unable to get the ironic distance his work requires. If anything, I hope Anderson sees The Life Aquatic as something of a cautionary tale and finds a way to avoid his title character's disillusionment with the art of making movies.