The Station Agent
I had put off going to see The Station Agent. Something about the premise made me think, "typical indie movie more concerned with its own quirkiness than with telling a compelling story." I mean, come on. A loner dwarf inherits a train station in a small Jersey town and befriends a woman who is mourning the death of her son. Ho-hum, right? I couldn't have been more wrong.

Indeed, my one-sentence description contains virtually the entire plot of the film, but director Tom McCarthy uses the plot as a jumping-off point for a wonderful meditation on isolation and friendship. McCarthy is to be congratulated for his understated script, surehanded direction, solid visual sense, and most of all for maintaining the perfect tone throughout; wistful without being self-absorbed, funny without making fun, and moving without stooping to melodrama. There are many ways this film could have gone off the tracks, yet McCarthy's confidence in the material and actors is so strong that nothing about it feels contrived or unnecessary.

That said, this movie would be nothing without the remarkable performances of its three leads. Peter Dinklage is terrific as Finn, the diminutive inheritor of the station house. He never lapses into caricature, creating a believable portrait of a man who has his reasons for being a loner, but who can't but help gradually warming in some small part to the friendship of kindred spirits. Patricia Clarkson (whom you've seen many times before in smaller roles-you'll remember her name after seeing this film), creates a similarly authentic portrait of Olivia, a woman whose grief has caused her to retreat into isolation. Fortunately, the film isn't interested in using her personal tragedy as a springboard for Hollywood-style manipulative histrionics; rather, it informs the character, hanging on in the periphery as tragedy often does for real people. As in life, it's just there-we rarely have the luxury of a nice, neat catharsis to wrap things up for us. And Bobby Cannavale is winning as Joe, the garrulous Cuban-American exiled to the sticks to care for his sick father. Joe, in his desperation to have someone (anyone) to talk to, becomes the catalyst that sparks the friendship between Finn and Olivia. Joe, too, is transformed by his friendship with the other two-he starts the movie as the kind of guy that talks just to hear the wind whistle through his ears. While Finn and Olivia are drawn ever so slightly out of their isolation, Joe learns how to take some pleasure in silence. All three performances are great, not in the showy, theatrical way of "big" movies, but in their nuance; a look, a reaction, a physical choice here and there make all the difference.

Those seeking denouement will be disappointed; the film's ending is somewhat open-ended. Each character has made a small movement toward healthier relationships with other humans, and that's enough. To go further would be to betray the modest goals of a film that, as it is, precisely hits the target at which McCarthy is aiming. One of this year's best films; I give it 4.5 HO-scale trains out of 5.

DVD Notes
Anyone considering making films ought to see Melville's 1970 film Le Cercle Rouge (Criterion DVD)for two reasons. First, the cinematography is simply outstanding. Melville just knows how to frame a shot, and there is nothing extraneous included. And what use of color! In an era where every big budget film seems to slavishly imitate the overblown Ridley Scott cinematographic style, Rouge's washed-out, bluish tint perfectly suits the film's atmosphere of cool inevitability.

Second, would-be moviemakers would do well to study the way in which Melville unspools his story. He doesn't bore us with endless backstory about the characters. He doesn't worry about explaining every motivation. He simply shows us only what is absolutely necessary to the story, adding to the sense of intrigue. Plotwise, there's nothing especially novel in the film: Heist man is released from prison with news of a "can't miss" job that only he can pull off. He pulls together a crew of honorable criminals to do the job, but is pursued by both police and his former crime boss. Will they succeed and make off with the loot? Anybody that has seen a French crime film knows how this will play out. In fact, Melville even appropriates the extended silent heist scene from Jules Dassin's Rififi for the centerpiece of his film. The film's greatness is in the telling--it's never less than engrossing. On the recent DVD release, Criterion has done its usual superb job with the transfer and thoughtfully collected extras.

Film: 4/5
Look & Sound: 5/5
Extras: 4/5

Apparently not many people got a chance to see John Malkovich's directorial debut, The Dancer Upstairs, based on Nicholas Shakespeare's novel about the search to capture the leader of a Shining Path-like terrorist movement in an unnamed South American country. I wish I could say that's a shame. Malkovich does display a natural ability with the camera, and a sure touch with the actors. He seems, however, to have missed any lessons on pacing from his many years on movie sets. The film's middle drags mercilessly, and the "romance" between Javier Bardem's police detective and his daughter's ballet teacher is set up so poorly that one knows it only exists to provide a "twist" at the end. Still, Bardem (looking a bit like a Latin Stacy Keach) makes a sympathetic and engaging leading man, and the film does an excellent job of capturing the sense of terror created by seemingly random acts of extreme violence. Malkovich should be commended for avoiding the traditional thriller conventions (contriving to put Bardem's family in predictable danger, for example), but somebody should have reminded him that thrillers do need to find a way to thrill from time to time.

Film: 3/5
Look & Sound: 4/5
Extras: 3/5

Some belated thoughts on Kill Bill Vol. 1
Talking to people, I have found it's impossible to defend this movie to those who hate it. It's the flimsiest thread of plot, gilded to the point of absurdity with serious sound and fury. It has no emotional core, and leaves no lasting emotional effect on the audience. The dialogue is--on those rare occasions when there is dialogue--generally pretty silly. I can't argue with these accusations. But I can attempt to explain why I loved the movie anyway.

There seem to be many misconceptions about Tarantino's body of work among the critical community. I am sick of hearing his past films described as being hyper-violent. Though violence always lurks on the periphery of his films, he (up till now, anyway) got a great deal of mileage from implying, rather than graphically depicting, violence. Probably the most violent onscreen moment in Pulp Fiction is the plunging of the adrenaline syringe into Mia Wallace's chest, a life-saving act. The scene is so expertly executed that each of the three times I saw it during its initial theatrical run, the audience's reaction was the same--loud gasps, followed by relieved nervous laughter when she pops upright. I find it impossible to believe that Tarantino did not intend this exact reaction to the scene. In his new film, Tarantino delves enthusiastically into a bit of the old ultraviolence, but it is all directed toward the single purpose of placing the audience in an intricately constructed world, one that bears certain resemblances to ours, but is markedly different in other respects. In this world, there are three different types of blood that gush from wounds; a person's limbs can be severed without them bleeding to death as they thrash in a pool of gore, and airplanes are equipped with holder's for passengers' samurai swords. This trope is really no different than that of his other films; common elements such as character names and prop details connect all of Tarantino's films. In Kill Bill, the violence is explicit-almost as if the unapologetically bratty QT is saying to his detractors, 'You accuse my films of excessive violence-I'll show you violence!" (In the same way, he seems to have answered other criticisms: Robert Richardson's gorgeous photography seems a response to those that have criticized the cinematographic shortcomings of his earlier films; Tarantino's elimination of his trademark snappy banter might be intended to rebuke those who cite this as his pony's single trick).

And let me say this about the violence: I had doubts about QT's ability to pull it off convincingly-but there's never a moment where the fight choreography is anything less than thrilling. Unlike the recent spate of CGI-enhanced fight sequences (cf. the Matrix sequels and Blade II), which seem like nothing so much as intricately wrought dance sequences, the fighting in Kill Bill is alternatively nail-bitingly realistic (the opening knife fight between Thurman and Vivica A. Fox's Vernita Green) and chop-socky far fetched (Thurman's dispatch of the Crazy 88 at the House of Blue Leaves), but it never pulls the audience out of the moment, makes them ponder the craftsmanship rather than enjoying the visceral thrills.

Speaking of visceral thrills, a number of critics (most notably the New Yorker's David Denby) have taken issue with the lack of emotional impact in the movie's formidable body count. Come on. When Bruce Lee takes out a bad guy, it doesn't have an emotional impact on the viewer; it isn't supposed to. We're supposed to root for the hero to dispatch the clearly deserving villains. Now, I'll entertain arguments as to whether movies that treat death and killing with more gravitas are inherently more worthy, but don't try to tell me that Kill Bill represents some kind of new trend toward cheapening the value of human life in our eyes.

Having said that, I will agree with Denby that Tarantino makes a misstep in the scene where the Bride kills Green in front of her young daughter. The reveal of the daughter sets up a real "Oh, shit!" moment, which Tarantino cheapens by denying the daughter any emotional response to the horror she has just witnessed. Tarantino might say that such a moment has no place in the world he's created, and I suppose that's right. But in that case, he should have written the scene differently, not setting up the expectation that a character might react in a way more true to real life and then pulling the rug out from under our feet. Simply put, to include such a moment in a film where the violence is so cartoonishly over the top is a cheap shot.

But the things I loved about the movie far outweighed the things I didn't: the aforementioned cinematography, the perfectly employed music (as I type, that damned theme from Twisted Nerve is going through my head), the fantastic set for the House of Blue Leaves, the Toho set of Japan, Sonny Chiba's dignified performance as a retired master sword smith, the anime "Origin of O-Ren Ishii" chapter, everything about Chiaki Kauriyama, the red cross on Darryl Hannah's eyepatch, and on and on. It's been a long time since I've sat through an entire movie with a ridiculous grin on my face, and for that Tarantino is worthy of praise.

Also praiseworthy--well, downright incredible, actually--is Tarantino's continued ability to get the absolute best work out of his actors. Uma Thurman (other than her work in Pulp Fiction) has never particularly impressed me as an actress, yet she is utterly convincing as the revenge-driven Bride. Ditto Lucy Liu, who has played the "tough chick" before, but never as believably. Sonna Chiba's too-brief cameo evinces nuance one would have not thought possible from the star of the Street Fighter series. I am excited to see what Tarantino can wring from the leathery hide of David Carradine in Vol. 2.

Movie Poop Shoot's Jeffrey Wells said it best when he noted that (I paraphrase) Kill Bill's sense of cool is all-inclusive. You're not better off knowing each and every pop culture reference that Tarantino sprinkles into the mix. You needn't have an encyclopedic knowledge of obscure movies to enjoy the film (another spurious criticism often leveled at Tarantino films), just a willingness to jump on board and enjoy the ride. QT makes you feel as though you're in on it with him from the appearance of the "ShawScope" logo to the closing credits. I might not have left the film pondering weighty questions about the nature of existence, but rarely have I left feeling so good simply because of the balls-out fun of a movie (and by fun, I mean something other than the cynically manipulative "fun" we are supposed to have at your average Jerry Bruckheimer production). The film is a straight-up blast, and that's worth something to me.

4 out of 5 Hattori Hanzo katanas. I will reluctantly leave it off my year-end top 10 because I can't judge it as a complete film. But expect to find it there next year, unless Vol. 2 really drops the ball.