Blogcritics Author: Jules Alder

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

Movie Review: Double Indemnity

Jules Alder — Mon, 25 Sep 2006 03:00:47 EDT

Trying to reconcile himself to the person he's closest to, insurance salesman Walter Neff surrenders the truth of events leading up to a fraudulent scam in which his lover's husband can produce a golden egg by dying accidentally on a train. The voiceover narrative, ever reminiscent of the opening scene of Neff careening recklessly to get to the office, leads a suspenseful and introspective domestic nightmare. As he's pulled ever deeper into Phyllis Dietrichson's machinations -- sympathizing with her dread of the abusive, alcoholic terror awaiting her at home -- he learns all is not as it seems. Their lopsided love affair staggers between the twisted passion that arises at the prospect of ridding the world of one man and the thrill of plotting a scheme that would go all the way, no hiccups, straight down the line.If ever a writing duo wove an unsung swan song, Raymond Chandler and Billy Wilder did when they penned this lush but terse and often powerful landmark film. Crime novelist Raymond Chandler wrote the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock's Strangers on a Train (1951) in addition to whipping up the dialogue with Wilder from Cain's novel, which was originally entitled Double Indemnity in Three of a Kind. If titles are any indication whatsoever of writing abilities, suffice to say it's a good bet the film's substantially better. Although owing a lot to earlier noir-like flourishes, Double Indemnity remains an enigmatic foreshadowing of the subsequent emergence of American crime novel fixation in Europe, and film historians usually diagnose this as the first complete noir expression. A year too late to make the grade, Edgar G. Ulmer's Detour (1945) struck a similar note as a classic that would be all but forgotten upon release, only to be dug up by film historians who, presumably, preferred the indie director to Wilder.All the elements of classic filmmaking, though, combine to render an intriguing and unparalleled feature that bears, as part of the ironic legacy of its title, the dual blessing and curse of reflexive history. In response to its less than immaculate reception at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, Wilder sank his disappointment into his follow-up, The Lost Weekend (1945), which snagged the same majors as rival Leo McCarey for Going My Way (1944). Wilder's competitive nature probably explains most of the seeming jest of experiencing a sense of personal failure for not having made it big at the Oscars; even in light of the fact that, until the 1960s, the Academy Awards were considered by more than just the Hollywood sector of the industry to be the last word in quality. Taking in the film as a whole, however, leaves a question as to what kind of director couldn't simply take pride in his work, award winner or not.For one thing, Fred MacMurray turns in a to-the-letter performance as the salesman taking the irresistible challenge of the ultimate sale, kindling his obsession with perfection. Barbara Stanwyck, burdened with the necessity of playing off not only her co-star but the voice over, radiates an alternating little girlishness and an older woman's aloof but accessible charm. The combination is heady and alluring and wouldn't be equaled again until Mike Nichols' The Graduate (1967). But Edward G. Robinson's little man, Barton Keyes, brings a character to the screen so rich with nuance and mannerisms that his naturality as the anchor of this small insurance world oftentimes goes completely unnoticed. It's as if the sun may rise and set elsewhere, but in the black and white world of eternal noir night, the bottom line sets the bar.To counteract that direction and to give the film a bit more breadth, perhaps, we're introduced to a fourth character, Lola, Phyllis's stepdaughter. She brings back some of the daylight and a naive quality that leaves her fragile and confused, only the appropriate reaction to the world spinning out of control around her. Descriptions of sensory influences blend with Lola's simple presence in the film as a reminder of everything the insurance business purports to protect but instead betrays.It's so easy to be debauched by Phyllis and Walter's seductive relationship that it's even easier to forget their penchant for killing, thanks to the incredible work of cinematographer John Seitz and the chemistry between MacMurray and Stanwyck. Every gesture, every glance, charges the air around them with intrigue and excitement so compelling even the smallest objects around them transform into conduits for those feelings. The stacks of canned goods on the grocer's rationed shelves become Aztec cities; the phone booth transcends its geography to suggest howling winds that must be hushed into reverence; and honeysuckle smells famously like murder.The most awing and humbling act arrives when, having been caught up in the dirty business of covering up their crimes, Neff does his best to make things right. He may be a little late, but after all the madcap racing around, his effort speaks quietly of a man who recalls life offers more than the option between the grind or a heist. Partly due to Lola, but mainly because no man likes to be tricked by someone he cares about, the film's finale reverberates with the simple reminder of things all of us need to be able to count on but can take for granted way too much. Even those not easily succumbing to the thoughtless whispers of a dark and dreary night in nowhere.

Jules writes reviews, stories, short screenplays, and plays, and sometimes even gets to have fun harassing actors with large cameras.

Movie Review: Little Miss Sunshine

Jules Alder — Wed, 6 Sep 2006 22:47:31 EDT

Co-directors Jonathon Dayton and Valerie Faris's mini-epic family romp acts much like the mirrors set in tiny rooms to gain a sense of space. Like many indie films, Sunshine uses time and plot sparingly, yet in such a way that leaves the viewer with the feel of a full film. Greg Kinnear plays a father and self-help speaker trying to push his spiel national. Nursing home reject and Grandpa Alan Arkin is a bad boy druggie and sexpert who coaches his pageant queen-hopeful granddaughter (Abigail Breslin) Olive's dancing.Enter Uncle Frank, an irresistibly terse Steve Carell, a disgraced literature professor freshly returned from the hospital on suicide watch to bunk with his morbid, mute fifteen-year-old nephew. When asked why he's stopped speaking, Dwayne (Paul Dano) points to a wall-sized caricature of Friedrich Nietzsche in reply. It's off to the funny farm from there, each character's personality colliding with the next as though this were a stage play in which everybody's a little bit twisted. And then there’s the Mom (Toni Collette) who wants nothing but honesty in her family and what's best for her kids. The stage-play elements of the opening might normally come off as a bit trite, but this cast makes it work. In a noteworthy moment, the camera kneels along with Dad. Bracing his young daughter's shoulders, he wrings from her the promise that their trip to California to enter her in the “Little Miss Sunshine” beauty pageant will end in triumph. Olive puts on a brave face and the family piles into the reliable old microbus for a cross-country run.From there, we are plunged into the soups of human trials that smacks a bit of The Grapes of Wrath and films like Home for the Holidays. This family’s emotional challenges and achievements are so earthy and unpretentious, the humor so warm and sweetly lighthearted that big things become small and manageable. Where another viewpoint might have mired their problems in a more depressing model, Michael Arndt’s debut script takes daunting family issues like suicide and drug addiction and provides them with a very human and watchable perspective. But despite all of their traumas, the connection between family members remains its main attraction. Whether it’s a depressed nephew standing on a pier hearing his uncle proclaim Proust a loser, or at-odds family members heaving-to as a unit to start the family bus, their frailties dissolve within a context few comedies bother to provide. It takes Sunshine to a level that soars. These aren't people simply motivated by family obligations, though, any more than a random hodge-podge of emotional dysfunction. They're folks who have been tried by fire and have come out on the other side to want what's best for one another. Without even trying, the film tugs at the Little Miss Sunshine in all of us through its characters, asking us to be better people and to start by remembering to enjoy the world and those around us. When you're trying to snag the elusive limelight in a beauty contest, that's precisely the kind of crew you want in your corner.

Jules writes reviews, stories, short screenplays, and plays, and sometimes even gets to have fun harassing actors with large cameras.

Movie Review: Modern Times

Jules Alder — Sat, 3 Jun 2006 16:34:10 EDT

Breaking five years' silence after City Lights in 1931, the Tramp returns to work at a steel mill, shipyard, department store, machinist's shop, and restaurant, the American dream tugging at him. He spends his time trying to stay fed, even if it means going to jail. A run-in with a vivacious, but malnourished, street urchin leads to him redoubling efforts in the hope that they can build a home together, but to little avail. Circumstances always emerge that preclude realization, ensuring that he constantly circulates through a maze of entry-level jobs, never achieving anything lasting. Released thirteen years before 1984 hit bookshelves and ergonomics became an applied science, Modern Times relays startling accuracy and insight into man's struggle with technology. Unable to rest at the steel mill, the Tramp works himself into a nervous breakdown; and, when he lands a craftsman position at a shipyard, accidentally sinks a half-built ship. Later on, while roller skating as a department store night watchman, a job he got when the old watchman broke his leg, he gets held up by a group of hungry men, one of whom he'd worked with at the steel mill.Chaplin's apropos commentary on the constraints of industrialization on personal freedom, often sharp, factor in the selling of modernity itself. New technological advances surface like waves and society rushes to catch up with them in vain, stumbling. Social responsibility plays an ever smaller role as money and time dominate its very inventors. Referred to as Chaplin's "crystal ball," his clairvoyance credits his brilliance not only as a comedian, but also as a filmmaker with a wider view of the world and a more salient wit than most.Yet, despite his full awareness of and attention to the the age of the machine -- or because of it -- Chaplin elicits some of the heartiest laughter with this material. His movements balletic and his heroine feistier than usual, his common ails play out with spunk and earthiness. Teetering on the threshold of the ribald, his visual antics possess warmth, depicting the poor blue-collar worker as the salt of the earth. His imparted wisdom, of no mean quality, suggests that when times get so rough that success can only be attained at someone's detriment and is so short-lived anyway, it's more recommendable and just as feasible to live happily ever after as a Tramp.

Jules writes reviews, stories, short screenplays, and plays, and sometimes even gets to have fun harassing actors with large cameras.

Movie Review: Casablanca

Jules Alder — Fri, 2 Jun 2006 13:04:19 EDT

Avoiding partisan conflicts of interest by involving himself in the Allied resistance, Rick runs and desiccates in the Cafe Americain in Casablanca, the point of no return for many wishing to escape the long arm of the Reich and its ill effects. So when old flame Ilsa walks into, "of all the gin joints in all the world," his, she brings more than the warm scents of a Paris springtime, she also brings the memory of everything that he once was and is no more. You must remember the first time you saw a movie about a doomed love affair, and if it was Casablanca, you may have seen the best. Time and again, it lands a distinguished place on the "best ever" lists that circulate among industry people, filmmakers, and critics, like a cultural lazy-susan. Among the younger, less-established independent and foreign film lovers, though, a doubt festers that perhaps the film only appeared great in retrospect and that such a latent appreciation may have catapulted its status until it became an irreplaceable classic that wouldn't have been so otherwise. It raises questions, too, concerning the importance of love stories from other countries that haven't been given the same attention.And yet, Casablanca remains an American film only quixotically. It chases ideals of freedom, the Bohemian notion that we should do as we please, especially when charged by fascists not to. An international cast, a Moroccan setting, and an enlightened view of humanity peppers the film's legacy as something beyond not just the gangster films of the state-side 1940s, but also beyond the scope of many war films. Practically arbitrary, the positioning of the movie in a town few Americans had ever heard of or thought about spells brilliance. Stuck between the desert on all sides and the fist of the Reich from above, what else would a card-carrying, former freedom fighter do but drink? Well, if you're Humphrey Bogart, you also own the joint so you don't pay extra to drown your sorrows in someone else's whiskey glass.A deep idea resides just below the surface of Casablanca. In many ways, Rick and Victor are the same man. Rather like the summer and autumn of a romance, both stem from the same place. Life can't be all champagne, music, and drives in the French countryside, and it's interesting to note that the loner, not the altruist, facilitates the preservation of the free world. Rick goes about the business of tidying away the resistance leaders with class, too. If Victor really loved Ilsa, some have said, he would've gotten on the plane alone. But people driven by ideals don't often notice the tiny hardships their causes can produce; and, if they did, they could not go on fighting. They would be in truth very different people with very different lives. More to the point, no one can ever attain perfect altruism any more than a person can claim to be wholly selfish. These two have essentially swapped roles by the end of the film.If for some reason the theme of redemption and love conquering all don't sweep you off your feet, consider the film's thousand tiny details: the portulent, fez-wearing owner of the Blue Parrot who lives to make deals and swat flies; the bit in which Bogie plays chess with himself while refusing to have a drink with Peter Lorre; "Yvonne, I love you, but he pays me." Claude Rains as the virile, witty sidekick to Bogart's dour, stoic platitudes also evokes timely laughs.Perhaps the shining moment occurs when the German officers stand to sing their national anthem, and Victor and Rick order the band to play the French one in response. The Germans eventually can't overpower the armed lungs of the passionate ensemble of customers, but before they disperse, the anthems of both countries harmonize, as in rounds. For just that moment, it sounds absolutely divine.

Jules writes reviews, stories, short screenplays, and plays, and sometimes even gets to have fun harassing actors with large cameras.

Movie Review: Swing Time

Jules Alder — Fri, 2 Jun 2006 12:33:16 EDT

One of the most novel pastimes of apple-pie American theatre seems to be the sporting, good old boy sense of fair play in foul. In Swing Time, Lucky is conned out of money and a wedding by his dance troup. He then hops a train with nothing but the tuxedo on his back, a lucky quarter, and aging sleight-of-hand magician Pop. When he asks a girl on the street for change, he almost loses the lucky coin. He follows her to the dance hall where she gives lessons, and before you can say "jitterbug" they're dancing as though they were meant for each other.So is it all that surprising that the charming Lucky, a gambler who doesn't like to give up on a good thing, finds himself in a fix when he falls for the graceful Penny? Not really, but in a film created around a dancing couple, the love story will evolve no more straightforwardly than the dance steps. He still has a fiancee back home, waiting for him to cough up $25,000 so that they can marry; but, of course, she can't dance. In a great scene where he's hoping that they don't have to fall in love, that they can just ignore the problem and it will go away, just the opposite happens. Never underestimate the power of nagging your lover over some missing kisses by singing in the midst of winter's white delight.With song lyrics that have wound their way into the national psyche over the decades, Swing Time possesses an unforgettable slice of Americana. The magic created by their sweet naiveté is perhaps the most lasting quality of the pairing of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, but the real pyrotechnics show best when they dance. Although he would go on to partner with Lucille Bremer, Rita Hayworth, Eleanor Powell, and Cyd Charisse, none would ever please the eye so much as Ginger. She moved in and out of his arms without hesitation, light as breath and lovely as wine.Some notable numbers surface, including a somewhat disturbing blackface "Bojangles' Harlem" dance sequence. Its inclusion -- in theory rather than in practice -- sends a haunting echo of both political and showbusiness history, but watching Fred dance a much more agressive jig with those chilling silhouettes makes for great cinematography, the kind that can send tingles down one's spine at nearly any age. A stark reminder that his was a different world and it's important to peel away the layers, because what we're getting when he performs for a fictional audience is a look at a look, removed from the easier-to-watch foreground. Whether or not audiences in 1936 felt the same pulse remains questionable. In strict terms of film value, the "Bojangles' Harlem" number acts as an exciting bridge, filled with all of Lucky's darkest thoughts that couldn't have been spoken aloud and are much better expressed through dance. The rest of the time, judging from the way he and Ginger cut a rug, we have a pretty good idea what's on his mind.

Jules writes reviews, stories, short screenplays, and plays, and sometimes even gets to have fun harassing actors with large cameras.

Movie Review: 8 1/2

Jules Alder — Thu, 1 Jun 2006 12:08:30 EDT

Besieged by an undiagnosed but cloying malady, reclusive director Guido Anselmi searches for his film as obstacles emerge in every form imaginable. Frederico Fellini's afterimage labors under heavy dreams, sifts through an ocean of actresses, and collides with his inevitable frailty while meandering, trance-like, through his production. All the while, as clips of conversations make up the frenetic background through which he tunnels, he exists in an alternate dimension which demands more and more from him as he traverses toward a resolution of the personal, revealing, and bizarre. Favoring the journey for the ultimate sake of destination, Fellini often submerges his director in collective, diasporic memories: some that hold stigma, and some that soothe. Anything going on outside of Guido's mind becomes passé the moment it occurs in his rut. The actresses gather to catch his attention, but few manage to do so. Direct conversation means as much as crystal tinkling at a cocktail party, and he avoids it with disinterest, even to the point of talking to a hapless man just to get away. Due to a subtle capturing, a mastery on Fellini's part, it's often hard to distinguish between the reality of the people in Guido's world and the appearance of them in his mind. Often, things don't connect, and characters barrage, picking at the senses until he retreats back into another dimension. Even meetings crucial to the film's progress, such as a meeting with the Bishop concerning representing Italy with the rectitude of his film's themes, don't prevail upon him to leave off his musings. His inner life preoccupies and drives him to distraction. It enchants and torments him with its vivid imagery and guilt-laden layers that blight the more salient moments of his childhood. An early introduction to Saraghina, a garish woman who lives in a sea shanty, conveys his first curiosity in the vigorous female form. As the social and moral outcast dances the rhumba for a coin, the boys cheer, but Guido responds in earnest to the prostitute's visceral daring. The Church then chases him down, finds his disgraced mother, and shames him for lewdness.Fellini doesn't work it to death. His understanding of Guido as halcyon as moonlit tidepools, the director allows him the freedom -- earned by a lifetime of inner turmoil -- to do as he pleases, and he phones his lover. When Carla seems to have missed the train, he shrugs with apparent indifference; but the camera with relief, so that her sudden appearance as the train departs declares a man torn between two unknowns. Although her presence helps him get at least one good night's rest, his mental detachment increases, with her dense witticisms coming even as his body responds with a will of its own. His wife Luisa arriving only a little later, though, seems to bring him angst, shoving his thoughts to the outer realms where no one can reach him. The essential play that Fellini prepares effuses a desire for the world to be lovely and reasonable, as evidenced by Guido's delight that his wife and mistress, once having spotted each other, take to each other with comraderie and style and genuine affability. But do they really treat each other right, or by way of magic has the camera tricked into reality a whim of the director? Like I said, it's hard to say sometimes. In his secret heart, Guido clings to and cherishes his wife, seeing her simplicity and her strength, the quiet calm at the far end of his restless fantasies. Aware of his seeming emotional destitution, he finds solace in that place.Yet Guido's film plays out as a trite send-up to that emotional destitution, and during a viewing of the actresses' screen tests, Luisa watches the sad parodies of herself and Carla mutilate lines over and over. None of them can ever bring the same simpering gibberish or that certain je ne sais quoi. The screenings project relentlessly, and the only abatement is the arrival of Claudia Cardinale as a facet of herself, his last hope and savior. When she, too, undermines his fantasy notion of her, Guido faces the novelty of a lifetime of imperfection reflected all around him. Things grow dark, perturbing, and gauntly out of reach, the images fragmenting as Fellini hoodwinks his audience one last time, because he can. Fellini claimed that his seventh film was only half a film, giving this title its only real significance; the picture, on the other hand, is worth far more than a thousand words. It defines and redefines filmmaking, unabashed by real-life problems, and starkly honest at its depths, so much so that it led the Time magazine reviewer in June, 1963 to write, "Fellini has a singular personal problem: why is he so preoccupied with making movies that speak of the emptiness of life?" But had the writer the opportunity to watch this several times and reflect, he very well may have sung an altogether different tune; one of surprises, inspiration, and joy.

Jules writes reviews, stories, short screenplays, and plays, and sometimes even gets to have fun harassing actors with large cameras.

Movie Review: The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada

Jules Alder — Tue, 30 May 2006 17:42:57 EDT

Tommy Lee Jones's first go in the director's seat smacks all at once of John Sayles's Lonestar, Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven, and Sam Peckinpah's Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. Like Sayles, Jones distills a classic Western theme and relocates it in a modern setting, reincarnating (and also starring as) the lone cowboy who (like Eastwood's William Munny) makes justice his bedfellow to right the negligent death of his friend, Melquiades. A frustrating border problem looms in the background of small-town Texas. Border patroller Mike Norton (Barry Pepper) exhibits an unexplained rage towards the illegal immigrants he gets paid to simply chase back into Mexico; and, later on, a peccadillo that results in Melquiades's death. When the Texas Rangers, the local police, and the border patrollers won't investigate, modern-day cowboy Pete Perkins takes it upon himself to see his personal brand of justice done and his friend's body home.More than one reviewer has suggested that Eastwood may have been the only other man who could have pulled this part off, but the film engenders doubts that he would have been the right hombre. Jones's tired visage greets the camera like cold bacon and eggs. The aging Texan plays Pete with an easy gravitas, loose in the saddle and patient to make good on a promise to an exile. The film never spells out why the Mexican could not go home, but rather delivers us into the hands of a man willing to wait for something good. The cowboy mystique revels in solitude, men of few words, and calculated actions. Their bond manifests in a series of quiet, lucid flashbacks that culminate when Melquiades asks his only friend to find his wife and family should he die while still in Texas."I don't want to be buried under a billboard," he tells Pete.Pepper plays the emotionally distant border patroller just so, too disaffected to notice his bad marriage, and too out of control to stop beating would-be immigrants at his day job. The officials try to get Mike to stop brutalizing Mexicans, but show serious disinterest in Melquiades's death. As the tight-lipped sheriff, Dwight Yoakam regurgitates incredible talent for the loathsome (think Slingblade) and faces off with Pete over what he dismisses as "just another wetback." Not willing to compromise as filmmaker or hero, Jones takes his character south of the border, hauling along Norton and one very rancid corpse.Guillermo Arriaga's dialogue alternately tarnishes and shines. At once, he paints the scenery of the Lone Star State with industry and a macabre claustrophobic sense pungent with wit. Norton's estranged wife, Lou-Ann, (Melissa Leo) describes her old home of Cincinnati to the curious waitress (January Jones) who notices her boredom. "Yeah, it's really pretty," Lou-Ann says, childishly believable. "I love the malls."A lot could be said of the Amores Perros and 21 Grams writer; he's come a long way, and so has Melquiades. In a raw moment between Pete and corpse, he gives up trying to brush his loosening hair, shakes his head, and says, "You look like hell, son." But it's not all squeaky one-liners and juxtapositions. Both Arriaga and Jones let the landscapes speak volumes. The town they seek, described as having so much beauty one could die for it, may only be a myth, but it takes shape and meaning of its own. In their search for Jimenez, no one can guide them...except for Melquiades maybe. And he isn't talking.Supporting the weight of such an allegory, cinematographer Chris Menges and music director Marco Beltrami delicately imbue the film with life. In the search for something as eternal yet fleeting as a wellspring, a tree, and a bit of rock, such delicacy should be admired. One part Greek tragedy to two parts discovery, Three Burials has won Jones Best Actor at Cannes, and Best Screenplay for Arriaga, both honors well deserved. But the greatest aspect of the film remains its wonderfully indie imperfections. The honesty has so much rust that it delights where others fail. Artless manipulation, rising musical scores, and cheap camera tricks can be found elsewhere. Character and setting provide really great movement, true, but had Pete Perkins's aim been that of a man intent upon fulfilling his friend's request simply because he deserves no less than a white man, this would likely be a different movie altogether.Not a feel-good morality tale, and not about everything that's wrong with the world, the story centers on the mystery of a life, which serves the film better than hidden motives. A promise made by one man to another while alone on the range one soft, summer day makes good and to great effect, waking Norton from his trite, unreal sense of life and providing a noteworthy emotional payoff. The film's catharsis rings as replete as that of its travelers, a sweet, forgotten sound. In a medium foundering in formulaic plots, snoring sequels, and just plain bad re-runs, it's refreshing, and unlikely to be seen again soon.

Jules writes reviews, stories, short screenplays, and plays, and sometimes even gets to have fun harassing actors with large cameras.

DVD Review: Closely Watched Trains

Jules Alder — Sat, 27 May 2006 18:31:20 EDT

Stepping into the niche his ancestors have carved for him, Milos begins his apprenticeship as a dispatcher at the local train depot in Nazi-controlled Czechoslovokia. His girl, a train conductor, loves him, and all he has to do is "stand on the platform with a signal disc and avoid any hard work, while others have to drudge and toil." Life is good. But when it's time to make love, Milos suffers anxiety, a misunderstanding of his manhood that leads him first to a suicide attempt and then to a more alluring solution, an older woman.Milos's quiet acknowledgment of the goings-on around him make for thoughtful viewing. Like a well-made cup of tea, Closely Watched Trains progresses gently, provocative, brimming with delightful moments; it is insightful, humorous and brazen. An inspector arrives at the station to show the stomping power of the Reich, reminding the workers that they all have to like each other in order to win, and departing in a car on the tracks, running in reverse.Later, when Milos's philandering co-worker gets nabbed for tattooing a young girl with official rubber stamps, the Inspector returns to declare the dispatcher's guilt of abusing the German national language as engraved on one of the stamps and displayed on the girl's right buttock. It's wonderful irreverence, the sort of material to be expected from a man some have called the Woody Allen of Czechoslovokian cinema, for both physical and humorous resemblances.Since 1966, of course, the country has split into the Czech Republic and Slovokia, and a similar hint of division surfaces within the 40-year-old film. The town, station, far away cities and countries exist as separate entities, mere matters of geography. The imposition of the Reich holds little sway over Menzel's individual countrymen. Distance and culture clash raise too high a barrier to make much of an impression beyond the idea that the Germans are pigs who don't know how to treat cattle, let alone people. The soldiers who pass through on foot get afforded the same courtesies as the closely watched trains that arrive almost without origination on one side of the tracks and depart to the unknown on the other.Menzel's style, influenced by the Nouvelle Vague, retains its integrity by not indulging in the experimental or overdoing technique. True to form, the images flow with the logic of a mountain stream, but with an undercurrent of dark humor contextualized by an unending sensitivity to humanity's weaknesses and shortcomings as well as its surprising strengths. Each take supports the previous and jumps into the next, securing the masterpiece as a lasting monument to its director and its country. A bold and kind treatment of the enduring reality of the human spirit, Closely Watched Trains won the Gran Prix at the Mannheim Film Festival and The Best Foreign Language Film Award at the 1967 Academy Awards.

Jules writes reviews, stories, short screenplays, and plays, and sometimes even gets to have fun harassing actors with large cameras.

Movie Review: The Searchers

Jules Alder — Sat, 27 May 2006 13:56:43 EDT

There's something hard enough about raising a family that somehow augments the difficulty of doing so in the pioneer days. Perhaps that's the real reason why Western-settling independent types have often been so glorified and romanticized in these films. Most Americans can claim some amount of ancestry that fits that mold, so especially in the Cold War days of bomb shelters and emergency raid drills there was a public demand for movies that reinforced the strength and spirit of what came to embody "the American way."Since this was before "white guilt" wended its way into recognizable consciousness, there aren't any apologies made to the Native American peoples who are depicted here more as a source of conflict than as a people with a viable culture, history, or human emotions of their own. It's almost embarrassing to watch a film like this, one in which so many mistakes are made regarding the Comanche that the lack of research or responsibility on the part of the filmmaker is pretty damned appalling; or, more often, just really gauche. That being said, this movie doesn't exist to enlighten its audience regarding the ways of an all but extinct race, but to provide a venue in which John Wayne can shine. So all political and cultural faux pas aside, for serious Wayne fans, this is a must-see.In this sweeping 1957 vision from John Ford, the Duke is afforded several opportunities to act, and act he does. The script, while very racist and pro-pioneer, seems disinclined to completely dismiss the influence of the indigenous tribes on the folks of that time. People who have been taken by raiders are shown in various debilitated states of being, a village idiot type named Mose wanders around the plains imitating and revering the very people who threaten his fellows, and the mixed blood that was fairly common among early settlers is more than acknowledged. His nephew and riding buddy for most of the movie, Martin Pawley (Jeffrey Hunter), one-eighth Cherokee, provides the grit that abrades Wayne's character, Ethan, as his stubborness to accept the Indians as human manifests itself plainly. This also provides occasions for stock Wayne one-liners like, "That'll be the day."Ford essentially broke this up into two basic stages: the indoors, with its play-like atmosphere creates somber moods in which the family reacts to imminent, invisible threats, and the outdoors (most of which are real) where all the action and the chasing of those same invisible aggressors takes place. When Ethan's niece Debbie is taken by a raiding chief, the chase is on. True to form, one thing that Ford should be lauded for is for not failing to depict another predator that the white man faced in those bleak times -- other white men. Ethan has his hands full making sure that he and Martin don't end up shot in the back by money-hungry, would-be assassins while they're tracking down the ghost war chief, Scar, who seems to have materialized out of the mists of hearsay.The indoor sets revel in the colors of sunset and dusk, while the outdoor shots alternate between the formidable buttes and plateaus of Texas and simpler, quieter stretches of woods and snow. Since most Westerns bothered very little in the way of cinematography, the efforts are pretty pleasing even if the story suffers from time to time. The encapsulation of Wayne's hero as a man who does not stop until he gets what he wants, however, doesn't suffer in the slightest. From the moment he steps foot onto the set, to the moment he walks away from the porch, he is a lonely and austere figure, the epitome of wild and fierce independence in an uncertain and unpredictable world. And yes, when he scoops up the now-grown Debbie in his arms instead of killing her, there is a huge, undeniable sense of redemptive value.Perhaps Ethan realizes that blood is blood, and that he has enough on his hands already without resorting to the sort of animal behavior he's always been so hard-set against. He's no hypocrite. He has a beating heart inside that staggering frame. And thanks to years of perseverance, so does Debbie.

Jules writes reviews, stories, short screenplays, and plays, and sometimes even gets to have fun harassing actors with large cameras.

DVD Review: Bande � Parte

Jules Alder — Fri, 26 May 2006 18:17:25 EDT

With little going on in Odile's life besides an English class, she quickly, unwittingly ensnares herself in a heist of money from her aunt and guardian's safe. Coquettish looks and misunderstood conversation between a misfit girl and two young men dabbling with the idea of being gangsters at first results in lackadaisical hanging out, but soon turns mean-spirited in Bande � Parte.The 1964 film (known in English as Band of Outsiders or The Outsiders), one of bored youth without direction or guidance, is nothing new. A few notable implementations, though, veer this away from a typical '60s romp � la Annette Funicello: black and white film, for one. It shimmers with high-key lighting, open skies, and white walls; and, while it may not have a lot of honorable intention or content, resistance to smiling at parts can prove futile. Each scene has urgency, due mainly to the "live reporting" camera techniques.Jean-Luc Godard gives the actors little pith with which to mold their characters, an aspect that would've felt asphyxiating to many actors of that time and of today. Karina, for the most part, contours her features into a pitiable frown meant, presumably, to convey a smorgasbord of emotions ranging from confusion to dislike. She frowns a lot. The scenes where the trio enjoys each other's company -- when they dance the Madison or attempt a minute of silence -- feel the most natural, the most credible. Could this be too much digging into a film constructed to look fresh and cool, and timbred with Michel Legrand's light-hearted Parisian score? Possibly. Godard piecemealed the script together, day by day, using what sets he could and, more often than not, existing lighting. He didn't overly concern himself with characterization, plot, or story development. What his efforts lack in depth and substance isn't made up for with realistic cinematography and a fresh, rebellious approach. Hackneyed writing and stringed fragments of pop culture references may project cool and crisp, but attention to craft serves the cast, crew, and audience much better, providing the respect and structure needed for actors to apply their medium. To wit, although Anna Karina is an undeniable beauty, placing her in front of the camera and rolling does not a feature film make. She does her best, but often resorts to eye-candy posturing.The most praiseworthy aspect of Godard's work may be that it never purports to be something that it is not. For a couple of other reasons besides this, Bande � Parte didn't get relegated to the arena of kitsch. Since Godard's style changed dramatically from film to film, his pulpy followings never congealed to the thickness of a John Waters or an Ed Wood fan base. He also creates a whimsical atmosphere that remains consistent throughout, the mark of a good director, if not a great writer. Perhaps the best moment arrives when Karina sings on the subway, a sad song that reflects her state of mind more than it supports the story.An irony exists that helps to bridge the comprehension gap between contemporary French filmmaking and the old New Wave. Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Amelie, despised by many a self-titled film buff who will readily claim any of Godard's pieces as an automatic better film, nods to him while also upstaging the New Wave giant. On the whole, Jeunet creates a more interesting, character-supported, and sweetly rendered peek at French filmmaking. Why? Attention to detail, involvement of the audience in the experience, ideals possessing no substitutes.What Godard has put down for posterity often looks good, but fails to deliver in any tangible way. The sites of Paris, the offhand innocence of a young girl, and the excitement of being in a "band of outsiders" holds universal appeal to youthful decadence, an audience that bemoans the perception of the grass always being greener on the other side of the pond. In reality, though, Bande � Parte does little else to conjure the imagination or inspire. It ends, as it began, at nowhere, but at least the journey held some little magic as it went along. Perhaps that, more than an overt reaction to the mainstream filmmaking of the time, held the greatest importance to the writer. I liked the middle parts most.

Jules writes reviews, stories, short screenplays, and plays, and sometimes even gets to have fun harassing actors with large cameras.