Grey Gardens in the title of this documentary refers to the name of a mansion in the Hamptons on Long Island that has fallen into serious disrepair. The aged Edith Beale - aunt to Jackie Kennedy - still lives there with her daughter Edie. The film is basically an examination of their incredibly bizarre life.
Grey Gardens is very forthright about its documentary-ness - the two women will often talk to their interviewers, the interviewers will often talk back. It does not try to hide the pretense of being a film - i.e. we're put at a greater distance by the fact that everyone involved is very aware they are on film, and are aware of that awareness. Normally I'd be put off by such a thing - I'd think that the Beales are merely playing up who they are for the cameras. However, one thing I noticed about their home is that it lacks a television, and the Beales rarely refer to movies in their strange pastiche of bygone days, songs, and musicals that passes for their communication. Therefore, they don't seem obsessed with fame in the same way that certain 'freaks' in America are (e.g. Jerry Springer guests), and I didn't get the sense they were acting.
Like Errol Morris's Gates of Heaven, Grey Gardens is sometimes boring or repetitive, but also like Gates, certain images in the film linger long after it is over. This film is regarded as a 'camp classic', but laughter seems like the wrong response to it - it is ultimately a film about the Pyrrhic triumph of imagination and memory over the bleakest and most lifeless reality, which doesn't seem too funny, at least not to me.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
A Note About My Film Selection Process
Starting this blog with reviews of these 5 films is not ideal - I'm pretty sure anyone reading this has seen at most 3 of these movies. I am not some fey, withering 'if-it's-well-known-it-can't-be-good' psuedo-auteur. It just so happens that I am a Netflix subscriber, and my selection process for films has a lot of randomization. I add films I am interested in to my queue, and I pick which one comes to me next (almost) purely at random. I try to keep a good balance of films on my queue: comedies and dramas, foreign films and English-language ones, classics and newer movies. Right now, it's been tending towards the weird or unknown films. So, if you're somehow reading this and somehow concerned that the only movies I'm watching will be precious, twee foreign films and ponderous English-language classics, you're only half-right.
Sunrise - 1927 - 5 Stars
Sunrise operates on the same principle as the very end of Lost in Translation - it is sometimes better in love stories if we don't know what the characters are saying. Sunrise's being a silent film makes this rather easy for the director.
The film opens with a simple concept - a man cheating on his wife - then becomes this bizarrely Tarantino/Lynch/Fellini film. It backs away from these ideas later on (perhaps naively so), but the end result is a beautiful movie that certainly rewards the patience needed to view a silent film.
One of the more interesting aspects of the film is the farmer's reaction to the 'big city' - having been used to television and more recent film's treatment of fish out of water, I here quote David Foster Wallace's E Unibus Pluram: "For to the extent that TV can flatter [a viewer] about "seeing through" the pretentiousness and hypocrisy of outdated values, it can induce in him precisely the feeling of canny superiority it's taught him to crave, and can keep him dependent on the cynical TV-watching that alone affords this feeling. And to the extent that it can train viewers to laugh at characters' unending put-downs of one another, to view ridicule as both the mode of social intercourse and the ultimate art form, television can reinforce its own queer ontology of appearance: the most frightening prospect, for the well-conditioned viewer, becomes leaving oneself open to others' ridicule by betraying passe expressions of value, emotion, or vulnerability. Other people become judges; the crime is naivete." Movies have also played with this idea - Napoleon Dynamite seems to be confused about whether I should be laughing at Napoleon Dynamite for being such a gawky loser, or sympathizing with his plight (it leans towards the former). In Sunrise, I was confused whether I should be laughing with the rural bumpkin who seems to know not the customs of the city, or laughing at him for being a fool. I suspect the former - the film does not admit of these sorts of ironies. It has moments of lightness, darkness, humor, sadness, love, and loss - in short, everything a great film should have.
The film opens with a simple concept - a man cheating on his wife - then becomes this bizarrely Tarantino/Lynch/Fellini film. It backs away from these ideas later on (perhaps naively so), but the end result is a beautiful movie that certainly rewards the patience needed to view a silent film.
One of the more interesting aspects of the film is the farmer's reaction to the 'big city' - having been used to television and more recent film's treatment of fish out of water, I here quote David Foster Wallace's E Unibus Pluram: "For to the extent that TV can flatter [a viewer] about "seeing through" the pretentiousness and hypocrisy of outdated values, it can induce in him precisely the feeling of canny superiority it's taught him to crave, and can keep him dependent on the cynical TV-watching that alone affords this feeling. And to the extent that it can train viewers to laugh at characters' unending put-downs of one another, to view ridicule as both the mode of social intercourse and the ultimate art form, television can reinforce its own queer ontology of appearance: the most frightening prospect, for the well-conditioned viewer, becomes leaving oneself open to others' ridicule by betraying passe expressions of value, emotion, or vulnerability. Other people become judges; the crime is naivete." Movies have also played with this idea - Napoleon Dynamite seems to be confused about whether I should be laughing at Napoleon Dynamite for being such a gawky loser, or sympathizing with his plight (it leans towards the former). In Sunrise, I was confused whether I should be laughing with the rural bumpkin who seems to know not the customs of the city, or laughing at him for being a fool. I suspect the former - the film does not admit of these sorts of ironies. It has moments of lightness, darkness, humor, sadness, love, and loss - in short, everything a great film should have.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Sleeping Dogs Lie - 2006 - 2 Stars
Sleeping Dogs Lie is one of those confusing films that even though I didn't like it very much, I'd still recommend it to others. Like The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, it totally defies expectations in an incredibly bizarre way. It is as 'indie' as film gets, with sparsely decorated sets, strangely-colored rooms, and a no-name cast - all these aspects kind of give writer/director Bobcat Goldthwait carte blanche to put his demented vision on to celluloid.
The giveaway for the queerness of the film should have been the soundtrack, which instead of typical Hollywood fare or even typical indie fare, is this strange Yann Tiersen-esque accordion-heavy music. I can't really give away the central premise of the movie - it has to be experienced - and the story is somewhat poorly paced, which is forgivable in a film such as this one. Still, it's an underdog film worth a viewing if you're into pitch-black comedy and explorations of the awkwardness of human interaction.
The giveaway for the queerness of the film should have been the soundtrack, which instead of typical Hollywood fare or even typical indie fare, is this strange Yann Tiersen-esque accordion-heavy music. I can't really give away the central premise of the movie - it has to be experienced - and the story is somewhat poorly paced, which is forgivable in a film such as this one. Still, it's an underdog film worth a viewing if you're into pitch-black comedy and explorations of the awkwardness of human interaction.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Manhattan - 1979 - 4 stars
Three things I want to cover with Manhattan, a film which I had seen before but had largely forgotten:
First, watching Manhattan now is supremely creepy, since in the first minutes of the film it becomes known that Woody Allen's character is dating a 17 year old girl. To me, it speaks to Woody's absolute honesty that his films are loaded with jokes about having sex with underage girls, etc. - he cannot help but put his entire self on the screen, even if it would eventually be discovered that he is a pervert.
But - I want to get behind that first talking scene to the narration that opens the film. Allen states, 'Chapter 1 - He still thought of Manhattan in black and white, with a Gershwin soundtrack...', then dismisses said opening, going through many others. Of course, we're being treated to black and white pictures of Manhattan with a Gershwin soundtrack, and the entire film continues this way. Allen's narrator therefore ironically undercuts his own creation - in a true love story, a film like Casablanca, such narration would be well-placed and would continue without interruption, but Allen's narrator struggles to begin this film because this is a film that really doesn't know what to do with love, or with anything - it asks more questions than it answers.
Lastly, I'm sure most critics note how much the film loves Manhattan, and filming it in black and white is a perfect choice - the haggard, washed out New York of The Taking of Pelham 123 and Koyaanisqatsi is replaced by a fairy tale world. We know we're watching a film precisely because it is in black and white. However, one thing to take away is how the film uses extras - people are always whirling in and out of scenes, and while people confess their deepest feelings, there's often other people within earshot. Such is existence in the big city - Allen nailed this, and even though the technique might be distracting, it's far more true-to-life.
First, watching Manhattan now is supremely creepy, since in the first minutes of the film it becomes known that Woody Allen's character is dating a 17 year old girl. To me, it speaks to Woody's absolute honesty that his films are loaded with jokes about having sex with underage girls, etc. - he cannot help but put his entire self on the screen, even if it would eventually be discovered that he is a pervert.
But - I want to get behind that first talking scene to the narration that opens the film. Allen states, 'Chapter 1 - He still thought of Manhattan in black and white, with a Gershwin soundtrack...', then dismisses said opening, going through many others. Of course, we're being treated to black and white pictures of Manhattan with a Gershwin soundtrack, and the entire film continues this way. Allen's narrator therefore ironically undercuts his own creation - in a true love story, a film like Casablanca, such narration would be well-placed and would continue without interruption, but Allen's narrator struggles to begin this film because this is a film that really doesn't know what to do with love, or with anything - it asks more questions than it answers.
Lastly, I'm sure most critics note how much the film loves Manhattan, and filming it in black and white is a perfect choice - the haggard, washed out New York of The Taking of Pelham 123 and Koyaanisqatsi is replaced by a fairy tale world. We know we're watching a film precisely because it is in black and white. However, one thing to take away is how the film uses extras - people are always whirling in and out of scenes, and while people confess their deepest feelings, there's often other people within earshot. Such is existence in the big city - Allen nailed this, and even though the technique might be distracting, it's far more true-to-life.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada - 2½ Stars
It's very hard for me to decide whether The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada is a loving Don Quixote-influenced homage or a brilliantly ambitious meta-film sendup of indie movies where long journeys purport to have deep spiritual impact (e.g. The Straight Story). One thing that seems to point to the latter is the mysterious presence of television in the film. I can't quite understand why characters are shown watching television so often - at the beginning, Melquiades is enraptured by a television store that has the classic TV display in the front window. Near the middle, we come upon some hunters or ranchers or something that are huddled around a beat-up pickup truck with a tiny television attached to the car battery - they are watching a program in English despite the fact that none of them appear to know English.
This last scene gets to what the film's major theme appears to be - self-created artifice and illusion versus reality - that we require so many illusions to sustain our lives, whether it's the illusory images of television, the belief that a prostitute actually loves us, or that the last wishes of a friend must indeed be honored, regardless of what lengths we must go through to honor them. Yet this story is told where so many things happen in 'movie-land' - that special kind of non-logic that characters have to employ because damn it if they didn't there'd be no movie. As it turns out, we are watching illusions of illusions.
As a quixotically inspired film, it spends too much time being serious, and as a parody, it feels like a waste of time. More movies should be made that attempt such odd things, but I don't necessarily have to or want to watch them.
This last scene gets to what the film's major theme appears to be - self-created artifice and illusion versus reality - that we require so many illusions to sustain our lives, whether it's the illusory images of television, the belief that a prostitute actually loves us, or that the last wishes of a friend must indeed be honored, regardless of what lengths we must go through to honor them. Yet this story is told where so many things happen in 'movie-land' - that special kind of non-logic that characters have to employ because damn it if they didn't there'd be no movie. As it turns out, we are watching illusions of illusions.
As a quixotically inspired film, it spends too much time being serious, and as a parody, it feels like a waste of time. More movies should be made that attempt such odd things, but I don't necessarily have to or want to watch them.
Prolegomena 2 - The Return
Two quick items:
First, obviously the blog's name comes from The Big Lebowski - Walter refers to the Dude's landlord's dance quintet (you know, his cycle) as 'the what-have-you', this dull, poorly attended, and needlessly grandiose performance. That's kind of how I think of blogging in general - a vain (in both senses of the word) attempt at self-expression.
Two, I will be rating films on a five-star scale - 1 being the lowest, 5 being the highest, with half stars.
First, obviously the blog's name comes from The Big Lebowski - Walter refers to the Dude's landlord's dance quintet (you know, his cycle) as 'the what-have-you', this dull, poorly attended, and needlessly grandiose performance. That's kind of how I think of blogging in general - a vain (in both senses of the word) attempt at self-expression.
Two, I will be rating films on a five-star scale - 1 being the lowest, 5 being the highest, with half stars.
The Best Years Of Our Lives - 4½ Stars
Note: Very mild spoilers ahead.
Bad directors tell us what to think by putting their views in the mouths of the characters. Good directors show us what to think by the way a film goes - the good get rewarded, the wicked punished, or perhaps an ironic involution of that. Great directors don't really care about any of this and leave the whole thing up to us as viewers. The Best Years Of Our Lives, William Wyler's triumphant post-WW2 film, is in category 3.
The film's plot is simple - three soldiers return home from the war to a fictional Midwestern city and attempt to resume the lives they left behind. The three soldiers - Fred, Homer, and Sam - are respectively shown to be poor, middle-class, and wealthy. Fred's family basically lives on top of a bowling alley and below another bowling alley, and he struggles to find employment. Sam, meanwhile, is offered a job better than his previous one at the local bank. While I as a viewer expected there to be some class-related conflict between the two - and there certainly is - it is dealt with so much more skillfully than most class conflicts. There is a dearth of righteous indignation, a lack of grand speeches about the nobility of the poor or the poverty of the rich. Sam is demonstrably guilty about having a job at the bank while so many soldiers struggle to find prosperity. However, he does not say, 'I'm demonstrably guilty about having a job at the bank while so many soldiers struggle to find prosperity' - director Wyler and screenwriter Robert Sherwood leave many of the conflicts unspoken, and therefore more tense. We desperately want the characters to say what they're thinking, what we're thinking, and yet they so often refuse to. The film won 7 Oscars and it's fairly easy to see why - a little long, and a little bit of Hollywood keep this from being a 'perfect' 5 star film, but it is a must-watch for classic film buffs.
Bad directors tell us what to think by putting their views in the mouths of the characters. Good directors show us what to think by the way a film goes - the good get rewarded, the wicked punished, or perhaps an ironic involution of that. Great directors don't really care about any of this and leave the whole thing up to us as viewers. The Best Years Of Our Lives, William Wyler's triumphant post-WW2 film, is in category 3.
The film's plot is simple - three soldiers return home from the war to a fictional Midwestern city and attempt to resume the lives they left behind. The three soldiers - Fred, Homer, and Sam - are respectively shown to be poor, middle-class, and wealthy. Fred's family basically lives on top of a bowling alley and below another bowling alley, and he struggles to find employment. Sam, meanwhile, is offered a job better than his previous one at the local bank. While I as a viewer expected there to be some class-related conflict between the two - and there certainly is - it is dealt with so much more skillfully than most class conflicts. There is a dearth of righteous indignation, a lack of grand speeches about the nobility of the poor or the poverty of the rich. Sam is demonstrably guilty about having a job at the bank while so many soldiers struggle to find prosperity. However, he does not say, 'I'm demonstrably guilty about having a job at the bank while so many soldiers struggle to find prosperity' - director Wyler and screenwriter Robert Sherwood leave many of the conflicts unspoken, and therefore more tense. We desperately want the characters to say what they're thinking, what we're thinking, and yet they so often refuse to. The film won 7 Oscars and it's fairly easy to see why - a little long, and a little bit of Hollywood keep this from being a 'perfect' 5 star film, but it is a must-watch for classic film buffs.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Introduction
This is going to be a film blog. However, unlike other film blogs (none of which I have read so I am just assuming), I don't intend to 'review' movies in the traditional sense. I'll post a rating, but will try to avoid long plot summaries. Instead, I'm going to try to focus in on one aspect of the film, highlighting why I think it is of interest. I will try to avoid spoilers also, but that I certainly cannot promise. I will, however, warn of significant spoilers.
I am not a film student, nor have I ever been one, so I will not be talking about aesthetic movements or anything like that. That's a good thing, because I find that stuff insufferably boring.
I am not a film student, nor have I ever been one, so I will not be talking about aesthetic movements or anything like that. That's a good thing, because I find that stuff insufferably boring.
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