MIDNIGHT IN PARIS (2011)
Directed by Woody Allen
Starring: Owen Wilson, Marion Cotillard, Rachel McAdams, Corey Stoll, Alison Pill, Tom Hiddleston, Kathy Bates, Kurt Fuller, Mimi Kennedy
Have you ever been stuck at a party, politely sipping a cocktail, while all around you, people you didn't know go on and on about subjects of little to no interest to you? You want to get away and ditch your cranberry apple-tini for a cold beer and find somebody to talk with about football, but you can't because, for some reason or another, you're stuck there, listening to a bunch of pretentious windbags go on and on about things you barely remember studying in college. That's what it was like sitting through this movie.
The story is simple enough. A writer named Gil (Wilson) and his girlfriend Inez (McAdams) are about to be married. They are on vacation with Inez' parents (Fuller and Kennedy) in Paris, a city Gil had visited many years earlier and is still enamored with. But Inez's friends rub Gil the wrong way, so he goes for a walk through Paris at night. When he gets lost, the clock strikes midnight, and a car pulls up, offering to give him a ride. Reluctantly Gil gets in, and they arrive a party. The strange thing is, everyone is dressed like it's 1927. What's more, a woman approaches him and introduces herself as Zelda Fitzgerald (Pill). He is then introduced to her husband, Scott (Hiddleston). Later on, he goes on to meet all his literary and artistic heroes, including Ernest Hemingway (Stoll) who agrees to show Gil's novel-in-progress to Gertrude Stein (Bates). While Stein and Picasso argue over the merit of the artists latest painting, Gil meets Adriana (Cotillard) and is immediately taken with her. Gil loves this idealized world so much, that he goes back every single night, leading his fiancee to believe that he's fooling around.
All of this sounds pleasant enough, but the story is brought to a screeching halt, as Allen feels the need to pepper his script with arguments and discussions about the merits of certain artists and writers. Maybe I'm just one of the ignorant, unwashed masses, but all of this art-speak and psychobabble went right over my head. In fact, it went so far over my head, that I got bored. The film is only 94 minutes long, but it felt like an eternity. Woody Allen seems to be only capable of writing one type of protagonist, which is always a caricature of himself. This time, Allen stays behind the camera, but Owen Wilson takes up the mantle of the neurotic writer wanting to see his art make a difference. And Wilson is actually rather convincing at playing a Woody Allen type - maybe even more so than Woody Allen.
In fact, I was so bored that, at one point, I was tempted to turn off the sound and just bask in the wonderful images of Paris that this film offers. The cinematography is absolutely amazing and the production and set designs are wonderful to behold. Also, it was a treat to see all of the famous writers and artists from the 1920's come to life. Of particular note were Corey Stoll as Hemingway, Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein and a very vivacious Adrian Brody as Salvador Dali. We in the 21st Century will never know what these people were really like, but these interpretations were pretty close to the ones I had in my head.
This film basically boils down to being a self-insertion fantasy with some really great movie making skill behind it. But it gets bogged down in it's own self-importance. Allen seems to be more concerned with impressing the audience with his encyclopedic knowledge of Paris in the 1920s than with his skill as a film-maker. And that's sad, because Woody Allen has been making movies for over 40 years. We know how smart he is and how creative he can be. But we rarely see any real cinematic accomplishments from him. And here, he finally excels at being cinematic. But unfortunately, those accomplishments are overshadowed by his own ego.
So while this was a fine film to look at, it wasn't all that pleasant to sit through. I felt like it was made for a very select audience, and I wasn't part of it. But if lengthy discussions on early 20th Century art and literature are your thing, then this is the film for you.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Day 76: How Can You Not Get Romantic About Baseball?
MONEYBALL (2011)
Directed by Bennett Miller
Starring: Brad Pitt, Jonah Hill, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Robin Wright, Kerris Dorsey, Chris Pratt, Stephen Bishop, Brent Jennings, Nick Porrazzo
I'll be honest, folks. I was going to start this review with a lengthy and detailed history of the Oakland Athletics, complete with footnotes, annotations and a video clip or two. Problem is, I'm not much of a baseball historian (not for the A's, anyway). Besides, this isn't a baseball blog. If it were, it would be full of lamentations and very harsh language, as I am a Cubs fan.
But on to the movie...
Moneyball differs from most baseball movies in that it doesn't necessarily focus on the players. Instead, our main man is Oakland A's General Manager Billy Beane (Pitt), a former hot-prospect-turned-Major-League-bust-turned-scout-turned-executive. He's coming off an impressive year that ended when the A's dropped American League Divisional Series to the Yankees, three games to two. On top of that, he's losing Johnny Damon, Jason Giambi and Jason Isringhausen. He and the brass try to figure out a way to rebuild and move on, but Billy insists they can't build a winning team on Oakland's meager budget. While on a trip to Cleveland to try to strike a deal for some unwanted players and extra cash, he meets a young man named Peter Brand (Hill), who the Indians brass always consult before saying yes or no to a trade. None of Beane's deals go through, so he approaches Brand and asks what he know that nobody else seems to know. Bean's philosophy is not one of on-field fundamentals, but of numbers. He places a high stake on a player's On-Base Percentage, saying that that the players who get on base the most (by hit, walk, or even hit by pitch - doesn't matter) are the key to winning games. Billy sees this as an opportunity to get some players on the cheap while bucking the system that baseball is built on. Needless to say, this doesn't sit well with his scouts or the team's manager, Art Howe (Hoffman). According to them, baseball is all about the fundamentals and intangibles. Billy insists it's all a numbers game. The two sides butt heads, and the A's fall to a losing record. But things start to turn around once the the two warring factions realize that both aspects of the game can be melded together.
It's risky to take something as beloved the Baseball Movie, and turn the attention from the players to the management. In other films, they're portrayed as uncaring monsters at worst and exposition-spouting caricatures at best. Here, we get a more realistic look inside the offices of Major League Baseball, and at a time when we see the game changing. It would be easy for the film to get bogged down in the "sabermetrics" (the statistical analysis of baseball that was pioneered with this team), but instead, we are shown what really goes into making a winning team. It's not all numbers, but then again, it's not all about the gameplay. Baseball is a game where even the best team can hit a slump and go from the top to the bottom of the standings in a month. But even the most unlikely team can build a streak that propels them to the top, as the Athletics did in 2002. This film shows us that the game is best played when these two schools of thought meet in the middle, one adjusting for the other as the situation warrants.
But again, this isn't a baseball blog, it's a movie blog. And this is one very well put-together movie. Director Bennett Miller mixes a cinema verite style with actual game footage for a very authentic feel, but he also moves more into the cinematic realm with several stylized slow-motion sequences during a key game against the Kansas City Royals. In one film, Miller shows us that he's capable of varying styles - a smart move when it's only your third feature.
Brad Pitt is pretty engrossing as Billy Beane. Earlier in the film, he reminded me very much of Jesse Eisenberg's portrayal of Mark Zuckerberg in The Social Network. The major difference between the two is that Beane ends up being a rather likable character, with a charming daughter (Dorsey) who he tries to see as often as he can. While these scenes aren't entirely necessary, they do give Billy a bit more of an emotional depth I suspect he wouldn't have had without them. Jonah Hill, usually content to play for laughs in gross-out comedies like Superbad, plays Brand as a low-key number cruncher with a passionate love for baseball. Philip Seymour Hoffman is equally good as A's manager Art Howe, who just wants to manage the team he's given without asking too many questions. Many of the film's scenes were shot in a very Robert Altman-esque style, with theatrical staging and overlapping dialogue, and it is an environment where an actor can get lost in a character. And in this case, I'm glad that happened. I'm glad that I saw Billy Beane and not Brad Pitt.
As I read back over this before hitting the "Publish" button, I realize that I, too, kind of dote about our National Pastime. It's good to know that in this age of statistical number crunching and figuring out a player's worth based on Slugging Percentage, WHIPs, ERAs and other various acronyms, we can still get excited about simply going to the ballpark to watch a game.
Directed by Bennett Miller
Starring: Brad Pitt, Jonah Hill, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Robin Wright, Kerris Dorsey, Chris Pratt, Stephen Bishop, Brent Jennings, Nick Porrazzo
I'll be honest, folks. I was going to start this review with a lengthy and detailed history of the Oakland Athletics, complete with footnotes, annotations and a video clip or two. Problem is, I'm not much of a baseball historian (not for the A's, anyway). Besides, this isn't a baseball blog. If it were, it would be full of lamentations and very harsh language, as I am a Cubs fan.
But on to the movie...
Moneyball differs from most baseball movies in that it doesn't necessarily focus on the players. Instead, our main man is Oakland A's General Manager Billy Beane (Pitt), a former hot-prospect-turned-Major-League-bust-turned-scout-turned-executive. He's coming off an impressive year that ended when the A's dropped American League Divisional Series to the Yankees, three games to two. On top of that, he's losing Johnny Damon, Jason Giambi and Jason Isringhausen. He and the brass try to figure out a way to rebuild and move on, but Billy insists they can't build a winning team on Oakland's meager budget. While on a trip to Cleveland to try to strike a deal for some unwanted players and extra cash, he meets a young man named Peter Brand (Hill), who the Indians brass always consult before saying yes or no to a trade. None of Beane's deals go through, so he approaches Brand and asks what he know that nobody else seems to know. Bean's philosophy is not one of on-field fundamentals, but of numbers. He places a high stake on a player's On-Base Percentage, saying that that the players who get on base the most (by hit, walk, or even hit by pitch - doesn't matter) are the key to winning games. Billy sees this as an opportunity to get some players on the cheap while bucking the system that baseball is built on. Needless to say, this doesn't sit well with his scouts or the team's manager, Art Howe (Hoffman). According to them, baseball is all about the fundamentals and intangibles. Billy insists it's all a numbers game. The two sides butt heads, and the A's fall to a losing record. But things start to turn around once the the two warring factions realize that both aspects of the game can be melded together.
It's risky to take something as beloved the Baseball Movie, and turn the attention from the players to the management. In other films, they're portrayed as uncaring monsters at worst and exposition-spouting caricatures at best. Here, we get a more realistic look inside the offices of Major League Baseball, and at a time when we see the game changing. It would be easy for the film to get bogged down in the "sabermetrics" (the statistical analysis of baseball that was pioneered with this team), but instead, we are shown what really goes into making a winning team. It's not all numbers, but then again, it's not all about the gameplay. Baseball is a game where even the best team can hit a slump and go from the top to the bottom of the standings in a month. But even the most unlikely team can build a streak that propels them to the top, as the Athletics did in 2002. This film shows us that the game is best played when these two schools of thought meet in the middle, one adjusting for the other as the situation warrants.
But again, this isn't a baseball blog, it's a movie blog. And this is one very well put-together movie. Director Bennett Miller mixes a cinema verite style with actual game footage for a very authentic feel, but he also moves more into the cinematic realm with several stylized slow-motion sequences during a key game against the Kansas City Royals. In one film, Miller shows us that he's capable of varying styles - a smart move when it's only your third feature.
Brad Pitt is pretty engrossing as Billy Beane. Earlier in the film, he reminded me very much of Jesse Eisenberg's portrayal of Mark Zuckerberg in The Social Network. The major difference between the two is that Beane ends up being a rather likable character, with a charming daughter (Dorsey) who he tries to see as often as he can. While these scenes aren't entirely necessary, they do give Billy a bit more of an emotional depth I suspect he wouldn't have had without them. Jonah Hill, usually content to play for laughs in gross-out comedies like Superbad, plays Brand as a low-key number cruncher with a passionate love for baseball. Philip Seymour Hoffman is equally good as A's manager Art Howe, who just wants to manage the team he's given without asking too many questions. Many of the film's scenes were shot in a very Robert Altman-esque style, with theatrical staging and overlapping dialogue, and it is an environment where an actor can get lost in a character. And in this case, I'm glad that happened. I'm glad that I saw Billy Beane and not Brad Pitt.
As I read back over this before hitting the "Publish" button, I realize that I, too, kind of dote about our National Pastime. It's good to know that in this age of statistical number crunching and figuring out a player's worth based on Slugging Percentage, WHIPs, ERAs and other various acronyms, we can still get excited about simply going to the ballpark to watch a game.
It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year...
So another long, self-inflicted hiatus comes to an end. And just in time for Oscar season! Last year, prior to the awards ceremony, I had seen only a handful of the ten Best Picture nominees, so I wasn't really in any position to offer my opinion on which one I thought should have won.
This year, I aim to change that.
This year, due to some strange, nebulous rule changes at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, the number of Best Picture nominees has been determined to be at least five, but no more than ten films. Because of that, our final tally is nine (which they probably did just to make sure one of those animated films didn't get a nod. But that's a rant for another time). They are:
Moneyball
The Help
The Tree of Life
War Horse
Hugo
Midnight in Paris
The Artist
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
The Descendants
My goal is to watch them all before the ceremony on February 26th. Can I do it? Well...my original goal here was to watch 100 movie in 100 days. Then it became 100 films in a year. Due to Real Life happening (as Real Life tends to do), I didn't meet either of these goals. My track record isn't very good when it comes to meeting deadlines. But let's just take it one day at a time and see what happens.
This year, I aim to change that.
This year, due to some strange, nebulous rule changes at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, the number of Best Picture nominees has been determined to be at least five, but no more than ten films. Because of that, our final tally is nine (which they probably did just to make sure one of those animated films didn't get a nod. But that's a rant for another time). They are:
War Horse
Hugo
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
The Descendants
My goal is to watch them all before the ceremony on February 26th. Can I do it? Well...my original goal here was to watch 100 movie in 100 days. Then it became 100 films in a year. Due to Real Life happening (as Real Life tends to do), I didn't meet either of these goals. My track record isn't very good when it comes to meeting deadlines. But let's just take it one day at a time and see what happens.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Day 75: I Don't Get That Feeling Filling A Cavity!
BEST WORST MOVIE (2010)
Directed by Michael Stephenson
What would you say is the worst movie ever made? Last week, I discovered my contender for that spot. But is there any movie you've ever seen that, despite its myriad flaws, you can't help but love it? For some, it's The Rocky Horror Picture Show, for others, Ed Wood Jr.'s Plan 9 From Outer Space (though I personally prefer Bride of the Monster. I'm a sucker for Bela Lugosi). For a good many people, that honor goes to Troll 2.
Made in 1989 by Italian director Claudio Fragasso and starring a group of Utah locals, Troll 2 has garnered the reputation of the "Worst Movie Ever Made," earning the "top" spot on IMDb's "Bottom 100" list at one point (as of today, it's still on the list at #76). It was never released in theaters, but instead went straight to video and HBO. Though the actors were all amateurs, there were a couple who entertained dreams of Hollywood super-stardom. When they saw the finished film, however, their hopes were dashed. Everyone agreed: this movie stinks.
However, the film was not a total loss. Years later, fans of the film held midnight screenings and even full-blown parties built around it. It's cult of fans are just as dedicated as any the Rocky Horror crowd could boast. So when word of this reached Michael Stephenson - who played the young Joshua Waits in Troll 2 - he decided to make a documentary about the fans.
Along for the ride, he brought George Hardy, who played his father in the film. George, an affable dentist now living in Alabama, is more than happy to join him. They round up the rest of the cast and even the director, and tour the United States and Canada, making appearances at screenings. And when word gets out that the cast and director will be there, the screenings sell out quickly.
This film touches on a lot of subjects, not the least of which is the effect that this new-found celebrity has on these yokels who appeared in a bad movie nearly 20 years earlier. George seems to embrace it at first, but after a disastrous trip to England (apparently, it's not as big a hit over there), he is brought back down to earth, realizing his place is in the dentist's chair, not on the big screen (though he wouldn't rule out doing another film). But George isn't the only eccentric in the cast. Don Packard, who played the store owner in the film, was on leave from a mental institution when he auditioned. Margo Prey, who played Diana Waits, has been caring for her ailing mother and hasn't acted in years (that whole scene looked like something out of a suburban Grey Gardens). But all of them (save Margo) got together for the screenings, and everyone had a great time.
But the question that they really only touch on is this: what is it about these movies that make us love them so much? On the surface, they're terrible, and yet they endear themselves to us. Well, I can't speak for Troll 2, as I've never seen it. But there are some turkeys that I love (including, but not limited to: Bride of the Monster, The Room, Hook, etc.). I can really only say that the reason I love them is either because 1) I loved them as a child and never really let go of that love or 2) There is a kind of naive enthusiasm behind them, where the film-makers may not have been talented, but they were sincere and were having fun. And if that fun and/or sincerity makes it to the screen, then they must have done something right. Even if they did end up making what amounts to an unintentional comedy.
You would think that everyone involved would be glad that their crappy little film has garnered such a cult following, but director Claudio Fragasso comes across as more than a little bitter when he finds out about his movie's status "Worst Ever." He argues that he made a good film, but the actors screwed it up. Or he blamed the language barrier. Or the crew. Or pretty much everyone but himself. Instead of saying, "I learned from my mistakes, and I can now watch Troll 2 and chuckle a little bit," he insists that his movie was a good one and all the critics are wrong. It's a surprisingly bitter note in an otherwise upbeat and strangely heartwarming movie.
But as good as this doc was, it doesn't make me want to watch Troll 2. Sorry.
Directed by Michael Stephenson
What would you say is the worst movie ever made? Last week, I discovered my contender for that spot. But is there any movie you've ever seen that, despite its myriad flaws, you can't help but love it? For some, it's The Rocky Horror Picture Show, for others, Ed Wood Jr.'s Plan 9 From Outer Space (though I personally prefer Bride of the Monster. I'm a sucker for Bela Lugosi). For a good many people, that honor goes to Troll 2.
Made in 1989 by Italian director Claudio Fragasso and starring a group of Utah locals, Troll 2 has garnered the reputation of the "Worst Movie Ever Made," earning the "top" spot on IMDb's "Bottom 100" list at one point (as of today, it's still on the list at #76). It was never released in theaters, but instead went straight to video and HBO. Though the actors were all amateurs, there were a couple who entertained dreams of Hollywood super-stardom. When they saw the finished film, however, their hopes were dashed. Everyone agreed: this movie stinks.
However, the film was not a total loss. Years later, fans of the film held midnight screenings and even full-blown parties built around it. It's cult of fans are just as dedicated as any the Rocky Horror crowd could boast. So when word of this reached Michael Stephenson - who played the young Joshua Waits in Troll 2 - he decided to make a documentary about the fans.
Along for the ride, he brought George Hardy, who played his father in the film. George, an affable dentist now living in Alabama, is more than happy to join him. They round up the rest of the cast and even the director, and tour the United States and Canada, making appearances at screenings. And when word gets out that the cast and director will be there, the screenings sell out quickly.
This film touches on a lot of subjects, not the least of which is the effect that this new-found celebrity has on these yokels who appeared in a bad movie nearly 20 years earlier. George seems to embrace it at first, but after a disastrous trip to England (apparently, it's not as big a hit over there), he is brought back down to earth, realizing his place is in the dentist's chair, not on the big screen (though he wouldn't rule out doing another film). But George isn't the only eccentric in the cast. Don Packard, who played the store owner in the film, was on leave from a mental institution when he auditioned. Margo Prey, who played Diana Waits, has been caring for her ailing mother and hasn't acted in years (that whole scene looked like something out of a suburban Grey Gardens). But all of them (save Margo) got together for the screenings, and everyone had a great time.
But the question that they really only touch on is this: what is it about these movies that make us love them so much? On the surface, they're terrible, and yet they endear themselves to us. Well, I can't speak for Troll 2, as I've never seen it. But there are some turkeys that I love (including, but not limited to: Bride of the Monster, The Room, Hook, etc.). I can really only say that the reason I love them is either because 1) I loved them as a child and never really let go of that love or 2) There is a kind of naive enthusiasm behind them, where the film-makers may not have been talented, but they were sincere and were having fun. And if that fun and/or sincerity makes it to the screen, then they must have done something right. Even if they did end up making what amounts to an unintentional comedy.
You would think that everyone involved would be glad that their crappy little film has garnered such a cult following, but director Claudio Fragasso comes across as more than a little bitter when he finds out about his movie's status "Worst Ever." He argues that he made a good film, but the actors screwed it up. Or he blamed the language barrier. Or the crew. Or pretty much everyone but himself. Instead of saying, "I learned from my mistakes, and I can now watch Troll 2 and chuckle a little bit," he insists that his movie was a good one and all the critics are wrong. It's a surprisingly bitter note in an otherwise upbeat and strangely heartwarming movie.
But as good as this doc was, it doesn't make me want to watch Troll 2. Sorry.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Day 74: Let Them Hate Me, So Long As They Fear Me
CALIGULA (1979)
Directed by Tinto Brass (credited for "Principal Photography") and Bob Guccione ("Additional Scenes")
Starring: Malcolm McDowell, Helen Mirren, Peter O'Toole, John Gielgud, Teresa Ann Savoy
I hate the way my mind works sometimes. I haven't made a post here in almost two whole months, as I've been moving cross-country and getting myself situated. When I remembered this little project of mine, I felt I couldn't just come back with any old film. No, I needed to make a splash. I needed to come back with something big.
And now, I'm wishing I hadn't.
I knew going in that this movie was going to bet a tough one. What else should I have expected from a film that Roger Ebert called "utterly worthless, shameful trash."? Just how tough it was going to be came as a surprise.
To truly understand this disaster, we have to go back to its very inception. See, back in the day, author and screenwriter Gore Vidal was working on a script for a film on the life of Caligula Caesar, based on an unmade TV mini-series by Roberto Rossellini. Of course, you can't make a movie without money, so Vidal went to Penthouse magazine founder and publisher Bob Guccione. And this was the film's most costly mistake. Guccione, naturally, wanted to sex up the script a bit, but he also wanted to make it more like the sword-and-sandal epics of the 50's and 60's. It was to be a spectacle of lavish proportions that would be a bit sexier than audiences of the time were used to. Guccione hired Tinto Brass to direct and the production would be designed by Fellini's art director Danilo Donati. Acting heavyweights Malcolm McDowell, Peter O'Toole and John Gielgud were hired. The production was to be begin in 1976 and was slated for a 1977 release. Sounds like any other production so far, right? Just go and make the movie.
Not so fast. Vidal rewrote the script five times, which delayed production; he was banned from the set for arguing with Brass. Maria Schneider, who had been cast as Drusilla, balked at the amount of nudity and sex in the film and was replaced by Teresa Ann Savoy. Brass' rough-and-tumble shooting style didn't allow Donati to finish his sets in time, which resulted in more script changes. Brass and Guccione would argue over the sexual content of the film so, of course, more changes and more delays. After principal photography was completed, Guccione took over post-production. He went back and shot several minutes of hardcore orgy footage (something he had not discussed with Brass), and basically took over the editing process himself. Vidal and Brass both disowned the film. And it didn't debut until 1979.
But I'm willing to bet that the process of making this film, as unpleasant as it was, was nothing compared to actually sitting through it. For the moment, I'm going to put the porno stuff aside and just focus on what a terribly sloppy movie this is. A lot of the blame for that has to go to Guccione himself, who was inexperienced at film-making of any kind. He chose shots that were out of focus. He chose takes of the actors giving extremely over-the-top performances. There is zero continuity. Nothing makes any sense whatsoever. The actors, for their part, give it their all, except for John Gielgud, who played Nerva. It is painfully obvious that he was just there for the paycheck. Though his death scene, where he had slashed his wrists in a bath, was very well-done. Maybe that's because I envied him at that point. Malcolm McDowell is simply recreating the role of Alex, from A Clockwork Orange, only in a toga instead of a codpiece. Peter O'Toole, who played Caligula's syphilis-ridden uncle Tiberias, gives one of the strangest performance I think I've ever seen. Rumors of him being drunk on the set are rampant, and I believe it. If I had to work on this movie, I'd be drunk on set, too.
Now this movie would have been bad enough as it is, but then there's the orgy scenes. There is nothing tasteful about them. It's just straight-up porn. And it's not even simulated, as more mainstream films usually do. It's all there and it's all real. And there's really no point to it. It doesn't move the story along (assuming this movie has a story) and it's not even very well made. It's...well, it's porn. The only difference is that the pizza guy and the pool cleaner are wearing sandals.
This is the first movie I've done for this project that has absolutely no redeeming qualities. And the thing is, it's not just bad - it's insulting. There is no excuse for this movie; it's not a "historical drama," or a "classical epic." It's not even a good porno! And yet it was made and marketed in such a way as to make the audience think it was all these things and more. "It wasn't just a movie, it was a cultural event! It broke down barriers! It was an act against censorship!" No. No, it wasn't. It wasn't any of those things. If anything, it was the single biggest case for censorship ever made. And it's not a terrible movie because it's a porno. It's a terrible movie for trying to tell the audience it was more than that; and for thinking that hiding behind respected actors and millions of dollars could make it anything more than it is.
But in the interest of saying something nice......the sets were good.
Directed by Tinto Brass (credited for "Principal Photography") and Bob Guccione ("Additional Scenes")
Starring: Malcolm McDowell, Helen Mirren, Peter O'Toole, John Gielgud, Teresa Ann Savoy
I hate the way my mind works sometimes. I haven't made a post here in almost two whole months, as I've been moving cross-country and getting myself situated. When I remembered this little project of mine, I felt I couldn't just come back with any old film. No, I needed to make a splash. I needed to come back with something big.
And now, I'm wishing I hadn't.
I knew going in that this movie was going to bet a tough one. What else should I have expected from a film that Roger Ebert called "utterly worthless, shameful trash."? Just how tough it was going to be came as a surprise.
To truly understand this disaster, we have to go back to its very inception. See, back in the day, author and screenwriter Gore Vidal was working on a script for a film on the life of Caligula Caesar, based on an unmade TV mini-series by Roberto Rossellini. Of course, you can't make a movie without money, so Vidal went to Penthouse magazine founder and publisher Bob Guccione. And this was the film's most costly mistake. Guccione, naturally, wanted to sex up the script a bit, but he also wanted to make it more like the sword-and-sandal epics of the 50's and 60's. It was to be a spectacle of lavish proportions that would be a bit sexier than audiences of the time were used to. Guccione hired Tinto Brass to direct and the production would be designed by Fellini's art director Danilo Donati. Acting heavyweights Malcolm McDowell, Peter O'Toole and John Gielgud were hired. The production was to be begin in 1976 and was slated for a 1977 release. Sounds like any other production so far, right? Just go and make the movie.
Not so fast. Vidal rewrote the script five times, which delayed production; he was banned from the set for arguing with Brass. Maria Schneider, who had been cast as Drusilla, balked at the amount of nudity and sex in the film and was replaced by Teresa Ann Savoy. Brass' rough-and-tumble shooting style didn't allow Donati to finish his sets in time, which resulted in more script changes. Brass and Guccione would argue over the sexual content of the film so, of course, more changes and more delays. After principal photography was completed, Guccione took over post-production. He went back and shot several minutes of hardcore orgy footage (something he had not discussed with Brass), and basically took over the editing process himself. Vidal and Brass both disowned the film. And it didn't debut until 1979.
But I'm willing to bet that the process of making this film, as unpleasant as it was, was nothing compared to actually sitting through it. For the moment, I'm going to put the porno stuff aside and just focus on what a terribly sloppy movie this is. A lot of the blame for that has to go to Guccione himself, who was inexperienced at film-making of any kind. He chose shots that were out of focus. He chose takes of the actors giving extremely over-the-top performances. There is zero continuity. Nothing makes any sense whatsoever. The actors, for their part, give it their all, except for John Gielgud, who played Nerva. It is painfully obvious that he was just there for the paycheck. Though his death scene, where he had slashed his wrists in a bath, was very well-done. Maybe that's because I envied him at that point. Malcolm McDowell is simply recreating the role of Alex, from A Clockwork Orange, only in a toga instead of a codpiece. Peter O'Toole, who played Caligula's syphilis-ridden uncle Tiberias, gives one of the strangest performance I think I've ever seen. Rumors of him being drunk on the set are rampant, and I believe it. If I had to work on this movie, I'd be drunk on set, too.
Now this movie would have been bad enough as it is, but then there's the orgy scenes. There is nothing tasteful about them. It's just straight-up porn. And it's not even simulated, as more mainstream films usually do. It's all there and it's all real. And there's really no point to it. It doesn't move the story along (assuming this movie has a story) and it's not even very well made. It's...well, it's porn. The only difference is that the pizza guy and the pool cleaner are wearing sandals.
This is the first movie I've done for this project that has absolutely no redeeming qualities. And the thing is, it's not just bad - it's insulting. There is no excuse for this movie; it's not a "historical drama," or a "classical epic." It's not even a good porno! And yet it was made and marketed in such a way as to make the audience think it was all these things and more. "It wasn't just a movie, it was a cultural event! It broke down barriers! It was an act against censorship!" No. No, it wasn't. It wasn't any of those things. If anything, it was the single biggest case for censorship ever made. And it's not a terrible movie because it's a porno. It's a terrible movie for trying to tell the audience it was more than that; and for thinking that hiding behind respected actors and millions of dollars could make it anything more than it is.
But in the interest of saying something nice......the sets were good.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Day 73: It's Only A Movie, Only A Movie, Only A Movie....
THE LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT (1972)
Directed by Wes Craven
Starring: Sandra Cassell, Lucy Grantham, David Hess, Fred J. Lincoln, Marc Sheffler, Jeramie Rain, Gaylord St. James, Cynthia Carr, Marshall Anker, Martin Cove
By now, all of my readers (and I love all three of you) know how I feel about films that are hyped up beyond what they can possibly deliver. And this is one of those cases. Up until now, the only thing I knew about this film was the classic poster that claimed that this was no less than the most harrowing film you will ever sit through. And it really isn't. It is and exercise in extremely poor taste - and an effective one, at that - but as far as being scary? Not so much.
The story centers around two high school girls; Mari (Cassell) and Phyllis (Grantham) who go into the city to see a rock concert. While trying to score some grass, the come acrossBob Dylan Junior (Sheffler), a junkie who just busted out of prison with his brother Krug (Hess), child molester and all-around sex fiend Weasel (Lincoln) and slutty gun moll Sadie (Rain). The group drives the two girls out to the woods where they beat, rape and eventually kill them. In the ultimate ironic twist, the group find shelter for the night in the house where one of the girls lived. And once her parents find out what happened, they quickly and effectively plot revenge.
Now all of this sounds like typical horror/slasher/exploitation movie stuff, and it is. And, handled the right way, it can be plenty scary. But the way Craven directs this picture, you'd think it was a comedy. The soundtrack is upbeat, there are a couple of bumbling cops (Kove, Edwards) who provide comic relief, and the banter between Mari and her parents is like something out of a sitcom. About the only thing that's handled seriously are the most brutal scenes in the film. And even in those scenes, the actors playing the baddies act like they're in a comedy. And the effect is not so much scary as much as it is disturbing.
And this may have been what Wes Craven was going for, but there's not a lot of balance. We switch from one scene in which the girls are put through some of the most humiliating scenarios imaginable to another scene with the two Keystone Cops who get clue after clue after clue about the whereabouts of the girls, but can't put two and two together. We go from tragedy to comedy in a matter of seconds. And I don't know about you, but when I see a girl brutalized on screen, the last thing I want you to cut to is a scene where two cops try to hitch a ride on the roof of a chicken truck. Sorry, but I don't feel much like laughing after that.
About the only real tension we get in the movie is in the third act, when Mari's parents discover what happened to her. They quickly devise a plot almost as elaborate as Macauly Culkin's burglar traps in Home Alone. And they do it rather quickly, not taking any time to mourn their loss. Of course, where Home Alone was cartoony in it's violence, here we have the exact opposite. In this house, revenge is a dish best served with a chainsaw.
The Last House on the Left is an effective screamer, to be sure, but it is almost laughably uneven. There's no emotional arc. I guess that's hardly surprising for a film that was originally conceived as a hardcore porno version of Ingmar Bergman's The Virgin Spring (!?). And it did make enough of an impact to get Wes Craven noticed. And as far as debut films go, I've seen worse. But it's not the harrowing experience the poster told me it would be. It was right about one thing, though: "It's only a movie." No more, no less.
Directed by Wes Craven
Starring: Sandra Cassell, Lucy Grantham, David Hess, Fred J. Lincoln, Marc Sheffler, Jeramie Rain, Gaylord St. James, Cynthia Carr, Marshall Anker, Martin Cove
By now, all of my readers (and I love all three of you) know how I feel about films that are hyped up beyond what they can possibly deliver. And this is one of those cases. Up until now, the only thing I knew about this film was the classic poster that claimed that this was no less than the most harrowing film you will ever sit through. And it really isn't. It is and exercise in extremely poor taste - and an effective one, at that - but as far as being scary? Not so much.
The story centers around two high school girls; Mari (Cassell) and Phyllis (Grantham) who go into the city to see a rock concert. While trying to score some grass, the come across
Now all of this sounds like typical horror/slasher/exploitation movie stuff, and it is. And, handled the right way, it can be plenty scary. But the way Craven directs this picture, you'd think it was a comedy. The soundtrack is upbeat, there are a couple of bumbling cops (Kove, Edwards) who provide comic relief, and the banter between Mari and her parents is like something out of a sitcom. About the only thing that's handled seriously are the most brutal scenes in the film. And even in those scenes, the actors playing the baddies act like they're in a comedy. And the effect is not so much scary as much as it is disturbing.
And this may have been what Wes Craven was going for, but there's not a lot of balance. We switch from one scene in which the girls are put through some of the most humiliating scenarios imaginable to another scene with the two Keystone Cops who get clue after clue after clue about the whereabouts of the girls, but can't put two and two together. We go from tragedy to comedy in a matter of seconds. And I don't know about you, but when I see a girl brutalized on screen, the last thing I want you to cut to is a scene where two cops try to hitch a ride on the roof of a chicken truck. Sorry, but I don't feel much like laughing after that.
About the only real tension we get in the movie is in the third act, when Mari's parents discover what happened to her. They quickly devise a plot almost as elaborate as Macauly Culkin's burglar traps in Home Alone. And they do it rather quickly, not taking any time to mourn their loss. Of course, where Home Alone was cartoony in it's violence, here we have the exact opposite. In this house, revenge is a dish best served with a chainsaw.
The Last House on the Left is an effective screamer, to be sure, but it is almost laughably uneven. There's no emotional arc. I guess that's hardly surprising for a film that was originally conceived as a hardcore porno version of Ingmar Bergman's The Virgin Spring (!?). And it did make enough of an impact to get Wes Craven noticed. And as far as debut films go, I've seen worse. But it's not the harrowing experience the poster told me it would be. It was right about one thing, though: "It's only a movie." No more, no less.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Day 72: It's Always the Same and It's Always Different
HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER (1986)
Directed by John McNaughton
Starring: Michael Rooker, Tom Towles, Tracy Arnold
Shot in less than a month in and around Chicago on grainy 16mm film on a budget of just over $100,000, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer follows the exploits of two friends - Henry (Rooker) and Otis (Towles) - who go on a killing spree around the Chicagoland area. There really is no rhyme or reason to their crimes. They kill a guy selling black-market TVs. They massacre an entire family. They'll shoot a guy on the side of they freeway just for kicks. Henry has been at the senseless murder game for quite a while, but Otis is new to it, and the thrill begins to go to his head. Blissfully unaware of all this is Otis' sister Becky (Arnold), who came to town to get away from her abusive husband. This unlikely trio is happy enough at first, but things get out of control very quickly.
This is an independent horror film that reminded me, in many ways, of Tobe Hooper's The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Both were micro-budgeted films that focused on a group of isolated loners who love to kill people. Both proved that you don't need a gigantic budget to scare the crap out of an audience. And, probably most important, both are based on the exploits of real-life serials killers. Chain Saw was inspired by Ed Gein. Henry was inspired by Henry Lee Lucas, a killer from Texas who was convicted of eleven murders and suspected of dozens (maybe even hundreds) more.
One of the things I'm discovering is that horror films can be broken down into to two categories: the ones that are scary and the ones that are disturbing. Henry certainly falls into the latter category. No one ever jumps out at the camera or waits behind the corner in this film. What we get is a series of scenarios in which Henry takes Otis under his demented wing. We watch a monster create a monster, and the depths to which Otis sinks disgust even Henry. But Henry is no prize himself. He, too, is capable of the most depraved acts. He's just not as brazen about it. Most of what is disturbing about Henry goes on inside his own head. In what is probably the most brilliant directorial decision in the film, we occasionally hear the screams of Henry's victims, usually when he's getting ready to do hi thing. We don't flashback and actually see it, but there's really no need. And this way, we get a glimpse of his past in much more unique fashion. But despite what the title would have you believe, the film is not so much about Henry, nor is it truly a portrait of one man. It really is an ensemble piece. It doesn't even focus on Henry exclusively until the last few minutes of the film, and even then, it doesn't necessarily provide us with a "portrait." It's really more of a "snapshot."
As influential as this film is, it almost never saw the light of day. Director John McNaughton turned into his producers a two-and-a-half hour VHS copy of the film that had to be watched on a tiny monitor with barely audible sound. This was because he couldn't, for whatever reason, bring in the negatives to be processed. Needless to say, his producers were unimpressed, and the film was shelved for many years. When it was finally brought to light, the MPAA (remember them?) gave the film an X-rating. In fact, it was because of this film (and a few others) that the MPAA finally created the NC-17 rating for adults only films that were not of a pornographic nature.
And that last little bit of information should be enough to tell you whether or not this movie is for you. Personally, I found it more disturbing than outright scary, but that's actually the kind of horror I like. Anybody can make you scream, but it takes a certain kind of twisted mind to get under your skin. And Henry does just that.
Directed by John McNaughton
Starring: Michael Rooker, Tom Towles, Tracy Arnold
Shot in less than a month in and around Chicago on grainy 16mm film on a budget of just over $100,000, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer follows the exploits of two friends - Henry (Rooker) and Otis (Towles) - who go on a killing spree around the Chicagoland area. There really is no rhyme or reason to their crimes. They kill a guy selling black-market TVs. They massacre an entire family. They'll shoot a guy on the side of they freeway just for kicks. Henry has been at the senseless murder game for quite a while, but Otis is new to it, and the thrill begins to go to his head. Blissfully unaware of all this is Otis' sister Becky (Arnold), who came to town to get away from her abusive husband. This unlikely trio is happy enough at first, but things get out of control very quickly.
This is an independent horror film that reminded me, in many ways, of Tobe Hooper's The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Both were micro-budgeted films that focused on a group of isolated loners who love to kill people. Both proved that you don't need a gigantic budget to scare the crap out of an audience. And, probably most important, both are based on the exploits of real-life serials killers. Chain Saw was inspired by Ed Gein. Henry was inspired by Henry Lee Lucas, a killer from Texas who was convicted of eleven murders and suspected of dozens (maybe even hundreds) more.
One of the things I'm discovering is that horror films can be broken down into to two categories: the ones that are scary and the ones that are disturbing. Henry certainly falls into the latter category. No one ever jumps out at the camera or waits behind the corner in this film. What we get is a series of scenarios in which Henry takes Otis under his demented wing. We watch a monster create a monster, and the depths to which Otis sinks disgust even Henry. But Henry is no prize himself. He, too, is capable of the most depraved acts. He's just not as brazen about it. Most of what is disturbing about Henry goes on inside his own head. In what is probably the most brilliant directorial decision in the film, we occasionally hear the screams of Henry's victims, usually when he's getting ready to do hi thing. We don't flashback and actually see it, but there's really no need. And this way, we get a glimpse of his past in much more unique fashion. But despite what the title would have you believe, the film is not so much about Henry, nor is it truly a portrait of one man. It really is an ensemble piece. It doesn't even focus on Henry exclusively until the last few minutes of the film, and even then, it doesn't necessarily provide us with a "portrait." It's really more of a "snapshot."
As influential as this film is, it almost never saw the light of day. Director John McNaughton turned into his producers a two-and-a-half hour VHS copy of the film that had to be watched on a tiny monitor with barely audible sound. This was because he couldn't, for whatever reason, bring in the negatives to be processed. Needless to say, his producers were unimpressed, and the film was shelved for many years. When it was finally brought to light, the MPAA (remember them?) gave the film an X-rating. In fact, it was because of this film (and a few others) that the MPAA finally created the NC-17 rating for adults only films that were not of a pornographic nature.
And that last little bit of information should be enough to tell you whether or not this movie is for you. Personally, I found it more disturbing than outright scary, but that's actually the kind of horror I like. Anybody can make you scream, but it takes a certain kind of twisted mind to get under your skin. And Henry does just that.
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