Fantastic Mr. Fox

This movie was even better than I expected it might be. I shouldn't have really been surprised though, given that Fantastic Mr. Fox is a Wes Anderson adaptation of excellent source material from Roald Dahl, the master alchemist of childhood sadism and whimsy. Though, like many good adaptations, the movie takes some liberties with its source. It also features some ace voice talent, including many Wes Anderson regulars like Jason Schwarzman and Owen Wilson, as well as George Clooney and Meryl Streep.

If there was every any doubt of Anderson's status as an auteur (was there any doubt?) this should put it to rest. Even when working with stop action animation, every frame and every faltering voice is saturated with his influence. This film would be a great one for the argumentation of auteur theory in general. That's for all of my friends who are still in school.

In the story, Mr. Fox gives up a dangerous life of crime (the chicken-stealing variety) in order to become a family man. Of course, for foxes, theft is a more normative way of life than journalism, the position that Mr. Fox takes on for his wife's sake. In doing so, he apparently compromises both his foxhood and his masculinity, which is why he pulls the one last job that causes the calamitous events of the film to take place. Foxes are purportedly sly and underhanded, but the farmers are no less so as each group tries to upend the other. It is true, though, that the humans seem to favor the more offensive approach, bringing in the heavy artillery, like backhoes and bombs. They are not subtle. The foxes are content in their subversion, sneakily tunneling their way into the farmers' food stores.


The composition of each frame in this film is impeccably detailed, making the little world that Anderson creates as lush as it is idiosyncratic. One thing he injects in his version, which I don't believe is in Dahl's, is a heightened dichotomy between animal instincts and anthropomorphic qualities. These animals are fully civilized, but will erupt into sudden fits of animal behavior in the most jarring of moments. Though the foxes sit at a table to eat, and seem to be schooled in culinary arts, they have a proclivity to tear into their baked chicken as if it was an antelope felled on the savannah. The critters live in detailed human-like establishments, but when the roof is torn off of their abodes, they quickly join forces to dig themselves into safety.

At the very end of the film, the foxes solve their hunger problem by digging into a grocery store, where they can steal food to their heart's content. The only problem is that the food is canned imitations of the real foods they formerly enjoyed. Perhaps they are becoming too human for their own good. Or they are adapting, like animals do. In another, more mysterious scene, Mr. Fox and the kids encounter a distant, lone wolf, but are unable to communicate with him; he will not respond to English or French, but he does respond to a fist pumped in the air. They wish him luck as he scampers into the woods on all fours. Is this distant figure what the foxes, so enmeshed in human life, aspire to be?

Other notable quirks are the demarcation of time in both fox and human time, and Mrs. Fox's doom-laden landscape paintings, each one spiked with lightning. Not to mention that the unique animation style is a nice break from smooth and immaculate Pixar creations. Its palette is washed out, its movement jerky and uncomfortable. The proportions of human to fox are totally off. It's pretty awesome, in short.



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Sonic Youth Picks Criterion Films

One of the things I love about surfing around Criterion is that they have a list of top ten films from such illustrious folks as Jonathan Lethem, Diablo Cody, and Steve Buschemi. Now they have a listing for Sonic Youth, as well!

Go an' see!

I always find it interesting to see what various artists cite amongst their favorites, especially people who aren't directly associated with the biz, like Lethem and Sonic Youth. I would be especially interested in other authors who are obviously heavily influenced by film, like Don DeLillo. With all of the references in his songs, I'm sure Kevin Barnes of Of Montreal would come up with a good one as well.

Amarcord

The title means "I remember," and the film is based on Fellini's childhood during the fascist period. Roger Ebert likes to note that the people in his films always seem to be dancing to an unheard melody. This may be attributed to the music Fellini played on set, since the dialogue is dubbed in later. This also creates an effect that I love, a dreamlike environment where the action is separate from voice. Regardless of the cause, his films are a beautiful thing to watch. Here, he mainly keeps the camera at a safe distance from his subjects, thereby preventing the humorous from becoming overwrought. The film is unofficially demarcated by seasons, which create the pacing for a year in Titta's life--his coming of age.

As with 8 1/2, there is even a demented prostitute lurking on the beach.



And a bleak-looking scaffold, never finished.

The religious aura of a cinema.


In one scene, the entire town turns out to see an ocean liner pass by in the night. One of the men shouts that it is one of the most glorious things that the fascist regime has built. Directly following this scene, the town is plunged into an impenetrable fog, an image which seems to speak even louder than Titta's anarchist father about the evils of fascism.

Before the fog lifts, we bear witness to the young men dancing in the fog with imaginary women. So much of this film is devoted to the dreams of young men. Women are idolized; they are the dream. The glory of fascism is also a dream.


Fellini is one of my favorite filmmakers. His films always evoke a pure joy of watching that is separate from narrative. I don't watch them because I care about the narrative arc; I just can't tear my eyes away. This film is an impeccably choreographed dance to Nina Rota's beautiful score. It is the perfect reworking of a distant memory, idealized and dreamy.

A Single Man

Tom Ford has been criticized by some for being too heavy handed with his first cinematic effort. I really don't think that this criticism is warranted. In this case of this film, Tom Ford's fashion status is his downfall because it gives naysayers an access point to disparage the beauty of his craftsmanship. I mean, yes, he makes a career out of using beauty to sell things. But that doesn't mean he can't make a great debut film. While there were some cringe-worthy moments, A Single Man offers much more than vacuous formalism. Although, I've only read one such opinion, and to be fair, I haven't read a review of Firth's performance that was less than glowing. So at least everyone is in agreement that A Single Man has one good thing to offer: a truly fantastic performance by Colin Firth.

Returning to the point though, I feel like so many critics (and acquaintances of mine) nowadays have a tendency to label as self-indulgent or pretentious anything that challenges the idea of cinema as strict entertainment. Anything that too closely approximates art is anathema. Even the most popular auteurs of the moment, like the Coens and Tarantino shroud their artistic tendencies in comedy or samurai sword-fighting. Not that I think that films should not be entertaining. And unlike some people, I hesitate to consciously distinguish between the words "film" and "movie." But movies that are slow and haunting, perhaps more about mood and philosophy than narrative should never be considered self-indulgent.


There are some really beautiful moments in A Single Man. These are greatly augmented by the scoring, as well. The film follows one day in the life of English expat professor George, around 8 months after the death of his lover of 16 years. I am a sucker for beautiful imagery, whether or not it is well integrated into the themes of the film, and Ford knows how to do pretty, even if he once in a while steps over the line and into fragrance commercial territory. My favorite moments in the film are when George is interacting with his neighbors, a picturesque family unit with a young boy and girl. Representing the epitome of American suburban bliss, they are shot in a dreamy halo of light, often in a graceful slow motion. In contrast, the bit with the disconsolate Charley (Julianne Moore) is wonderful too, as the two misfits come together to drink heavily and wallow in their miseries.

Cinematography and direction aside, Colin Firth is still probably the best reason to see this film. There are some elements that are a little much. The images of the submerged man that insinuate both drowning and rebirth are shown maybe a few too many times. Ford's use of color to portray George's changing perception is polarizing. I didn't mind it, probably because I think of the changing palette as that simple, and not, as some have intuited, a meter that records whether an event might make his life worth living again. It is a device that would have been infinitely less contrived if George did not spend the entire film planning his suicide.

The reviews have largely been favorable, at least, if the T-meter on Rotten Tomatoes is to be believed. There have, however, been a few diatribes. I guess I just hate to hear anything that aspires to artfulness in the age of the blockbuster labeled as pretentious. I haven't read anything of the sort about Up in the Air, for instance. It pounds its themes heavily enough, yet no one wants to label it as self-indulgent. Neither Up in the Air or A Single Man is a perfect film by any means, but I still prefer the latter.

There are some good things about Up in the Air. It is pretty entertaining. It is pretty heartwarming for a while there. Also some great performances in it.

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The Golden Globes 2010

Not too thrilled about the outcome of the Golden Globes this year, but I can't truly complain until I get around to seeing all of the best drama nominees. Still, I have a hard time believing that Avatar will impress me more than Inglourious Basterds did. I am not happy that spectacle is being awarded over true quality. I haven't seen Avatar yet, but I've seen enough of James Cameron's films to know that his movie was probably not better than Tarantino's. Of course, I've also sat through enough of these ceremonies to know that winning has nothing to do with deserving to win.

I'm also skeptical of The Hangover winning best comedy/ musical, but at least it wasn't Nine.

Also, why does the Golden Globes lump adapted and original screenplay into one category? They are relatively incomparable, aren't they? The writers for Up in the Air won that one, but it was adapted from a novel by Walter Kirn.

Mad Men won best drama, which I am truly thrilled about. As much as I love that show, I am pretty happy January Jones didn't score the best actress award.

Coming soon: a brief overview of the new films I've seen lately, including Nine, A Single Man and Up in the Air.

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The Adventures of Baron Munchausen

In which Baron Munchausen (and Terry Gilliam, once again) demonstrates the transcendent power of the imagination.

This film strikes me as a children's fantasy for adults. Or maybe it is more for children than for adults. Arguments could be made either way, I think. It is a fantastical tale of adventure, but has some dark imagery, as well. The film weaves in and out of reality, thereby creating sort of a metaphor for the film-viewing experience, as well as the consuming experience of any type of narrative art. In one frame, the action is taking place on a stage, in the next, it has become reality. From then on, Gilliam weaves an elaborate story, which depicts the Baron (John Neville) and Sally (a very young Sarah Polley) and their journey to bring help to their town, which is under siege.



And it wouldn't be a Gilliam film without portentous demon-puppetry.


In my favorite scene, the travelers fly to the moon, and encounter Robin Williams in an uncredited cameo. His spiritual mind is constantly warring with his body, and its more base needs. He literally separates his head from his body, leaving the body stumbling around on the ground below while he soars above.


And yes, Uma Thurman plays the Goddess, Venus.



When the Munchausen has finished his tale, the siege has magically ceased. Was it just a story, after all?

Peeping Tom

My experience of Peeping Tom was rather cobbled together. First, I waited for the DVD from the library for so long, I forgot that I had ordered it. Then, when it finally arrived, the DVD was so damaged, I couldn't even watch it all the way through. (It stalled, quite suspiciously, right before the one nude scene in the film.) However, I managed to finish it by streaming in on IMDB.com with limited commercial interruption! With much travail, I saw something approximating the entire thing. I didn't dare to screen-cap it, though. So I'm making do with borrowed images.

On the Criterion DVD there is a featurette entitled "A Very British Psycho," which is quite apt, at least in its reference to Hitchcock. Actually, Peeping Tom reminded me just as much of Rear Window, with the camera's obvious parallel to the phallus (in PT, there is a lot of sensual caressing of the lens), as well as the self-reflexivity. Technically, Jeff of Rear Window is much more of a peeping tom than Mark Lewis (Carl Boehm). Like Rear Window, the film calls attention to the audiences' own voyeurism. Like Psycho, the film revolves around a serial killer whose homicidal tendencies derive from deep psychological trauma. In the case of Mark, this is a result of having been the guinea pig in his father's experiments.

Because of the camera's constant presence in the frame, it is practically another character in the film. It is a sexual object, too; but more than anything, it is a weapon. When we see what Mark is filming, we see his subjects in the cross hairs of the viewfinder, as if he is training a rifle on them. Of course, the camera is also the primary instrument in his murders. Through his murders, Mark attempts to capture the perfect expression of terror. As it turns out, he does this by training a mirror on them, forcing them to watch their own deaths. Mark inverts his own "morbid urge to gaze" by forcing his victims to watch themselves.

This is all the more disturbing, as the camera is, as his lover, Helen (Anna Massey) suggests, an extra limb. Guess which one? The penetration of sharp spear that provides the quietus suggests another kind of penetration.

While there are a lot of interesting philosophical facets in this film, I simply found it a joy to watch, much like Black Narcissus. Black Narcissus is a better film, I think, but the playfulness of certain scenes is reminiscent to its predecessor. The budding relationship between Mark and Helen is heart-wrenching, as is the scene where the hopeful actress, Vivian (Moira Shearer) does a lengthy warm up dance number, not knowing that it will be her last.

As it turns out, Helen's mother is blind. The overtness of this narrative ploy is one that I could live without, in some ways. Naturally, this handicap has provided her with other heightened forms of perception. When Mark comes home to find her lurking in the darkness, she remarks that the blind live in the rooms they live under. From the softness of his footsteps, she infers that he is troubled. For some reason, Mark turns his camera on her, and to no one's surprise, it doesn't work, because she cannot see herself. Still, she is terrified of being filmed, perhaps because she cannot return the gaze.




Images are from the awesomely prolific Criterion Contraption, which is also linked on the sidebar. Also, Images Journal.