Redbelt

The hero of David Mamet's film Redbelt is Mike Terry, a man with an abnormally high moral code. It is not an exaggeration to say that there are not many men like him. Mike ekes out a meager existence running a studio for training fighters. He is studied, a black belt, nearly a master. We know this implicitly. The film opens on a training session, with Terry as benevolent teacher, hovering over his fighters and firing sage bullets of spoken advice. "You train people to fight?" someone asks him early on. "I train them to prevail," he replies. It's not hard to quickly understand and appreciate this philosophy. In his studio, with this students, Mike is absolutely at peace. But when trouble very literally walks in through the door, he finds his simple existence disrupted and slowly poisoned by the outside world. Not so much a fight movie as a movie about a fighter, Redbelt is the journey of Mike Terry from a place of comfort to a place of intense compromise, and though the film ends in a victorious moment, his journey surely does not.

To detail the plot of Redbelt would be a chore, and this should be taken as a compliment. It is not a chore to watch, however, as the labyrinthine twists and turns (which are extensive even by Mamet standards) are all richly dependent on one another. Suffice it to say, Mike is broke, and his wife dissatisfied. The studio cannot pay it's own bills. Enter a movie star, who befriends him first by accident, then by way of lavish promises. Mike does not resist. He is then pulled into a myriad of doublecrosses, betrayals, challenges and surprises. The fodder of samurai films and boxing noirs, Mamet's acknowledged influences. To reveal anything else is not neccessary.

Looking at Redbelt from the movie snob POV, there are many joys to behold. Tim Allen is a remarkable choice, perfectly in line with the kind of underutilized personnel Mamet has always employed (like Ed O'Neill.) Though he has no staggeringly big moments, he plays the alcoholic movie star Chet with ease (apparently Mamet's love of Galaxy Quest is genuine.) We also, as usual, get a look at most of the old Mamet gang, his cast of loyal company players like Ricky Jay, Jack Wallace, J.J. Johnston, etc., whose faces only get better as they age. Chiwetel Ejiafor, as Mike Terry, has exactly the calm, deliberate, zen quality the role requires. He makes us believe that a man of these convictions could actually exist. But this belief is pretty far removed from reality, and Mamet in fact spends most of the second half of the film showing us why. He tears down Mike's cherished ideas and drops him, unapologetically, into the crooked, business-driven world. Everyone else in the movie is making money. And finally, at his lowest, after being beaten and stolen from, Mike attempts to join their ranks.

The film is interesting to ponder at a few meta-levels. Mamet's distaste with the Hollywood system is hardly a secret, and it is on display here in the contrast between the grand spectacle of the MMA circuit and the untainted artistry of Terry's studio. Terry's struggles with money also smartly predated our current financial crisis, with the elite ring bosses and deciders passing their greed and power lust on down to the working class "fighters." There may even be some incredibly buried political commentary in there as well (Tim Allen as Bush? Any takers?)

But the simple lesson to be learned is that everything that came down on Terry from above was poison. He was happy in his simple, pure way of life. But forces pulled him away. We see the beauty of his teachings turned into spectacle and corrupted for monetary gain. We feel Mike's shame. When the night of the big fight comes, even the grandmaster, the Redbelt himself, is in the audience. Everybody, it seems, is doing business. Still, Mike refuses to let go. It's him versus them, and Mike fights back. He fights for what he believes, and he clings to what he knows. Right up to the end, Mamet correctly refuses to reconcile these two corners of the ring.
A supremely poetic fantasy, as all great fight movies are, Redbelt is also a fine lesson in realist ethics. You can hide from dishonor, it says, but dishonor will only seek you out. You can attempt to live by a strict moral code, but life, with all it's complications, is nothing but a crooked fight. Believe in something, however, and, just as in the ring, there will always be an escape.

LOG: W.

I have never seen an Oliver Stone movie. Nor have I ever much been interested in one. Actually, I may have watched U Turn quite a few years ago. And for a time I wanted to track down The Hand. That would be the extent of my knowledge. I never really had a reason to dislike him. That is, until World Trade Center, who's very existence offended me on every level. "Too soon," everyone said, and it sure as hell was. 2050 would have been too soon. Well, if WTC was too soon, Stone has indeed trumped himself.

But somehow I couldn't resist the idea of a liberal director's supposedly fair and balanced take on the Bush administration. So what do we get? Fair? I suppose. Stone shows us where W. came from, ponders his possible motivations, and it's all very hard to dismiss. Ebert's description was "fascinating," and that is about perfect. There has never been a movie like this. So, finally, we approach this as fun, which it somehow is, even though the events and characters portrayed are so painfully real and unfunny. Stone seems to understand this, as he makes almost no attempt to judge the Bush presidency in any specific way other than to present the possible private scenarios (alongside many actual documented meetings and actions) that may have been it's impetus.

The casting is pretty great. I'll pay to see Dreyfuss do anything worthwhile, and his smarmy, growling Cheney is perfect. I've heard a lot of complaints about Thandie Newton as Condie, but I thought she was just fine. And Brolin, whom the film hangs on, shows some massive chops. He plays G.W. as he surely is; an entitled rich kid from Texas, sucking on Lone Star beer in honky tonks, slurping down sandwiches in the White House. A jealous, power-lusting, unloved president's son. So why is this OK and not World Trade Center? Well, because the events of 9/11, unlike the presidency of George W. Bush, deserve immense reverence.

In the end, could there be any more damning statement than to simply portray the events in such a way that even Bush supporters could not decry it? I doubt it. But can you laugh at it? I don't blame you if you can't. But what else is left?

He lost in in the lights. What are you gonna do... ?

Log: The Rocky Horror Picture Show

I've made a pretty decent run of Halloween movies this year (Black Sabbath, Suspiria, Frailty) and this may end up being the last of the bunch. And I'm not complaining.

This may be the perfect Halloween movie. It starts out in a weird house with a bunch of weird people you don't really know. You're not even sure you wanna be there. There's a bunch of half naked people running around. Someone takes your coat. You're pulled in. Then, music. Laughter. Creepiness. Lust. Liaisons.. Jealousy. And when it ends, it's a real bummer. What else could Halloween be about??
Have a great one tomorrow, whoever you are, however you can.

"Don't dream it - be it." -Dr. Frank-N-Furter - A Scientist

Religulous

Bill Maher is a guy whom I've always enjoyed, but never given a lot of credit to. I'm not sure why, exactly. When I watch his show, I can easily judge him and relate to him as a man of good character and simple integrity, who values intelligence and passionate discourse, and who's values and beliefs lie, safely and squarely, right smack-dab in the middle of mine. Awesome! Once in a while, it's fun as hell to hear him tear down a conservative pundit or a gay-basher or two. But for some reason, particularly as I have gotten older, I have tended to tune out personalities like Maher and seek out media that omits their own or other's biases entirely (or, at, least pretends to omit them.) Maybe it's the NPR lover in me, but I think it's easier to absorb the material when you take all the passion out. Whether or not that's a cop-out, I'm not sure.

Anyway, Bill Maher decided to make a movie, and I decided not to care. "What," I rhetorically asked myself, "could be even remotely cinematic about Bill Maher and his desperate need to espouse at every possible opportunity his own misgivings about the global phenomenon of religion?" If anything, this was maybe a rental, a project obviously built for the small screen, where Maher is comfortable preaching to his followers. But, there it was in the theater, and, as I had been convinced into taking in a showing, there I was watching it. Right from the start, Maher seemed way out of his league and out of his element, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just plopped down ten big ones to watch him prance around and laugh at people, like some kind of mean-spirited, agenda-clad vanity project. Could Maher's persona alone sustain this film? Turns out it could, and very well, too.

Maher's film, during which he travels the world far and wide, seeking out dozens of folks of varyingly obtuse and unusual religious backgrounds, is as completely successful as an entertainment as it is a failure as a documentary, or "message" film. The laughs come most often at the expense of the easiest targets, mixing in subtitled overdubs or spliced footage to back up his very funny on screen jabs. Maher does save some reverence for his more articulate interviewees (all of whom, not surprisingly, only speak in support of his agenda.) And, on the basis of laughs and laughs ALONE, this is a fantastic movie. Let it serve as a point of reference that Religulous is directed by Larry Charles, whose last film, Borat, was also a highly edited composite of cheap shots and low blows at intended targets, sought out and filmed in such a way as to engender the biggest gut-busting laughs. Charles is a real talent (having also written for Seinfeld,) and it's to his credit that the film does not seem overly concerned with hiding the fact that these people were chosen purely BECAUSE of their strange, hilarious, sometimes terrifying agendas. This is not a representative sample, much as Maher would have us believe it is.

Religulous also reinforces the now-tired trend of film essays posing as documentaries. Films that tell, not show. From Michael Moore and Morgan Spurlock to Expelled, there is now a full-fledged genre of films that might well be referred to as unabashedly opinioned filmed feature journalism. I don't think this trend is necessarily bad; it gives a lot of good minds a viable vehicle to get their ideas out to people in an entertaining way. But, in a way, it's exactly the same kind of opinionated media I have grown to leave behind.

Religulous very skillfully highlights and has a lot of fun with some of the furthest absurdities and most far-out stupidities of religious faith. But is that really so hard? I suspect that Maher knows it is not. But in the end, when he concludes his successful comedy with a stone-cold serious 5 minute lecture on the pitfalls and catastrophic consequences of world faith, it's a bit like he's cutting and running. OK Mr. Maher, but your film did little if anything to support your claims, even if I do agree with them in principal. Showing me a preacher in alligator shoes or the crucifiction of Christ in a musical theme park show does not exactly drive home anything more than the preposterousness, AT IT'S EXTREMES, of organized religion. Perhaps there is more value to be found in simply observing and, yes, laughing as hard as we can at these examples of religion gone horribly bad. I'm all for pointing out flaws, when necessary. But how can you ask me to take so seriously that same thing which you have asked me to laugh at for the last 90 minutes? Either it's a curio or it's a debilitating menace and a plague on humanity. It can't be both. And let's be honest; the one thing making this film should have taught you (as if you didn't know it already,) is that, no matter how infallable your argument is, THESE PEOPLE AREN'T BUDGING. And if nobody's budging, then your just preaching to the choir. But, in all due respect and seriousness, NOBODY does it better than you.

I mean that. Swear to God.

The Dark Knight

For my money, Batman is the super hero. I just don't need any others. Ever since Micheal Keaton donned the cape in '89, sexing up Kim Basinger and layin' the smack down on Nicholson's creepy-cool Joker, I've been totally hooked. I was seven. It was an awesome movie then, and it's an awesome movie now. It was dark, gothic, and straight as an arrow. I watched it endlessly. The film was the product of Tim Burton, who was then unproven as a helmer of big budget projects, and it turned out to be his first major breakthrough, and a major, major hit to boot.

From there, as with most movie franchises, Batman's panache slowly began to wane. Batman Returns took a strange (if fun) turn, and the others that followed only continued the trend, slowly sinking into schlocky awefulness. But, as nearly all failed franchises do, Batman was given a reprieve. Warner Brothers again put the fate of their beloved Batman in the hands of a competent, fairly green director, Christopher Nolan. The resulting film, Batman Begins, successfully reinvigorated the character's reputation. Christian Bale was Bruce Wayne, and Nolan put Batman back in the seedy, corrupt Gotham where he belongs. But it was 2005, not '89, and Batman Begins showed the effects of the fifteen years in between, cramming in as many characters (remember Rutger Hauer? Ra's Al Ghul??) and weird subplots as possible, extending it's runtime well past the 120 minute mark, and clearly laboring to supply it's viewers as much bang for their buck as plausably possible. In the end, though roundly excellent, the film strained credulity just a touch. Either way, Batman was back, and we were glad to have him.

Starting out with a weird whimper, with Batman encountering the now docile Scarecrow from the first film (?), The Dark Knight quickly picks up where Begins left off, and we plunge into the labyrinthine story. We are introduced to Harvey Dent (played by Aaron Eckhart,) Gotham's new District Attourney and "white light," ready to take on the unruly mobsters who hold control the city. Eckhart, unfortunately, is one of those actors (like Nicholas Cage) who can really only play one person: himself. Thus, Dent comes off like a soulless puppet, even though I think we are meant to take his talk of cleaning up the town to heart. The part needed a touch of boyish altruism, but instead Dent merely competes with Batman for the affections of his city, and of his fiancee (Bruce's former girlfriend, Rachel.) I can't buy Eckhart as Gotham's saviour, and the character falls totally flat. But the film presses on, quickly relieved by it's other excellent performances. Gary Oldman, reprising as Chief Gordon, is the heart and soul of the film. His cop 'stache and straight talk keep everything grounded, and keep Gotham feeling like a real place. Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman again return, dependable as ever. Maggie Gyllenhall is given the seemingly simple task of replacing Katie Holmes in the role of Rachel Dawes, but though I know Gyllenhall to be an infinitely better actress, and much more attractive than Holmes (I'm not sure why, exactly, but she is,) Rachel is sadly boring as ever. Then, of course, we have.. the Joker.

At one point, the Joker enters a scene and announces himself as "tonight's entertainment." This introduction may as well be directed at the viewer, as a more perfect description can't be penned. Heath Ledger's performance elevates the film from a perfunctory sequel into a riveting, thrilling entertainment. Though I still feel Ledger takes most of his cues from Nicholson, his Joker is absolutely spellbinding, and remarkably consistent. You can't take your eyes off him, and he imbues the film with it's rousingly troubled soul. Hollywood seems to be painting itself into a corner offering up super-dishy parts for villians (see: No Country for Old Men, There Will Be Blood) and leaving the straight (read: hero) parts to a lesser caliber of actor. To his credit, Bale's performance is efficient but unremarkable. Certainly he lacks the goofy, funny side that was Keaton's trademark. But, after all, perhaps Batman purists would prefer him this way.

The action, of which there is much, is equal parts hit and miss. The parade of fistfights, though competent, are easily the least interesting scenes of the movie. The stunt setpieces, however, are mostly fantastic, particularly the absolutely apeshit armored vs semi truck chase through the heart of Gotham (or, for attentive Chicagoans, lower Wacker Drive. Chicago hasn't looked this gritty and fantastic in a film since The Fugitive.) The script, even in it's talky moments, is actually pretty impressive and fun to listen to. Like the Joker, The Dark Knight has a bunch of nasty little tricks to play on you. For two and a half hours, it just keeps throwing shit at you.

In this way, the film is a product of the current movie climate, where every big movie with big expectations (ie; Harry Potter, Indiana Jones, James Bond ) is guaranteed to arrive in theaters equally big in size, it's producers injecting artificial "value" in the form of extended run times. This has made for an abundance of overlong (if sometimes excellent) films, of which The Dark Knight is certainly one. After the first fully satisfying climax, the movie just refuses to die, setting up another round of Joker play that, while plenty of fun, is just too much already. If you know anything about Batman (or have overheard any of the millions of people who have seen the film except you talking about it,) you know who Harvey Dent eventually is to become. So, he becomes him. Eckhart is especially awful in these scenes, and I was left hoping that Nolan and company had squeezed the character into this film in order not to have to depict him in the next one. After Ledger's magnificent turn as the Joker, any new villian is almost guaranteed to feel like a tremendous letdown.

Eventually, finally, the film ends, and you are free to relieve your overworked bladder and ponder Ledger's spectacular performance. I can understand people's complaints about this film. In my heart, I may share them. But The Dark Knight does a lot of things right, and it is surely a marked improvement from its predecessor, which was itself an excellent exercise. Not every scene plays, but it's a 152 minute movie, and there are plenty that play just fine, and more than a few that are wonderful. For my money, I'll gladly plunk down $11 every three years or so for another one of these (trust me, IMAX is worth the extra.) Basically, you either respond to it or you don't. And if you've ever liked a superhero movie in your life, you will respond to it. If you haven't.. why did you buy your ticket?

LOG: O Brother, Where Art Thou?

I am continually dumbfounded and encouraged by the amazing crossover appeal of this movie. I watched this last night (for the fifth or sixth time) with my 67-year old, Southern Baptist christian Grandmother. She loves it. She just grins at Clooney, silently mouths along the words to "I'll Fly Away" ("My mother's favorite hymn" she tells me, every time) and chuckles at all the constant mugging and corniness. Meanwhile, I marvel at the photography, and the unbelievable believability of the period that the Coen's seem to conjure with such minuscule effort, time after time.

It's a little tough to try and comprehensively rate the Coen's oevre, and I'm not that interested in trying. But for my money, as much as I know it is not exactly their "best" film (Miller's Crossing is,) this is probably my favorite.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

"It's a new day for Woody Allen."

(Or is it the same day? Hang on, we'll figure it out..)

So proclaimed the headlines on high upon the release of his dour, very un-Woody Match Point just a scant two years ago. The then-seventy year old director found himself in a minor spotlight, after a five year lack of critical interest following the lauded Sweet and Lowdown. During this time, the director could be found fumbling around with his old familiar modes, turning out disappointingly uninspired films such as Small Time Crooks and Hollywood Ending. But Allen, having decades ago grown accustomed to the highs and lows of a life in the movie business, took the accolades in stride, seeming not particularly hell-bent on keeping up the trend. A pair of comparably disposable follow-ups (Scoop and Cassandra's Dream) left his so-called resurgence in possible jeopardy, with more than a few wondering if it had in fact been a premature diagnosis, Match Point being the last gasp of the once great director. But, as ever, Woody just kept working. Now, Vicky Cristina Barcelona has arrived, ready to be judged. And Woody, done with London but not with Europe, flies us to Spain.

At the start, a narrator's bracingly pedestrian voice guides us into the story of Vicky and Cristina, a pair of American friends traveling to Barcelona for equally insignificant reasons to stay with family friends (a nervous Patricia Clarkson and her husband, Kevin Dunn (the guy from Ghostbusters!) Maybe I'm just sentimental (surely, I am) but I couldn't help thinking that the choice of narrator was a concrete example of Woody's films suffering from him removing himself. I hope not every future Woody Allen film will by necessity be devoid of screen time for Woody Allen (you couldn't even give him a Spanish accent, Woody?) The drama calmly kicks in when a hunky native artist, Juan Antonio, in his plain and charmingly Spanish way, propositions them to join him for a weekend of kicks and sightseeing. And sex. He says, as open and honest as an angel.
The pair are torn. Vicky, engaged to a New York professional named Doug, scoffs and sneers, rebuking Juan Antonio with a venomous zeal. But Cristina, unattached and more breezy and open than Vicky, already partially seduced by the romance of the Spanish countryside, agrees. This moment both sets up the dramatic hinge of the film and reveals to us the essences of the two leads. Before we are through, Allen will have sent both of these women and their dearly held values on a long ride. Both women will seek out happiness, find it, reject it, and then go seeking again. And both will learn what so many often do from a trip to a foreign land: that there is so much to see, and to learn.

From the outset, Allen is in new territory, melding the successful dramatic tone of Match Point with an air of happiness (something which was lacking profoundly in that film.) Even at its most painful depths, Vicky Cristina Barcelona finds a bit of joy and hope in its longings. Much as his idol Bergman once did (compare The Seventh Seal and Fanny and Alexander,) Allen has progressed from dour drama to a joyful and comic heartache. Also as in Match Point, Woody's alter ego, present for years in most of his movies, is nowhere to be found. Instead, he seems to have doled out his personal quirks in bits and pieces, perhaps finally realizing that his own nebbish nature and habits are a lot to swallow coming all from one character.

His two leads, Vicky and Cristina, convey the essence of two very elemental female counterpoints. Both women are deeply flawed. One too open, one too closed. One thinks she has it all figured out, one knows she has no idea, but is hardly wise. And, as Allen quickly shows us, both can be had by the same man. Vicky and Cristina, though they exude personal confidence and self-assurance, are indeed very confused. Allen uses Juan Antonio as a means to show the different ways both of these women can be perceived. Vicky's initial appeal to Juan Antonio is her resistance. When this has evaporated, she is shown to be, in fact, quite insecure and even desperate. Whereas Cristina, more wild and adventurous, devolves from playfully sexual and exciting to unfulfilled and jealous. In both cases, perceptions change. "Yes," says Juan Antonio, taking it all in stride, "life is short, and painful." But you, like every man, want what you cannot have; both of these women in one.

When all is said and done (and, for once, more is done than said,) in a way it's the antithesis of a Woody Allen film. After years of talking and talking, he finally says, "the talky guy is a tool," (Vicky finding a new dissatisfaction with her now very boring husband to be.) Is he? In many ways, yes. But is the grass really greener, now or ever? The ability of the hunky guy to make women topsy-turvy might seem out Allen's league, but his story is convincing. And lest you think he is focusing solely on the intellectual inadequacies of women, Juan Antonio gets his due turn to be upended. This task is assigned to Penelope Cruz, who plays Juan Antonio's unstable ex-wife Maria Elena with bewitching electricity. Bardem and Cruz shine here, brilliantly enforcing the emotions of the now-obsolete Americans, who, after being so keenly observed, have now resumed the role of spectators in a foreign land. (Speaking of obsolete Americans, Bardem and Cruz are part of an increasingly large group of Spanish-born actors in ultra-high demand for American movies. Does it ever work the other way around?)

This all may sound very sophisticated and ponderous, but it isn't. In Woody's hands the story is clear, and very emotional and compelling. Give him major props for finding and retaining Scarlett Johannsen, who has brought a much-needed youthfulness to his latest films. Rebecca Hall, too, is a fantastic choice, practically stealing the movie in a part that might have gone to Barbara Hershey 20 years ago. Basically, everyone drinks wine and does exactly what you would want them to do in a movie about American women in Spain: make love and look at pretty buildings. But not without some hang-ups. Maria Elena calls it "chronic dissatisfaction," and nearly everyone in this film suffers from it.

The film finishes without any spectacular reveals or gut-punches (excepting perhaps one final moment of hysteria,) and we exit, ready again to bring down our gavel in judgment of Allen's latest effort. And we find that Woody has hit all the right notes. That he has crafted another film, as he did with Match Point, that can hold it's own with all the critical darlings of old (Crimes & Misdemeanors, Husbands and Wives, etc.) Surely, these new films are as good now as those were then. They are less stuffy, less dated. They are, in more ways than one, very young.

Yes, his "resurgence" is real. But, mostly, the "resurgence" is false. Allen, who by my count has made 37 films, cannot be evaluated in terms of resurgences and disappearances. Maybe Cassandra's Dream is better than Another Woman. Maybe Scoop is better than A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy. And maybe, finally, it doesn't matter. Let's just all let Woody Allen be Woody Allen. And in twenty or thirty years, when he is gone and all we have is his memory and his films, we can get down to the real business of anointing him one of the great American filmmakers of his time. But for now, let's just let him work.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona, like so much great art, wants us to question our lives. Ourselves. To embrace our yearnings. They are perhaps not so unspeakable, it says. But be prepared for what they bring with them. Memories, like everything worth having, come with a price. Maybe happiness can be found on either side of these great moments. But the baggage of life's greatest and most revealing moments is the destructive proposition of more to come.

CLICK HERE

Since I haven't written much in the past few weeks, I instead present a little compendium of some writings on or in regards to film that have been holding my interest of late. This may be a recurring thing, maybe not. I decided to give it a name, anyway.

Woody Allen's Spanish Diaries

This is hilarious. Truly, hilarious. I remember a good friend in high school loaned me a book of all three of Woody's early humor collections (Without Feathers, Getting Even, Side Effects.) This was my first taste of the man, and had me aching from laughter during study hall on many a school day. That friend is a bartender now or something now. Haven't seen him in years. God bless him, anyway.

Manny Farber: In memory

Who is Manny Farber??? Until he died, I had no idea. So it goes. A universe of people and things to know, and we all cling on piece by piece as they fly by, or we don't.

Games Cinephile's Play

A fabulous essay, and another newish name that I will have to investigate. I have observed this back and forth behavior many times, and I completely disdain and reject it. Can't people talk seriously and naturally about serious matters without having to engage in some kind of petty duel for intellectual superiority? It's so counterproductive.

By George, Give Up!

A lengthy (lengthy) and academic discourse on why George Lucas sucks. I have not seen Kingdom of the Crystal Spider, but if it's anywhere near as ridiculous as the title (and everyone who saw it) suggests, then this needed to be written.

Herzog and the forms of madness

Yes, yet ANOTHER writing on Herzog by Ebert, cinema's foremost artist/critic butt-buddy duo. But scroll down to to the comments section to find a reply by.. Werner Herzog. Seriously. He has the internet, apparently. Lively discussion commences.

Anyone who doubts the viability of blogs as legitimate and important carriers of language and ideas can now shut the fuck up. They're not just for weirdos, folks.

Not much else to report. Will see Vicky Cristina Barcelona very soon. I'll be taking notes. Have decided to wait for a second viewing to write up Redbelt, Encounters at the End of the World, and WALL-E (but they're all great, by the way.) -GH

THE DVD: Dazed and Confused (Criterion)

(NEW FEATURE: DVD reviews. This is an old one, from Idiot Ego issue one. Reprinted, again, without permission.)

By now, it's practically a cliché to fawn all over DVDs by the Criterion Collection. But it's a necessary evil for any serious film fan, or DVD fan for that matter. If you wanna see some of the greatest movies ever made (8 1/2, Tokyo Story, Rashomon) you're going to have to watch them on a Criterion DVD. Criterion also has the ability to take even the weakest and most shameful pieces of cinematic tripe (Armageddon, The Blob,) somehow elevate them into art, and make you proud to have them on your shelf.. which I do. Here then comes a long-rumored edition of what by general consensus the best movie yet made about kids in the seventies: Dazed and Confused. Director Richard Linklater's best work (Waking Life, Slacker, Before Sunrise/Sunset) is responsible for more than his share of "This will change your life" moments that I have yet experienced in film. And I'm sure I don't have to sell you on this one. You've seen it. Loved it. You listened to the soundtrack on the every morning sophomore year on the bus home (your brother thought one of his friends stole it.) That disc probably doesn't even play anymore.

The film was only Linklater's second full-length feature, after the talky vignettes of Slacker (also available via the Criterion Collection, and perhaps even more highly recommended.) Produced by a major studio, Linklater curtails his wordiness somewhat in Dazed, but it's still driven by dialogue, and it comes equipped with a stash of one-liners and truisms that actually ring true. But, the DVD is the thing. The paper slipcase packaging feels like an LP, and the Zeppelin III-style artwork (with cutouts, ala Physical Graffiti) is well designed, and a nice fat booklet of essays and a foldout of the original poster (!) help it earn it's $30 asking price. And, as ever, the supplements are everything you want and nothing you don't. A 50 minute "making of," an excellent commentary by the always chatty Linklater, and plenty of deleted scenes and extra footage to keep you busy a couple of extra hours.

In the end, what's it about? The days when you had everything you needed: Your friends, a car, some beer, some drugs and of whole lot of time. Don't smoke dope, readers. But you might want to buy this for someone who does.

NJAFBIT: Pineapple Express

WHY I'M INTERESTED:

The stoner movie has been a genre for a long time, at least since the days of Cheech and Chong, but the majority just don't give stoners very much credit. I'm not much of a pothead myself (years of menial occupations have kept me wary of possible drug tests,) but I've seen enough to know that not all fans of the sweet leaf are slobbering, lowlife video game heads. This trailer definitely makes getting high look fun again.

Judd Apatow has sadly devolved from an earnest, take-it-or-leave-it everyman writer into a bonafide brand name, but this seems to have all flavor without the issues. Seth Rogen was basically the only funny part of Superbad, and James Franco (who was already a part of the Apatow clan from Freaks and Geeks) just looks perfect.

David Gordon Green now has five feature length films under his belt, and the three I have seen (George Washington, All the Real Girls, Undertow) are wonderful. Born in 1975, he is surely the youngest director I can think of that I am comfortable calling "great." Already the best of his generation, if Pineapple Express is as good as it looks, he may be one of the best around.

Plus, this is without a doubt the best trailer I have seen for any movie in a hell of a long time. I can no longer disassociate the MIA song from the movie.

Also- title song by fucking Huey Lewis!

PREDICTIONS: Fun, Hilarious.

RELEASE DATE: 8/6