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

The Happening

Scene: A man approaches a young couple and asks:

"You look like a happy couple. Are you?"

Woman: (smiling, nodding) "Yeah."

"So, uh, how do account for it?"

Woman: "Uhh.. .I'm very shallow and empty, and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say."
Man: "And I'm exactly the same way"


(from Annie Hall)

I've been thinking about this scene a lot lately. One of my favorite moments from one the great movies of all time. It speaks hilariously to a phenomenon which has surely only grown more widespread since Annie Hall's release in 1977: the sad, overwhelming stupification of the American masses. The Happening arrives on a mainstream American movie scene awash in a dead sea of mediocrity. Television shows and video games are the creative fodder for one in every three Hollywood hits, with the rest stemming from a soft but steady diet of sequels, prequels, and not-so-new stabs at old genres. Meanwhile, directors like M. Night Shamalan, claiming to be outsiders, sit idly by and bemoan "the death of the cinema." Positing itself as set apart from this tide of detritus, The Happening actually rests comfortably and depressingly within it, skimming the surface and settling in nicely with the rest of this summer's usual duds. The only thing distinguishing The Happening from the rest of the heap is that it also officially signals the end of one man's career.

Watching Shamalan's new film, I found myself scrutinizing all the things I ever liked about his movies in the first place, and discovered that very little holds up anymore. Right from the start, James Newton Howard's score, all angry violins and trumpet blasts, which to my ear used to evoke Bernard Herrmann, now just feels redundant and cheap. Before long, Shamalan's poking away at our fear of the unknown, another of his usual suspects. Then, as it always does, something "happens." Panic. Peoples staring at TVs. Staring at phones. Once more to the well.

Let me be absolutely clear: I fucking hate Mark Wahlberg. . so much. That being said, I have concluded with some disbelief that he has never been worse, nor has he ever had to play such an unlikeable loser of a character. John Leguizamo, playing his math teaching co-worker, honestly looks like the second coming of Olivier by comparison. His performance, the only one in the entire film which seems to express real, human emotion, is the Elmer's glue barely keeping the film from falling to the floor right from the start. But it doesn't last, which is to say (SPOILER alert, although they probably give it away in one of the trailers, anyway) the movie, like Leguizamo, dies in the first reel.

Zooey Deschanel, a reliable indie-flick face (and the bait that helped me get over Wahlberg when I heard about the casting) gets blindsided into playing Wahlberg's distant, immature and possibly unfaithful (who could blame her) idiot of a wife. Even the countless closeups of her gorgeous eyes can't save her from the vapidity of Shamalan's script. She gives a performance more awful and unfocused than I ever imagined she was capable of. And when the couples few moments of paper-thin, forced relationship drama unspool, they are laughable. Eventually, one must throw their hands up and realize that these are not even characters. They are caricatures of characters. Together, Wahlberg, Deschanel and a catatonic kid stowaway left over from Leguizamo's demise combine to form perhaps the most unappealing movie ensemble of this or any year.

By now you know the cockamamie nuts and bolts of the "terror"; it's being caused by plants. Maybe. At least that's what the hillbilly gardener they encounter on the road thinks, so the movie picks up and runs with it. The Happening's villain is the Earth. And while we all can surely grasp the concept of eco-terror and appreciate Shamalan's obvious point of view, a defensible concept does not a good film make. What I thought would turn out to be an extended poo-pooing of the disconectedness of people in the internet age instead becomes an incoherent mess of vague eco-babble designed to hammer home an idea that any sixth grader could already spew out verbatim: we poisoned the earth and now it's sad. Every point the The Happening attempts and fails to make has already been stated convincingly (and by better filmmakers) elsewhere.

In other words: The Happening is irredeemably bad. Shamalan writes dialog like an eighth grader, and the deaths he comes up with are equally childish and lame. Given his first chance to play with an R rating, Shamalan clearly has no idea what to do with it. He somehow finds a way to make even gratuitous death seem uninteresting, and panic seem fake. Cautionary tales tend to work best when the teller can actually explain why there is a need for caution. But Shamalan seems content simply to make up a silly story and try to force it down your throat as realistic and scary. It comes off as trite and funny instead, and (worst of all,) unentertaining. He loves to write dialog for newscasters, which is the cheapest method of exposition imaginable. And he directs actors like a retarded Roger Corman, which is to say, he doesn't. This is the worst kind of empty exploitation. When the movie arrives at one of it's final resting places (an old farm house with a strange inhabitant,) and the three refugees, having just pilgrimaged bedraggled through miles of rural Pennsylvania, still manage somehow to produce a change of clothes, I just felt insulted. Part of my brain would like to know what you were thinking, Night. But part of me just doesn't care.

With The Happening, Shamalan at last completes his epic nosedive from Time Magazine wunderkind to complete and total irrelevance. I have cautiously stood by his side since Unbreakable, but this movie alone deserves all the vitriol that has ever been spewed at him and more. Damn you, sir. I will no longer be your sole surviving apologist. You are challenging, no doubt, and that is good. But your challenges no longer deserve to be met. You insult me with your upper-class, holier-than-thou suburban bravado. I took those science classes, too, pal. We all did. Turns out I actually liked you better when you didn't have the balls to stick to your guns. Now instead of pulling the big punches, you pull none. Oh, except for the ending, which is more painfully gutless than anything that has come before it. Turns out the punches you throw are all whiffs. Maybe you should work in TV or something.

The only thing I can remotely connect with in this film is the hopeless, apocalyptic feel it manages to convey. That something horrible is approaching. That humanity has doomed itself. This is another in a growing list of films which plumbs this milleau (see also: Encounters at the End of the World,) and Night's version is surely horrifying and effective, but perhaps for reasons that he did not intend. For only the emptiest heads could be convinced by this cheap, phony stab at an Inconvenient Terror. Only people as dim and hopeless as his cast of characters could manage to see eye to eye with this story and it's hokey, spineless methods. Is Night awkwardly pandering to these fools, who (perhaps not coincidentally) still go to see his films? Or, more likely, is he revealing himself as one of them?

Even humanity's worst moments of helplessness and failure bring with them a faint glimmer of newness, and of queasy new beginnings ahead. But in the end, all Shamalan's yarn leaves us with is the same dead souls inhabiting the same dead world, the same newscasters squawking on the idiot box, the same trees, the same grass. Our resilience is false, he says. We are doomed. I'm not ready to buy into that just yet, but for everyone who is, The Happening is just for you. Have fun awaiting your inevitable demise. In the meantime, M. Night Shamalan will surely dump a few more films of homespun, hopeless (and pointless) advice into theaters for your enjoyment.

LOG: Casa de Lava

What a beguiling and completely fascinating movie. This was my second time through, still no closer to deciphering very much, but having an easier time not caring. It's like if David Lynch made a movie in Portuguese, maybe with a shot of Von Trier or something else equally challenging and unforthcoming. First remembered hearing about this as "a very personal remake of I Walked with a Zombie." The two perhaps share a lot of their moodiness, but little else.

What I can say for certain is that the look of this film is appropriately bewitching and isolating, and that it is memorable and gripping, for reasons mostly unclear.

A beautiful little puzzle.

Read Rosenbaum's extensive thoughts.

Caché (Hidden)

ARCHIVE: from Idiot Ego Issue 1 (reprinted without permission)

You can only go so far when writing about a film like Caché (Hidden). Traditionally, a suspense film (a la Hitchcock, De Palma) is built mostly around a promised great "reveal," a final visual gut-punch from the screen which at last relinquishes that final crumb of information and provides the viewer with a satisfying, if often contrived, "answer." Making that compari­son, Caché's final shot has more in common with Citizen Kane than it does with Rear Window. In fact, by virtue of it's plot device, Caché comments directly on the "whodunit" genre as a whole. Austrian director Michael Haneke has built a career out of expertly subverting the preconceived notions of his audience. As a director, his skill lies in removing himself from the spotlight, and allowing his camera to observe "what is happening," rather than "what the director is showing us." His camera does not guide or force our eye, nor do his stories steer our brains. In Caché, there are trails for us to follow, but what we follow and what we dismiss along the way remains our responsibility.

Georges lives with his wife and son in a small flat in France. Someone is watching him. Someone is leaving videos of him and his family on his doorstep. Who? Why? The information on the tapes begins to suggest things. It leaves the viewer clues. Georges follows these clues. What will he find? There is a very powerful undercurrent of paranoia running throughout Caché, which gradually evolves into the film's central and unnerving theme. Scenes and events are presented ambiguously. We are very often shown an image, but given no context.. What are we looking at? Flashbacks are shot and appear almost identical to the main narrative scenes. Haneke brazenly challenges us to know the difference, to break apart from his influence as director and find our way to the conclusion ourselves. And even then, Haneke denies you the satisfaction of knowing if you are right. Caché comments grandly and with cold force on the horrifying sensation of paranoia. Is Haneke making a broader statement here? That we can't always trust the images we see on the screen? Georges seems to be very content in taking the tapes as a real document of a place and time.. And yet they remain unexplainable and mysterious. Dig deeper, into what may lie in George's subcon­scious, into what even HE may not know, and perhaps there we find a plausible solution to Caché's buried secrets.

NJAFBIT: Baghead

WHY I'M INTERESTED:

Actually, I don't know exactly. This movie could be many things. For one thing, it hasn't really opened yet, but it's got 100% on Rotten Tomatoes. And the Michelle character looks a lot like the chick from High Tension. I guess I am completely intrigued by the ambiguity, which the reviews would indicate exists in the film as well. It's not a horror movie, not a comedy, not a drama. What is it? Even the trailer keeps you on your toes.

I haven't seen The Puffy Chair (mostly because it looks extremely good in a wrenching, non-feel good kind of way,) but I probably should. And Mumblecore is as stupid a non-word as emo, if not worse. Yes, the shaky cam is getting really, really old. But we should all be prepared to deal with it in the event that it enables actual "indie" film making (i.e. low cost, high concept.) If it's good, then it's good. Right?

PREDICTION: Scary? Funny? Awesome?

RELEASE DATE: 7/25 (limited)