Clueless (Amy Heckerling, 1995, USA)

One of those '90s nostalgia-teen-flix that just slipped through the cracks, I guess. Unlike some unpleasant trips down memory lane (10 Things I Hate About You), though, this is consistently funny and has charm to spare, thanks mostly to the excellent cast. There really was never a more likeable heartthrob than Paul Rudd. What I like most about it is that instead of relying overtly on the central conceit of Cher as Emma-esque matchmaker, the film veers off into an episodic, peppy, zany film in which no personal conflict goes unresolved for too long, even in the climax. Everyone's just having too much fun to be mad at each other, even when the plot demands it. It's overflowing with goodwill. Fun times indeed.

The Manchurian Candidate (Jonathan Demme, 2004, USA)

I love Frankenheimer's original, with its own brand of nail-biting suspense that's not really attempted here, as much as the next guy, but Demme's remake is easily the superior film - in fact, it's one of the best science fiction films in recent memory and among the top offerings by Hollywood in the last decade. Demme's mastery of  tone is staggering; he is capable of shifting from frantic paranoia to somber isolation and back in a single scene. Most impressive is his use of the film's off-kilter, schizophrenic point of view to enhance the emotional alienation of his characters: a conversation between Major Bennett Marco (Washington) and a prospective love interest (Kimberley Elise)  - who's just invited him to her absent cousin's apartment after only a brief, tense conversation on the train - is shot with a surreal, centric framing that makes the scene dreamlike, as if the notion of a woman taking such forward interest in a quiet, shell-shocked Gulf War vet is fundamentally absurd - at least from Marco's point of view (later, a frenzied bedroom scene of accusations and revelations grants Demme's direction added significance). Amidst the skillful dystopian satire and disquieting fades to black remains Demme's usual humanity and heart, as Liev Schrieber's Raymond Shaw takes time during a crucial third-act scene to tearfully entreat Marco "We are friends, aren't we? I want to believe we are." The world of this film feels lived-in, casual. Demme never takes time to point out that the United States is in a default state of martial law - it's the sort of realization that creeps up on you as the story progresses. Sound bites and interviews swirl around Marco as he marches with furrowed brow through the mania that envelops him. Liev Schrieber has the look of an actor from Hollywood's bygone days. Meryl Streep is magnificent. This is a great film.

The Fighter (David O. Russell, 2010, USA)

A mediocre cover of a great song. Russell has clearly seen a fair few docudramas and films shot in an improvisational, on-the-fly style, but The Fighter's efforts to reach beyond its sports-movie trappings are hampered by the lack of good character work and the deeply conventional story. Mickey Ward's pack of hysterical, white-trash sisters are not given humanity or empathy in any way, while the Oscar-winners of the cast (Melissa Leo and Christian Bale), though obviously committed to their roles, descend all too often into cartoonish, broad humor and facile stereotypes. Bale had the same problem with wide-eyed, comical attempts at earnestness in his previous weight-loss spectacular The Machinist. The fighting scenes suffer from what I'll call Friday Night Lights syndrome...while I'm a big, big fan of the show, the matches often take a predictable pattern of our heroes getting beaten badly in the first half, then coming back strongly and inexplicably to win the day. There's no drama at all in these fights, or in Mickey's personal life. A wasted film with a lot of potential.

Meek's Cutoff (Kelly Reichardt, 2010, USA)

I was over the moon when I heard Kelly Reichardt was making a western. It's not often that I'm able to drum up any amount of excitement for a new entry in the genre, but there have been, recently, some pleasant surprises (True Grit, Appaloosa), and having loved her previous two films, Old Joy and Wendy and Lucy, the opportunity to see her tense, methodical, naturalist sensibilities applied to the Old West seemed like a dream. Now, about a year and a half after first hearing the film announced, Meek's Cutoff has become just about my favorite post-classical Western.

Reichardt's naturalism is apparent from the first, wordless scene. I was lucky enough to see it as intended, in the now-rarely-used Academy ratio (1.375:1), which Reichardt uses to create stunning, indelible images, but also in the opening shots to place the American wilderness center stage, as wagons and settlers drift about the edges of the frame, creatures of the open plains, easily crushed and forgotten. What is nearly the film's most haunting image occurs in this first scene: Paul Dano's Thomas Gately, visible only from behind at left of the frame, etches the word "LOST" into an uprooted tree, before wandering out of sight as the camera lingers on the message that will remain for years after their party has gone their way, or died of thirst.

The settlers include the determined Solomon and Emily Tetherow (the consistently awesome Will Patton and the most miserable girl in America, Michelle Williams - seriously, the most lighthearted role she's had in three years was when she drowned Leonardo DiCaprio's children), the young Thomas and Millie Gately (Dano and Zoe Kazan), and the religiously inclined William and Glory White (Neal Huff and Shirley Henderson, her ghostly face and plaintive squeal used to great effect here, while never becoming shrill), and their son Jimmy (Tommy Nelson). They are led (in a loose sense) by Stephen Meek (an unrecognizable Bruce Greenwood), whose knowledge of the way west seems increasingly in doubt as their supplies dwindle and water is nowhere in sight. Meek is an astonishing creation, born out of Western myth and the films of Anthony Mann. While his tales of the frontier are cheery and have the feel of a raconteur, his conversations with Mrs. Tetherow, which are the most gripping scenes of dialogue, veer into philosophy and dark interpretations of gender roles. As well, Meek buries himself behind a beard worthy of Rip Van Winkle and a wide-brimmed hat, self-consciously projecting the image of a man wholly part of the wilderness. It's obvious, though, that he is costumed more heavily than any of the settlers, and immediately recognizable as a self-affected fraud.

Those familiar with Reichardt's work might have guessed how her political fascinations manifest themselves in this tale of survival; while the allegory for the settler's aimless trek as a symbol of the Iraq war and Meek as a clueless Dubya type is obvious (made more so by the mounting tensions and paranoia that occur once the band encounters an anonymous Indian), she manages as always never to preach too heavily. First, Meek is not directly comparable to Bush - his character includes elements of a slick demagogue that the President never was (though some more cynical, or perhaps well-informed, than I may disagree). More importantly, as soon as the allegory becomes obvious it fades once more into the background as the film becomes less an examination of a particular administration (its period trappings limit the potential for effective dissection) and Reichardt explores more fully her harrowing vision of America stripped to its core: an ideologically diverse band of tense, well-intentioned and near-suicidal creatures with the shared purpose of survival and the mutual problem of trust.

There are other small delights within the film: the brief scenes of confrontation, Reichardt's gorgeous framing (most particularly a shot of Patton crouching behind a wagon wheel that seemed, at least to me, a clear homage to Man of the West), but most of all the understated love story between the Tetherows, who seem not to have known each other for long or very well. Solomon's staunch, frustrated masculinity and Emily's simmering contempt for her role as a woman makes the growing respect between them a small miracle.

Possible, vague spoilers: The film's ending appeared to confound the half dozen other people in the theater with me. I was thrilled. I often think to myself, when watching the climax of a film, that a particular moment would make a great, daring ending, and I cross my fingers that the credits roll at just the right moment - but they never do. Meek's Cutoff ends at just the right moment, on an astonishing note of near-Biblical imagery (religion is treated warily throughout the film, as the de facto heroes, the Tetherows, are seen noticeably silent during multiple prayers) and a haunting final line that sticks with you almost as much as the shot that follows.

REVIEW: Super 8 (J.J. Abrams, 2011, USA)

A couple of quick Tree of Life comparisons (grouped together for your convenience)...although Brad Pitt's performance in that film makes it close, there may not be a better actor alive than Kyle Chandler at portraying the awkwardness of fatherhood. Also, the two films frame themselves (in the final moments) as representing a larger process of bereavement. The first shot of Super 8 spells disaster, as a factory worker resets the "___ Days Since Last Accident" sign, and suddenly we're in the small town of Lillian, where Joe Lamb is an outsider at his mother's wake. An incident with a neighbor (who gains later significance) and a sudden departure causes the realization that father and son are not so different. Fast forward a few months to summer, and Joe is hard at work as the makeup guy on his friend Charles' zombie movie. While Abrams' method of storytelling is decidedly Spielbergian, the story itself and his cinematic vernacular betray broader influences, specifically the '50s B-movies evoked by the film-within-a-film and the throwaway lines about communist paranoia. Chandler's deputy sheriff and father is a hero in the tradition of the films of Howard Hawks and John Carpenter, ancillary though he is to Joe and his misfit team of buddies; unmistakably losers, they're thankfully never wasted on an encounter with schoolyard bullies as one might expect, allowed instead to develop their own personalities. Major props to the casting department: Lillian is fully fleshed out with a Who's Who of veteran American character actors, including the stalwart Noah Emmerich as the vaguely menacing Army colonel (my favorite appearance was made by Richard T. Jones, the wisecracking Cooper in Event Horizon nearly wordless here, save for a crucial scene in which the film's underlying racial tension is winkingly acknowledged). 

Yes, it's a wonderful film, but more than anything Super 8 screams for Abrams to break out of the Spielberg mold and create entries in other worthy film traditions. It's a film that exists wholly because of other films, and while that is certainly not a bad thing, the skill in the script and direction (the first major setpiece alone is staggering and enough for us to hand him the keys to Hollywood right now - my jaw dropped more than once) are bursting at the seams with inspiration and Abrams will be wasted if he repeats himself. His brief résumé is commandingly strong. I have mixed feelings toward a generation of Hollywood darlings that includes Abrams and Jon Favreau: they consistently show that the blockbuster need not be worthless, but can they transcend it, or simply crank it up to maximum enjoyment? And there are moments in this film that reach for transcendence - a marvelous, quiet scene between Joe and Elle Fanning's Alice (a strong performance indicative of great things to come) uses the titular film stock as a mechanism for discovery and empathy (the story's most resonant theme), and the blissful, rapturous, awe-inspiring final shot. Just go see it, it's amazing. 

REVIEW: The Tall Target (Anthony Mann, 1951, USA)

A textbook how-to on the classic Hollywood thriller. Dick Powell's furrowed brow singlehandedly foils a plot to assassinate president-elect Abraham Lincoln while on a moving train, based on the supposed Baltimore Plot. It's not fiendishly difficult to figure out who are the conspirators aboard, but everything unfolds with dynamite tension, dry humor, and Mann's singular ability to make any brief physical scuffle hypnotic. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the film, formally, is the complete lack of music until the final credits. The opening titles, plus background information, scroll upwards in a direct predecessor of the Star Wars crawl. After recently seeing perhaps the most inanely, ludicrously plotted train movie ever (Source Code), this was a refreshing 80 minutes of sheer enjoyment. Highest possible recommendation. 

REVIEW: Triangle (Christopher Smith, 2009, UK, Australia)

Unabashedly nonsensical and almost admirably committed to its hellish mindgames, Triangle is the kind of movie easily dismissed as "bad" by some (read: my siblings who watched it with me), but it's far too enjoyable to categorize so lazily. A series of hazy dreams/flashbacks/hallucinations begin the disjointed credit sequence that finally sets the viewer within the main plot with a distinct feeling of unease. Melissa George (in a seriously great performance that anchors the film) plays Jess, the single mother of an autistic son who leaves him behind for the day to go on a boat trip with a potential boyfriend and his gossipy, upper-crust entourage. The ideal sort of cast for this film (the only notable name is Liam Hemsworth, Thor's other brother), they all play their minimally-sketched-out roles with conviction and refrain from straying too far into throwaway horror types that we desperately want to see killed. A storm capsizes their sailboat and leaves them seeking refuge aboard a seemingly empty cruise ship named Aeolus, and the brief conversation about the implications of this allusion sets the tone appropriately. After the first major sequence aboard ends, the film takes on a sort of shaggy-dog feel, as Smith & Co. refuse to grant their audience the comfort of familiarity by building up to a singular "twist", employing instead a series of maddening images and mounting realizations that the story will not explain itself but will continue to confound its heroine and the viewers. The last twenty minutes feel almost as if the film is searching for an ending, but the penultimate "twist" is satisfyingly character-based. Recommended, if you have a sense of humor (and don't mind the requisite blood'n'guts [not too much, no]).

REVIEW: Night and the City (Jules Dassin, 1950, UK)

I've thought for some time that noir refers to a period in which the movies became self-aware: not just in terms of deliberate, formal style, but in terms of characters that seemed like they were fashioning themselves after the tough guys onscreen, or sometimes feeling emasculated as a result of their reluctance to do so (Bogey in Key Largo). The atmosphere that defines film noir seem to me to be a result of this common character trait: desperation, sudden reversals of fortune, and a disregard for human life. Richard Widmark's performance as Harry Damian exemplifies what is, to me, the archetypal noir protagonist. It's a meticulously constructed film that screams on all levels to be considered a masterpiece, and yet I can't say I prefer it to a less polished, more uneven film likeThe Bribe, which is far less easily categorized. 


A remarkable synergy with Dassin's contemporary Anthony Mann simmers beneath the surface and practically boils over during the centerpiece wrestling scene, which is one of the most thrilling "sports" moments I've ever seen in the movies (the very instant it stops being just engaging and becomes a Great Movie Moment is the instant the Strangler throws off his opponent's hold and delivers a series of brutal punches - somehow increasing the stakes that the audience had forgotten were so high all along). Dassin's relationship with Mann, whose westerns were heavily influenced by the noir period (and made his own strong contributions to the era), is difficult to evaluate - claustrophobic, dirty close-ups of cruel men abound, but it's hard to say what came from where.


The film gets its cartoonish fatcat villain in Francis L. Sullivan's club owner Philip Nosseross, who hires Damian as a promoter. Nosseross is married to the ambitious, unsatisfied Helen (a Kristin Scott Thomas-lookin' Googie Withers), laughs at Damian's ambition, and pulls strings from within his glass-walled apartment in the back of his club - in fact, he's rarely seen outside it, save for an ominous scene near the middle when he meets with Damian in the square to piss on his dreams and set him up for a tragic fall, their roving conversation giving Dassin the opportunity to pan over the daylight London in which Damian is never comfortable, or welcome (the only other major daylight scene shows him at the height of his swagger, framing him through a window from within Helen's carriage as he plays the savvy man of the streets, largely for her benefit - though it later comes crashing down around him, and her).


Nosseross, of course, isn't the film's only villain: Herbert Lom's dead-eyed Greek wrestling promoter Kristo provides the bulk of the requisite menace. The moments where I could feel myself starting to lose interest mostly focused on Nosseross and Kristo, the very pictures of criminal excess and outsourced corruption, respectively. It's a minor complaint to say that a film is too realistic, but the noirs that really strike a chord with me are those that take place in a universe defined by other movies, and in the moments that these characters occupied the screen (as well as the dual montages of Damian's tours through London's underbelly, though the third act reversal made them moving enough that I didn't care), I felt that Dassin was trying too much to ground his film in a sort of social realist setting, which I was far less interested in than the family melodrama and twisted relationships on display. But again, it's a minor quibble (which may not even be one at all).


I really didn't dislike it that much, but it seems now that whenever I think of The Third Man it's in realizing how much another film exceeds it. Most recently it was the explosive finale of The Bribe, and in Night and the City, it's another masterful chiaroscuro chase sequence (set partially in the sewers), yet Dassin goes beyond expressionist formalism in taking Damian on a wrenching tour of old haunts that shows him just how grim his prospects really are. A last-minute reunion can't quite match the emotional cruelty inflicted on the audience in Safe in Hell, but Gene Tierney makes it a close race. Recommended to all. 

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