Quantum of Solace: The 22nd Bond

Bond and Vesper in a 'warm' embrace.

I don't quite understand the criticisms that Quantum of Solace isn't Bond enough; on the contrary, it's more Bond than Bond. Let us see for ourselves: awesome cars you would sell your mother to own, — Check. Intense car and foot chases, — Check. Exotic locales, both salacious and bad-ass ladies, — Check and Check.

In this installment we return to a more worldly and manly 007 (read: more Connery than Brosnan), as well as a return to the Cold War type of plot which splits retarded and apropos right down the middle. Unlike the pure cartoon of yesterday's Bond. Throw in a borderline ridiculous über-villian bent on some sort of diabolical master plan ad one couldn't ask for anything more! The contention that this installment's lack of "gadgets" makes it any less enjoyable is a farce. Seriously, the gadget thing has been nearly exhausted.

That being said, a noticeable amount of the realism that Martin Campbell brought to 2006's Casino Royale disappeared with this, Marc Forster's installment. Sure Royale featured borderline unreal action, but Solace's brand of action comes across far too transparent. And its abrupt style seemed to call for spinning Batman-like logos between scenes. I hate to pile on, but this is mid-tier Bond all the way down to the unbalanced title track courtesy Jack White w/Alicia Keys. Oh it's cool, just not as charming as a Bond theme should be. Sue me.

So to sum it all up, yes indeed critics, this is quintessential Bond. In the case of this installment: if only it were slightly more.

I have some catching up to do in the 'review' department.

Morvern Callar

Transsiberian (director Brad Anderson) didn't quite captivate as a thriller/mystery adventure; I tried to believe what I was seeing but it all seemed a bit superficial in the character department. I expected Anderson at some point to pick whether he wanted the plot to drive the film or allow the distinguishable cast to dictate the action — his indecision, or bullish intentions, left Transsiberian somewhere in between Christopher Nolan's Insomnia (which I liked) and Alfred Hitchcock's Strangers on a Train (which put me to sleep).

Greenhorn filmmaker Courtney Hunt, on the other hand, spins an engrossing yarn with Frozen River's confluence of single-parent family issues, immigration, human trafficking, isolation (small town life, segregation, borders, personal footing, and more) that although it's meant to give auds something to think on, is more soft-thriller than finger-waving drama. Melissa Leo, in a role not so far removed from her Marianne Jordan character in 2003's 21 Grams, is an outright force. Almost co-star Misty Upham plays a bingo greeter turned human smuggler who smoothly ropes Leo's character into assisting on a "run" across the US/Canadian border. This is definitely Leo's film, yet each and every role is a concrete as the one it succeeds. Could be the freshness of the direction that facilitates this sense, but I couldn't imagine that as a flaw.

Watched Lolita '62 & '97 (Stanley Kubrick and Adrian Lyne respectively) and was bored stupid for nearly 5 hours. Kubrick's Lolita has an air of respectability due to its play-like execution and the fact it doesn't revel in letting auds watch a grown man having a twelve year old for 2+ hours — a world of difference between the two films. Dominique Swain was actually 15, if it matters - Sue Lyon was 16. As an aside, both Lolitas suffered a professional curse of sorts for their troubles. Reading a few chapters into the Nabokov source material some time ago had me thinking this, not Burroughs’ much referenced Naked Lunch, should elicit conversations of unfilmability. I think Lolita's motivations would have made for a superior essay for what it's worth. Anyway, read the book, if you're so inclined.

I revisited What's Eating Gilbert Grape (Lasse Hallström, 1993) a few weeks ago and continue to be blown away by the Becky character. Juliette Lewis manifests one of the most refreshing and prudent, yet wholly empathetic, characters in all of film.

A movie I pulled from Scott Tobias' 'New Cult Canon', Morvern Callar, was a genuine surprise despite its morose first third act. A pre-Precog Samantha Morton is poised to shed the yoke and boredom of small town life upon her boyfriend's Christmas Day suicide with the aid of his recently finished novel and explicit directions to shop the book to a prepared list of publishers. She chooses to hide the suicide from everybody, including her very best friend Lana, while she attempts to rationalize the suicide — from the latter to maintain the friendship. She moves ahead with her boyfriend's wishes, all the while moving on with the next part of her life. This movie has a River's Edge meets The Ice Storm temperament that I like - grounded and sober, almost stark, and unavoidable despite their contents.

Repulsion (1965)

Not as terrifying as expected (read: as advertised) all told. Save for Catherine Deneuve's more-than-effective take, as one Carole Ledoux, on the paralyzing of the mind. Polanski's tone, cast upon Deneuve, of religion vs. lost innocence and abandonment of redemption is heavy-lifting at times. In the face of her sister/roommate's adulterous comings-and-goings, Carole's tormented, severe prude-ism becomes and is in utter control of her life; that is to say, her every action manifests itself in terms of the view she holds of her sister's life-choices. When her sister chooses to leave on holiday with an older married man, Carole becomes unhinged mentally.

One could look upon Polanski's Repulsion as an indictment on the male species, or as the catch-22 of society, in it's entirety, has become. Carole's "boyfriend" is failing to reach her, her job falls apart, and it's apparent she's long grown weary of random advances from men she meets in the course of her daily life. What may come off a snobbish or elitism to these people is sadly an ever-tightening, already claustrophobic, mind which is steadily grinding into madness. Relationships be damned? Who knows. Carole seemed to never of had a chance....

A mix of randomness and plenty of symbolism fills out Repulsion's world very nicely.

Ils / Revolver

Watched Guy Ritchie's Revolver. Not too much to say on this one, really. The entire experience seemed a tad self-involved. I guess that was the point? Jason Statham is his same 'ol character acting self as Jake Green; Ray Liotta is comically sinister as Dorothy Macha, but ultimately his predictable self; Vincent Pastore is good, although his screen time-to-dialogue ratio is heinously out of proportion; André Benjamin (André 3000) is perfectly cast as the enigma-mouthed Avi — last but not least, Guy Ritchie's chose an impeccable soundtrack, one arranged and immaculately utilized. Case in point, Emmanuel Santarromana's "Opera" lends itself in an oddly collected scene where character Lord John (Tom Wu), flanked by a sizzling succubus and bathed in the rich, demonic red glow, sends his regards to Liotta's Macha. I efforted a clip, but none are readily available besides his MySpace page. All in all, Revolver has Lock, Stock and Snatch -like aspirations, but it's parts tend to outshine the film as a whole. Worth a look though.


Oh how I waited to see Ils. Check. Writer/director tandem David Moreau and Xavier Palud generate a truly living film — one which celebrates both the innocence and repugnance in our world. Pretty much a siege film, "Them" drops in on a transplanted schoolteacher named Clementine (Olivia Bonamy) and her writer husband Lucas (Michael Cohen) in the beginnings of a somewhat Arcadian life on a simple and sequestered estate outside of Bucharest. It's not France, but it will do. As the (true?) story goes, Clem and Lucas' bliss is broken in the span of one night — first by the irksome ringing of their telephone, then compounded by the spraying of car headlights. This is simply the beginning of a horrific night for our proto-couple.

My Kid Could Paint That (2007)

Marla Olmstead "at work".

Jumping straight into my My Kid Could Paint That analysis: While director Amir Bar-Lev sat face to face with little "prodigy" Marla Olmstead's parents, Laura and Mike, to unequivocally requested to film her creating one of her masterpieces, the look on Mark's face was a fatigued one — Laura face was already handing Bar-Lev excuses even before her mouth opened. What followed was all the evidence needed to bring the whole "prodigy" debate into perspective. After much debate (more off camera, to be sure) and permission in hand, cameras were concealed which showed little Marla displaying absolutely none of the endurance, deliberation, or reflection necessary to paint these canvases — some which commanded many thousands of dollars from devotees online as well as at several gallery events.

There is zero doubt in my mind. More believable is that Mike Olmstead, an accomplished hyper-realist painter in his own right, either drew inspiration from Marla's ham-handed floundering for his own creations. Or, went as far as to assist or "finished" what Marla has begun and quickly became bored with, as evidenced by the video of her almost immediately abandoning most canvases she began. I could also entertain the idea that Mark's own painting style (in terms of sophistication and restraint) is such that he might consider "Marla's" abstract expressionism as a joke, and these finished paintings are simply a giant middle finger to the art community which fails to embrace his own. This latter theory would no doubt exist on the fringes of this film's debate. I any case, again, I see little or no evidence that would lead me to believe Marla has anything at all to do with these paintings. Oh, and the comparisons to Jackson Pollock (who's work I honestly find boring) and Picasso are so far removed from reason to be laughable. But again that's me talking.


The documentary itself is very well put together and furnishes a couple of revelation points where sentiment is pulled to and fro, a la Errol Morris' The Thin Blue Line, containing similar ebbs and flows that lend to intrigue. And at a swift 80-some minutes, it's a perfect afternoon watch while enjoying a nice lunch. Just no toast points this time please.