Days of Heaven & Dostoevsky or: What I happen to be consuming at the time.

So I finally watched Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven and enjoyed it tremendously. The film is most certainly is an experience. The sprawling Texas, 'erra, Canadian, expanse lends itself to an expressed womb, of sorts, vitalizing and comforting our senses yet concealing the imminent. Why this guy doesn't make more films is a question to be asked/answered. Well worth the rental and probably a future purchase. No, I won't be rushing out to see The New World... sorry. Without spoiling anything, the film's parting line (in part): "I was hopin' things would work out for her. She was a good friend of mine" is as powerful a piece of summation as is in all of filmdom.

On the literary front, I finally dove into Dostoevsky's The Double: A Petersburg Poem (part of a split release with his own The Gambler) after some months and it's turning out to an absorbing little thriller where a diminutive, paper-pushing bureaucrat is traumatized during a office soiree held at a superior's home. The nature of this trauma is that he...

...come now, you didn't believe I'd launch into one of the story's most impressive scenes did you? I'm two-thirds into this little gem, this my third Dostoevsky; Crime & Punishment and Demons being the others. All translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. I make mention of the decoders (if you will) simply to champion the profoundly preferable translations by this husband and wife team.  I compared several passages in The Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina (which I have read in full), The Master and Margarita, the all three of the aforementioned Dostoevsky novels, as well as Gogol's Dead Souls only to be blown away by the lucidity and fluidity of the Pevear/Volokhonsky editions. If these translations haven't replaced the Constance Garnett translations as the editions of reference, particularly in schools, someone has dropped the proverbial ball. Trust me.

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.

Terror's Advocate (2007)

I'll simply start off by saying that Terror's Advocate (L'Avocat de la terreur) isn't so much as fascinating or intriguing as I had heard and read. Quite frankly, I found it a somewhat boring. First and foremost there's next to zero courtroom action involving the litany of despots, tyrants, terrorists, and dictatorial murderers one Jacques Verges, defense attorney to the indefensible.

Whether he insisted on, or was chosen to, represent. this caliber of client is debatable, he began his career like many "freedom fighting" militants, slashing and burning, plotting and sneak attacking, striking when it's convenient for him — all of this culminated in a marriage to an Algerian terrorist (self-described) soon after the country's independence from France. At the time the upwardly mobile, now attorney, settled for clientele consisting of low-rent petty criminals and thugs, but combined with this caliber of clientele, his unsavory courtroom tactics, and the fact he held on to his radical political stances, his services fell out of favor. For a time, that is.

A large part of Barbet Schroeder's documentary revolves around Verges' 10 years of self-imposed exile following the deterioration, as it were, of his client base. Historian, private detective, and journalist testimony assemble a virtual puzzle of Verges' activities during this period of hiding as he was thought to travel frequently between France and Algeria. This turns out to be a less than fascinating, and shallowly explored angle to his story. The interest piques when he begins to plumb the theories revolving around Jacques Verges' stay inside Cambodia and his affiliation with The Khmer Rouge. The documentary plays connect-the-dots with a phalanx of German, Palestinian, French, Algerian, Spanish, and Iranian terrorist bombings, plots, affiliations, and the like, which constituted the violent geopolitical landscape of that time.

Mr. Untouchable (2007)

What Ridley Scott, et al, might have hoped and dreamed for American Gangster, writer/director Marc Levin realizes with his 2007 documentary Mr. Untouchable. What Frank “Superfly” Lucas wished he had been, Leroy “Nicky (The Godfather of Harlem)” Barnes was. A mash of gritty and loathsome street footage and interviews, “Mr. Untouchable” relives, if not somewhat romanticizes, the reign of "Nicky" Barnes (now under the protection of WITSEC) and his “Council (of Seven)” during the New York heroin boom — a boom The Council themselves were largely responsible for and one which they proctored from the nightclubs and posh exurban homes. In a span of just a few years, Barnes rose from common street thug and junkie to the most revered man in black culture — a tenuous post no doubt, as those who held Barnes in the highest regard were the very people he was climbing over as he ascended to the top of the New York drug trade.

Ironically, Barnes would once again play the junkie thug, with the added bonus of being a snitch, when the heat bore down on his enterprise. In terms of the ‘American Gangster’ compare/contrast, this documentary illuminates, with sober precision, the very facts which ‘American Gangster’ writer Steve Zaillian (and whatever researchers he may or may not have employed) chose to co-opt for his film; something which became very clear after its release. Yet I don’t want to make this a hit-piece.

Set to a grinning retro best-beat soundtrack including several clever and original tracks, Mr. Untouchable is a largely even-keeled exploration of a group of friends who revolutionized the drug trade on the east coast of the United States, became veritable kings in the process, then were “shitted on” by Barnes (now known in certain circles as "Snitchy" Barnes) when his back was against the wall. This group included Barnes' own wife, Thelma Grant. While Barnes remains unapologetic on every level, his words do sometimes take on a more somber tone when he talks about what he did to families and individuals alike by making an unending quantity of drugs available, yet in true gangster fashion he always winds up shrugging it off and simply business. Keep it real.

I Am Legend (theater) / Omega Man (dvd)

To be completely honest, I didn't expect to see much difference between a Charlton Heston helmed Omega Man and the Will Smith fronted I Am Legend, and what do you know there wasn't. Same source material, similar outcome. Other than Legend's CGI that is. As Hello Siesta mentions, the film's defining attribute (throughout its many incarnations), is its religiosity, which skulks in the shadows throughout. Similarly, and likewise differently, Omega Man first smacks religious when Heston meets the other survivors but Legend holds out until the very end to trumpet the Smith character's Christ-like underpinnings and eventual sacrifice. One difference.

Contrarily, Heston's "Neville" ventures into this territory when he finds there are other survivors, or more precisely, when the survivors find him — Smith's "Neville" is somewhat noncommittal about his divinity; one moment waxing poetic about Bob Marley style peace & unity, the next screaming there's no God!. I'm not saying it's what I enjoyed about the two films, in fact I barely enjoyed both (first half of I Am Legend aside), it simply strikes me as lack of effort in capitalizing on Smith's Chuck Noland-esque execution, ... or maybe it's due to the story's supposed unfilmability.

Ghosts of Cité Soleil (2006)

A quick hit on a documentary watched this past week: Ghosts Of Cité Soleil (The Ghosts of Sun City, or Fantasmas de Cité Soleil). The gist is this: During Jean-Bertrand Aristide's second try as Haiti's President (the more controversial of the two terms), and a resistance group headed by the former Haitian president's brother begins a city by city march to depose him and his Lavala Party. The story revolves around two Lavala brothers, "Bily" and "2Pac". 

As you might have guessed, 'Pac' co-opted his moniker from Tupac Shakur and is a self-described hip-hop superstar in the making — or he would have us believe as much. The two are militant leaders in two of the nineteen Soleils in Port-au-Prince and the top men in the Aristide armed & funded Chimére (Ghost) Army; an allegiance they appear to hold solely for its power. "Bily" is less flagrant than his brother, he wants to become President of Haiti, but "2Pac" is a bombastic thug who lords over his Soleil with a combination of charm and horrible fear. In one instant, 2Pac seeks a generator during one of the many power outages (to throw a party no less), but when a man waffles to hand his over, 'Pac' puts bladder-evacuating fear into the man — this is but one of his antics. What transpires in Asger Leth's doc is the brothers' efforts to maintain their power first and foremost, yet their portrayed as wanting to escape the squalid life in the Soleils. '2Pac' developes a contact in Fugees alumn Wyclef Jean to produce his music, and in turn, opening the window of escape that has eluded him — what's clear though is '2Pac' really has no desire to abandon a situation he relishes. This dichotomy is his alone. 'Bily', on the contrary, maintains his provincial, if not illusionary, political aspirations.

As a whole, and to Leth's credit, he holds back the urge to wonder into soap opera territory. I can image the self-control employed in the face of a coup, a weird love triangle, Wyclef Jean's inclusion in the events, and all of the in-fighting among the different Soleil leaders. How he staved off becoming repetitive or melodramatic is no small wonder.

I'll give Ghosts Of Cité Soleil 5 Powermad Haitians out of 10.

Stephen King’s The Mist (2007)

I have a few spare minutes this bone-shatteringly cold morning of 2°F so why not spend it here with the people whom, and the blogs which, warm the cockles of my heart. I saw Stephen King’s The Mist this past Thanksgiving weekend, a film I honestly intended to skip if it weren’t for the review/recommendation of Star Tribune/Vita.mn/The Rake film contributor Colin Colvert; someone who’s opinion in the world of film is trending harmonious as of late. 

I’ll stop just short of saying The Mist completely works, it does skew a tad obtuse (refreshingly so?), but I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend it in an instant for a host of reasons: a tremendous sense of space in light of the setting’s size versus the number of actors, studious recovery when the subject matter drifts towards digression, and a great sense of pace are but a few from the macro column. It's very worth a theater viewing if for no other reason than how a massive screen and pummeling sound-scape facilitate the film's simultaneously claustrophobic & remote anxiety alongside impressive visuals.

What lingers, for me, and without being blasphemous, as it were, Mist enters the ominous halls occupied by films like Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s Kairo and the upcoming blockbuster-in-waiting I Am Legend, but unlike Kairo and more in line with 1998’s Deep Impact, (although nowhere near as effective imo), ‘Mist’ speeds past a genuine opportunity to drop a steaming heap of salvation. Darabont errs by squandering an opportunity to give auds a truly revelatory experience; why the need to protect? Who knows. Supposedly King whole-heartedly approved of the ending.

Having read only four of his novels (one novella, and not the story in question; all relatively forgettable) I can somewhat attest to his affinity for punting. The last thing is, I can’t shake the feeling that it ebbs & flows in ways a certain H. P. Lovecraft short story does; I re-read it to satisfy my curiosity.

Best Films Of 2007 (From What I've Seen)

"Once you quit hearing "sir" and "ma'am," the rest is soon to foller."

28.
30 Days Of Night
A phenomenal premise, but suspect execution. What saves the film however, and the reason it makes my top list at all, is the claustrophobic nature, and crisp, lush visuals. It's clear this was a video game platform written for film.

27.
American Gangster
A fairly melodramatic and cozy Hollywood production masquerading as a hard-nosed biopic.

26.
1408
It's here for some reason.

25.
The Number 23
I thought the film's revelation came much too late. Certainly after we've either figured it out or ceased caring.

24.
The Bourne Ultimatum
The deliberately smooth, yet ultimately anticlimactic wrap to a great series.

23.
Breach
My affinity for political thrillers may have worked in Breach’s favor here. Seems like a film which should have been released a couple years ago. Nothing objectionable and solid performances.

22.
28
Weeks Later
Would’ve been a tall order to top its predecessor; possibly a low-effort placeholder for 28 Months Later?

21.
Disturbia
I don’t care if what people say, despite being a total and complete spoof (if you will), it entertained!

20.
Eastern Promises
A mild disappointment. Have I been spoiled by Dostoevsky? Probably, but as I wrote before, the film somewhat collapsed upon itself under the weight of its own propriety. Sorry fans.

19.
You're Gonna Miss Me
Originally released at SXSW in 2005, You're Gonna Miss Me experienced a limited theatrical release this year, where most became acquainted with the melancholy look into the tribulations of shooting star turned burnt out institution-case Roky Erickson, founder of the mid-60's rock group The 13th Floor Elevators. In one scene, there’s a certain elegance and power when Erickson bangs out “Goodbye Sweet Dreams” ( a tune I hammered out on my acoustic thereafter for effect) for his brother and therapist during a session. Ultimately, a disjointed look at a broken human attempting to right his life.

18.
Maxed Out: Hard Times, Easy Credit and the Era of Predatory Lenders
This documentary, to some success, sheds a cautionary light on the pitfalls of the modern credit crisis and the systematic abuse therein. A tad inflammatory on the whole (if you ask me), in the sense that it paints credit in the most bleakest of lights and with the broadest of brushes, yet its points are all the same honest and ring true. The Suzy Orman mention is priceless. Based on the book of the same name.

17.
The Lookout
It’s been a while since watching this one, and I failed to write anything at the time for reference, but I do recall thinking it borrows from Memento near the end, and the unresolved ‘injured friend’ tangent left me shrugging. It's a well made thriller & caper.

16.
Saw IV
If submitting Saw IV in front of Eastern Promises seriously jeopardizes my critic-cred, then so be it. Darren Lynn Bousman’s cockeyed chain of justice films continually fall a short of transcending its celluloid bonds, I think we all agree on this, yet I continue to hold out hope this series turns more assertive

15.
Bug
Outside of 2004’s Thai gem Shutter, Bug may be one of the best low–budget horror films to both improve as it progresses, and comes seemingly from absolutely nowhere to surprise auds. Judd is wonderful as a trashed hotel queen, delivering this movie in the palm of her hands... and the whites of her eyes.

14.
Inland Empire
I wanted to rate this higher, but to be completely honest it just wore on for about a half hour beyond my attention. Much latitude is deserved for its Mulholland Drive-like character study, and the phenomenally rubixed standpoint, and with just the right splash of 19th Century Eastern European fabledom.

13.
3:10 To Yuma
Despite the fact it’s a remake, and in the face of suspect motivations (plot devices), 3:10 To Yuma sustains on it’s own flesh and grit (much like Mangold’s pseudo-epic Copland); particularly Russel Crowe’s Wade, whose self interest rears its ugly head in surprising ways. All of them are brilliant — on the other hand, Bale’s' Evans is the hero we hold on high but despise in the presence of others; today’s loser.

12.
The Darjeeling Limited
Am I growing weary of Wes Anderson’s cutesy, darling screed of hipster wholesomeness and fatigued families? Almost there. Still, it was alright.

11.
Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten

This eulogy/celebration of Clash front man John Mellor, famously known as Joe Strummer (a name he got for his lack of technical prowess with the guitar), and his rise and dissension in the realm of punk rock. Personally, I was quite unaware of The Clash for a long time, then again to this day I can only tag three songs, so I went into this wide eyed.

In one scene, Strummer recounts writing their most well known track London Calling as a reaction to the pressures exacted onto us by the media: ‘It was too much. It was always that a sickness would kill us all, or the sun was going to crash into the earth, or the country would be drowned by the melting ice…and here I stayed in a shit apartment next to the river! Of course his lyrics reflect precisely this. They recorded the album on their own (after firing the band's manager/label) and did so inside of three weeks.

10.
We Own The Night
9.
The Host
8.
Paprika
Some movies you just have to seen.
7.
Grindhouse: Death Proof
6.
The Taste of Tea
5.
Gone Baby Gone
4.
Zodiac

3.
Into The Wild

2.
Michael Clayton
All environmental issues aside, this is simply a magnificently acted/directed/written film. Nary a glitch, and it cuts a wide swath yet refuses to get sloppy. To many people's surprise, Clooney nearly disappears into this role, and that deserves mention because he’s one of those actors who tend to outshine their character to the detriment of the film concerned.

1.
No Country For Old Men
A parable for our time. A pre–War on Drugs recollection/essay on violent, indiscriminate crime and a cinematic masterwork on the measurement of life. An investigation of greed. A call to our fellow man. A modern day Grimm's tale. No Country For Old Men is all of these and more.

On a realistic note, yet on point, I read this morning in my local paper of a guy who entered the home of an elderly woman. As the elderly woman recounts, she was awoken as she napped in a reclining chair by a man who claimed he had discovered her purse — using the key to let himself in. In short order, before she could get her bearings, he demanded a reward. But when she demanded he leave, he responded by spraying her in the face with mace then beating her face until she passed out. Or I recall the closed caption video of a downtown Minneapolis sidewalk where three urban troubadours ran up on an elderly couple, beat them to the concrete for their purse and wallet, then proceeded in kicking them repeatedly for good measure. I instantly know these seasoned citizens, these parents and grandparents, would have much in common with the thoughts and struggles of Tommy Lee Jones’ Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, if not this film as a whole.

I know there plenty of people who haven’t seen this film, but there’s simply too much to say concerning this film. Mindful of this, I want to touch on is the comedic element, something I paid special attention to during my second viewing. Ed Tom Bell is a regular cut-up indeed, although what struck me was not the crowd reaction to the mannered country-fried witticisms, but at the times the film intended to be more somber — the audiences reaction seemed far too automatic, willing to laugh at discomfort than embrace it. The word desensitized comes to mind. The coup de grace might have been the brief, but uproarious laughter when Chigurh blasts Stephen Root's unnamed character in the face with a shotgun. Is Root simply a stereotypical funny man? Did Woody Harrelson’s jocularity soften our guard? I can say that I didn't break a smile. Did I miss something?

The film's esoteric ending lent just enough to ring true, but once again not for some. I overheard a woman commenting “is that it?” as the credits appeared.