4/27/15: An Army of One

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1960s cinema, action films, auteur theory, Bill Mullikin, Bob Newhart, Bobby Darin, cinema, dark films, Dirty Harry, Don Siegel, dramas, Escape From Alcatraz, Fess Parker, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, frontline, G.I.s, Harold Lipstein, Harry Guardino, Hell Is For Heroes, insubordination, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, James Coburn, Joseph Hoover, Leonard Rosenman, Mike Kellin, Movies, Nick Adams, nihilistic films, power struggles, Richard Carr, Robert Pirosh, set in 1940s, set in France, Steve McQueen, The Killers, war movies, World War II

Filmmaking is a lot like cooking, if you think about it: give five different chefs the exact same ingredients and you’re likely to come up with five very different dishes. Ditto for filmmaking: give five different filmmakers the exact same tropes, conventions, themes and scenarios and you’re going to end up with five very different films. Case in point: action auteur Don Siegel’s Hell Is For Heroes (1962). On the outside, the film looks much like many other World War II-set action films: big cast of well-known actors…intense front-line action sequences…dramatic interplay between the soldiers. Digging deeper, however, it’s easy to see that this particular war film bears more than a passing resemblance to similarly dark, paranoid films in Siegel’s canon such as Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) and The Killers (1964). The result? A tense, nihilistic and constantly odd study in hubris, obsession and heroism, courtesy of the guy who would, one day, gift us with Dirty Harry (1971).

We jump right into the action on the front-line of the Allied offensive, in France, circa 1944. A small American squadron, led by Sgts. Larkin (Harry Guardino) and Pike (Fess Parker aka TV’s Daniel Boone), has been charged with holding the line against the German offensive. As the squad, which includes motor-mouthed Pvt. Corby (actor/singer Bobby Darin), laconic Cpl. Henshaw (James Coburn), Pvt. Kolinsky (Mike Kellin) and Pvt. Cumberly (Bill Mullikin), celebrate their upcoming return home, they receive a new member: Pvt. Reese (Steve McQueen). Reese is a sullen, surly, standoffish badass who seems to have a past with Sgt. Pike and a problem with the bottle.

While Reese lugs several steamer trunks’ worth of emotional baggage with him, his appearance also foretells a bit of bad luck for the squad: not only aren’t they going to get to go home but military brass has decreed that the squad be split, stretching the already thin crew to a breaking point. While Pike takes most of the men further down the way, Larkin and his tiny six-man crew are charged with holding the line all on their lonesome.

The problem, of course, is that a far larger German force is camped out just over the rise, patiently waiting to bomb the ever-loving shit out of the stragglers. As the extremely unpleasant but eminently capable Reese butts heads with Larkin over their next course of action, the rest of the team are caught in the crosshairs. When Reese comes up with a brazen, impossibly dangerous plan to take out the nearby German pillbox, however, he sets in motion a series of events that will test the squads loyalty, their resilience and their very wills to survive.

Despite its familiar trappings, Hell Is For Heroes is a decidedly odd duck. For one thing, the evocative black-and-white cinematography (courtesy of Harold Lipstein) frequently calls to mind film noir and German Expressionist filmmaking: full of hard, deep shadows and an overwhelmingly sinister atmosphere, there’s something intensely unsettling about the film, even during its lighter moments. There’s also the film’s rigid, almost stage-bound sense of blocking: combined with the sharp dialogue (legendary screenwriter Robert Pirosh wrote the film, along with Richard Carr), the movie often feels like a stage play, although this ends up working to its benefit, heightening the eerie sense of unreality.

Siegel, as expected, is a deft hand with the action sequences (the film’s final 20 minutes are one long, sustained battle that’s a masterpiece of chaos and carnage) but the connecting tissue is where the film really stands out: the midpoint sequence, which consists of the G.I.s setting up an elaborate “early warning system,” is almost ludicrously detailed and leisurely paced, yet still manages to be impossibly tense and pulse-pounding. The human-level drama is even better: McQueen’s thoroughly unlikable Reese swings wildly at any and everyone around him and the audience soaks up the benefit.

In fact, I’m hard-pressed to recall another performance of McQueen’s that is quite this unpleasant and cold: even the flinty-eyed Frank Bullitt had a basic degree of humanity that seems to be lacking in Reese. Obsessed with proving himself right, completely dismissive of authority, misogynistic and arguably misanthropic, Pvt. Reese is, perhaps, one of the single most unqualified heroes in the history of the biz. Look closer, however, and McQueen’s world-weary eyes almost (almost) tell a different story. His latter-half heroism isn’t so much a last-minute Hail Mary as it is the natural culmination of his inherent stubbornness: Reese is more than willing to die to prove himself right.

While McQueen is a reliable marquee draw, the rest of the Hell Is For Heroes cast is a veritable embarrassment of riches. Guardino and Parker are both excellent as the guys (grudgingly) in charge, with Parker possessing the absolutely perfect blend of authority and down-home humility. Nick Adams turns in a slightly goofy, if likable, performance as the tag-along Polish soldier, Homer, while Coburn is great as the reserved Henshaw: you know a film has a fantastic cast when an actor of Coburn’s stature is, effectively, relegated to second-tier status but he brings an easy warmth to the proceedings that are completely expected and always appreciated.

The two big surprises, however, end up coming on the lighter side of things: Bobby Darin’s conniving, perpetually scheming Pvt. Corby is a classic character and Darin plays him with complete gusto. At times approximating Lou Costello, Darin provides much of the film’s comic relief and never wears out his welcome, high praise for the type of character that normally gets under your skin, fast. The other surprise is Bob Newhart’s delightful performance as the bumbling, over-his-head Pvt. Driscoll. From his entrance (crashing into a tree with his jeep) all the way to the show-stopper where he commandeers a German phone line and proceeds to feed the enemy fake intel, Newhart is sheer perfection, his timing pitch-perfect and his hang-dog, malleable face so essential to the film’s (occasionally) deeply-set sense of humanity. Driscoll often reminded me of the similarly bumbling Radio O’Reilly, making me wonder if this might have served as inspiration for Gary Burghoff’s iconic character: the mind practically boggles!

Ultimately, Hell Is For Heroes is a continually surprising film, a feat which certainly stands as one of its greatest assets. From the opening all the way through to the purposefully ambiguous finale, which skips the expected emotional payoff and gives us something decidedly more open-ended, Siegel’s film defies conventions and arrives at an altogether more interesting destination. Less interested with easy definitions of “heroism” than he is with the reality of the situation (depending on the angle you view it from, Reese’s actions could easily fall under the umbrella of “insubordination,” “insanity” or even “manslaughter”), Siegel turns in another complex, nuanced and disturbing examination of the evil that men do, even when they do it in service of “the greater good.” In other words, just another day at the office for one of the all-time greats.

4/19/15: The Game of Life

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2014 Academy Awards, 87th Annual Academy Awards, Alan Turing, Alex Lawther, Alexandre Desplat, Allen Leech, arrogance, Óscar Faura, based on a book, based on a true story, Benedict Cumberbatch, Best Actor nominee, Best Actress nominee, Best Adapted Screenplay winner, Best Director nominee, Best Film Editing nominee, Best Original Score nominee, Best Picture nominee, Charles Dance, cinema, code-breakers, crossword puzzles, cryptography, dramas, early computers, Enigma machine, film reviews, films, flashback narrative, flashbacks, Graham Moore, Headhunters, homophobia, homosexuality, Jack Bannon, James Northcote, Keira Knightley, life during wartime, Mark Strong, mathematicians, Matthew Beard, Matthew Goode, MI6, Morten Tyldum, Movies, multiple award nominee, mystery, Oscar nominee, persecution, race against time, romances, Rory Kinnear, Russian spies, secrets, set in 1940s, set in 1950s, set in England, spies, The Imitation Game, thrillers, Tom Goodman-Hill, Turing machines, war films, William Goldenberg, World War II

True heroes, unlike their cinematic counterparts, rarely receive the appreciation that they deserve. Oh sure: they may be honored, feted and immortalized via statuary but this is usually long after they’ve ceased drawing breath on this particular plane of existence. The reason for this, in most cases, is that true heroes…the kinds who save tens of thousands, if not more…usually operate in the shadows, away from the spotlight of public scrutiny. They’re the doctors and scientists who discover new cures and immunizations on a regular basis…the engineers who continue to craft safer buildings, bridges and roads…the unsung politicians, bureaucrats and civil servants who toil away behind the scenes, not for power, money or glory but because they honestly don’t want to see their citizenry starving or freezing to death in the streets. Cinematic heroes are a lot more thrilling, sure: watching Batman punch the living shit out of garishly clad supervillains is much more thrilling IMAX fare than watching Jonas Salk develop a Polio vaccine. When it comes down to brass tacks, however, it’s kind of obvious that Salk has saved at least a few more folks than Batman has, albeit with much less panache.

Morten Tyldum’s multi-Oscar-nominated The Imitation Game (2014) takes a look at one such unsung hero, the prickly, brilliant mathematician/cryptologist Alan Turing. Aside from being responsible for the Turing machine, a proto-computer that would be a nice enough feather in anyone’s cap, Turing was also one of the British code-breakers responsible for cracking Germany’s infamous Enigma machine during World War II, allowing the Allies to move the war into its endgame. Estimates put the number of lives saved by ending the war early at around 14 million, give or take: in other words, not bad for a guy who wore a sweater and slacks to  work instead of a spandex suit. Along with being a world-class code-breaker, however, Turing was also a gay man during a time period when sexual orientation was illegal. Years after his triumph over the Engima machine, Turing was prosecuted and found guilty of indecency: choosing chemical castration, Turing would go on to commit suicide roughly a year after his “therapy,” at the tender age of 41.

Similar to The Iron Lady (2011) and The Theory of Everything (2014), The Imitation Game takes the real facts of Turing’s life and expands, folds and manipulates them into something altogether more “cinematic,” if arguably less factual. By employing a flashback structure, Tyldum runs three simultaneous timelines: the “present-day,” circa 1951; the “war years,” circa the 1940s; and Turing’s childhood, circa the late-’20s. While the meat of the story takes place during the war, the “present-day” material opens the film and sets up a mystery (of sorts) that the school and war eras will attempt to “solve.”

In the present day, we follow Detective Robert Nock (Rory Kinnear) as he investigates a mysterious break-in at the home of Prof. Alan Turing (Benedict Cumberbatch). As Nock investigates the incident, with a minimum amount of support and help from the prickly Turing, he becomes stymied by the reclusive professor’s redacted military record. This leads us into the film proper, with Turing attempting to offer his services to the British government as a decoder, despite a complete lack of interest in politics, social disorder or even a rudimentary understanding of the German language.

As Turing butts heads with his rigid, disapproving commander (Charles Dance), he also manages to tick off the other code-breakers that he’s supposed to be working with, labeling each of them as “worthless” in each own, indomitable way. He does, however, manage to find a kindred spirit in Joan Clarke (Keira Knightley): their friendship eventually develops into an engagement, albeit one inherently doomed by Alan’s homosexuality. We then get the third part of our little “triptych” as we journey back to Turing’s boyhood years and witness the young genius (Alex Lawther) as he’s introduced to the world of cryptography and falls in love with his classmate, Christopher (Jack Bannon). As these three timelines move and maneuver around each other, we gradually develop a more complete picture of Turing as the quintessential outsider, a man tasked with saving the social order that , ultimately, condemns and hates him. You know: pretty much the definition of the selfless hero.

While the historical details behind The Imitation Game are certainly up for debate (as they were in the aforementioned biopics) the film, itself, is a much sturdier, well-made and entertaining affair than either The Iron Lady or The Theory of Everything. Credit certainly must go to Cumberbatch, who tears into the role of Turing with complete and absolute gusto: while he gets several “big” scenes, it’s all of the small, almost invisible personal tics and quirks that really make the character come alive. While there’s nothing here that’s completely foreign to Cumberbatch’s work with the new Sherlock series (aside from a new-found sense of vulnerability that would fit the smug detective as poorly as a reverse-mohawk), he’s pretty effortless as getting across the commingled pain, hubris and awkwardness that seemed to be at the heart of the character. Cumberbatch is an actor who understands how important it is to listen: there’s a rare joy to be found in watching an almost endless cycle of emotions sail across his expressive face, from boyish mischief to hopeless defeat. Rather than simply indulging in mimicry (as with Streep’s take on Maggie Thatcher or Redmayne’s performance as Stephen Hawking), Cumberbatch does it the old-fashioned way and just acts.

As befits this type of large-scale production, Cumberbatch has quite the cast to back him up. While Keira Knightley has never especially blown me away, I quite enjoyed her low-key performance as Joan: the bit where she tells the obnoxious Turing that, as a woman in a man’s job, she “doesn’t have the luxury of being an ass,” like him, is subtly (but witheringly) delivered but as sturdy as concrete. There’s also good work coming from Matthew Goode, Allen Leech, Matthew Beard and James Northcote as Turing’s put-upon co-workers, with Goode getting some especially nice moments. If Charles Dance and Low Winter Sun’s Mark Strong come off more stereotypical and clichéd (as the stodgy commander and sneaky MI6 agent, respectively), chalk this up to roles that serve more as plot-points than to any deficiencies in the acting, which are top-notch.

From a filmmaking perspective, The Imitation Game mostly works, although I’ll admit to not being a fan of the flashback structure. For my money, this would have worked much better as a more traditional narrative, moving from Turing’s childhood up to his indecency conviction: the constant cutting between eras often has the effect of pulling us out of the moment, making it difficult to ever get fully invested in the structure. The “present-day” material also exists solely as a contrived “mystery,” especially since the final emotional resolution occurs via screen-text after the film has actually ended. Running it chronologically (with, perhaps, a return to the childhood-era for the final revelation/emotional wallop) would have kept the focus on Turing, eliminating the unnecessary mystery element. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention that the various newsreel cutaways and war scenes, while de rigueur for this type of film, really stick out like a sore thumb: they never feel authentic or, to be honest, even particularly well-integrated.

While The Imitation Game would go on to rack up an altogether impressive array of award nominations (including a win for Best Adapted Screenplay), there were also plenty of critics who decried the film’s various historical inaccuracies and seeming desire to minimize Turing’s homosexuality. From my perspective, I didn’t necessarily find this to be the case. While it’s certainly true that the film makes certain deviations from the historical record (including creating characters and conflicts that never existed), it would be difficult to find a cinematic biopic that doesn’t do that: certainly, The Imitation Game seems no more guilty of this than does the similarly lauded The Theory of Everything, which managed to paint its subject in such glowing terms that the whole thing seemed more than a bit fanciful and overly romantic. The Imitation Game is a much more gritty, down-to-earth film, albeit one with a foot planted firmly in the kinds of historical biopics that multiplex audiences will be more than familiar with.

I also felt that Turing’s homosexuality was portrayed in a much more organic way than many films like this might opt for: the silly “mystery” angle notwithstanding, the childhood and war-era storylines opt for a refreshing “show, don’t tell” mentality that never feels forced. While the final text does seem like a bit of a cop-out (for the most part, the entirety of the film’s equality message is shoe-horned in right before the credits roll), there’s enough subtle characterization and commentary, throughout, to get the message across loud and clear.

Ultimately, The Imitation Game is a suitably sturdy, well-made character study, although I certainly didn’t find it to be the best film of 2014 (or even one of the best, to be honest). While Tyldum is an assured hand with the material here, guiding the film’s many tense setpieces with a ruthless sense of efficiency, there’s also very little that stands out, aside from the excellent performances. For my money, Tyldum’s previous film, the astounding Headhunters (2011), was a much more impressive, mind-blowing piece of art: The Imitation Game, while more important and “serious,” is certainly the lesser of the two, in close comparison.

Despite its (decidedly minor) issues, however, there’s no denying that The Imitation Game is a solid, powerful and well-crafted film. In an era where the LGBT community still fights for the rights, respect and understanding that has been sadly absent for too long, there’s no denying that this is a story that definitely needs to be told. As long as any person is forced to go through what Alan Turing was put through, all of humanity collectively suffers. Here’s to hoping that, in the future, our children will look back on the events depicted in The Imitation Game as an example of a petty, small-minded and terrible time that no longer exists.

True heroism, after all, isn’t about making the world better for yourself: true heroism is about making the world better for everyone, regardless of gender, race, sexual orientation, nation of origin, religion (or lack thereof), political-leaning or personal wealth.

12/28/14 (Part One): Dancing Under the Gallows

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86th Annual Academy Awards, Aliza Sommer-Herz, Best Short Documentary winner, concentration camp, concentration camps, documentaries, Holocaust survivor, Malcolm Clarke, piano player, shorts, The Lady in Number 6, uplifting films, World War II, writer-director

At the time of her death last February, at the age of 110, Aliza Sommer-Herz was the oldest, living Holocaust survivor. She was also an amazingly vibrant personality who captivated all those around her with her expert piano-playing, a skill that she cultivated in the years before she was captured by the Nazis and sent to a concentration camp. As Malcolm Clarke’s Oscar-winning short documentary, The Lady in Number 6 (2013) shows, both aspects of Aliza’s life, her piano-playing and her will to survive, were intrinsically linked. As the subtitle states, “Music saved (her) life,” to the great benefit of the rest of us.

Born in Prague in 1903, Aliza was part of an artistically inclined family that counted both Gustav Mahler and Franz Kafka as close, personal friends. Studying under ace pianist Artur Schnabel, Aliza became quite the prodigy in the years leading up to the Nazi Occupation. This skill would end up serving her well once she was transferred to a concentration camp: suitably impressed by her skill, the camp guards kept Aliza around as a sort of “human jukebox,” with any and everyone (including the infamous “Angel of Death,” Josef Mengele) stopping by to request songs and spend time getting lost in her playing. She would go on to perform some 100 concerts while interred in the concentration camp, earning the admiration of everyone around her, prisoner and guard alike.

After surviving the concentration camp, along with her son, Raffi, Aliza would go on to a long, happy life, one characterized by her unrelentingly upbeat attitude (one of her mottos was “It’s up to me whether life is good, not up to life.”) and her continued love of the piano. Even at age 109, during the filming of the documentary, Aliza displayed a vitality and joie de vivre that would be difficult to maintain in someone a third of her age, let alone under the often terrible conditions that Aliza lived through.

Subject-wise, The Lady in Number 6 is unbeatable: Aliza Sommer-Herz is a fascinating subject with a rich, powerful story and enough life lessons under her belt to teach us all for the next century. While any story about the Holocaust is going to be tragic and terrible, at its heart, Aliza manages to imbue so much positivity and love into her tale that it’s all but impossible to get through without a big smile on your face, even if a tear might threaten to roll down your cheek at any minute. At one point in the short, someone makes the observation that when people hear the word “Holocaust,” they only think about the gas chambers and six million dead: there was a whole world in-between those terrible extremes, a world which included many survivors, just like Aliza. In every way, then, The Lady in Number 6 becomes a story of survival and overcoming tragedy, rather than a sorrowful rumination on the unforgettable evil of the Holocaust.

While I fell completely in love with the subject of Clarke’s film, however, I must admit to being less than enthralled with the film, itself. Truthfully, I found much of the film to be a little clunky and choppy: there was also way too much “Vaseline-lens” for my tastes, since this had the effect of forcing emotion into scenes that needed no such help. Aliza is such a fascinating, positive force of nature that no such trickery is wanted/needed: a much more straight-forward style would have suited this better, since Clarke’s filmmaking is often too fussy to be as invisible as it should be.

Technical quibbles aside, however, The Lady in Number 6 is really a lovely little film and deserves to be seen by everyone: if there were more people like Aliza Sommer-Herz in the world, it’s doubtful that we’d be in the kind of straits that we’re currently in. For her ability to keep a brave, hopeful, loving attitude in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, Aliza should live on in our hearts forever.

4/12/14: Building a Better Beast

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cinema, conceptual artist, cyborgs, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, found-footage films, Frankenstein, Frankenstein's Army, horror films, mad scientists, Movies, Nazis, Paranormal Activity, Richard Raaphorst, special-effects extravaganza, The Blair Witch Project, Viktor Frankenstein, World War II, zombies, zombots

Full disclosure: I’ve always had a soft-spot in my heart for found-footage horror films. When done well, such as with Man Bites Dog (1993), The Blair Witch Project (1999), Paranormal Activity (2007), [REC] (2007) and Home Movie (2008), found-footage films can be genuinely claustrophobic and down-right frightening. There’s something about the illusion of looking at “real footage” that can truly mess with an audience’s mind, especially when the fake footage is seamlessly integrated into the fictional material. On the other hand, found-footage horror films can be the very definition of cheap tedium, full of huge plot holes and reduced to the hoary old cliché of staring intently at security camera footage, waiting for a cabinet door to mysteriously open (every Paranormal Activity film after the first one: take a bow) and wondering why the hell the camera operator doesn’t just drop the damn thing and hightail it outta there. By their very definition, found-footage horror films provide both a blessing and a curse: the ability to tell scary stories, from fixed perspectives, on minuscule budgets vs the inherent straitjacket provided by the “rules” of this particular subgenre (picture/audio degradation; a camera that must always be filming, lest we miss any action; amateur actors; slow pace; etc…).

Since found-footage films tend to be cheap to make and currently enjoy a high-profile within the horror community (for better or worse), there’s no chance of the fad dying away anytime soon. At its worst, we’re all guaranteed to see at least another bakers’ dozen of terrible found-footage films within the next few years (at least three of which will be Paranormal Activity sequels, I’m sure, with another couple going to beef-up the [REC] franchise), although I daresay that several gems will, inevitably, sneak their way in. On the plus-side of this equation, we have conceptual artist Richard Raaphorst’s feature-film debut Frankenstein’s Army, a goofy, gory, glorious special-effects bonanza that makes good use of the found-footage aesthetic while giving enough nods to classic horror and ’80s gore films to keep any horror hound satisfied. While it may not be a perfect film, Frankenstein’s Army ably replicates the comfy feeling of settling down with some good, old-fashioned trashy cinema, no mean feat in this era of films that attempt the look but miss the intent of actual exploitation cinema.

The film opens with a small group of Russian soldiers, in the waning days of World War II, on a mission into the dark heart of Nazi Germany. As with most filmic army regiments, these Russians are a pretty varied group of folks, composed of so many different personalities, ethnicities, attitudes and personal morals that they could easily serve as either a criminal enterprise, ala Die Hard, or a super-team, ala The Expendables. There’s even a film student in their midst (how convenient!), which ably explains away the found-footage portion of our proceedings. As the group troops around the desolate wastelands of the German countryside, they begin to notice signs that all might not be right in this neck o’ the woods, especially when they discover what appears to be a large human skeleton with an odd, horse-like head. In due time, our plucky group finds their way to a deserted church, complete with a pile of burned nuns stacked before its front doors. Since curiosity is only natural when one is confronted with a creepy, dilapidated church and evidence of a mass killing, our (un)lucky group decides to head inside to investigate. When they do, they notice that the old church has been retro-fitted into something more closely resembling an Industrial Revolution-era factory. When one of their number turns on the power (via a hand-crank, natch), the Russian soldiers realize two things: they aren’t exactly alone and they’re pretty fucked.

After their captain is killed by a grotesque “zombot,” a vicious power struggle ensues among the survivors, although one of the men, Dimitri (Alexander Mercury), has a little secret of his own. As the rapidly dwindling group progresses further into the abandoned church, they enter a world that’s like a steam-punk version of Saw until they eventually find the madman responsible for it all: one Viktor Frankenstein (Karl Roden). As more and more secrets are revealed and Dimitri takes charge, our intrepid “heroes” now find themselves in the fight of their lives, caught on one side by the megalomaniacal Dr. Frankenstein, stitching together a new race of monstrosities out of the dead soldiers and busted war machines and on the other side by the evil ambitions of their own government. As the poster so eloquently puts it: War may be hell but this place is worse. Much worse.

Once upon a time, the horror/exploitation world was filled with little gems like Frankenstein’s Army, good-natured trash that mixed gooey practical effects, plenty of clever monsters, dynamic (if nonsensical) storylines and fast-paced action. Films like Maniac Cop (1988), Puppet Master (1989) and Wishmaster (1997) were gonzo good-times that seemed made for the drive-in or a rowdy, beer-fueled night with friends. Even though Frankenstein’s Army follows these originators by nearly two decades, it does their sordid memories proud, making for one of the most uproarious times a genre fan can have these days.

Writer-director Raaphorst is a conceptual artist, by trade, and you can really see the influence of his “day job” on his feature-length debut. In short, the zombots are all completely amazing and a few of them are absolutely jaw-dropping (try to not be impressed by the creature with an airplane for a head or the one who seems to be a living tank: I bet you still rewind and take a second…or third…look at ’em). As with the Puppet Master films (or any Full Moon Production, come to think of it), Frankenstein’s Army lives or dies by the strength of its creature creations and these are all top-notch. Truth be told, some of this stuff was as well-done as any of del Toro’s phantasmagorical creations and a few of them may have been cooler. Don’t shoot me, folks: I’m just the messenger!

Are there problems with the film? The answer, obviously, is yes. The found-footage aspect becomes a bit too obvious over time (way too much audio/video grain, dropped sound, etc…) and the Russian soldiers all have a tendency to blur together into one anonymous mob by the film’s final third. If some of the cast have a generic, interchangeable quality about them, this may actually have a bit more to do with the tropes of this particular sub-genre than with any inherent faults of the screenplay or acting, although it doesn’t make it any easier to pick any of them out of a crowd.

The most important question, however, is this: Do the various problems with Frankenstein’s Army detract from the overall impact of the film? Not in the slightest. In fact, these foibles are all things that are pretty much tied in with these types of film. The acting is actually quite good, finding a nice middle ground between over-the-top scenery chewing (could you ever have a Viktor Frankenstein that didn’t chew scenery?) and more restrained, atmospheric tension. The settings, particularly the awesome factory/church/abattoir are all memorable, made even better by the World War II time-frame. I’m a sucker for horror films set during the Second World War: there really aren’t enough of ’em, especially when one compares them to the glut of Vietnam War/Korean War-set shockers and I’ll always welcome a new member to the fold. Whereas previous favorites like The Keep (1983), The Bunker (2001) and Below (2002) were more measured slow-burns, Frankenstein’s Army is all popcorn film and proud of it. While I tend to gravitate towards creepier, more atmospheric horror films as I get older, I cut my teeth on the campy, hyperactive stuff and it will always be comfort food to me.

At the end of the day, I asked myself the same questions about Frankenstein’s Army that I ask about any film, horror or non: Did it keep me interested? Was I eagerly awaiting the next development? Is there enough imagination on display for several complete films? Did I stand and fist-pump at least once, if not more, during the film? Many films are lucky if I can check a few of these off the list: for Frankenstein’s Army, I had to turn the page over. Will I be planning future vacations to this little spot of cinematic terra firma? Absolutely. Will I be eagerly awaiting Raaphorst’s next film? As fast as he can deliver it. Is this film a complete blast from start to finish? Do zombots like to kill?

 

2/11/14: That is the Question

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actors, Alan Johnson, Anna Bronski, Anne Bancroft, auteur theory, Blazing Saddles, Charles Durning, Christopher Lloyd, cinema, comedies, doubles, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Frederick Bronski, imposters, invasion of Poland, Jose Ferrer, Life Stinks, Mel Brooks, Movies, multiple roles, musical numbers, Nazis, period-piece, Robin Hood: Men in Tights, Ronny Graham, screwball comedies, Spaceballs, spies, The Producers, theatre group, Thomas Meehan, Tim Matheson, To Be or Not To Be, World War II, Young Frankenstein

Pound for pound, there are probably few comedic writer/director/actors with the kind of resume that Mel Brooks has. Even if they haven’t all been winners (and Life Stinks (1991), Robin Hood: Men in Tights (1993) and Dracula: Dead and Loving It (1995) definitely belong in the “Not Winning” category), Brooks has been responsible for some truly indelible, classic films. Try and imagine a world without The Producers (1967), Blazing Saddles (1974), Young Frankenstein (1974), High Anxiety (1977) or Spaceballs (1987)…that’s right: not a pretty picture is it, pal? Achievements as big as those tend to buy you an awful lot of goodwill, after all, and if the last 23 years of Brook’s career haven’t been as great as the first 24 years…well, the guy has kind of earned the right to rest on his laurels a bit.

For my money, Brooks is at his most unstoppable when he’s writing, directing and acting simultaneously (although this didn’t do anything to resuscitate his last three films, ironically enough). I think he’s a great actor but his kind of broad performance type is really only well-suited to his own over-the-top, joke-a-minute writing style. In anything where the jokes don’t come quite so fast and furious, however, such as Screw Loose (1999), Brooks often comes across as a fish-out-of-water. For some reason, that pliable mug of his absolutely flourishes in screwball territory.

To Be or Not To Be, directed by Brooks’ longtime choreographer Alan Johnson (the genius behind the Springtime for Hitler and Puttin’ on the Ritz segments in The Producers and Young Frankenstein, respectively) is a decent, if not revelatory, Brooks vehicle that marks one of the last (small) hurrahs in his career, followed four years later by Spaceballs (the last Brooks film that I truly enjoyed, including the patently awful remake of The Producers from 2005). While Brooks didn’t write or direct the film, writers Thomas Meehan and Ronny Graham would go on to write Spaceballs, making this a bit of a dry run for Brooks Star Wars-parody.

While To Be or Not To Be never quite scales the dizzying heights of previous Brooks’ classics, there are still plenty of genuine laughs to be found here, although nothing really too deep to think about. Technically a remake of a 1942 Jack Benny film, To Be or Not to Be details the attempts by a group of Polish actors and military personnel to identify and do away with a German double-agent on the eve of Germany’s invasion of Poland. Frederick Bronski (Brooks) and his wife, Anna (Anne Bancroft, in a deliriously giddy role) must deal with the spy (played by a virtually unrecognizable Jose Ferrer), asinine Nazi commandants (side-splitting turns by Charles During and Christopher Lloyd) and a randy Polish pilot (Tim Matheson) who wants to free Poland from the Germans and Anna from her stage-clothes, possibly in reverse order.

Although To Be or Not To Be is nowhere near the laugh riot of Brook’s earlier films, it’s probably unfair to assume that it would be. For one thing, To Be or Not To Be tends to be one of Brooks’ plot-heaviest confections (this still isn’t Solaris, mind you, but probably has the most convoluted plot since The Producers), so there’s much less of an emphasis on rapid-fire gags and more emphasis on running jokes and elongated payoffs. To Be or Not To Be is also (technically) a remake, so it suffers from a certain further sense of removal from the rest of Brooks’ oeuvre.

That being said, To Be or Not To Be is still filled with some truly great, hilarious moments. One of Bronski’s shows is called Naughty Nazis and is just as delightful as the ridiculous title would indicate (“A Little Piece of Poland” is a pretty amazing tune) and his Shakespearian “greatest hits” performance, titled “Highlights From Hamlet,” is good enough to get its own full-length. There’s a great running gag about the theatre troupe hiding Jewish refugees in the basement (Bronski’s reaction, upon seeing that “a couple” has turned into “a lot” is classic Brooks) and the bit where Bronski, dressed as Hitler, walks into a British pub and innocently inquires: “Is this England?” is just about as good as silly absurdist humor gets.

The acting, as a whole, is quite good, although Christopher Lloyd and Charles Durning easily steal any scene they appear in. Lloyd, in particular, is absolutely marvelous as Capt. Schultz, the stone-faced Nazi who has zero time for any shenanigans. It’s a wonderful change-of-pace role for Lloyd, something that really surprised (and delighted) me. Truth be told: we could have used a whole lot more Lloyd in the film. Bancroft is obviously hanging a blast playing the ditzy-but-canny Anna and there’s some genuinely nice chemistry between her and Brooks. Matheson is just fine in the kind of fresh-faced-rube role that he routinely pulled-off in his sleep, although his character is never asked to be much more than agreeable, bland wallpaper.

The whole film culminates in a circus-clown inspired escape attempt that manages to be both genuinely funny and truly nail-biting: this heightened sense of real tension was something that felt new for Brooks’ films: even edgy fare like Blazing Saddles, despite its storyline, often felt fairly low-stakes whereas we frequently get the impression (in To Be or Not to Be) that any of these characters could die at any time. That’s not to say that the film is ever grim (or even particularly serious, most of the time) but there is definitely the potential for deep tragedy here.

Ultimately, To Be or Not to Be sits pretty comfortably in the middle of Mel Brooks’ canon. While it’s nowhere near as good as his classics (but really…what is?), it’s certainly no where near as dire as his (to this point) final three films were. I’ll probably always consider Spaceballs to be Brooks “final” film, but To Be or Not To Be wasn’t a terrible lead-up to it.

2/8/14: If We Can’t Have It, Neither Can You

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a-tests, Academy Award Nominee, Academy Awards, atomic tests, Best Feature Documentary nominee, Bikini Atoll, cancer, documentaries, documentary, island paradises, John Smitherman, Marshall Islands, nuclear radiation, nuclear weapons, Operation Crossroads, Radio Bikini, Robert Stone, The Manhattan Project, U.S. Navy, World War II

It’s always interesting to look back on simpler times, especially as regards technological and scientific breakthroughs. We take so much for granted nowadays (television, the Internet, cars) that it seems almost unfathomable that there could ever be a time when these inventions were just a twinkle in our collective eyes. The first unveiling of these things must have been a heady mixture of terror and wonder: terror at the infinite gaping maw of the unknown, wonder at the infinite possibility of the world around us. If something like television must have initially seemed awe-inspiring, how must the first nuclear weapons have seemed?

Radio Bikini, a 1988 Academy Award nominee for Best Documentary Feature, examines the effects of Operation Crossroads on the Bikini Atoll, including the residual damage caused to both the uprooted indigenous natives and U.S. servicemen and scientists. Operation Crossroads was a series of naval A-bomb tests in 1946, mere months after the first atomic bombs were used to level Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The Navy wanted to test the strength of warships against atomic power and chose an idyllic, albeit occupied, series of islands in the Pacific. The U.S. relocated the natives to nearby islands, moved scientists and soldiers in, built a base and began conducting test (both above and below water). As a point of reference, the film follows one particular serviceman, John Smitherman, from his time on the project to the present (1983, at the time). Smitherman died of complications related to radiation exposure shortly after the film was finished, so that probably gives you a pretty good idea of what happened.

You see, like any new technology, folks weren’t quite sure what to make of this newfangled nuclear power. As such, the early days of the tests look more like a beach party: everyone runs around in beach-wear (it is a beautiful tropical island, after all), the guys flirt with the girls and everyone gets plenty of ice cream and beer. Seems great, huh? They also all get an up-close and personal view of the a-tests, which later proves to be less than ideal for those involved. For, as we’ve come to accept as part-and-parcel nowadays, the lingering radioactive effects of nuclear tests could become an even more dire heritage than their fiery destructive capabilities. We didn’t know that in 1946, however, but we’d sure figured that out by the ’80s, when nuclear disarmament became a cause celebre.

Radio Bikini is nothing if not sobering and eye-opening, especially once one gets to the final reveal of Smitherman’s condition (I honestly had no idea what was coming and was suitably shocked by the conclusion). The contrast between the care-free, happy days of the tests versus their future impact is particularly powerful: it’s quite illuminating to hear eye-witnesses complain about how they expected the tests to be more explosive and impressive. It’s quite terrifying to witness observers get drenched with (obviously) radioactive water after one underwater bomb test and stand there laughing, as if they’d just come from an amusement park ride. Our current understanding of the terrible power of nuclear power hangs over every frame of the film like a rag-clad grim reaper, reminding us that the majority of the smiling faces on-screen will meet very unpleasant ends.

The other cost of the tests, of course, and the source of much of the film’s emotional punch, is the plight of the relocated natives. This was, after all, their ancestral home and the U.S. government pretty unceremoniously went in and kicked them out. Not only kicked them out but nuked the place, rendering it completely uninhabitable for generations: talk about crappy neighbors! The film does a good job of showing the conflicting emotions of the villagers (they want to help but are never told enough to be genuinely informed) and the way in which the government effectively shunted them to the side. There’s a truly sad scene where we see the military representatives explaining the relocation to the natives. Since the government is filming the scene (presumably for some sort of publicity back home), they do it several times, leading to no end of confusion for the natives. Being told you’re getting kicked out of your home once is bad enough: being told three times because the sound guy screwed up the previous two takes seems like unconscionable torture, as far as I’m concerned.

At one point, the natives’ chief passionately states that he just wants to be able to return to the home of his ancestors again before he dies. It’s a pain that’s obviously shared by the rest of the natives, especially when one considers the paradise they used to live in. They go from ample fishing and foraging in the land they were raised in to scant pickings on neighboring islands as their former paradise is bombed to bits by nuclear weapons. The injustice is pretty palpable and the complete indifference of the various government and military figures we see certainly doesn’t help matters much.

While Radio Bikini is certainly sad and thought-provoking, it also proves to be quite awe-inspiring, as we get up-close footage of the actual atomic tests. I can honestly say that few things in the universe must be as simultaneously beautiful and horrifying as a nuclear explosion. We get to feel a measure (if only an iota) of the awe that the actual observers must have felt as the inferno torched the surrounding area, sending that iconic mushroom cloud up to the heavens. The underwater explosion, in particular, was chilling, especially when one thinks of the widespread effect on the surrounding seas as the huge shockwave pulses for what seems likes miles in every direction. It looks like the apocalypse and must have felt like it from nearby.

As a documentary, Radio Bikini is pretty good, helped immeasurably by the fascinating story being told. It is an inherently sad film, both for the actual effects on those involved and the idea that the nuclear age marked a clear turning point from the past, a headlong dive into technological and scientific pursuits that would come to characterize the next 70 years of our existence. At the time, we undoubtedly saw a much rosier future, a much more glorious and exciting atomic era of prosperity and invention. I’m not so sure that the dispossessed islanders saw it the same way, however, and I’m pretty sure Smitherman didn’t, either.

1/20/14: Farewell to Your Future Self

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12 Monkeys, action films, Blade Runner, Boreno, Brick, Bruce Willis, chase films, cinema, closing the loop, Conan the Barbarian, drama, dystopian future, Farewell to the King, Film auteurs, films, grim future, headhunter tribes, historical dramas, hitmen, island paradises, Japanese fleet in the Pacific, John Milius, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, jungle combat, kings, Looper, Movies, Nick Nolte, Rian Johnson, romance, sci-fi, telekinesis, Terry Gilliam, The Big Lebowski, The Brothers Bloom, The Rainmaker, time travel, war films, World War II

After beginning the day with a couple of Oscar-nominated documentaries, I figured that I’d end it with a film where Nick Nolte becomes king of Borneo and Bruce Willis and Joseph Gordon-Levitt share the same face. Welcome to the world I live in, ladies and gentlemen: it’s a strange one.

First of all, take a moment (or two) to marvel at the glory that is the above poster for Farewell the King. Nolte giving his best Blue Steel…burning huts…lots of buff dudes with machine guns…that, my friends, is what we commonly call one kickass film poster. Doesn’t matter what the film is about: a peep at that one-sheet and I’d hightail it to the theater post-haste!

Now that your eyes have been bathed in badassery, let’s take a look at the fella that wrote and directed Farewell to the King: John Milius. You might know him as the guy that wrote and directed Conan the Barbarian (ie: the awesome one) and the original Red Dawn. You might also know him as the guy who wrote the screenplays for Dirty Harry, Magnum Force, Apocalypse Now, Jeremiah Johnson and A Clear and Present Danger. Or perhaps you know him as the creator of the cable show Rome. Barring that, you may know him (peripherally) as the inspiration for John Goodman’s Walter in The Big Lebowski. Now…taking a look at all of these disparate pieces that make up John Milius, can you take a wild guess at what awaits within Farewell to the King? Yes, friends and neighbors: we’re about to enter the mystical kingdom of Testosteronia.

Due to my father, I was a huge fan of Milius before I ever knew it. Growing up, the Dirty Harry series was just about the closest thing we got to the gospels: I’d already seen the entire series by the time I was a pre-teen and I pretty much had the first two, Dirty Harry and Magnum Force, memorized. I was also completely obsessed with sword-and-sorcery stuff by that point, so Excalibur and Conan the Barbarian got watched at least once a day. Add to that my equally hardcore interest in Apocalypse Now and I was, essentially, an intense Milius fan that had absolutely no idea who the dude was. Classic me, as it were.

As far as plot goes, Farewell to the King is equally as gonzo as anything in Milius’ back-catalog. A British officer and his radio operator land in Borneo, during World War II, in order to whip up local support against Japanese forces in the area. They find a friendly response from a local tribe only to wake up the next morning as captives: it seems that these natives might be the kind normally found in old jungle epics. The difference, however, is that those other tribes didn’t have Nick Nolte as their king.

You see, Nolte was an American soldier during the war, taken prisoner by the Japanese but escaped to the jungles of Borneo. Once there, he was taken captive by the local tribe of headhunters, saved from being turned over to the Japanese due to his dreamy blue eyes (no joke: the women of the village stage a revolt because they can “see the ocean” in his peepers…what a dreamboat!), became leader of the tribe after beating their chief at deadly hand-to-hand combat, fell in love and married one of the locals and managed to unite all of the smaller tribes in the area into one mega-tribe (of which he’s chief, natch). Whew! That is one busy Mystical White Man there, isn’t it!

Learoyd (Nolte) is pretty sure that he can just ignore the rest of World War II: after all, he has a pretty wife, several children, a really cool tropical paradise and the complete adoration of his people…why does he wanna stomp around the jungle and shoot Japanese soldiers? As the British officer gently explains, however, just because you choose to ignore the war doesn’t mean the war chooses to ignore you. Before long, Learoyd is thrown headfirst into the conflict, proceeding full throttle down a path that will lead to glorious victory, staggering defeat, mysterious cannibalistic Japanese ghost regiments, betrayal, mean Australians, Gen. MacArthur and, ultimately, sovereignty.

If it couldn’t be handily discerned from the above plot description, Farewell to the King is a deeply silly, if wildly entertaining, film. It operates along the same sort of wish-fulfillment scenario as Costner’s Dances with Wolves (white guy shows up and teaches the natives to be the best natives they can possibly be). It would be a much more offensive scenario if Milius’ film wasn’t so amiable and good-natured. It’s quite obvious that the natives stand head-and-shoulders above everything else (especially the Australians, who come across so loutishly as to make one wonder if this wasn’t some particular bias of Milius’). For one thing, they’re pretty much the only group that never betrays Learoyd (which can’t be said for the British). For the other, the village scenes are shot with such a sense of sun-dappled wonder that, especially as compared to the dreary jungle combat scenes, it pretty clear where the film would rather be spending its summer vacation.

Ultimately, there’s really one main reason to hunt this flick down (unless you happen to be a Milius’ completest or tropical island enthusiast): the marvelous Nick Nolte. It’s quite wonderful to witness Nolte in all of his buffed-out, leonine glory, especially when he manages to take the character to levels normally reserved for the Nic known as Cage. He strikes a terrific balance of level-headed, village elder and wild-eyed Bornean Rambo and it really works. Less successful, possibly by contrast, is the British officer, played by Nigel Havers. Havers spends most of the film looking sheepish, as if he’s constantly preparing to apologize for something. There are times when the approach works for the character but it usually has the effect of making his Capt. Fairbourne somewhat of a non-entity.

So what do you get with Farewell to the King? Well, you get some pumped-up, patriotic, Green Berets-style jungle fighting. You get Nick Nolte as the leader of a nation of headhunters in Borneo. You get some nice drama, a little character development (but not too much, mind you), plenty of action sequences and a simply gorgeous location. You get a loopy performance from John Bennett Perry (aka Matthew Perry’s dad) as Gen. MacArthur. You even get an evil, cannibalistic Japanese military unit, for good measure. In short, you get the full Milius treatment.

While it’s not my favorite genre, I’m definitely someone who enjoys a good sci-fi flick. In particular, I find myself really enjoying smaller, quirkier, more indie science fiction fare such as Primer, Timecrimes, Moon, Europa Report and Cube. I’ve got nothing, really, against the big tent-pole versions: I grew up on Star Wars and enjoyed The Matrix and Inception. There’s just something about a quieter, weirder sci-fi experience that really appeals to me. When I heard that Rian Johnson was going to be trying his hand at a sci-fi film, I knew this would be a must-see.

I’ve been a huge fan of Rian ever since Brick, a brilliant high school noir that also starred Joseph Gordon-Levitt. He followed that up with The Brothers Bloom, a film so magical and wonderful that I had to keep checking and make sure that Terry Gilliam didn’t create it under a pseudonym. With those two films, I knew that I’d be paying a visit to whatever particular world Rian decided to create next. While sci-fi seemed a little left-field, especially after the magical realism of Brothers Bloom, I had faith, faith which was handily rewarded.

Looper posits a slightly dystopian future, a sort of Blade Runner-lite with hover bikes, drone irrigation systems, telekinesis and time travel. It’s not quite the brave new world we might’ve once imagined, however: telekinesis is pretty much handily written off as “a bunch of assholes floating quarters” and time travel is outlawed, used only by criminal organizations as a way of dumping unwanted corpses in the past. We’ve come so far, you see, but stayed so very close to home.

We meet Joe (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), one of the hitmen known as Loopers, who are responsible for carrying out these contracts. Loopers have it pretty good, all things considered, right up until the time they outlive their welcome. Once this happens, their bosses send the Looper’s future self through the time machine, where the past Looper will, essentially, kill himself, “closing the loop.” At first glance, the mechanics of this seem rather unwieldy, leading one to wonder whether this will be a film akin to Primer (a brilliant film, mind you, but kind of like sitting through a graduate-level physics seminar while still in middle school biology). But fear not, as Joe will later say to himself: “I don’t wanna talk about time travel stuff cuz if we do, we’ll be here all day.” Johnson gives us just enough science to hang our hats on but not enough to hang us, preferring the let the central conflict do the heavy lifting.

And what a conflict. You see, one day, Joe’s future self comes through the portal. Loopers are trained to expect that day and not hesitate: it’s their version of retirement, essentially. Not killing your future self is generally frowned on, as that results in two of you running amok in the same time period. Joe, of course, hesitates just long enough on that fateful day to allow his future self (Bruce Willis) to kick the crap out of him and head for the hills. Present Joe must now track down Future Joe in order to close his own loop, all the while avoiding the shady underworld characters that employ him. Future Joe, for his part, has a mission: he needs to find and kill the mysterious crime boss, known only as The Rainmaker, who ordered his termination, an act which resulted in the death of Future Joe’s beloved wife. If he can do this, Future Joe believes, in can change the course of time and alter the outcome. Present Joe can’t let that happen, leading to a Joe vs Joe fighting extravaganza.

There’s quite a bit more to Looper than what the above indicates but uncovering the film’s many twists and turns is part of its charm. This is a film that manages to not only marry the past parts of Johnson’s short career (the noir-isms of Brick and the magical realism of Brothers Bloom) into a thoroughly cohesive whole but to include wholly new elements to the mix. Tonally, the film really reminded me of Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys, especially once it began to delve into the truth behind The Rainmaker. This is certainly not an influence I could have seen in his earlier films but the parallelism(especially once we factor Willis into the mix) really works and makes me genuinely excited to see what other new tricks are up his sleeve.

As could be expected, JGL and Willis are outstanding. JGL, in particular, deserves special praise for his portrayal of young Joe. There is, obviously, some makeup used to enhance the physical resemblance between the two actors but that in no way should take focus from JGL’s performance. He becomes Willis in such a perfect way, from the way he walks to the way he holds his head and the subtle inflections in his voice, that it’s one of the most dizzying bits of screen fakery I’ve seen in ages. His first appearance took my breath away and it’s impossible for me to think that the same amount of praise and admiration currently bestowed upon Joaquin Phoenix won’t be granted twenty-fold to Gordon-Levitt. It really is an amazing performance, so full of pathos and emotion, yet so subtle, that it reminded me of something I’d kind of taken for granted: Joseph Gordon-Levitt is one hell of an actor.

As is Willis, of course, channeling the same kind of wounded intensity that made his performance in the aforementioned 12 Monkeys so riveting. Cocky, self-assured Bruce Willis is a mighty kickass dude. Quiet, brooding Bruce Willis, however, often makes for a better film. His interplay with JGL is great, especially in a diner sit-down that seems to parody the inevitable “meeting of the twins” scene in like-minded films. I still buy Willis as an action hero, to a point, and Looper makes sure not to cross that point in any manner as egregious as the Expendables films. For his part, JGL convincingly pulls off the action-oriented material, leaving one to hope for more roles like this in his future.

As a whole, the film works exceptionally well. The special effects scenes, especially one involving a bonkers version of one of those “assholes floating quarters” doing a whole lot more than that, are excellent and many of the kinetic fight sequences reminded me of the fights in The Matrix, although much less flashy. There are some really deep issues explored here, issues that help make the powerful ending particularly resonant. Rather than being brazenly manipulative, the ending comes organically from the journey that Present Joe has been on, allowing it to seem more natural than mechanical.

At the end of the day, I found myself liking Looper quite a bit, maybe even more than Inception, despite the more ambitious scope of Nolan’s film. Like Brick, Looper is a tightly-plotted examination of loss, responsibility and moral obligation, a film that is not afraid to ask (or answer) some pretty big questions. It also manages to wrap science fiction into a noir cloak in a way not seen since those fabled attack ships were on fire, somewhere over by Orion.

1/10/14: A Modern Master Returns

Tags

Amy Adams, auteur theory, Boogie Nights, cinema, drama, Film, Film auteurs, Hard Eight, Joaquin Phoenix, Magnolia, Philip Seymour Hoffman, PT Anderson, Punch Drunk Love, The Master, There Will Be Blood, World War II

Here’s a little factoid about myself that will, no doubt, make me a bit of a pariah in this day and age: I’m a firm believer in the auteur theory of filmmaking. I know…I know: it takes a village to make a film, right? How dare that one person put their name on the project multiple times! An Alan Smithee film? What a massive jackass! Were it not for the gaffer, camera op, best boy, boom operator,  makeup artist, set designer, PA, editor and craft services folks, there would be no film! Rabble rabble rabble!!

All out of your system? Feel better now? Good to hear. Now, let’s go ahead and take a little closer look at what I believe. No film gets made without the able support of every department, crew member and actor: this is a stone-cold fact. Unless you’re a one man/woman band, you will need other people involved. However…and this is the big however, folks…a truly great, singular, one-of-a-kind film requires a very strong central vision. There are lots and lots of truly great films out there, with more being made all the time. There are also, however, certain films that exist outside of time and space, films that are almost without peer: Kubrick’s 2001; Coppola’s Apocalypse Now; Scorcese’s Taxi Driver; Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. There is a reason that these films are so seldom separated from their creators: these are the work of auteurs and are as much a creation of these singular individuals as they are of all those who worked on them.

As I mentioned, the auteur theory is particularly unpopular nowadays, mostly because we seem to have so few true auteurs left. One modern filmmaker that easily fit within this old tradition, however, is the inimitable PT Anderson. Over the course of six feature films, Anderson has explored several aspects of the American Dream, along with the inter-connectedness of all things. My first experience with Anderson was ’97’s Boogie Nights, a film that quickly became one of my all-time favorites. He’s bounced around over the years, landing on some spots that I loved (Punch Drunk Love, There Will Be Blood), along with one that still has me confounded (Magnolia). Aside from that other Anderson (Wes, for those who just got here), PT is one of those filmmakers that can always provoke chills and awe from me. Any new PT Anderson film is a reason to celebrate. This, then, brings us to Anderson’s most recent film, The Master.

The Master bears the onus of being only the second Anderson film (along with his debut, Hard Eight) that I failed to see in theaters. To be honest, I actually neglected to see the film until this past Friday. Hoping to make up for such an egregious oversight, I decided to dedicate the whole day to the film, allowing my mind to soak up and focus on as much PT as possible. By the end, however, I must be honest: while The Master is a good film, it really doesn’t add much to Anderson’s already impressive canon.

Ostensibly, The Master is the story of Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix). Freddie, for lack of a better word, is a mess. We first meet this potentially insane navy-man during the tail end of World War II. Freddie’s the kind of guy who humps sand sculptures and can make booze out of anything, including torpedo juice. Cut loose from the only world that makes sense, Freddie is pushed head-first into a world that has no idea what to do with him. A terrifying outburst in a shopping mall ends his photography career, just as an unfortunate incident involving homemade moonshine ends his career as a migrant farm worker. Freddie is a mess, a roaring monster made up of only an id, a penis and a shot liver. At the bottom of a very tall barrel, Freddie stows away on a luxury boat, one night, and discovers his purpose in life: Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman).

Dodd, the charismatic leader of a cult called The Cause (despite what many remarked upon the film’s release, I can see only the most surface/basic parallel between Dodd’s Cause and L. Ron Hubbard’s Scientology: basically, they’re both cults) becomes fascinated with Freddie’s untamed, animalistic nature and deigns to take him under his wing. Over the course of many years, Freddie becomes one of Dodd’s most loyal acolytes, before the whole thing eventually goes ass over tea-kettle, leading to a resolution that’s nowhere near as apocalyptic as There Will Be Blood but just as final.

Unlike Anderson’s previous films (with the possible exception of Hard Eight), The Master seemed to exist more as a series of pleasurable moments than as a unified whole. The acting, across the board, is phenomenal, particularly in the cases of Phoenix, Hoffman and Amy Adams (as Dodd’s long-suffering wife). The film has a clean, almost vintage look which suits the material to a t. There are several inspired scenes (Freddie imagining every woman in a packed room nude; Dodd yelling “Pig fuck!” to a packed room as if suddenly struck with Tourette’s; Freddie picking cabbages with other migrant workers and then violently defending himself when one falls ill from his moonshine). Ultimately, however, The Master felt too inconsequential to me, too weightless. There was none of the sense of a large world and its interconnected consequences that one felt in Boogie Nights and Magnolia. Even There Will Be Blood, which The Master’s intimate character study most closely resembles (although the resemblance isn’t especially close), had a sense of a larger world and how it affected the characters contained within. The Master, for all of its scope, is really the story of Freddie Quells, an aimless drifter looking for some sense in this world. Phoenix does wonders with the role, no doubt about it, imbuing Freddie with so much realism that you’ll swear you’ve met this guy before (hopefully you weren’t this guy). It’s always a pleasure to watch Hoffman work: he has to be one of the most under-rated actors working in film today.

At the end of the day, The Master is still a good film. When compared to much of what came out last year, it stands head and shoulders above the competition, possessed of the kind of cool, calm grandeur that PT Anderson could probably create in his sleep. When measured against the rest of his mighty output, however, The Master seems uncomfortably slight: Boogie Nights may have seemed garish and candy-coated but it was also a full meal. The Master feels, conversely, like the palate cleanser between courses.