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An Anglophile with low standards

This week, Ed Koch's trusty sidekick HS find WASP humor wanting, tacitly advocates S&M for attractive people only, and counts to four three:

Death at a Funeral
As I left the theater, a couple said to HS, "Did you like the film?" They thought it was very funny and said they enjoyed it. I interjected, "It was really bad."

The movie centers around the funeral of a man attended by his family and friends. One son, Daniel (Matthew Macfadyen), is an unpublished author, and his older brother, Robert (Rupert Graves), is a successful writer from whom Daniel is estranged. The role of their mother is played by Jane Asher. 

The foolish plot involves the misuse of drugs, substituting mescaline for valium, and very silly potty humor is introduced. The most innovative twist is the declaration by a dwarf, Peter (Peter Dinklage), that he has been the lover of the deceased parent. To the consternation of the sons, he tells of their relationship accompanied by photos which he uses in an attempt to extort money from the family. 

Yes, the picture provides a few slapstick laughs, but they weren’t enough for me to hold it in high regard. I would compare it to a very bad English television sitcom made into a movie. It had potential to amuse, but it ended up like a lead balloon never able to rise and float. Three or four laughs do not an evening of entertainment make.

HS said: "You have to be an Anglophile with low standards to get much satisfaction from this drawing-room comedy transplanted to a funeral parlor. Even the title sounds like a rip-off of an earlier successful film, "Three Weddings and a Funeral." If you enjoy watching Wasps flutter and hallucinate, if you like s&m with a particularly ugly victim, you might like the movie. For the rest of us, no."

The wonderful story of Charlie Bucket and six more

The cinetrix must be among netflix's favorite customers these days. She spent the summer away from her primary domicile and so allowed the service's DVDs to moulder, unwatched, in a pile rather than entrust them to the vagaries of mail forwarding.

Which is a round-about way of explaining how it was she came to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory last night. At some point in the distant past it must have seemed like a good idea to sling the title on the queue and, indeed, even to have it dispatched to said domicile. And why not? The cinetrix has long been a Roald Dahl fan. Among the first books she ever bought for herself as a wee thing were the two Charlies bundled in a slipcase with The Fantastic Mr. Fox and Danny, The Champion of the World, to this day prize possessions all. She's read them each oodles of times; could draw a vermicious knid from memory; and has a fair idea about poaching approaches involving sticky hats.

She also goes way back with Tim Burton, counting Pee-wee's Big Adventure as an all-time favorite, and has watched her fair share of Depp ventures from Nightmare on Elm Street on. What could possibly go wrong?

If only Burton's revisioning of Willy Wonka had hewed closer to the exemplary opening sequence chez Bucket, the answer would have been "Not a thing." But no.  Soon after the It's A Small World-style singing animatronics go up in flames outside the chocolate factory, the narrative follows suit.

Some of you may recall that this fire also marks the point at which we first see Willy Wonka, his skin as smooth as those melted automatons. This candyman creeped me out, but for all the wrong reasons. True, one does get the sense that he doesn't actually like children, which is just right. [Given that some of my students seem to be on a lassitude fast-track this semester, I don't much like 'em myself.] I just didn't feel the intelligence that's paired with Wonka's impatience and malicious caprice in the books. Props for the out-there, no holds barred approach, Mister Depp, but seriously? The opposite of Gene Wilder's Wonka is not a plastic-skinned man who fell to earth.

Nor is a Roald Dahl universe the place to work through one's daddy issues in a tacked-on back story. Dahl thought even less of parents than he did of stupid children. His Wonka is often childish, sometimes child-like, but one never gets the sense he was ever a child. Burton would have done well to heed his lead's words:

Willy Wonka: You're all quite short, aren't you?
Violet Beauregarde: Well yeah, we're children.
Willy Wonka: Well that's no excuse. I was never as short as you.
Mike Teavee: You were once.
Willy Wonka: Was not. Know why? Because I distinctly remember putting a hat on top of my head. Look at your short little arms. You could never reach.

Casting Christopher Lee as Wonka's disapproving dentist dad? That's a reach. And this Charlie ultimately comes up... short. [Sorry.]

Of course the sets are beautiful, if a bit Gotham-y; but the Ooompa-Loompas played by Deep Roy failed to win me over--Busby Berkeley/Esther Williams choreography be damned--and, worse still, with sweets abounding in the mise-en-scene, I never once felt hungry. Perhaps because Burton himself hasn't felt hungry in ages. Here's hoping Sweeney Todd will whet his once rapacious appetite for the bitter and persuade him to cut out all the high fructose corn syrup.

Into the woods

The cinetrix is teaching a new course this semester, one of her own design. It's a world cinema survey, and, for a variety of reasons [blah blah canon formation blah blah Janus's 50th], she's selected only flicks that appear in Criterion Collection DVD editions. First up was Bergman's The Virgin Spring [she told you, there are a variety of reasons], followed by Kurosawa's Rashomon, and from there on out it'll be a more straightforward chronological hopscotch through various world cinemas.

Now, I don't know the last time you watched The Virgin Spring, but its basic plot line, lifted from a medieval ballad, is this: Round about the dawn of Christianity, a somewhat spoiled young virgin is beset by goatherds on her way to deliver candles to a church. They rape and kill her, then end up at the farm of her father, who tumbles to their crime and gets all Old Testament vengeance-y on their asses before seeking New Testament-stizz forgiveness.

Which leads me to Rashomon, which, you'll recall, also features a rape and a murder [divvied up between a lady and her samurai hubby this time] in a forest. I felt compelled to begin class discussion with the disclaimer that not every film we'll watch will take up these themes. What I didn't have the heart to say was, "Why, Shoot the Piano Player has no rapes at all!" Cold [snowy] comfort, perhaps.

[It may not have helped matters that I switched out Goodfellas in favor of Children of Men in my intro class this week for the lecture on the mobile frame. Bad shit happens in the woods, what can I say? It's a good thing The Conformist is not on Criterion.]

Funny in a half-assed way

Ed Koch is back, and he says that the kids are mostly all right.

Superbad
This is one of the funnier movies I have seen over the years. There is no nudity or sexually explicit scenes, but because of the theme of the film and the obscene language that is constantly used, it is one of the most vulgar films I have ever seen.

The three main characters are teenage boys who are just graduating from high school. Evan (Michael Cera) and Fogell (Christopher Mintz-Plasse) have been accepted at Dartmouth. Seth, who is the crudest in his language and most obvious in his sexual obsession, is no Ivy Leaguer. He will go to a state college and, therefore, won't be joining his friends. The plot revolves around the underage boys seeking to buy liquor for a party. Two other principal characters are the corrupt cops, Officer Michaels (Seth Rogen) and Officer Slater (Bill Hader). 

When I left the theater I was asked by a young man what I thought of the picture. I replied, "It is degenerate." 

The film is rated "R," a category for which minimum standards are in steady decline. I'm not narrow in my views, certainly not prudish. I enjoy well-done films rated "R" and "NC-17." But I do have standards and a moral code. This is a lewd movie devoted to outrageous sexual language, and the combination of youth and degeneracy is particularly disquieting. I believe many people will be embarrassed beyond belief by the gross language in this flick and that they would not want their adolescent children to see it. Today it is not very difficult for someone under the age of 17 to get in to see an "R" rated film, and I believe this one will attract youngsters well below that age.   

I saw "Superbad" two weeks after it opened, and the show was sold out. It may still be number one at the box office, but I would not recommend this movie to anyone. 

HS said: "The movie is gross, funny in a half-assed way, and made for a world where teens rule. The boys want to score with the girls, and the girls will co-operate but only when they are drunk enough.  So they give the boys the money to buy booze.

Since everyone is well under 21, the boys try to buy liquor with an obviously phony ID. The cops they meet are themselves juvenile in manner, reckless and corrupt. The parents are almost invisible, except for one mother with cleavage. Various characters are run over by cars but always unhurt, like in cartoons. Everybody is young, white and movie-star cute, even the fat boy and the chunky girl. If you want to see almost two hours of this junk, if four-letter words are music to your ears, pay $11 and go to "Superbad."  Consider yourselves warned -- or attracted."

Now, if you've recovered from HS using "half-assed," here's what Ed had to say about Johnny To's latest:

Exiled
For reasons that I cannot fathom, the New York Times reviewer, Matt Zoller Seitz, described this movie as "a tonic -- a film that delivers all the visceral satisfactions of a super-macho action picture (close-quarters gun battles; slow-motion 'Wild Bunch'-style side-by-side struts) and unabashedly sentimental depiction of loyalty and tenderness as well as plot twists that are surprising, often bizarre, yet feel just right." 

Yes, the film contains lots of shooting, blood and gore, but in the words of the master of the English language, it is "Much Ado About Nothing." Compared with watching Sam Peckinpah's film, "Straw Dogs," which is a brilliant ballet, seeing "Exiled" is a complete waste of your time.   

The picture was produced in Hong Kong, and the setting is the Island of Macau which was, until not long ago, owned by Portugal. As Hong Kong was returned to China by the British, Portugal did the same with Macau. I went to Macau over ten years ago and found it interesting but less fascinating and less developed than Hong Kong. Before the Chinese took charge, and even for some time afterwards, the island was dominated by criminal syndicates.

The plot of the movie is based upon the battles of rival gangs and the effort to inflict death upon a small group of gang members headed by Wo (Nick Cheung). The movie opens with the gang running to Wo's home where his wife Jin (Josie Ho) and child are waiting. The head of the major syndicate, Fay (Simon Yam), has sent his goons to kill Wo and his supporters.   

Two gun battles take place in confined quarters and one in an open field during which bullets fly by the hundreds. Fay and Wo are injured in a restaurant battle and both end up in a doctor's office. When Wo arrives, the doctor is in bed with a prostitute. For large amounts of cash, he becomes available to treat Wo and later Fay. The movie then makes a diversion with a gold bar heist. 

If you intend to travel to the Far East, go to Hong Kong first and then China and Macau. When I was in Macau I purchased wonderful small sculpted figurines -- simulated Netsuke -- which at the time cost about $25.00 each. Ivory is a banned material, so the statues are made from a composite of fish bone and plastic. When I went to China, I received very good advice from a traveler who said, "If you see something you like and can afford it, buy it. Chances are you won't pass that way again."   

My advice to you about this film is to skip it. (In Cantonese, with English subtitles)

HS said:  "In addition to the Times review, 'Exiled' received favorable comments in the Village Voice from J. Hoberman, a discerning critic. 

These students of films and fine arts compare gunfights in different movies as if they were analyzing a ballet, with its moves and counter-moves. Those of us with less refined taste judge movies by other standards:  1) Did we like the show? 2) Could we follow the plot? 3) Could we tell the characters apart? By those standards, I found 'Exiled' quite difficult.  I would not recommend it, but if you like a Far West movie shot in the Far West, it could be your cup of tea."

Bitchin' Camaro

So, the cinetrix saw Transformers the other night....

See, she's thinking if she passes it off as though watching a movie based on action figures was nothing unusual for a cinesnob like herself you won't notice. Just par for the course, right?

Oh, who am I kidding? The truth is that last weekend a terrific storm dropped a lot of trees on power lines and people's lawns and so we were without electricity for what turned out to be eleven hours. Suddenly, a jaunt downtown for some pizza, incandescent light, and a two-dollar movie that last 144 minutes--plus trailers and ads--sounded pretty appealing.

Here's what I learned:

• Watching an ad for the National Guard that stresses its overseas commitments when the Gulf Coast is still fucked up two years after Katrina hit [while its native Guard members were stuck in Iraq and unable to help their own communities] really made me angry.
• Watching terrified young Manhattanites bite it in the Blair Witch-meets-9/11 trailer for JJ Abrams' unnamed new movie really made me angry, no matter how vapid the characters are established to be before shit goes down. Its callousness is astonishing.
• Watching a bunch of soldiers get killed in a desert really made me sad and angry.
• Watching robots in disguise fuck up another urban downtown just exhausted me.

Basically, the cinetrix no longer has an appetite for destruction. She is happy that Shia LeBoeuf will be a big star. Yes, Megan Fox is easy on the eyes, as well as more than meets the eye. And Michael Bay hasn't lost his gift for blowing shit up.  [The cinetrix is even OK with The Rock being released by Criterion, if you must know.] But does the African American-coded freakin' robot have to be among the first to bite it? Still? And couldn't someone have just let Turturro release Romance & Cigarettes before he resorted to the paycheck role of Agent Simmons?

My brother, on the other hand, looooooved it.

Poison pen

There's a message in my bulk e-mail from George Sanders. Yes, George Sanders. I'm dying to open it, even though I know the odds are pretty long that the acerbic wit would have chosen the cinetrix, of all people, to contact from beyond the grave. Via spam yet. But you understand the temptation, I imagine.