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Comment dit-on...?

Somehow the names just look classier in French. Still, the cinetrix apologizes -- désolée -- to our neighbors to the north for exporting such shit. Even if you did give us Celine...

Box Office québécois

Du vendredi 25 janvier au dimanche 27 janvier # Film Week-end Cumulatif Semaine dernière Nombre de semaine #1 Rambo    410 943 $    410 943 $ 1 #2 Voici les Spartiates    354 589 $    354 589 $ 1 #3 Introuvable    204 607 $    204 607 $ 1 #4 27 robes    176 755 $    568 956 $ 2 2 #5 Cloverfield    150 264 $    658 882 $ 1 2 #6 Maintenant ou jamais    117 747 $    771 140 $ 3 3 #7 Trésor national: Le livre des secrets    114 053 $ 3 328 757 $ 4 7 #8 Juno    103 541 $    601 823 $ 7 #9 Folles du cash     93 708 $    309 567 $ 5 2 #10 Alvin et les Chipmunks     84 146 $ 2 556 077 $ 6 7

Quiet City & Dance Party USA

Watch 'em both, out today on DVD from Benten Films.

Sound??

It's 24.41, but worth every second. Raashan Roland Kirk plays three horns at once; Cage plays a fucking bicycle, people. What better way could you spend your time?

That's what I thought. You're welcome.

As the Moviefone guy would say, "Rrrrrated Rrrrr"

One of the cinetrix's siblings passed along the following bagatelle from the Boston Globe review of, as he put it, "Ramboner":

At the bottom of the little stats panel was my favorite part.
"Rated: R (abundant acts of horrific, grotesque, and ultimately ludicrous violence)"
Ludicrous? The ratings people are now judging how ridiculous the violence is?  Wow.

The cinetrix is pretty sure the reviewer, not the MPAA, was riffing on late, lamented NYT critic Elvis Mitchell's practice of editorializing in the advisory, but she's still feeling pretty vindicated about her decision to screen Kirby Dick's This Film Is Not Yet Rated for the kiddies this semester. An "R" for violence? How droll.

Strike

After assiduously avoiding spoilers etc. for what seemed like months, the cinetrix was finally able to take in There Will Be Blood on MLK Monday. She's late to the party, to be sure, but she hears there's some critical consternation about the bowling alley. Really? Because that setting made perfect sense to me and the 'Fesser both.

People, Daniel Plainview lands in his mansion [actually built by oil magnate Edward Doheny and later occupied by the Big Lebowski] in the late 1920s. Every self-respecting robber baron had his own private bowling alley by then. Don't believe me? Check out the lanes in the Rockefellers' Playhouse in Pocantico. Shit, even the White House has a bowling alley, as does Camp David.

So where else would a driven self-made man like Plainview, who knocked down every obstacle in his path, finally land [forgive me] in the gutter if not a bowling alley?

Life stories

You know how I know an Apatow movie is subpar? It takes me the better part of a day--wracking my brain and turning out my pockets in search of a ticket stub--to remember I saw it.

Somewhere director Jake Kasdan is weeping over Jason Reitman's Best Director nom for Juno, wishing he could be the Hollywood scion garnering accolades. But Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story is thin gruel, and I say that liking John C. Reilly and having paid a mere two bucks for the privilege of seeing the musical biopic parody on the big screen.

Yes, the double entendre-laden lyrics and the random penis were amusing. Here's the problem: Pretty much the whole movie I found myself staring at Dewey quizzically, as the following thought popped unbidden into my head: "Why does Will Ferrell look so weird?" Then I'd catch myself. But you take my point.

Speaking of the clown prince of comedy, the 'Fesser and I finally caught up with Ferrell's 2006 bid for seriousness, Stranger Than Fiction. What a delightful little movie. It does for the SNL vet what P.T. Anderson's Punch-Drunk Love did for Adam Sandler and Michel Gondry's Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind did for Jim Carrey [at long last]. Plus, it's got Maggie Gyllenhaal.

Ah, Maggie Gyllenhaal. The only young actress out there who can belt out "Honesty" and sex up Tom freakin' Arnold--convincingly--in the same film. Here she plays semi-socialist baker Ana Pascal with a half-sleeve tattoo, an arched eyebrow, and a dimpled grin. Having withheld the percentage of her income tax that would support defense spending and corporate bailouts, she's being audited by IRS sad sack Harold Crick [Ferrell]. Who, among other things, has been plagued by his ability to hear the otherwise nondiegetic voice of the film's narrator. Turns out Harold just may be a character in the book that Emma Thompson's Karen Eiffel has been working on for 10 years. And now Eiffel's trying to off him.

Fiction is charming, silly, and sweet. It deftly deploys a clever G.U.I. to get inside Harold's constantly counting O.C.D. mindset, artfully engages with its Chicago setting, and introduces a whole new generation to Wreckless Eric. [Screw Kimya Dawson.] What more could you want?

Director Marc Forster even manages to curb some of Dustin Hoffman's worst instincts, which is a mitzvah. [Screenwriter Zach Helm was not so lucky.] The Hoff plays a college "lit-tra-chure" prof who helps Harold figure out which author might possess the mysterious voice he hears narrating his life and whether his story is a comedy or a tragedy. Basically, it's an appealing variant of his Huckabees persona, and he almost sells the erudite oddball. Almost.

But then the script stumbles. The 'Fesser and I laughed 'til the tears came when Hoffman's Professor Hilbert first tries to wriggle free of helping Harold. His reasons? "I'm teaching five courses, advising two doctoral candidates, and I'm the faculty lifeguard at the college pool," he explains while standing in a vast, plush office that would make Stanley Fish weep. Five courses and two grad students? Ha! A scholar of his alleged stature would have TAs and grad acolytes out the ass and give at most one or two oversubscribed lecture courses a semester. [The cinetrix just loves when screenwriters romanticize the academic life to assuage their own feelings of being sellout hacks. Boo hoo. It's not all boning pliant undergrads. You want to live on an academic's salary? Thought not.]

Fortunately, it's the film's only false step, and by the end we were tearing up until the laughs came.

He'll Take Manhattan

First up, Hizzoner locates the germ of Woody Allen's particular genius.

Cassandra's Dream
Regrettably, Woody Allen has lost his magic touch. He used to make delightful movies that centered on what some would describe as Jewish angst. You can't do much better than "Hannah and Her Sisters," "Manhattan," and "Annie Hall." In 2005 Allen produced a drama, "Match Point," which I enjoyed but was deemed a failure by many of his fans.

Allen's new drama, situated in England, focuses on an Irish family. I prefer Allen's films in which he acts as well. This one he only directs. The plot involves two brothers: Terry (Colin Farrell) and his brother, Ian (Ewan McGregor). Terry, an auto mechanic, lives with his girlfriend, Kate (Sally Hawkins). He is an alcoholic, compulsive gambler and substance abuser.  Ian, who works in his father's restaurant, is a dreamer and a thief. He steals from his father (John Benfield) hoping to fulfill his dream of investing in California hotels. Ian's live-in girlfriend is Angela (Hayley Atwell).

When a wealthy uncle, Howard (Tom Wilkinson), visits the family, he asks a favor of his two nephews. He wants to have someone murdered. I can't tell you much more about that plot without spoiling it for you other than to say that after the crime each brother reacts differently and becomes a threat to the other.

The plot has all the makings of a good film noir but doesn't deliver, and the movie too often drags.  Still, I believe any film directed by Allen, especially one starring two great actors – McGregor and Farrell – is worth seeing. I'm not sorry I saw it, but I wish Allen would return to his own genius which involves angst.

Got that? Angst.

Speaking of which, for the B picture this week, Koch opts for Cloverfield but wishes he hadn't.

Cloverfield
This is not a horror movie, it’s simply a horrible movie with absolutely no redeeming features.

None of the films opening this week appealed to me. I hadn't read a review of "Cloverfield," but when I arrived at the theater complex, everyone was purchasing tickets to see it, and several performances were sold out. So I like a lemming decided to go along with the crowd, not knowing we were headed for the cliff and beyond. This is probably the worst film I have ever seen.

A surprise party is being held for Rob (Michael Stahl-David), who is leaving Manhattan for a job in Japan. Some of the guests, who are in their 20's, include Hud (T.J. Miller), Jason (Mike Vogel), Lily (Jessica Lucas), and Marlena (Lizzy Caplan). Suddenly an alien invasion takes place. Little creatures are splattered around the city along with one enormous reptile, and they proceed with lightning bolts to level the skyscrapers. Rob later tries to rescue Beth (Odette Yustman) from a crumbling hi-rise apartment building. The film is shot in cinema verite, meaning a shaky hand-held camera, which made it even more difficult to watch.

I should have violated my rule of never leaving a film before it ends, but I didn't want to lose my critic's credentials. I wasted an evening going to see this rubbish. Don't you.

Hee! Say it with me now: "cinema verite, meaning a shaky hand-held camera."

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard

The cinetrix was amused when WaPo's The Trail reported yesterday:

Instead of spending his time obsessing about the rain and snow, however, McCain observed his usual election day ritual of going to the movies, in this case, "There Will Be Blood" with Daniel Day-Lewis. He had been mulling over the idea of watching the Coen brothers' "No Country for Old Men," but decided that might not be the best film to see while vying for front-runner status in the GOP presidential race.

How self-aware! Unfortunately, according to the AP:

Sen. John McCain... hoped to relax at the movies with his wife, Cindy, on a rainy South Carolina Republican primary day. But he never got the chance.

The Arizona senator said he'd hoped to see "There Will Be Blood," a historical epic set in California's oil-boom days of the early 20th century. But as the day wore on, time wore out. The movie outing got canceled. It just "didn't fit into our schedule," said McCain spokeswoman Brooke Buchanan.

Talk about a missed opportunity. Can't you just hear McCain telling Huckabee et al. "I drink your milkshake!" during his victory speech?

A gentle reminder for New York City denizens

Alex Gibney's Taxi to the Dark Side is now playing in your burg. The cinetrix was blown away by it. A.O. Scott just rated it a New York Times critics' pick and gave it a rave review. It won Best Documentary at Tribeca. I could go on.

Taxi may not be your idea of a Friday night flick. But it is certainly a worthy Monday afternoon movie. What I'm trying to say is that if you don't have to go to work on Dr. King's birthday, you might consider watching this movie.

And with that, the cinetrix clambers off her soapbox and wishes you all a wonderful weekend.

But you're not really here. It's just the radio.

The cinetrix wishes she had a gift for Venn diagrams, because then she could map out the weird connective tissue linking critics' darlings Juno and I'm Not There. Or, as she's more commonly known, Kim Gordon.

Consider this the circle on the left: The Sonic Youth frontwoman shows up in Todd Haynes' flick as a talking head named "Carla Hendricks," relating how it was back in the day, in New York's folkie scene.

Now, the circle on the right: Jason Bateman's Mark plays a Sonic Youth song for Juno [Ellen Page]. But not just any song. It's their cover of the Carpenters' "Superstar."

Which, of course, brings us back to Haynes and his infamous student film Superstar, about the life and death of Karen Carpenter. Voila! This is where the circles overlap.*

And a little searching reveals the conspiracy is bigger than we know. To wit:

Kim Gordon: Chronicles Vol. 1

A description of this artist's book is best summed up by Kim Gordon's own words: "Basically what the book consists of is a loopy text of me having a conversation with someone named Julia about Dylan's book Chronicles, at a Strokes gig. It's supposed to seem like an excerpt out of a novel. The text is short, only just over a couple pages. The rest of the book consists of pics of me from over the years, and the book is titled Chronicles Vol. 1."

*I think too much.

UPDATE: OGIC sends along this account of "Superstar" and its "bizarre and mysterious pedigree."