i'm not sure if this is...

...the greatest idea in blockbuster entertainment history, or the stupidest.

The dinosaurs in Jurassic Park 4 have been trained by the army to carry guns.

Trained by the army to carry guns.

What the idea clearly is, is insane. I'm not yet sure if it's insane like genius-insane, or insane like the Super Mario Bros. movie-insane.

link

essay: bloody epic spectacles

Over the past week I revisited Apocalypto (Mel Gibson, 2006) and 300 (Zack Snyder, 2007), two of the more offbeat blockbuster big-hitters of the past year. Neither is in any way a perfect film, or even a very good one, and both suffer to varying degrees from crippling flaws. Nonetheless, the films are interesting for the similarities they share, and the light they cast on the development of the historical action epic as a genre.

The genre, of course, is one that lay largely dormant for a number of decades (with exceptions such as Gibson's Braveheart (1995))before exploding once again into the pop-culture consciousness with Gladiator (Ridley Scott, 2000). The box-office and awards success that encountered Scott's film was superceded a year later with the first of Peter Jackson's The Lord of the Rings trilogy - not, strictly speaking, a historical epic, but its groundbreaking success cemented the idea that the clashing-swords and epic-battles formula was here to stay.

Fast-forward a few short years, however, and the formula already seemed stale and worn out. The Lord of the Rings franchise continued to be met with spectacular success, but other epics that followed, such as Oliver Stone's Alexander (2004) and Ridley Scott's Kingdom of Heaven (2005), failed to meet their box-office targets. More crucially, films like Troy (Wolfgang Petersen, 2004)achieved little bar a forgettable, unremarkable mediocrity, falling far short of achieving the rousing emotions, grand themes and breathtaking spectacle expected of an epic.

Something new was needed to reinvigorate the genre, and Apocalypto and 300, in proposing an answer, create a new spin on the historical epic formula. The first element in their updated formula is a difference in timescale: whereas the plot of a traditional epic would span a number of years, or even decades, both Apocalypto and 300 only cover the events of a few days. The second element, which is linked to the first in some important ways, is a rigid, narrow, straight-ahead emphasis on the action; in both cases, there is only the barest of scene-setting, followed by what is basically an extended, sustained, feature-length action sequence. One could almost argue for these films being nothing but extended third acts: introduction and development dealt with in a few minutes, with the rest of the film being one long climax.



Naturally this has a number of consequences on the films, none necessarily positive or negative. This narrow temporal focus allows for one event to be depicted in minute detail, giving the possibility of intensity and depth over breadth and scope; it would be interesting to see an epic that takes this approach with a dramatic, rather than action-oriented, bent. The emphasis on action also grants these films the kind of headlong, breathless momentum more often associated with the action film, and in fact the line between the epic and the action film is blurred here, especially in the case of Apocalypto. An argument could be, and has been, made that these films are not epics but action films with an exotically historic backdrop, and while that doesn't have to be a bad thing, it needs to be said that, despite pretensions to the contrary, neither film has much in the way of intellectual or emotional complexity; adrenalin-fuelled entertainment is their sole raison d'etre.

The emphasis on action leads to the third element in their reconfigured epic formula: explicit, visceral violence. Both films glory in their depiction of bloody, brutal violence, and use it as a primary device in their emotive arsenal, attempting to capture a raw, physical thrill (this is not a criticism in itself, although many have used it as such). Despite this similarity, however, the films' approach to the violence is very different: in 300 it is cartoonish, glorious, heroic and "cool", in Apocalypto the intended effect is gruesome and horrifying.

The fourth, and final, element in the formula is the deployment of a rich, stylized, CGI-enhanced visual style in an attempt to recapture the spectacle of the epic, now that vast CGI armies of thousands have become somewhat passe. 300 takes this much further, but both films foreground their visuals, their CGI-created spectacles and their stylized nature.

Ultimately, neither Apocalypto nor 300 is a great film, although the former is my pick of the two. Both films come close to achieving greatness in sections - Apocalypto in the sheer, manic, wide-eyed intensity of the scenes in the Mayan city, and 300 in the opening scenes, which suggest a dark, cynical reworking of classical mythology epics such as Jason and the Argonauts (Don Chaffey, 1963). Apocalypto, however, demonstrates an unevenness in tone, undecided whether it wants to be an actioner or something grander; by the end it degenerates into an enjoyable but forgettable chase movie. 300, meanwhile, tries but fails to sweep aside the obvious contradiction that the Spartans, supposedly figthing for "freedom", are defending a fascist, militaristic society that it is singularly difficult to root for; while its incessant heroic platitudes and unnecessary, glib narration start to grate almost immediately. They are interesting, however, when taken in conjunction as experiments with the structure and genre elements of the historical epic - experiments that have paid off decidedly well in box-office terms, but, so far, with mixed results in aesthetic terms.

classic image: wild at heart (david lynch, 1990)

It might seem strange that what strikes me as one of the cinema's most honest and perversely beautiful affirmations of love comes from David Lynch, a director more associated with disturbing dreamscapes and nightmarish journeys into the dark underbelly of small-town life. And yet Wild at Heart is precisely that: an oddball, offbeat, deeply troubled but ultimately joyful celebration of passionate love, and of the fragile yet powerful private sphere lovers inhabit.

Much of the film's success can be attributed to Nicolas Cage and Laura Dern, both delivering memorable performances at the manic intensity the film demands. The story of their characters, Sailor and Lula, is reminiscent of countless other outlaw-couple stories, from Badlands (Terrence Malick, 1973) and Bonnie and Clyde (Arthur Penn, 1967) all the way back, of course, to Romeo & Juliet, and probably to much earlier than even that. When I watched the film with Lara a few days ago, we talked about the parallels between the film and Shakespeare's play - though there are no warring families in Wild at Heart, there is the same sense of a rotten, corrupt and violent adult world that constantly intrudes upon and threatens to shatter the lovers' idyllic dream. The only way the couple can keep their dream alive is by running, constantly travelling down seemingly endless highways with California as an almost mythical, unreachable final destination. The adult world repeatedly ensnares Sailor into committing acts of violence, in much the same way as it does Romeo, and the forces and structures of the law, family and society form barriers which seem to trap Sailor and Lula and prevent them from achieving the happiness they find in each other.

One of Wild at Heart's strengths is that it belongs to the category of films (that also includes, for instance, Peter Jackson's Heavenly Creatures (1994)) that externalize the private, shared universe created and inhabited by its lover protagonists - the deeply personal dream-world in which they attempt to claim a space untouched by the corrupting, hypocritical influence of the adult establishment. Thus, the film's world is an endearingly, surreally kitsch pop-culture world of Elvis songs, jazz, snakeskin jackets, Good and Wicked Witches, convertibles and endless highways - a world composed of Sailor and Lula's psyches writ large. Theirs is a passionate, burning love expressed through numerous dancing scenes, rock songs, and especially through the energetically lustful yet tender hotel room sex scenes, expressing a bond that is unashamedly, delightedly carnal yet emotionally strong. This is in contrast to the adult world, which is depicted not as chaste and repressed (as is typical in many young vs. old narratives), but as sexual in a perverse and emotionless manner - as in the images of a mob boss constantly surrounded by naked, immobile sex slaves.

Lynch, however, does not shy away from depicting the dark side of the protagonists' story. The deliriously overblown fire imagery, repeatedly associated with the protagonists' lovemaking, recalls the death of Lula's father in a suspicious fire as well as the deaths of Sailor's parents through smoking-related illnesses, and invokes not only the ever-present spectre of death but also the realization that the fragile existence Sailor and Lula have carved out for themselves is ephemeral and cannot last.

This impression is reinforced by the haunting scene of carnage they encounter in the wreckage of a car accident that has claimed the lives of what seem to be kindred youthful spirits. As the girl they try to help dies in front of their eyes, a sense of mortality settles on the couple, shattering their previous confident hedonism. It is in this mood that they end up, penniless, in the dead-end desert town of Big Tuna, Texas, where the aura of decay and death is intensified as the first clue we get to the arrival of new life is a close-up of flies buzzing around a pool of vomit - perhaps the most stereotypically "Lynchian" image in a film which, for the most part, foregrounds his latent wacky sense of humour. Here, reality catches up with Sailor and Lula; they are forced to face the consequences of their hedonistic elopement and to realize that what they have been living is a dream that must reach an end.

At the end of the film, however, we have a hopeful - even joyously hopeful - note. Sailor and Lula have come to accept that life and love cannot be perfect, that they might have lost something along the way and that the pressures of the world might have damaged their impossible dream; but they have decided that is no reason to give up the dream. The finale is at once hilariously kitsch and, in a weird way, movingly romantic, and it affirms the possibility of the the existence and survival of love, even at the cost of a Sisyphean struggle with the outside world.

Wild at Heart is in no way whatsoever a subtle film, but it operates at precisely the right pitch to capture the love story of its characters - in much the same way that, at the opposite end of the spectrum, Wong Kar-Wai's In the Mood for Love (2001) exists at the subdued, quiet level the character of its protagonists demands. It is ultimately, for all its filmmaking and technical brilliance and postmodern invention, a simple, uplifting, life-affirming love story, and one of the best films by one of the greatest of film-makers.

review: zodiac (david fincher, 2007)

I watched Zodiac before Dan started up the blog, so I've been meaning to write a review for quite some time now...you could therefore say that my memory isn't fresh enough to review this film now, and you may be right if you're thinking about doing justice to most of Fincher's work...however, I also have the impression that this just might add to the disturbing sense of fallible memory which comes across in Zodiac.

What I mean is that one of the major strengths of Fincher's Zodiac is its tie to the Post modern narrative: the refusal to settle for final and comfortable explanations. Don't go looking for some neat little Ron Howardesque direction of conspiracy theory in Zodiac...every scene, in both script and action builds upon the increasing over saturation of information which continues to hinder rather than clarify the possibility of achieving some such thing as truth.

I found myself both emotionally involved with the concerns of the main characters, yet still strangely removed from them, like a little fly shaped camera on the wall that can only pick up on their movements but cannot process their meaning. This isn't to say that there is no character development-to the contrary, major figures are always natural, credible, sympathetic and well-rounded rather than just over-paid screen fillers-but our direct closeness to their predicament or obsession reveals its futility and emphasises their place as ciphers in a larger pattern which cannot be proven to exist or not exist.

Everywhere you turn, Zodiac's meticulously woven string of clues, hunches and so-called facts appear to lead to a dead end without resorting to lunatically ridiculous out-of-nowhere plot twists in order to leave the viewer with that "what the heck?!" kind of feeling.

Overall, Zodiac displays a very reduced sense of Fincher's generally over the top flashy camera movement (a style which I'm generally seduced by, I must admit), leaning instead towards a sense of expressive realism and heightened visuals which are well situated within the context of the dramatic action-characters' faces twist into sinister shapes through the shadows and motivations are obscured even by seeming revelations. Coincidences become facts and vice versa, it's a maze without an opening where mundane icons or signs become twisted or perverted for uses beyond their original purpose. In this sense, the influence of Pynchon's cult novel, The Crying of Lot 49, emanates from the film's every frame, yet shares its morbid humour to a lesser extent. [Coincidentally, some *trivia*: Radiohead-big fans of The Crying of Lot 49-were in line to write the soundtrack to Fight Club, but the deal fell through.]

Through time lapse, carried out in the more familiar Fincher style, the investigation drags on for years, each person deteriorating both socially and psychologically in a sometimes kitsch, sometimes noiresque environment-but almost always, the surroundings themselves appear drab with fatigue. The paranoia of the colour noir so evident in Fight Club also remains strong, yet the post modern is evident more often through thematic and narrative development than constantly self-conscious and self-referential form. The move might be predictably described as a growing sense of mature film-making, yet I have no qualms against either style Fincher adopts, each demonstrating both a technical and expressive awareness of the simultaneous oppression/dependence relationship between people and their artificial environment.

Just like our memory and that of every witness blurs, so do the film's conclusions, offering a nagging doubt which you're free to consider or ignore...

Me? I took the bus home after the movie, I stared at the clocks above the bus stops and the cracks in the pavement that night, they all looked a little weirder than usual....so did the people walking home quietly. Just a thought, guess it doesn't mean much.

beyond satire

It might sound like a throwaway gag on The Simpsons or Family Guy, but it's entirely real.

A kung-fu version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

I guess anything is possible.

link

r.i.p. : ingmar bergman, michelangelo antonioni

It is impossible not to be feel saddened by the loss, within two days, of two of the most revered of auteur figures. I must confess I have not explored Bergman's and Antonioni's oeuvres with the thorougness their reputation demands; I have only seen a handful of Bergman's films, and none at all of Antonioni's (something about the mental image I have of what they are like always makes me decide to put off renting one until next time).

I have never considered Bergman one of my favourite directors, most probably for the illogical reason that I have always associated his name with the crowd of mostly ageing cinephiles for whom the only good cinema is the European arthouse cinema of the 60s and 70s. And yet I cannot deny that The Seventh Seal is almost certainly one of the greatest films ever made; its tortured metaphysical questioning veined with a surreal black humour making it virtually unique and shatteringly affecting. Moreover, in films like Wild Strawberries, Bergman blended metaphysics with agonized, soul-searching character studies, all crafted with a meticulously perfect cinematic eye.His place in the history of cinema and his status as one of the great auteurs is assured and more than deserved.

I'm afraid I can say little about Antonioni, as I know him by reputation alone; however there can be little doubt his name will likewise be etched in the annals of cinema.

review: the simpsons movie (david silverman, 2007)

The bad: it's basically just an hour-and-a-half long Simpsons episode.

The good: it's an hour-and-a-half long episode of the greatest TV show on Earth.

Like just about everyone else my age, I've grown up watching and loving The Simpsons, to the extent that it's difficult to imagine life without the dysfunctional yellow family.

This movie assumes that is the case for its audience, and I doubt it would make any kind of sense to a newcomer (if such people exist). For everyone else, it's everything you could hope for from a feature-length Simpsons episode. It may be more comfortably familiar than daringly groundbreaking, but there is precious little comedy this relentlessly inventive, intelligent, well-written and just plain funny.

And Spider-pig should be Emperor, or something.