When rating a film I ask myself these three questions: What is the director’s goal or purpose? How does the director try to achieve it? Is the director successful? Hence a big box office hit may get a “5” while a Eurosleaze sexploitation flick gets a “7”. My rating system in a nutshell:
10 = Brilliant!
9 = Exceptional
8 = Very Good
7 = Good
6 = Average
5 = Forgettable
4 = Bad
3 = Dismal
2 = Dog Barf
1 = Beyond Awful
~ ~ ~ ~
The Mirror Has Two Faces (USA 1996) (7): Jilted university professor Gregory (Jeff Bridges), tired of falling in love only to be repeatedly abandoned, goes in search of the perfect platonic relationship with a woman he can date without having sex become an issue. By happenstance he winds up in the company of fellow professor Rose (Barbra Streisand, who also directed), a woman who has pretty much given up on the idea of love and romance thanks to living in the shadow of her attractive and outgoing sister (Mimi Rogers) and overbearing mother (Lauren Bacall giving her only Oscar-nominated performance). The inevitable complications arise when Rose decides she wants more out of the relationship causing Greg to go into an emotional tailspin while she feels the first stirrings of personal empowerment… With all of New York City as a backdrop this very loose adaptation of the 1958 French film certainly taps into that city’s energy with dry humour and bouts of manic dialogue giving off a Woody Allen vibe. While Streisand and Bridges don’t exactly set off fireworks they at least give a pair of endearing performances marked by a script which sidesteps the usual clichés without exactly avoiding them—the ending pretty much writes itself—and a strong supporting cast that includes Brenda Vaccaro as Rose’s hefty BFF, Pierce Brosnan as the “other man”, and George Segal as Gregory’s calm voice of reason. For their parts Bacall dominates the screen as an aging beauty whose regrets have soured into bitterness, and Rogers is as shallow as can be playing an impeccably coiffed real housewife of Manhattan who takes for granted all the things Rose has ever dreamed of. Yes it has its share of schlock and schmaltz with a cloying soundtrack and a closing credits sequence which pushes the envelope into lovey-dovey territory, but sometimes a corny chick flick is exactly what you need. And, just for the record, Streisand pokes fun at her own film when her character delivers a classroom lecture chastising Hollywood for its manipulative bullshit love stories. Touché Babs!
Slingshot (Hungary/USA 2024) (6): A three-man crew is on its way to Saturn’s moon Titan, a journey that will take years, when morale begins to take a nosedive thanks to a combination of isolation and side effects from the drugs they must routinely take in order to induce long periods of hibernation—side effects which include disorientation and confusion. While John (a flakey Casey Affleck) begins hallucinating, Nash (a mentally fragile Tomer Capone) spirals into full-blown paranoia, and mission commander Captain Franks (a vaguely threatening Laurence Fishburne) goes from congenial team leader to ruthless autocrat. But when the ship itself begins experiencing unexplained malfunctions an already tense onboard situation threatens to turn lethal… Director Mikael Håfström’s sci-fi thriller owes a debt of gratitude to a certain episode of The Twilight Zone as well as Stanislaw Lem’s groundbreaking novel Solaris in the way it portrays subjective uncertainty as objective reality. Just how far can we trust our senses in determining what is actually happening to crew and vessel? Despite the rather spartan sets (the control room reminded me of a dentist’s office) this is a cohesive three-handed drama in which screenwriters R. Scott Adams and Nathan Parker toss out a few nebulous clues and at least try to keep audiences second-guessing right up to the film’s final few frames. But is the big “reveal-within-a-reveal” worth the time and effort? Some will see a derivative premise undermined by cheap special effects, interminable flashbacks, and a gimmicky resolution. Others will see an engaging psychological puzzle box that manages to hold your attention even if more seasoned viewers can see the twists coming from a light year away. And for once I find myself having to agree with both sides.
X (USA/New Zealand 2022) (8): The only thing better than a good splatter movie is a good splatter movie with brains and a dollop of sly humour—and with this feverish blend of 80s slasher flick and sexually charged psychodrama writer/director Ti West delivers just that. A wannabe Hollywood mogul (Martin Henderson) and his crew of aspiring stars and starlets rent a remote Texas farmhouse in order to produce a zero-budget X-rated movie. Despite a few ongoing differences—the cameraman (Owen Campbell) wants to create “art”, the sound girl (Jenna Ortega) wants to be in front of the camera for a change, and the two female leads (Mia Goth, Brittany Snow) have dreams of celebrity—filming gets underway. But this is the Bible Belt and when the cabin’s elderly owners, Howard and Pearl (Stephen Ure and Mia Goth pulling double duty), discover what’s going on the mummified octogenarians' own long dormant lusts are aroused with deadly results… Set in 1979 with New Zealand’s countryside standing in for rural Texas, West’s cinematic bloodletting is not confined by genre tropes even as the action swings between widescreen carnage and 16mm porn clips both of which give the old adage “Art Imitates Life” a whole new slant. Issues of empowerment, obsession, and the mental aberrations which spring from sexual repression are brought up with a tongue-in-cheek (or pitchfork in face) wit given further weight by a fiery studio evangelist whose ironic rants against immorality spew forth from every radio and television set. The rustic backwoods locale and crumbling cabin interiors definitely have a nostalgic Friday the 13th vibe (cloudswept moon and menacing lake included) and the women all get their chance to be a Scream Queen while the men trot about in their underwear—Kid Cudi, playing the film’s endowed male lead, even gets to swing a prosthetic wiener. But it is Mia Goth who owns the show with two vastly different but oddly related roles playing both a terribly young naif who believes hawking her body in front of a camera will gain her some validity (there’s a sad reason behind this decision), and a terribly wizened old woman unable to accept the fact that youth and beauty abandoned her long ago. Although the contrast between Howard and Pearl’s dying passions and the film crew’s pragmatic approach to love and fucking add an unexpected pathos to the film, West only allows his audience to ponder it for so long before he brings everything to a shocking and darkly hilarious finale capped by a closing line delivered with a wink and a nudge. On Golden Pond meets The Texas Chainsaw Massacre by way of Debbie Does Dallas!
Conclave (UK 2024) (8): The Pope has died and it is the duty of Cardinal Lawrence (an Oscar nominated Ralph Fiennes) to convene a meeting of the world’s Cardinals, called a “Conclave”, so that they may elect a new Pontiff, a process that can take up to several days and several rounds of voting before a consensus can be reached. But there is trouble astir in the Vatican as conservatives square off against progressives, ambitions are laid bare, and scandals are brought to troubling light. While intrigues and infighting will take up much of Lawrence’s time it is the presence of an enigmatic Cardinal from the middle east who will eventually turn the Conclave—and thus the whole tone of the movie—on its ear… Gorgeous baroque interiors awash in crimson and gold, ornate costuming, and a soundtrack of dark strings and sacred chorales set the mood while a score of brilliant performances light up the screen as director Edward Berger takes us into the very halls of Catholic power where dramas, both pious and profane, unfold. Fiennes excels as a man questioning his own faith even as he struggles to remain obedient to the responsibilities placed upon his shoulders by the faithful. He’s joined by Stanley Tucci whose forward-thinking Cardinal represents the new Church, John Lithgow as an overly eager papal candidate, Lucian Msamati as an African Cardinal with a secret, and Sergio Castellitto as a blustery conservative with a troubling agenda. Isabella Rossellini gives her only Oscar-nominated performance to date as a crusty Mother Superior who hears and sees more than anyone expects, and Vancouver’s own Carlos Diehz provides the film’s lynchpin as cardinal Benitez from the diocese of Kabul, Afghanistan. Whether one believes or not, Berger’s incendiary ensemble piece will certainly dazzle the eyes and ears while teasing the mind.
Sherlock Jr. (USA 1924) (9): At only 45 minutes in length, Buster Keaton’s short comedy romp is surely one of the most eye-popping classics from Hollywood’s silent era. Two men are vying for the attentions of a beautiful young woman: a handsome self-assured lothario (Ward Crane), and a timid yet determined theatre projectionist (Keaton) who dreams of one day becoming a famous sleuth. But when the former frames the latter for a theft he didn’t commit only a madcap miracle or two will clear his name. This simple plot gives rise to some incredible visuals as Keaton’s hapless character rides the handlebars of a runaway motorcycle, plunges a car into a raging river, hops about on top of a moving train, and generally avoids certain death more through happenstance than design. And it was all accomplished without stunt doubles or CGI. But the most amazing passage involves a dreaming Keaton, asleep at the projector, actually walking through the movie screen to enter the film being shown—a whodunit which oddly mirrors his own predicament. This surreal movie-within-a-movie twist was so perfectly rendered that 60 years later it inspired Woody Allen’s The Purple Rose of Cairo. Little wonder then that Keaton’s small piece of cinema magic is mentioned on more than one “Must See” list.
The Sun (Russia 2005) (6): Part of director Aleksandr Sokurov’s “Quadrilogy of Power”, The Sun focuses on Emperor Hirohito in the days leading up to Japan’s humiliating surrender at the end of WWII. Of course being a Sokurov production this is not a simple period drama but rather a moody, impressionistic film in which gloomy interiors and glaringly washed out exteriors render the title’s double meaning ironic. Playing it straight for a change popular comedic actor Issei Ogata is marvelous as the idiosyncratic Hirohito, a quiet, awkward man interested in art and science who is praised as a god by his people yet played like a puppet by his fawning courtiers who dress him, open doors for him, and basically control every moment of his waking hours. But when Hirohito comes up against real power in the form of General Douglas MacArthur (a rather monotone performance by Robert Dawson), the general’s respectful yet pointed queries and critiques aimed at his personal life force the emperor to reevaluate his own lofty status. Not for the impatient viewer, Sokurov uses long takes of motionless silence and kowtowing non-sequiturs to create a space as psychological as it is physical. And he punctuates the film’s many static passages with moments of dry comedy as when Hirohito and his retinue ponder a crate of chocolate bars gifted by the Americans, or surreal horror when the emperor has a vision of Tokyo being firebombed by American planes which morph into flying reptiles while their incendiary payloads emerge like schools of monstrous fish. A doleful examination of power in high places, both real and illusory, wherein our main protagonist’s sense of honour (Japan had a few old bones to pick with America) leaves a trail of ashes in its wake. Kaori Momoi has a small but crucial role as Empress Kojun, her peaceful sensibility complimenting her husband’s emerging self-awareness.
Old Acquaintance (USA 1943) (8): Love and success may ebb and flow but friendships are forever, at least according to this sparkling camp melodrama centred on the tribulations of lifelong friends Kit Marlowe (a chain-smoking Bette Davis) and Millie Drake (a chain-smoking Miriam Hopkins), two women who couldn’t be more unalike. While the single Kit is a critically acclaimed though modestly successful author with a gentle, introspective nature Millie is a high-strung neurotic housewife whose handsome, long-suffering husband Preston (a chain-smoking John Loder) is fast approaching the end of his rope. Their friendship is put to the test however after Millie finds success churning out trashy romance novels—leaving Preston to ponder what life could be like with Kit at his side instead. Taking place over the course of twenty years from the 1920s to the outbreak of WWII, the sometime supportive sometime antagonistic relationship between Kit and Millie will have its ups and downs as loves come and go, hostilities rise and diminish, and youthful dreams give way to a more mature pragmatism. Equal parts tearjerker, poignant comedy, and warm fuzzy chick flick (not to mention tobacco advertisement…sheesh!) director Vincent Sherman’s motion picture adaptation of John Van Druten’s stage play is a fine ensemble piece with Davis and Hopkins perfectly cast—apparently their real life animosity made their onscreen chemistry all the more believable—and Sol Polito’s cinematography showcasing those swanky New York penthouse suites in chic B&W. The dialogue crackles while the orchestra swells, and every heartbreak and victory loom larger than life. Truly an under-appreciated gem from Hollywood’s heyday. Gig Young and Dolores Moran co-star—he playing a chain-smoking suitor to the much older Kit (scandalous!) and she playing the chain-smoking daughter of Millie and Preston, a spoiled debutante who ends up being the film’s biggest wild card.
Spree (USA 2020) (7): Kurt Kunkle (Joe Keery) is a 23-year old slacker with dreams of becoming a big internet influencer. But with fewer than a dozen followers he’s forced to make a living driving for a ride share program while everyone else, including a snotty kid he used to babysit, becomes online darlings. Then he hits upon an inventive—and exceedingly morbid—idea to attract more viewers. Now, with his shock vids going viral and his grip on reality becoming more and more tenuous, he meets his nemesis in the form of Jessie Adams (SNL alumna Sasheer Zamata), a sassy black comedienne with a million followers and a few controversial ideas of her own… Writer/director Eugene Kotlyarenko’s deranged skewering of social media culture and the superficial VIPs it produces makes good use of the very tools it lampoons namely footage from remote cameras and body cams, and close-ups of cellphone screens on which the jury of public opinion gives its frivolous and often contradictory verdicts in a non-stop scroll of texts and emojis. At times Kotlyarenko gleefully pushes sensory overload even further in his audience by splitting the screen into separate feeds backed by a hardcore soundtrack of electronic screeches. For his part Keery gives a convincing portrayal of a Gen-Z schmuck who goes from fame-starved narcissist to psychopathic media personality only to discover that having it all is never enough. Zamata, conversely, gives us a crude but conscientious online sensation who has grown tired of the game…at least until a very dark opportunity reveals her true nature. And a barely recognizable David Arquette has a rickety cameo playing Kurt’s spaced-out dad. Unfortunately Kotlyarenko seems to lose control around the halfway mark when the whole production spirals into a chaotic train wreck as shallow as a YouTube rant and as artistically bereft as a TikTok clip. But then again, wasn’t that the whole point?
Doctor Sleep (USA 2019) (7): Despite artistic differences between author Stephen King and director/screenwriter Mike Flanagan, this sequel to 1980’s The Shining turned out to be not nearly as bad as I had feared. Set several years after Kubrick’s iconic film, little Danny Torrance has become a recently sober adult (Ewan McGregor) eking out a life in small town America while still grappling with his extrasensory abilities or “Shining”. But a new threat has presented itself in the form of psychic vampires who’ve begun patrolling the countryside feeding on any youngster who possesses the ability to Shine. Now a reluctant Dan must join forces with a supernaturally gifted teen (Kyliegh Curran) in order to defeat the soul-suckers before the glowing-eyed child-murdering ghouls come knocking on their own door. Yes, there’s the usual eye-rolling stretches one expects from a Stephen King opus but for the most part Flanagan keeps things grounded and creepy with several cheeky little references to King’s previous works and an awesome cameo from the Overlook Hotel itself now boarded up and fallen into disrepair but still populated with lookalike stand-ins for Jack Nicholson, Shelley Duvall, and Scatman Crothers—plus the hemorrhaging elevators and zombie bathtub lady! Although Flanagan doesn’t apply Kubrick’s flair for meticulous visual design, cinematographer Michael Fimognari nevertheless inserts a few digitally altered clips from the original film—oh that aerial view of mountain roads—and incorporates at least some of the master’s signature moves like long tracking shots and one-point perspective while the sound department adds those pulsating heartbeats and the Newton Brothers’ score reworks Wendy Carlos’ original music. It may lack the polished artistry of its predecessor but for the most part it plays out like a decent reunion whose cinematic references are more homage than rehash.
Violent Cop (Japan 1989) (6): The title pretty much says it all especially when you consider it was directed by the one and only Takeshi Kitano who also rewrote the original script, changing it from a blood-soaked comedy to a blood-soaked Shakespearean tragedy. Hot-headed detective Azuma (Kitano) prefers to beat the shit out of suspects first and ask questions later. But he meets his biggest challenge when he becomes involved in a sordid underworld conspiracy involving drug dealers, crooked cops, and hired assassins. Will he be able to punch and kick his way out of this one before the clock runs out? Being a “Beat” Takeshi project rest assured there will be blood, bullets, and blow-outs with a couple of macabre twists and a bleakly cynical denouement. Missing is the mordant humour one expects from a Kitano production, also missing is the raw human connection which would later elevate such films as 1997’s Hana-bi—Azuma’s troubled relationship with his mentally unstable sister aims for this but never quite hits the mark. Instead we get a mostly by-the-numbers policier with unimaginative camerawork and chaotically staged brawls steeped in a sense of pessimism so overbearing at times that you wonder how the characters are even able to crawl out of bed in the morning. But it’s a Kitano film and that signature hangdog expression is enough to carry it through.
My Sailor, My Love (Finland/Ireland 2022) (8): Director Klaus Härö’s bittersweet December love story successfully treads that fine line between poignant family drama and Hallmark slush thanks to an understated script, an amazing trio of actors, and Robert Nordström’s evocative cinematography. Ever since his wife died years earlier, aging sea captain Howard (James Cosmo) has lived alone on the wild Irish coast. Gruff and snappish by nature, Howard saves some of his most cutting vitriol for Grace (Catherine Walker), his high-strung daughter who dutifully drops by on a regular basis to care for him just as she once cared for her late mother. But when Grace hires an elderly widow from the nearby village to be dad’s housekeeper it opens up some very old scars in an already tense father-daughter relationship. Howard’s opposite in every way, the kind and gentle Annie (Brid Brennan) gradually wins the old man over leading to a quiet romance that doesn’t sit well with the overly protective and somewhat resentful Grace. There are solid reasons behind Grace’s misgiving however, reasons which Annie has yet to discover… From Cosmo’s lonely old bear to Walker’s neurotic martyr and Brennan’s soft-voiced muse this is a three-handed drama that practically crackles with unspoken regrets and accusations yet remains refreshingly free of the shrill meltdowns one usually expects. And, as if to reflect the interpersonal turmoil, Härö’s cameras sweep over a landscape of distant islands and a foaming sea where a grey churchyard waits patiently on the side of a hill and the sun always seems to be setting. It’s a heart-tugger to be sure, but one which treats both audience and characters with respect.
The Mouthpiece (USA 1932) (7): New York prosecuting attorney Vince Day (Warren William) is so good at his job he manages to send an innocent man to the electric chair. Now overcome with remorse he switches horses and becomes a defense attorney instead. But altruism doesn’t pay the bills and before long Day is living a life of luxurious decadence defending crooks and murderers—financially successful yet morally bankrupt. But when his wolfish appetites are aroused by a recently hired secretary (Sidney Fox), the innocent—and underaged—young woman will lead him down a most unexpected path… In directors James Flood and Elliott Nugent’s tidy little morality play William is sleaze personified with his slicked back hair, cajoling voice, and devilish moustache, flaunting his wealth and masculine charms like worms on a hook. Fox on the other hand, making an appallingly bad attempt at a southern accent (the secretary is supposedly from Kentucky), overdoes the virtuous virgin schtick a bit too much in a performance that would make Dorothy Gale look like a bordello veteran. Surprisingly it is the supporting cast which carry the film especially Aline MacMahon as Day’s cynical secretary who carries a not-so-secret torch for him, and character actor Guy Kibbee as Day’s bartender and confidante. Being a pre-code film the sexual innuendos are rather blatant as is a particularly sordid seduction scene, all of which make the film’s rather overbearing sense of morality drop like a Sunday sermon. But the directors do tie it all up with a perfect ambiguous ending that will leave romantics and pragmatists with two very different takes.
Kenny (Australia 2006) (9): It may not be as laugh-out-loud hilarious as Best in Show, but real life brothers Clayton and Shane Jacobsen turn out one of the most endearingly funny mockumentaries in some time. It follows the daily tribulations of port-a-potty engineer Kenny Smyth as he deals with clogged loos, demanding customers, employee crises, and all the other shit (haha!) that comes with the job, all while philosophizing on life, humanity…and poop. As played by Shane, Kenny is a big charming bear whose open-faced honesty and genial manner make his acid witticisms all the more unexpected especially when they’re delivered in his mush-mouthed lisp—think baritone version of Cindy Brady. He’s joined by Clayton playing his arrogant older brother, and real life dad Ronald stealing the show as their curmudgeonly, slightly neurotic father who has Kenny practically strip naked before he’s allowed to sit on the furniture. With exhaustive attention to detail, the Jacobsen brothers use non-professional extras and authentic set locations to further blur the line between truth and fiction whether it be a drunken car race, a Pride parade, or a high society equestrian event. They even flew out to Nashville to film Kenny attending an actual port-a-potty convention with the laughs starting even before the plane landed. A thoroughly enjoyable pack of lies with a zinger ending that’s well worth a rewind.
A Taxi Driver (S. Korea 2017) (7): The assassination of President Park Chung Hee in 1979 triggered a series of pro-democracy movements across South Korea despite a military coup and martial law. By the spring of 1980 escalating demonstrations in the southern city of Gwangjiu led to a series of lethal confrontations with government forces that left as many as 2,000 dead and many more wounded. Based on a true story, director Hun Jang’s epic road movie recounts the story of German journalist Jürgen Hinzpeter who, with the aid of Seoul taxi driver Kim Man-seob, managed to sneak past military roadblocks in order to capture a firsthand account of what is now referred to as the “Gwangjiu Uprising”. Mixing flashes of dry humour with appalling scenes of brutality and bloodshed there is no doubt as to where the director’s sympathies lie and he uses his two leads as metaphors for a greater truth: the journalist representing the West which until then had relied mainly on official government reports, and the cab driver whose complacent opinion regarding the “damn commies” gets shaken to the core after he witnesses the carnage for himself. Although largely dramatized for the big screen including a few passages which come dangerously close to Spielberg territory—bodies twitching in slow-motion while a weeping orchestra practically saws their violins in half—his embellishments never stray too far from the accepted story including when a phalanx of cabbies and truck drivers drove right into the crosshairs of the army in order to support the demonstrators. As the reporter, Thomas Kretschmann plays a man determined to uncover the truth yet unprepared for what he finds and Hun Jang deliberately plays down his character making his muted reactions all the more powerful. As the driver, Song Kang-ho’s malleable features trace his evolution from beleaguered single father preoccupied with his own problems to an outraged everyman who emerges a bit wiser and a lot sadder. Lastly, cinematographer Nak-seon Go shows a steady hand whether filming moments of quiet reflection or bullet-riddled chaos and giving us some of Korean cinema’s more intricate and gripping car chase sequences. South Korea’s official entry for Best Foreign Language Film at the 2018 Academy Awards.
The Cat O’ Nine Tails (Italy 1971) (6): A late night break-in at a pharmaceutical company leads to a string of puzzling murders and it’s up to an investigative reporter (James Franciscus) and a blind crossword enthusiast (Karl Malden?!) to discover the reason why and identify the killer before they become targets themselves. Despite ticking all the genre boxes—from bad dubbing to lurid POV camerawork—this giallo thriller from writer/director Dario Argento comes across as formulaic and rather silly, apparently it was Argento’s least favourite of all his films. For starters it relies too much on ridiculous narrative devices of the “I know the identity of the killer and I’ll tell you tomorrow….oops, I just got murdered” variety and that big climactic chase sequence across a perilous rooftop comes across as perfunctory leading as it does to a reveal which is neither startling nor particularly believable, even for a giallo. But those loud 70s fashions and mod trappings (gold-splattered walls!) are fun, the murders gory enough for a solid PG-13 rating, and the action moves along fast enough that you don’t have time to roll your eyes. I especially liked the late night grave-robbing scene!
And Soon the Darkness (UK 1970) (6): The title of this British giallo is psychological rather than temporal since the entire story unfolds over the course of one single afternoon. A pair of young and pretty English girls are on a cycling holiday through France when one of them vanishes leaving the other to solve the mystery with questionable assistance from the local eccentrics—any one of whom could be involved muahahaha! The red herrings come fast and furious although one character practically drops the answer right in our laps, but it is the film’s overall tone and theatrical staging which turns it into a guilty pleasure. “Jane” and “Cathy” (Pamela Franklin, Michele Dotrice) are the epitome of sexy maidens in distress with their short shorts and lily white underthings (slutty Cathy even hangs her wet bra and panties in a tree like a welcoming flag!) while a supporting cast comprised of snarling shopkeepers, taciturn cops, a handsome stalker, and a suspiciously butch school teacher try their darnedest to muddy the plot. Cinematographer Ian Wilson certainly gives us a Chainsaw Massacre vibe with flat rural landscapes of cornfields and empty highways where the woods conceal deadly secrets and a huddle of rusty abandoned trailers makes for some tense camerawork. But in the end director Robert Fuest’s flair for the dramatic never fully compensates for a facile plot with an unsatisfying resolution. Was remade in 2010 with even less critical success.
Distant (Turkey 2002) (8): Writer/director Nuri Bilge Ceylan gives us an existential drama which, for all its gentleness and touches of humour, pierces right to the heart of what it means to be human and in pain. In a snow-clogged Istanbul successful photographer Mahmut is still struggling to cope with his recent divorce. Thrown into a cynical depression his days are marked by obsessive rituals, the work he was once passionate about has become mechanical, and intimacy has been replaced by porn and listless sex. Enter his cousin Yusuf, recently arrived from the small town they grew up in. Jobs are scarce back home, life is hard, and Yusuf has come to the big city desperate to find employment despite his lack of skills and education. Dwarfed by his urban surroundings and frustrated in his search for a job, the naïve Yusuf wanders about fruitlessly—haunting coffee shops and making half-hearted attempts to hook up with women (some would call it stalking). Two men under one roof, both seeking that elusive missing piece that would make them whole—or so they think—and meanwhile outside Mahmut’s window an icy winter tightens its grip. So typical of Ceylan’s style, emotions are muted making that final series of confrontations all the more poignant, and both the natural world and man-made constructs set the tone for every scene: trains and boats rush heedlessly past; a sunken freighter creaks sadly; a mosque’s minarets drift in and out of fog; wind chimes emit a sirens’ song; and winter’s frigid touch offers a playground for some, a cold metaphor for others. Even the plight of a lowly little mouse resonates clear through to the film’s final shot. Winner of the prestigious Palme d’Or at Cannes as well as best actor shared by leads Muzaffer Özdemir and Mehmet Emin Toprak (beautiful performances from two semi-professionals), it’s worth noting that Ceylan actually used his own apartment and furniture for Mahmut’s apartment—adding yet one more layer of intimacy. Sadly, Toprak (playing Yusuf) died in a car accident before he was able to accept his award. He was 28 years old.
Red Desert (Italy 1964) (6): Mentally unhinged following a car accident Giuliana, the wife of a wealthy factory owner (Monica Vitti emoting as if her life depended on it), begins a hesitant affair with one of her husband’s associates (a nicely dubbed Richard Harris). But her inability to cope with either her emotions or the modern world threatens to topple whatever happiness she can glean as she slowly slides toward madness. So much for subtlety. Director Michelangelo Antonioni’s lifelong preoccupation with contemporary alienation and the anomie it generates is already asserting itself in this early work. Using colour for the first time he wastes no time painting his brutalist industrial landscapes in glaring shades of red—usually associated with love, here suffused with angst and vague threat—where chimneys belch fire and smoke, toxic puddles bubble in green and ochre, and grim tankers seem to float outside every window like rusted juggernauts. It’s a place even birds refuse to fly over. Giuliana’s home is itself a study in sterile minimalism and the people in her life are likewise presented as an extension of this manufactured environment, their shallow conversations often giving way to casual indiscretions—in one brilliantly composed scene a group of her acquaintances seem to dissolve into an encroaching fog bank. Only in her daydreams are the sky and water blue, the sand pink, and the sun-warmed stones the colour of living flesh. Despite a few manic turns, Vitti certainly gives us a damaged woman reacting to the stressors (real or imagined) thrust upon her with paranoia and dissociation while Harrison’s character provides contrast as a debonair rogue whose own disillusionment renders him unable to form meaningful attachments or stay in one place for very long. Ironically, Antonioni insisted that industrialization was not the crux of his film but rather Giuliana’s inability to adapt to a changing world. I would say the intervening sixty-plus years of pollution and global warming have given Red Desert a distinctly different spin.
Macbeth (UK 2015) (8): The story should be familiar to anyone who took high school English: a Scottish lord, driven by ambition, is goaded by his wife and a trio of fortune-telling witches into seizing the crown for himself—with disastrous results. In one of the more intense Shakespearean adaptation I’ve yet to see, director Justin Kurzel and cinematographer Adam Arkapaw create a medieval Scotland of misty tors swept by blood and fire, where gruesome battles play out in slow motion like a macabre ballet and hooded figures drift in and out of the toxic fog. Lead Michael Fassbender imbues Macbeth with a fragile vehemence—ruthlessly cutting down enemies one moment, cursing at phantoms the next—Kurzel's intention was to portray the man as suffering from battle-related PTSD and one can almost feel sympathy for him in light of this. Meanwhile, Marion Cotillard playing Lady Macbeth, goes from soulless opportunist as eager to gain the palace as her husband to realizing too late the tremendous cost they have incurred in the process. And a supporting cast of UK character actors round out the court with friends and foes alike, most notably Sean Harris as an enraged Macduff and Jack Reynor as the grieving Malcolm. Not subtle in any way, this is a widescreen epic of Sturm und Drang drenched in smoke-filled panoramas and tortured psyches. The Bard would have been moved.
Cry-Baby (USA 1990) (6): It’s Baltimore, 1954, and the teens in one comfortably middle class neighbourhood are divided between the prim and proper “Squares” and the loose-living, rock ’n rolling “Drapes”. The simmering animosity between these two sides finally comes to a full boil one summer after Allison (Amy Locane), the virginal girlfriend of a Square, falls for the bad boy leader of the Drapes (Johnny Depp) leading to an all-out war. Writer/director John Waters’ take on those old Elvis musicals is a riot of campy period touches and hammy performances with song & dance interludes that are pure ‘50s jukebox—there’s even a lopsided ode to the King’s “Jailhouse Rock” act. Although pared down to a PG-rating, his signature tacky touches are evident throughout—the Squares are really really white while the Drapes give trash a bad name—and he employs a few familiar faces from his Pink Flamingos days as well as resurrecting a couple of old screen heartthrobs now turned grey and crinkled. Unfortunately the schtick grows tired before the halfway point and the emoting, which starts out as amusing parody, eventually settles down into plain bad acting. Still a fun joyride especially with a cast that includes punk icon Iggy Pop and Hollywood eccentric Susan Tyrrell as Depp’s felonious grandparents, Ricki Lake as a perpetually pregnant single teen, Troy Donahue and Mink Stole as wacko bible-thumpers, Patricia Hearst as a clueless Stepford wife, and Kim Mcguire as the ugliest Drape of all mugging for the camera like a cross between Jabba the Hutt and Curly from The Three Stooges. You can think of this as the flip-side to 1978’s Grease.
