Year 2000 Reviews
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The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle, dir. Des McAnuff. There is so much that is positive about this film, but the take on it by other critics seems to be that it is not Toy Story II or Chicken Run, and thus it not as cool and hip as those films. (Why anyone would use the word hip to characterize Chicken Run is beyond me.) This is an intelligent film for the young person inside those adults who are between the ages of 40-55. And that's the problem. I don't think the film resonates as well with the jaded 13-year-old-male-audience out there. I appreciated the humor and the satire that came out of the dialogue. Everything Bullwinkle said made me laugh. I appreciated the inventiveness of the film's structure. The heavy-handed narrator led us through the exposition. Poor Rocky and Bullwinkle are unhappy in Frostbite Falls, Minnesota, because all of the trees have been cut down. Their beautiful cartoon world is fouled and despoiled. Then the evil Boris, Natasha, and their Fearless Leader are pulled out of their cartoon dimension and land in the live-action world of human beings. They plot to take over the world, of course. But a smart FBI agent believes they can be stopped if Rocky and Bullwinkle are also extracted from the cartoon-dimension universe. This rough exposition does not do justice to the humorous send-ups in these scenes. The mind-numbing excesses of television culture (following Gresham's law, where the bad always drives out the good) are parodied and lampooned perfectly. But that's the problem, you see. Making television the butt of jokes does not work for a young audience. They do not have the sufficient aesthetic distance to be able to accept criticisms of their temple of culture. They accept what they are presented with. It is only we adults who have grown suspicious and share a sneaking suspicion that television is a vast wasteland--even though we can't stop watching it. The film goes on its own merry way, making fun of what should be made fun of, and celebrating the grand stupidity of most of what passes for entertainment in our culture.

"Right on!" I kept thinking as I watched the scenes unfold. One particularly effective scene was a simulation of Cops, with Rocky and Bullwinkle pulled out of their car as suspects, and their faces blurred by digital effects--just like the real thing, you see. Going to this film was like being reminded that Disneyland is not for kids--it's for adults. But that's a secret that is best kept a secret. Now there were several down sides to this film as well. It moved slowly and ground to a halt during most of the Boris and Natasha scenes. Robert DeNiro's shtick as Fearless Leader was great, but he was always trapped in an interior set in front of his control panels. He would have been more effective out in the real world and taking on Rocky and Bullwinkle mano a mano. DeNiro lent his support as producer. His company, Tribeca, produced the film, and I believe he saw it as a throwback to old-fashioned films that conveyed a meaningful social message to its young viewers In this case the message was voiced by the innocent young FBI agent who joins Rocky and Bullwinkle against the evil characters. She says at one point (in paraphrase), "What you can believe in as a child, you can still believe in as an adult." That's a message that is not getting across to action-oriented blockbusters that are chewing-gum-for-the-mind of most young viewers. (July)

American Psycho. dir. Mary Herron. USA. As I watched this film, I felt a strong visceral response to the tension that was created by the confluence of filmmaking forces--the direction, the acting, set design, editing, cinematography, screenplay. Early in the film I felt as if I was watching a macabre version of a Saturday Nite Live sketch from the 1980s--like one of those fake commercials that are as slick and deadening and contrived as the real ones. I responded to the theme of control that was everywhere. These men controlled wealth, they controlled women, they controlled everything. And so how far was that from the idea of the serial killer who controls his world via the absolute control he exercises over his victims. This film was by turns thoughtful, creepy, tense, and believable. I only flinched when Patrick Bateman, the main character, finally broke down at the end of the film. Seeing his dissolve in front of the camera seemed contrived in the worst way. I had understood him when he admitted that he was not really a person, but an abstraction, an idea of a person. He had the right suits, the right deoderants and shampoos, a nice business card. Although I appreciated the acting in the key scene, where Bateman calls his lawyer and confesses to everything, I felt somehow cheated by this shift in the plot. Here he was admitting the horrors he had committed. But I had come to understand him as a serial killer, and that means he would deny his crimes and the violence he has perpetrated at all cost. I would be equally shocked if O. J. Simpson was to call up Dan Rather and confess on the telephone to the murder of his wife and her companion. If O. J. Simpson killed them, then he has buried that monstrous act in his unconscious, and we are not going to hear about it from him. Likewise, I understood what Bateman had buried. When he did not kill his secretary, for instance, the film lost some of its punch to me. The dialogue was clever: "If you don't go, I think I may do something bad." She thought sex; he thought murder. Cute, but not consistent with the character. If this is our Norman Bates Man (from Hitchcock's Psycho), then he would never blow his cover. And what was all that about him suddenly carrying a gun and shooting people left and right? The gunplay did not fit with his M.O. This guy had kinky tastes in weaponry; that was part of the allure of his butchery. But I was impressed by the restraint used in the depiction of violence in this film. The shock value of violence was present and horrifying when disclosed. The film kept me engaged at that visceral level until he began to crack and then break apart. (May)

The Big Kahuna, dir. John Swanbeck (USA). Sure, this was pretty much "canned theater," but I don't care. I thoroughly enjoyed watching Kevin Spacey and Danny DeVito interact for 90 minutes. Their ability to establish characters and show the growth of characters in a short time was remarkable and convincing. I enjoyed the ups and downs of the dramatic arc of the play/film, and I left thinking about the idea of selling that was uncovered in the young salesman who confounded the two older ones. I remember hearing about a Supreme Court case, where one part of the discussion revolved around the question, "Can a human being be a billboard?" I thought of the young man in that context after seeing the film. He did not realize that he was selling Jesus, not in a far different way that any salesman would sell anything he believed in. I received an e-mail from Jane Cudmore, who wrote, "I found it as powerful as Glengarry Glen Ross but without the brutality." I agree. I think the message in this play/film was as powerful and as moving; but I think the quality of the filmmaking was superior in James Foley's film. I remember the use of lighting associated with the various characters in that film. Wow! I can still see the reds and blues and shadows in the composition of shots. Mamet's play was a kind of Death of a Salesman; whereas The Big Kahuna gave the impression it was going in that direction, and then made a turn toward hopefulness and reconciliation. The phone call Danny DeVito gets at the end of the film is the clincher. It's Kevin Spacey on the line. We don't hear Spacey; all we hear is DeVito's responses. "I love you, too," is the most profound part of that conversation. Spacey tells him what he can not say in person: "I love you." Two old salesmen who have been on the road too long. That was a great moment in the film. (June)

Dark Days, dir. Marc Singer (USA). This is the British director's first film, a documentary, and it works because it reflects a labor of love. He says he worked on the film for more than 10 years. He examines a world of homeless people living in subway tunnels under Manhattan. The film is in black and white, and it follows many of the tenets of documentary cinema as practiced by Frederick Wiseman and Albert & David Maysles. In direct cinema the characters generate the plot. There is no voice-over narration, and there is no external sound track. Singer usually places the camera either on one character or on two characters. In the first case Singer may simply follow that character around for a few minutes, or he may intercut shots of that character speaking on camera, usually in a context that adds perspective to his or her words. Often we see the characters in their home-made underground huts. Many of them are alcoholics, crack cocaine addicts, or mentally ill. All but one is a man, and only two of the characters are not black. In other set-ups Singer shows two characters on screen at the same time. They may be talking to each other or interacting in the frame. His ability at composing shots reminded me of how basic the documentary form is in revealing the essence of character and individuality. There is nothing like watching two characters, side by side. When one speaks, the other reacts to those words. The viewer can compare the character on the left with the character on the right. In other cases, seeing one character alone in the frame provokes a powerful emotional response. Singer is seldom seen or heard interacting with the characters. The title is a metaphor for the troubled lives these homeless people have led. At the end of the documentary some of them are shown moving into government-sponsored housing above-ground. The last image in the film is of the one woman who is featured in the film. She drops playfully onto her back in the bed in her apartment. But this upbeat ending does not match what occurred earlier. In one of Singer's least subtle scenes, he played the image of this same woman shooting heroin at least 5-6 times, one after the other, as if to drive home the point that a life on drugs is like a movie that never ends. The same scene keeps playing over and over until the film breaks. The resolution at the end of the film, in the context of the pain that came before, does seem forced and a bit too hopeful. I think the film will be most effective for those viewers who are familiar with and comfortable with the documentary medium. (November)

Erin Brockovitch. Dir. Steven Soderbergh, USA. This film was surprisingly entertaining--a point I attribute to the director, some aspects of the screenplay, and to the acting of Julia Roberts. It's difficult not to like Julia Roberts. But Julia Roberts is no Sally Field. I'm thinking of the film Norma Rae (1979), and I'm trying to figure out why I did not enjoy Erin Brockovitch as much as other viewers did. First off, Norma Rae was married, and her marriage survived despite the crisis of her commitment to the union. Second, Norma Rae was truly working class. Her father worked in the mill. Norma Rae and every other young Southern woman wore similar low-cut tank tops. Norma Rae never paid any attention to her "boobs" because she did not use them as weapons against weak-kneed men. Norma Rae did not have the advantages of a steel-trap memory or a gift for biting and satiric dialogue. She was more of a plodder, and she did a lot of sweating in the heat of the day. On the other hand, Erin Brockovitch chose to wear the particular wardrobe of low-cut outfits and short skirts. I kept wondering where she got the money for all of those outfits. My wife whispered to me, "From her first two husbands!" I don't know. It seemed to me that as this woman advanced in the law firm, she would have changed her outfits accordingly because she would have realized she was not the person she thought she was before. Even Norma Rae realized she would never be the same. As the workers voted for the union, Norma Rae stood outside the plant with the union organizer. She was separate from her friends and coworkers. Her life would never be the same. Back to Erin Brockovitch. Julia Roberts is a beautiful actress, and she is a talented actress. But she is a star, a very big star right now. And no matter how hard she tried to submerge herself in the role of that aggressive speak-her-mind type of character, I could not help seeing Julia Roberts standing before me. I also grew frustrated with some of the sentimentality in the screenplay--the poor victims (straight from Central Casting), the innocent children, the tender reaction shots, the determined and steely gaze of our heroine when her boss decides to take the case. So much of the film seemed to appeal to a low common denominator. Oh, look--Julia Roberts has a tender heart. She cares for the common person. She dukes it out with the fancy pants lawyers. I'm sorry, but this screenplay got away with murder. I did enjoy much of the direction of the film, the pacing of the film in the first 45 minutes, and the acting of Julia Roberts. Lets' face it--she's a great actress. But where I bought her glamour in Notting Hill last year, I was less than inspired with her glamour in this film. (March)

Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samuraidir. Jim Jarmusch, USA. Forrest Whitaker is a joy to watch, and it was wonderful to see him in a major role instead of in a supporting role. His ability to create a character is impressive. In this film, he plays a hit man who has attached himself to his "retainer," a member of the Mafia who saved his life several years earlier. Now Ghost Dog has become the Samurai warrior, devoted to his retainer, and he has murdered several people in the four years he has worked for the man. Now this film is slickly directed and visually well-conceived. My major argument is with its screenplay. The only way I came to know the history of his relationship with his retainer is through a repeated flashback showing the man killing his attacker before the attacker kills him. But nothing else comes of that flashback, and its repetition does not convey sufficiently the nuances of such an unusual relationship--a reclusive black man devotes his life to an Italian-American mobster. To me, most of the film is about surfaces--slick scenes of Ghost Dog driving sexy stolen cars, close-ups of the glowing CD-panels inside the cars as he puts on his favorite hip hop music, meditative scenes of Ghost Dog reading his Samurai text and living in the moment on the roof of his tenement building, scenes of Ghost Dog hanging in the park and being recognized as a man among men by other African American males, scenes of Ghost Dog hanging with his best friend, a Francophone West-Indian who manages an ice-cream truck in the neighborhood. The screenplay, and the direction, provide insights into the exteriors of the package; but I was not sufficiently enlightened about the interior psychological world-weariness of this character and the major relationships he experiences?. How did he come to find such peace, given the fact that he is a hired murderer? What is the point of the relationship with the ice-cream vendor? What is the point of the relationship with a little African American girl he befriends on a neighborhood park bench? The screenplay pushes buttons, and sentimentality prevails in the climactic scene. Most of the people in the theater where I watched the film seemed genuinely moved by the story and the character. But I never felt engaged by the character because of his extreme introversion, his self-contained existence, his history of killing. Whitaker's performance created sympathy for the character, without a doubt, but I was left feeling more ambivalence that insight into that character. (April)

The Legend of Bagger Vance, dir. Robert Redford (USA). Hokey, sentimental, idealized, formulaic, didactic, even preachy. You have to wonder if Robert Redford is trying to remake The Natural in this one. Perhaps he is moving from one sport to the next: first baseball, then fishing, now golf. What's next? Hockey? Did you notice that he picks leading men who remind us of the young Redford? First Brad Pitt and now Matt Damon. Now that I have all the venom out, let's talk about a moment about 1/3 of the way through the film-when Matt Damon the golfer is on the tee and nothing has been going right for him and his caddy, Bagger Vance, has handed him a club with only a paper-thin edge of rise more than a putter. For 90 seconds the world stands still as the art of filmmaking takes over. The shot selection was perfect, the music was right, the editing was perfect, and the effect was stunning. Those are the moments when my chest gets tight, I can't breathe properly, and I can feel my sinuses filling and my eyes watering. There were another two or three of those moments in the film when everything that anyone with any salt was taught at film school comes to the foreground and Redford gets the emotion right. But these were moments in a film that otherwise was exactly as I stated at the beginning of this review. But the bottom line is that Redford is exactly the kind of fellow who finds the right emotion and then runs with it. This approach satisfies the audience, and in some respects I don't mind. Little object lessons of life: always tell the truth, stand by your family, stand by your man, get back in touch with who you really are, always remember it's only a game. We need to be reminded of these little object lessons of life. Now about a movie whose main character is not named in the title.

Why does the caddy's name appear in the title? It helps if you see the movie with this in mind: Will Smith plays a guardian angel. He's not a real person like the other characters. He has followed this young man through good times and bad and has always stood by him. It takes a village to raise a child, you say? Maybe so. But in film, it seems to require a guardian angel to raise a child and when he becomes a man and faces a psychological crisis-then it requires that guardian angel to help him deal with it. If it wouldn't be Will Smith, then it would have to be Robin Williams (Remember he played the psychiatrist in Good Will Hunting?). There are some nagging issues of how race in American films is sold through supporting characters. I think of Redford making a film about a 1930s white golfer hero; and then I think, "This is the 21st century. And we have a year 2000 black golfer hero in Tiger Woods. And he has a white caddy!" Then another thought occurs to me: that technical idea of beginning the film with an old man in the present, and then coming back to the old man at the end of the film (a framing technique)-well, that worked in A River Runs Through It, but here it seemed more derivative than original. Nothing against Jack Lemmon-but that structure seemed aimed straight to sentimentality. But I have to return to the bottom line: American audiences like to see their characters' problems resolved. They like to see broken people made whole again. Then there is the ending of this film-relax, don't force your thinking, breathe easily, and you will have no problem predicting the ending of this film about five minutes before it occurs. As my father used to say, "Isn't that nice." (November)

Return to Me. dir. Bonnie Hunt, USA. I enjoyed this romantic comedy, a perfect Friday-night film, a perfect date film (especially for middle-aged people in love). I appreciated the warmth of sentiment, the inclusion of people over 65 in supporting roles, seeing Carroll O'Connor again, the abundant local color in the locales of the restaurant and Bonnie Hunt's Chicago home, and seeing the disarming grace and beauty of Minnie Driver on screen. I was reminded of the Italian-American ambience of Moonstruck. But in this case we have a blending of Irish-American and Italian-American. The plot was absolutely predictable from less than five minutes into the film. David Duchovney's wife is going to die; her heart is going to be donated to Minnie Driver, and then Minnie Driver is going to fall in love with David Duchovney. Now we know this five minutes into the film. So why do we keep watching? Because we want to see how it's done. We need to keep them apart long enough to enjoy the process of falling in love--and then we need a nasty setback that will separate them for a short time (oh, how painful), and then we expect a dramatic reuniting. I think this is filed under the Sleepless in Seattle rule of filmmaking. Now the best part of this film was watching the process of them falling love. Their courting takes place in the context of the neighborhood restaurant and the tiny garden Minnie Driver has created in a small lot next to the restaurant. I enjoyed the repartee between Duchovney and Driver. Then the nasty setback occurs. She finds out her new heart came from his wife, and then she tells him. Here is where the film winds down. First, when Driver tells him she is the recipient of his wife's heart, I expected to see a complex and telling reaction shot from him--a multilevel reaction shot that would have incorporated disbelief, shock, an attempt at acceptance, and then a harsh rejection at this trick of fate. But we don't get a reaction shot at all. He simply mumbles about needing to walk somewhere, and then he leaves. All right, how about following him on his dark night of the soul. Can he handle this unbelievable coincidence and accept his emotional commitment to a second woman? We don't see him walking on the streets of Chicago all night; we only see him sitting on his unfinished building in the heart of the city (he is an architect--another Sleepless in Seattle rule of filmmaking for romantic comedies). So the director skips this visual information. That's okay. The film was still fun, entertaining, lighthearted and lightweight. But it's an enjoyable fantasy, no better or no worse than many other romantic comedies that use chance and coincidence so effectively. And as for Minnie Driver--she is a major talent and can move easily from dramatic to romantic comedic roles. (April)

Up at the Villa, dir. Philip Haas (USA). The director of Angels and Insects has a clear grasp of direction, and the cinematography of the film is compelling. But this film does not deliver the requisite emotional punch. Kristin Scott-Thomas plays her stereotypical beautiful young middle-aged woman character, and Sean Penn plays her American lover. The story comes with impeccable credentials--based on a novella by Somerset Maugham. But the chemistry between Scott-Thomas and Penn is lacking. The key scene is when the two meet, and exchange glances. The editor tries desperately to bring off the chemistry between them, but it never plays out in any believable direction. A long dinner scene that follows (where the two sit next to each other) does not reveal the heat of sexuality that should be bubbling below the surface. I don't fault the actors for this shortcoming. Both played their roles beautifully. I was taken by Penn's restrained mannerisms and especially by the quiet and monotonal voice he used to express his emotions. He was a bundle of raw energy constantly held in restraint. These are fine actors, and they do not disappoint. But the plot points seem too limited and fail ito reveal the complexities of character. Scott-Thomas tries to find meaning in her life by repeating an act once performed by an old woman when she was young herself. But her compassion backfires when the man who receives her act of kindness suddenly turns on her. Once this occurs, the plot is sprung and plays itself out. Scott-Thomas, of course, will say no to the old man who promises her a safe life of wealth and security. She escapes the clutches of the Italian Fascist police officer and manages to plot her own intrigue to secure her freedom and the freedom of the man she loves. Then there is the required ending at the train station. Haven't we been here before? Despite these defects in plot, I appreciated the acting--and especially the acting of Anne Bancroft as the mysterious American "Princess," who revealed her ability to surmount a life lived with compromise and limits and still find freshness and zest for living in her mentoring of Scott-Thomas. Bancroft's skills as an actor were not wasted in the film. (May)

Titan, A.E., dir. Don Bluth (USA). Here is another film that has been ravaged by critics undeservedly. I marveled at the lush animation style that made this film a joy to watch on the big screen. The climactic scenes in the ice world where the Titan ship is concealed are awesome. As an animated film, Titan A.E. delivers visually. The down side is the music and the characterizations. The hard-rock-pounding musical score, with some exceptions, was boring and repetitive. Only the non-rock score was able to complement the lush visuals. My other criticism is that the characterizations of the teenaged heroes, Cale and Akima, are standard Hollywood fare. The center of the universe seems to be Southern California, and the style of characterization has hardened to become a stereotypical self-absorbed (but basically nice) laid-back surfer-boy and a strong-minded, independent girl who really does not need a boy (but you know how that turns out). As tired as I was of listening to their boring chitchat, I still enjoyed the film as an achievement of the animated arts. The climactic scenes were emotionally moving and beautifully rendered. Another positive: the out-of-this-galaxy sidekicks on the spaceship were much more inventive and interesting than the sidekicks in the recent Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. They reminded me of creations from children's literature--much more layering and intensity to their identities. (June)

What Planet Are You From? dir. Mike Nichols, USA. I want to ask Roger Ebert the same question. Ebert grilled his guest reviewer when the latter admitted to enjoying some elements of this film. I am a faithful viewer of Roger Ebert's program, and I usually agree with his reviews. But this time: no! I went to this film for two reasons: I admire Mike Nichols' work as a director, and I suspected that the film would be at least tolerable viewing, a divertissement, as it were. I was surprised to find it much more fun. But I would warn viewers that this is an adult comedy.That is, its humor is best appreciated by middle-aged or older adults who have some sympathy for (and sense of humor about) the ongoing battle of the sexes. The film offered numerous humorous contexts, especially when the Alien (played by Gary Shandling) began interacting with his human object of desire (Annette Bening). Everyone knows the plot: an Alien is sent to earth to impregnate a woman so that the genetic material of the child can be used to further the alien nation's quest for domination of the universe. Our alien (Shandling) wears an artificial penis and scrotum. But there's one hitch: every time he is aroused the machinery begins to hum and vibrate at higher and higher frequencies. The film works because the sight gags are funny, the humor reminds us of the dilemmas of adult dating and mating, and Annette Bening's acting--as usual--is high register and right on target. Her performance of the Frank Sinatra hit (about an ant and a rubber tree) was hilarious. The humor often works because it mines the serious undercurrents that lay behind adult dating and mating themes. One of my favorite moments was when the alien's machinery begins to hum, and his new wife says, "Sounds like we're going to have sex tonight." He replies, 'It certainly does." This is the kind of line adults understand. What you can't say when you are dating, you can say when you are in a committed long-term relationship and know each other well. Gary Shandling's acting is one of the drawbacks of the film. He has one-dimensional reaction shots. But I could accept that limitation--especially since he is one of the principal writers of the screenplay. The film is also notable for having what is, I believe, the first car chase scene employing the new VW Bug. (Feb)

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