Ach-Yah or Nicht-Nicht?

Now for what you’ve all been waiting for: my Brüno review. Let me just start by saying that this film is just as hilarious and perhaps even more outrageous, disgusting, incendiary and complicated than its predecessor Borat. The undeniably brilliant Sacha Baron Cohen has a knack for creating films that – whether you love or hate them – raise many issues and cannot be ignored. In fact, eliciting strong reactions from his audience and spurring discussion is arguably what he is best at, and with Brüno this proves to be no exception. However, while Brüno is fascinating and undeniably hysterical, it is also a definite disappointment especially when compared to Borat.

In many ways it is unfair – though inevitable – to compare the two films. Borat had the huge advantage of coming first and of being utterly unique, thus creating – in my opinion – a revolutionary oasis in the arid world of modern cinema. Never before had someone blended fiction and fact in such an innovative and socially relevant, revealing way. Thus it is unavoidable that Brüno would fail to be as fresh, as it follows the exact same method of storytelling. However, Brüno not only falls short in this respect; it is less structured and not nearly as culturally significant as Borat.

While both films follow a clear plotline, Brüno spends much time meandering. Borat follows a plainly directed course across America in his quest to make a documentary about “U.S and A” and find his beloved “Pam-ella,” but Brüno’s quest is murkier. He starts out in Austria, where he finds himself in the middle of a major faux pas and seeks to rectify his fall from social grace by becoming internationally famous. Fair enough. From here he decides to travels rather haphazardly from Austria to America to the “Middle Earth” (or Middle East) and then back to America, which makes for a more convoluted, less understandable plotline.

However, the film’s structural concerns are minimal compared to its larger shortcomings. In essence, the point of Brüno is vastly underdeveloped. While Borat sought to expose America’s latent anti-Semitism, racism and misogyny, Brüno tackles homophobia, shallowness and general ignorance but with much less success. For whatever reason, Brüno fails to uncover nearly as much damning material from those he interviews.

To the film’s credit, some scenes work brilliantly; my favorite is one in which Brüno interviews stage parents about casting their toddlers in an extremely un-P.C photo shoot that involves pushing a Jewish child into a stove. Their willingness to comply with the horrific questions he asks them just to get their children cast – including if their two year-olds could undergo liposuction or operate large, out of date machinery – are truly horrifying and Baron Cohen scores big in exposing cultural ignorance in all its hideousness. Other successful scenes include the “Jew Converter” scene, and one in which Brüno interviews two of the dumbest charity organizers ever.

However, too often Brüno attempts to uncover hidden prejudices by putting people in strange, uncomfortable situations, but fails in attaining his goal. For example, scenes like the one where he locks himself in a room with Ron Paul and begins to undress, or tells Paula Abdul to sit on a person instead of a chair while discussing her good deeds for humanity are hilarious but fail to expose anything about society. In both cases, Paul and Abdul act as anyone would if put in such a ridiculous, awkward situation and thus, while the scenes succeed on a comedic level, they don’t have much any cultural significance.

Perhaps this trend of setting up a ridiculous yet ultimately pointless scenarios is most noticeable in the scene in which Brüno takes his African baby on a talk show and proceeds to insult the intelligence of his audience by calling Africa a “country filled with African Americans,” and proclaiming that he got his baby (named O.J) by “swapping him for an ipod.” The audience is understandably irate, and it is extremely unclear who is being made fun of and exposed as ignorant. Surely it’s not the justifiably enraged audience, so it must be Brüno himself. But if that’s the case, then what’s the point of the scene?

Here we get into the complicated and over-discussed issue of whether – by watching and laughing at Brüno – we are laughing at or with gay people. Though I don’t personally find Brüno offensive (despite the fact that he is a stupid, crude caricature of a gay man), I completely understand how many people would find him to be so. Borat, by contrast, was also a disgusting character, but the film sought to condemn the traits Borat himself held, while Brüno arguably seeks to expose homophobia, not make gay people look worse. Regardless of one’s personal response to Brüno, his character and many of the scenes in his film are less clear and socially relevant than Borat, making me question who or what I was really laughing at and why.

So yes, Brüno is just as funny as Borat. I laughed the whole way through. But the film is not nearly as revealing or important as its predecessor, which is what made Borat such a success. The bottom line is, see this movie. It’s impossible not to have a strong reaction to it, and the issues that it raises – however feebly – are important ones to discuss. In fact, perhaps the fact that Baron Cohen was unable to obtain more direct examples of homophobia is itself significant. Is homophobia that much of a repressed issue that no one will admit to it despite the fact that gay marriage is illegal nearly countrywide? Perhaps matters like this – which Brüno hints at without really delving into – are what make this film most fascinating.

Drag Yourself to the Theater

I’m a total sucker for scary movies, but of course I don’t consider many things very scary, hence most horror films disappoint. Drag Me to Hell (directed by Sam Raimi) is not really an exception as it wasn’t particularly frightening, but I wasn’t so much disappointed as amused. This film was all over the place; it was simultaneously contrived and typical of the horror genre, while at the same time funny and almost avant-garde in its kitchy peculiarity. It doesn’t take itself too seriously and instead of trying to stick to the books of what defines a horror film, Raimi has fun weaving disparate elements of horror, comedy and camp together into this devilishly enjoyable offering.

The film stars Alison Lohman who is perfectly cast as Christine Brown – a kind hearted if meek loan officer who hopes to garner a promotion by putting her foot down and refusing a loan to a haggard and hideous gypsy woman (Lorna Raver). After refusing the loan, the woman curses Christine and strange, terrible things begin to happen. She seeks the help of Rham Jas (Dileep Rao), a sexy psychic who tries to aid her in purging the curse before she is literally dragged to hell. Will she succeed? I won’t say, but her experience makes for one bizarre film.

Much of the film relies on moments of contrived shock value as per usual of the horror genre. For example, scenes like the one in which Christine finds herself alone in a darkened parking garage with the grotesquely predatory gypsy rely on typical elements of scary films – dramatic mood music, eerie sound effects, suspenseful editing, and surprising reveals. However, the scene stops being so generic when the old woman loses her false teeth and winds up gumming rather than biting Christine’s face for what can only be described as an inordinate amount of time. Though it might not sound funny, this disgusting scene undercut the formulaic tension of a horror film with disturbingly gross-out humor.

At other times Drag Me to Hell also strays from the prototype of a horror film with absurdly campy scenes like the one in which Christine has dinner with her boyfriend’s parents. Shot in oddly washed out colors which add to the scene’s surreal nature, Raimi makes no pretense at trying to be scary, but instead plays up the film’s macabre, fantastical side with Christine talking to herself, yelling profanities at the dinner table, and even consuming a fly and consequently burping it up. The film also takes on an almost Twin Peaks-esque vibe when a plagued Christine ponders how to escape her curse whilst wandering around an all-night diner filled with an odd assortment of nutty characters worthy of their own film. It’s a scene that has little thematic relevance to the rest of the movie, but nonetheless it fits well into the creepy yet quirky world Raimi has created.

Perhaps my biggest gripe with the film is the unwarranted anomaly that is Justin Long who plays Christine’s boyfriend. I do not just mean to imply that he is out of place and unwanted in only this film, I mean that he is never needed or appropriate in any film ever. What is the point of this guy? He is almost as perversely unnecessary as Shia LaBeouf. Justin (and Shia – though his worthlessness can be saved for another post) is not good looking or charismatic enough to ever play leading or supporting roles, nor interesting or adept enough to be a character actor. He is an extremely limited performer who seems to have no niche at all in the dog-eat-dog world that is Hollywood and frankly I’m shocked that he continues to book roles. If you’re looking to cast the adorable, dependable type (which is what I would peg Justin’s character as in this film) there are a handful – neigh, a few hundred – other actors who fit the bill better than Justin. This is true for any role that Justin has ever landed. I’m baffled and annoyed that his career continues to rise when his parts could go to some much more deserving, struggling actor. Justin is worse than insufferable mediocrities like Jude Law or Hugh Jackman with their tedious blandness; he is a nonentity that I am embarrassed to have taken up this much of my time discussing as he isn’t worth any time at all.

Whatever, apart from Justin, this film is weird, strange fun. Go see it - you'll be in for one hellish good time!

Amazing!

Have you seen Brüno yet? Ish have! Ish loved it! Go see it! No time to review now, ish am too busy being fabulous. Stay tuned!

Hangover-Rated?

There are lots of reasons why I didn’t want to see The Hangover. First, it’s been lauded as one of the best comedies in years and I was worried that the film would not live up to its hype – films rarely do. I was also worried that the hype was generated purely by the hoi polloi who tend to laugh at anything – you know who you are – thus, that there was really nothing worth hyping in the first place. I was also worried that like Wedding Crashers – to which The Hangover has been compared – the film would rely on gross situational gags in lieu of originality, clever writing, or inspired performances. Bizarrely and perplexingly, this film does derive much of its humor from crude and lewd gags, but somehow still manages not to fall short of its lofty hype.

Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t the best film ever. It isn’t profound or genius, nor will it change your outlook on life. But then again, it isn’t trying to. And what it is trying to do – tell a simple story in a hilarious way – is done exceedingly well. The premise is easy and you probably know it already: three men go to Las Vegas for their friend’s bachelor party. The only problem is, upon waking up (predictably hungover) after a night of wild debauchery - including a tiger, a baby, and a naked Chinese man - that none of them can remember, the groom is missing. The rest of the film is a loosely constructed mystery complete with clues in which the men try to piece together the events of their blacked out evening in an effort to locate their lost friend.

Both explicitly and in terms of its structure the film advocates that “it’s not where you’re going, it’s how you get there.” The film’s end goal of finding the groom is entirely secondary to the fun that is experienced along the way. The film is akin to many “roadtrip” films like Harold and Kumar in that the characters are propelled through a loose narrative via a series of relatively unconnected but entirely enjoyable episodes with an end goal that is really just a MacGuffin. However, while so many films of this nature can be poorly constructed and tiring, The Hangover is tightly written, well edited and the pace never lags.

Also, though the film has so many examples of crude humor and un-PC scenarios that it makes Wedding Crashers look like the clichéd, essentially G-rated, by-the-book family film that it really is, The Hangover is still inexplicably pretty charming. I think the film manages to be both raunchy and endearing because it doesn’t use these gags merely to cover up for a weak plot or sub par acting. Instead, the film succeeds in part because of these jokes but also by it’s clever construction and excellent performances. All three of the male leads are superbly portrayed and strangely likeable despite their idiocy. I must say, in particular Ed Helms really stands out – he’s my favorite character in the American version of The Office and he’s great here as the dorkily uptight and domesticated dentist. I feel like this guy’s going to become the next big comic actor, you wait and see. Zak Galifianakis and Bradley Cooper are also excellent and the supporting cast is great as well.

Dial M for Milland

I love movies with creepy leading characters. From The Talented Mr. Ripley to Night of the Hunter to M that sort of thing never ceases to thrill me. The more I can empathize with the creepster, the better. A baddy with little motivation is pointless and not really worth watching (think Spielberg’s atrocious War of the Worlds – there was no reason why the aliens were attacking Earth, thus they were ineffective antagonists. And yeah, this is only the tip of the iceberg as to why this film was bad, but this is not the time or the place to discuss the film's multitude of flaws). No, you need to be able to get inside your villain’s head in order to craft a truly eerie, bloodcurdling film. I recently rewatched Dial M for Murder, a Hitchcock that I had virtually forgotten about altogether and am happy to report that I was totally creeped out by the brilliance of Hitch’s leading man.

The villain in question is former tennis star Tony (Ray Milland), who discovers that his wealthy wife Margot (Grace Kelly) has been having an affair with sleazy writer Mark (Robert Cummings) and – out of boredom, annoyance and lack of funds – decides to plot her murder. It’s a pretty straightforward story that could have dragged and lost its momentum with a less adept director, but Hitchcock – the self proclaimed “master of suspense” – keeps the ball rolling at an irritatingly gripping pace. I literally couldn’t stop watching.

While the bulk of the film’s dramatic tension and general success should be attributed to Hitchcock, I was no less than bowled over by the subtlety and nuance of Milland’s performance. I am a bit embarrassed to admit that I have only seen four of Milland’s other works, but in all these films he played sympathetic, charming and affable leading men. Even in The Lost Weekend – in which Milland delivers a heartbreaking performance as a deeply troubled alcoholic – he still portrayed a sweetheart for whom you couldn’t help but feel deeply sorry. In Murder, however, his character is cold blooded, calculated and passionless. His hatred for his wife is far from the sort of emotional fury you might expect from a jilted husband; it’s a smooth, detached, quiet sort of hatred that makes him all the more deadly. Seemingly emotionless, he is motivated to carry out her murder as much because of her infidelity and wealth as from a general boredom with his situation in life and a fascination with seeing if he can pull off a perfect crime. He’s a chilling, terrifying character that Milland plays with so much skill that I couldn’t help but find myself rooting for him every excruciating step along the way.

His cool villainous persona is all the more effective in contrast with Kelly’s and Cummings’ characters who exemplify the sort of watered down, irksome blandness it is near impossible not to loathe. I’ve never been a big Grace Kelly fan; I find her beautiful but drearily insipid. Long before she was the princess of Monaco, she was still an ice princess of the first degree and her frigid demeanor distances her from viewers. Also, her wooden, affected speech is grating, pretentious and distracting. No thank you. Cummings’ character is little better; he proficiently plays a hack but the role has little merit to begin with, and is thus not improved with his somewhat limited acting chops. However, the pair's shortcomings only serve to heighten the brilliance of Milland’s performance and further build audience complicity with his nefarious pursuits.

Shot virtually only in one room, it is a wonder that this film doesn’t feel constrained. It is a testament to Hitchcock’s innovative direction and camera choices (fun fact: the film was shot in 3D!), the fascinating plot developments and of course Milland’s phenomenal performance that the film not only doesn't feel fenced in, but rather soars. This is easily one of Hitchcock’s top films and one of his best villains. If you like creepy characters as much as me, or even if you just like suspense, or are merely fond of looking at Grace Kelly, I would highly recommend this film.

California Dreamin'

Awash in the homesickness that goes hand in hand with enduring a frostbitten New York winter, I have been yearning for a hiatus from the snow, a vacay from the oppressive winds constantly blowing my hair in my mouth, an escape from my dark little bug infested basement apartment where I don’t even get cell reception. The inimitable Tom Robbins says: “weather should be either celebrated or ignored,” and I couldn’t agree more, but truth be told I’m better at celebrating than ignoring and thus, it is hard to cope with the entirely uncelebratory weather. However, in an attempt to ignore the cold, I decided to flee to the comparatively balmy homeland of Northern California at least on a mental plane by watching Humbolt County.

The film follows Peter, a neurotic and sheltered UCLA medical student (portrayed by the oddly wooden Jeremy Strong) who – after studying for three days – fails his final exam, which is proctored by his father (Peter Bogdanovich) and winds up having a one-night-stand with a free spirited singer Bogart (Fairuza Balk) who drives up the coast to her home of Humboldt county while Peter is passed out from exhaustion in the passenger’s seat. Upon awakening he finds himself in an entirely mystical, secluded realm of redwood trees, pot groves and stunning headlands. The beautiful familiarity of the locale was almost too much for me!

After a few days of trying to leave Humboldt to return to his formative life, Peter decides to stay for a while as he grows closer to Bogart’s far out surrogate family, including her iconoclast adoptive father Jack (skillfully played by Brad Douriff), perma-stoned adoptive mother Rosie (Frances Conroy) and their son Max (played by the handsome Chris Messina), a cynical, flawed but deeply human pot grower and single father who becomes Peter’s close friend. From here, the story follows a fairly conventional route as uptight Peter – who previously never thought life had anything to offer beyond becoming a doctor – learns to appreciate a new way of life and lets go of his preconceived notions.

This all sounds pretty trite and clichéd, I’ll admit. But what redeems this movie is the strong character development. Apart from Peter himself (who I found the weakest of the bunch), each role is well written and skillfully acted and resultantly the film is full of nuanced, relatable dialogue and characters. Also, while writer/director team Darren Grodsky and Danny Jacobs certainly depict these Northern Californians in a positive light, they avoid idealizing them or their lifestyle. Instead, each of the oddballs Peter encounters is mired and lost in their own personal disconnect from reality just as much as Peter is himself. Additionally, Bogdanovich’s role as Peter’s hardened father is humanized rather than condemned for being straight and narrow. Ultimately the film does not suggest that one way of life is better than another, but instead urges its viewers to follow their own path, rather than feeling confined to a predetermined one.

My least favorite part of the film (without giving too much away) comes at the end when we learn that Max suffers from an as-yet-unmentioned drinking problem. For the sake of tying up all the lose ends, this development fit neatly into the film but seemed out of place in terms of Max’s already well established character. Thus, this alcoholic add-on and its subsequent repercussions on the overall plot seemed tacked on and forced. In short, this isn’t a brilliant film – it’s not going to blow your mind or change the way you live your life – but it’s well done and entirely enjoyable. In particular, Messina’s performance really shines. I'd recommend Humboldt County to all, but highly recommend it to Northern Californians, especially those who are currently stuck on the bloody East Coast dreaming of their beloved homeland.

Apologies, Teasers, Rewards and MORE!

This is my "I'm so sorry" face.

So basically this week has just slipped away from me. I'd love to blame my lack of posts on some legit excuse, but that would mean lying to your face, and I think you know that I have too much respect for you to do that. So I'll fess up. I've basically just been partying too much. When you don't have a job it's hard to convince yourself to stay in and sleep when you could be ripping it up and painting the town red, blue, yellow and every shade in between. And given my predilections for rash, spontaneous behavior the latter option is evermore lustrous than the gimpy former.

But as a result of my debaucheries, I have little entertainment opinions, critiques or even rant seshes to unfold onto your computer screens. Apologies. I do instead have many scintillating stories from some of my more rowdy activities this week, but I figure for the sake of preserving the posterity of this blog, I will save these rampantly hedonistic tales of glory for my close personal acquaintances, not for the prying eyes of every Tom and Judy that frequents this blog with their prying eyes.

What I do hope to accomplish in writing this woefully unstructured post is to let you know that, audience, I have not forgotten thee. Here are some teasers of posts that will very shortly be up on Film Noix:

• Deconstructing Nevan - A op-ed piece in which I tear apart and ultimately exalt the man, the myth, the legend that is The City's Nevan Donahue. This will be full of juicy behind the scenes tidbits and is sure to be a crowd pleaser.
• Humboldt County - Yes, that's right, I actually saw a film. Surprising, I know. I have already written the bulk of it before I got distracted and never finished it. But it will be up soon, promise.
• I've also seen some other flicks if you can believe it, many of which coincidentally (?) star Seth Rogin so maybe I'll review one or all of these, and I also watched How To Lose Friends and Alienate People which is the "true story" about none other than our relentless little Top Chef troll, Toby Young, so I'll probably write that up.

And finally, as promised, some rewards for bothering to read this again ill-structured and self-aggrandizing post. You deserve it, you've been such good, good loyal readers:

First, I offer you my sacred photo with Chef Harold, the winner of Top Chef season 1. This photo serves to remind all you Top Chef fans of the laud, respect and glory that once accompanied the show's winners before the entire Top Chef empire fell from grace by crowning Hosea Top Chef and putting poor Padma in those horrid get ups! Behold: bask in the wonder of Chef Harold:

Next up, I give you my recipe for Hot Buttered Rum, a drink so magnificent, so delightfully dreamy and warm it almost makes you forget you're still six inches deep in an apparently unending winter. After repeated trips to Little Branch - an underground speakeasy in Tribeca - with Nora or Jonathan, I finally realized a) that Hot Buttered Rum is incredible, and b) that I couldn't justify paying or having someone else pay $13 for it. I had to look elsewhere. So I assembled many ingredients in my apartment and became experimenting. And now, presto, the product of my hard work is finished and has earned high praise like: "Better than Little Branch" - Nora Schaffer.

• 2 shots of spiced rum
• 1 tablespoon brown sugar
• 1 ounce butter (preferably salted)
• nutmeg (preferably freshly ground)
• hot water
• (You could also add cinnamon, which the above photo which I did not take imples)
  

Put your water on to boil. Now just throw the rum, brown sugar and butter into a large mug while you wait for the water to heat. When the water boils, pour it in. Stir the contents together while adding your nutmeg. Sip, enjoy, bliss out.

And lastly, I was going to post a Fleetwood Mac video, but though I love the music, the videos were whack, so instead I'm going with the old tried and true. Here's an amazing excerpt from 30 Rock. Enjoy!

Looking Perfection in the Eye

And now for something completely different. Here, friends, I give you a video clip that changed my life. This is the very end of Third Man and yes I do recommend you watch the full movie, and no seeing the end won’t ruin the entire film. It stars the inimitable Joseph Cotton and the legendary Orson Welles. But really, this clip is the best part of the movie and – dare I say it – perhaps the most cinematically perfect ending of any film ever. It’s so rapturous in its gentle simplicity, so poetically tragic and succinct it brings me to tears. The score is inspired, the long-take cinematography gorgeous, the whole thing is utterly flawless.

To think that I first glimpsed this small wonder in – horror of horrors – my Clint Eastwood class in which my professor inexplicably showed it to us in an effort to make us appreciate Eastwood more, though it probably did the opposite by pointing out how flawed his films are in comparison. But from that moment on, I was a changed woman. I went home and found the clip on YouTube and spent months hunting down the ethereal and haunting zither music of Anton Karas. I had been touched like someone who had had a religious vision or whatnot, and I too felt like I had seen the light. I had witnessed perfection, stood eye to eye with it, perhaps even grazed it a little, and now was never to be the same.

So please, watch and savor the delight of seeing something so wholly perfect.

Sex, Lies and the City

An obligatory right of passage one must endure when coming to a women’s college in Manhattan is watching Sex and the City. I swear, no less than half of the girls on my hall had all six seasons on DVD, and probably a third chose to come to Barnard for little other reason than to emulate one of the show’s fab four. No joke, these were girls who categorized themselves as either Carries, Charlottes, Samanthas or Mirandas and dressed and acted accordingly. With all this fervor, it was not long before someone shoved a copy of the first season into my hands and I began to watch. I wasn’t in love, in fact I had a sneaking suspicion that I hated it, but I also felt that perhaps I couldn’t judge until I had seen the bulk of what the show had to offer. So whether I was spurned to watch in order to maintain a guise of being open minded or to confirm the hatred forming in my already narrowing mind, I watched every episode. Now I can safely say – without any risk of being labeled preemptively judgmental – that I hate it.

I don’t buy the chemistry between the four women, find Sarah Jessica insanely obnoxious and don’t understand Mr. Big’s appeal. However, all these things are completely subjective and not really at the core of what makes the show so reproachable. My biggest problem is that Sex seems to be trying – unsuccessfully – to redefine what a woman in her 40s can be. Rather than being confined to housewifery, the show purports that women can be successful, savvy and “fabulous” – whatever that dubious expression may mean – without needing a man. While this is all well and good in theory, the show is really its own worst enemy; while these women pretend to be strong, fierce and independent, all they talk about is sex and men. Each prove time and time again that their lives do revolve around men as they put up with the most ridiculous crap from the losers they date, never talk about their jobs, families or anything else that would define them as individuals with actual souls, and ritually go out to bars dressed like hussies and prowl around for tail. Instead of promoting an image of the alternative, 40-something woman as empowered, strong and independent, all the show does is make New York’s single gals look pathetic and easy. Worst is the fact that – like my Barnard first year cohorts – a vast number of people actually think that the sadistic and degrading behavior of the four tramps on the show is representative of the rest of us here in NYC.

And just when the commotion from the series had died down leaving the city partially in ruins in its wake, the half-witted frenzy was again dredged up when the bitches came back – not any prettier, smarter or loveable, just a bit more wrinkly – in the cleverly named Sex and the City: The Movie. Naturally, I would never pay money to see that shit in the theater, and apart from a drunken attempt to watch a pirated copy this summer (I passed out from boredom and alcohol halfway through), I avoided seeing it. However, I recently discovered that one of my roommates has a copy, and I think I must have had a sick, self-congratulating desire to prove myself correct in my hunch that the movie would be terrible, because two days ago I cracked and watched the second half of the film. I must tell you now how abysmally loathsome, how embarrassingly backward and ungodly deplorable it is.

Spoilers be damned – I’m giving you all the salient points! The film starts promisingly enough; each of the ladies has a significant other, thus keeping them off the streets trolling for men, though not guaranteeing that they have anything interesting to say. The movie swims along fine until Big stands Carrie up at the altar. Now in my opinion this is one of the most reprehensible, hurtful and humiliating things a person can ever do, and no matter what – especially given his incredibly shady track record – Big should not be forgiven. Now for a while, I actually thought Carrie wasn’t going to give in and take him back. She moves into a new apartment, hires a token black assistant who helps her keep it real, and for a sec I thought the movie was going to end with Carrie slowly getting over the breakup – Big-less but independent - and actually developing some self-respect. No, of course not. How could I be so stupid?

She takes Big back. Even that didn’t bother me so much, but it was the way she took him back that was truly offensive and disgusting. At a dinner with Miranda 5 months after the wedding day, Carrie is still obsessing and says it is her own fault that Big stood her up because she didn’t listen to his wishes to have a small wedding (a concern I think he voiced maybe once?) and that she “let the wedding get bigger than Big”. Apart from the fact that that phrase is ridiculously annoying, it’s also pathetic. Then Miranda confesses that the day before the wedding – in a fury after finding out her husband cheated on her – she tells Big “You two are crazy to get married, marriage ruins everything”. Carrie lashes out and tells Miranda that she’s the reason Big stood her up. Thus, in summary, it’s pretty much everyone’s fault but Big’s that he was too immature and selfish to show up to his own wedding. What kind of a message is this?

Finally she finds out that he sent her a bunch of emails (since when were those romantic?) of famous love poems he probably just cut and pasted from Google. She thinks the whole thing is super romantic, and they get back together and agree to have a smaller wedding. The whole film reeks of hypocrisy and pretty much made me want to vomit all over the DVD, preventing anyone else from watching such backward and demeaning filth. And now I hear they are going to be coming back to the big screen again in a sequel? They’ve already done enough damage to modern women – can’t they just disappear already?

Unhitching Hitchcock

Greetings again. In a desperate attempt to redeem this blog from its tawdry turn of late into being merely TV (and worse, reality TV) centric, I shall wrestle it from its purgatory depths with something just a smidge more highbrow. I shall in fact endeavor to reign this blog back toward its titular roots by discussing my undying and largely platonic love of – you guessed it – film. The natal purpose of this blog was – if you can believe it – to provide you, my breathless readers, with my quasi-sage advice on what films to see or skip. What it has mutated into is neither regrettable nor laudable, but I would like to return at least fleetingly to my primary purpose by filling y’all in on a few films that I truly think should be added to one’s “bucket list” of things to see before dying. Besides, I staunchly refuse – much to the chagrin of Zander over at Zandervision – to publish a list of my favorite films on Facebook as I refuse to take Facebook seriously. But perhaps here on Film Noix – which I take deathly seriously – I can at last open the floodgates of filmic reverie and let my favorite films pour forth onto your computer screens. (Also, I have no cable and because my Internet barely works I can’t stream shows online, so posting about current TV is next to impossible, so I’ll have to look elsewhere for literary fodder.)

With these thoughts in mind, I shall share just a few of my favorite films from one of the all time greats, Alfred Hitchcock. I’ve seen almost every non-silent Hitchcock film, and while many have blurred together into my head, some stand out against the test of time and a few of these I will relate to you momentarily. Though it is questionable if any of Hitch’s films would scratch my Top 10 list of all time best films, I feel that as a director, his body of work is unparalleled. Also, though I love his films because of their implicit suspense, what I find most fascinating about Hitchcock is the complex and troubling way in which he addresses gender roles. So without further ado, here is a sampling of Hitchcock films that I urge you to sink your teeth into, and after that I’ll provide a few that I advise saying “nicht-nicht” to in the inimitable words of Bruno.

Notorious – This is a brilliant espionage thriller made all the better through Hitchcock’s characteristically spot-on casting. And though my bosom friend Nora thinks it’s sexist, I actually feel the opposite. I grappled for years with how I feel about Hitchcock’s often problematic portrayals of women, and have finally come to the perhaps incorrect conclusion that – though he may consciously choose to depict women in compromising, misogynistic roles – he has a deep respect for the fairer sex and does not condone sexism or intend to promote it. So while many of his female characters may seem relegated to positions of inferiority, Hitchcock does so knowingly and without the intent of proclaiming such statuses acceptable. In the case of Notorious, the unbearably gorgeous Ingrid Bergman is unwieldy, brave, and flawed and though her lover tells her she lacks the qualities of a chaste “lady”, she is an entirely relatable heroine who proves that courage and intelligence outweigh 1945’s concept of what a woman should be.

Vertigo – Brilliant, beautiful and sad, this is one of Hitchcock’s most romantic and also most complicated films. The first half is a thrilling ghost tale, the second a tragic love story. Here Hitchcock goes against viewers’ expectations by casting the effortlessly adorable Jimmy Stewart in a role that is deplorable and almost completely devoid of sympathy. Hitchcock’s recurrent mother issues come to light here as Stewart’s immature, limited character can only assimilate women into one of two harmless prototypes: mother or victim. The two women in the movie – who both desperately love him – fail to please him as he in incapable of seeing them as anything other than one or the other of these two roles – roles that they cannot possibly live up to. Here again Hitch lands himself into hot water as both women must conform to these roles so as to remain a part of his life. The beautiful Kim Novak completely changes and resultantly loses her identity in an effort to appear a victim, while his devoted and supportive friend tries to get him to see her sexually, and when this fails, Stewart has no place for her in his life. But again, I argue that rather than proclaiming Stewart’s treatment of women acceptable, the film instead empathizes with Novak by depicting the fragile and impossible roles women feel obligated to adopt in order to conform to society’s image of an ideal woman.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith – No, this isn’t connected to that Brangelina thing. This is a completely unconventional Hitchcock in that it is not a suspense. It’s a screwball comedy featuring the queen of screwballs and one of my most beloved actresses, Carole Lombard. It is fabled that Hitch wanted so badly to make a movie with her that he completely departed from his go-to genre just to better suit her amazing comedic strengths. It’s by no means his best, but I was pleasantly surprised when I saw it and found that it warmed my heart – something I didn’t know Hitch could do. As Annette Insdorf pointed out in one of her classes, many screwballs perhaps negatively depict women as being scatterbrained, impulsive, silly and unreasonable. While Mr. and Mrs. Smith is not any different from this stereotype, I am again going to argue that Lombard’s character – like her character in so many other screwballs – is in fact an empowering representation of femininity. Firstly, she is of equal if not greater importance than her male counterpart. Secondly, her deftly brilliant comic timing elevates her to a status of comic genius shared by few other women. Thirdly, she is headstrong, uncompromising and has self-respect. Regardless, this is a very funny movie that I think anyone would enjoy so long as you check your Hitchcock expectations at the door.

Psycho – Ok you’ve probably already seen this one. But if you haven’t, I’ll try not to ruin the ending. This is definitely one of Hitch’s most successful efforts and is still one of the scariest films I’ve ever seen. This is also the film – along with the masterful Strangers on a Train – that most directly confronts Hitchcock’s mother issue. Of all the films I am choosing to review, this one has the weakest female lead, namely because a third of the way through the film, our protagonist (Janet Leigh) dies. By replacing the lead with two relative throwaways after Leigh’s death, Psycho becomes one of Hitchcock’s more perplexing stories, as it is hard to truly empathize with any of the characters. It also raises the question of if Hitchcock is punishing Leigh – a sexually liberated, thieving woman – by killing her off. I don’t personally think so, as before she dies she intends to return her stolen money and it is the fault of a guiltily sexually repressed male loner with mother issues that she meets her end.

Rear Window – This isn’t my favorite Hitchcock, it isn’t even in my top 10. I don’t really like it, to be honest. I do appreciate it, however, because it’s pretty fascinating in its own right, which is why I am reviewing it here, and recommending it to those of you who don’t find long movies with little action incredibly boring. What I did respect about this movie was again the way that Hitch uses harmless, loveable Stewart to play a sexually stunted character who finds women utterly terrifying. Stewart’s fiancé, played by Grace Kelly, represents both mother and victim as he – a peeping tom and an invalid – acts simultaneously as a child who she must care for, and as her savior who rescues her in a crucial moment. The fact that she wishes to get married proves threatening to Stewart who is stuck at a juvenile stage of development (reiterated by the phallic long-lensed camera that is ever present on his lap) and can only assimilate her as either mother or victim. She is repeatedly shown in eerie shots in which she looms over him as he awakens like something from a nightmare. Again, though Hitch depicts Kelly as a threat to her lover, he makes it clear that it is the immature Stewart – who cannot accept her for who she really is – who is at fault, not the blameless, almost saintly Kelly.

Whew, that was a lot of typing. I’ll just end this post by listing a few other extremely “bucket list” worthy Hitch flicks that I don’t have the strength to review:

The Lady Vanishes
Stage Fright
Strangers on a Train
Suspicion

And here are some that I think are pretty overrated. Nicht-nicht!:
39 Steps
Life Boat
Marnie
Shadow of a Doubt

The Curious Case of the Sleeping Spectator

First, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for posting so sporadically. In regards to this I will say two things:

1. I have been very busy with holiday debauchery and
   
2. I am in general a bit of a flake, so while I may have a legitimate excuse this time, I cannot promise to post regularly. I wait for inspiration to come to me, and you cannot rush that sort of thing!

Onwards! Yesterday I went to see David Fincher’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and whew what a soporific waste of my precious time. In case you didn’t already know, Button is about the journey of a man who ages backward, progressing from an arthritic infant to a handsome adult and finally to a young boy with an aged, Alzheimer’s-plagued mind. I was mildly intrigued by the premise and was in the mood for a heartwarming film that – with the concept of time so heavily woven into its narrative – promised to inspire me to live each day to its fullest (I love movies like that). But no such luck. More lackluster than epic, Button is stultifying when it should be sentimental, and vague and removed when it should be resonating with its audience.

Button’s most glaring failure is its entirely underdeveloped protagonist. Benjamin Button (played by Brad Pitt) is the least riveting character in the entire film. Amidst a vivid ensemble of personalities – ranging from Benjamin’s surrogate mother Queenie (Taraji P. Henson) whose sweetness is second to none, to his father (Jason Flemyng) who has lived most of his life with intense guilt, to drunken, aspiring-artist Captain Mike (Jared Harris) – the main character blanches in comparison. Despite the film’s massive running time, Benjamin fails to become three dimensional; he passively shuffles along with little discernible aspiration, character or direction. Perhaps Fincher thought Benjamin would seem capricious when he signs up to work on a tugboat or later to go to war, but because these choices were made without impetus or joie de vivre, they merely seem arbitrary.

The weakness of Benjamin’s character ruins the film’s entire plot by rendering the romance between Ben and his love Daisy (the always talented Cate Blanchett) baseless and unbelievable. Meeting when (chronologically) both are children, the two form a life-long bond and finally have a relationship when they "meet in the middle" and both look the same age. The way the two weave in and out of one another’s lives is supposed to give the film its heart but, sadly, I just stopped caring because the two had no chemistry. If the two lovers had any bond as children, it was not conveyed to the audience. The two exchange a maximum of ten meaningless lines of dialogue in these childhood scenes and seem only mildly fond of one another. Later in life when they again meet, Daisy is a beautiful and talented ballet dancer with a full social life and a hot boyfriend. Benjamin is an ugly, old (looking) bore who has nothing interesting to say. Yet somehow she is attracted to him! If Fincher had done a better job with depicting their earlier connection, or if Benjamin had an iota of personality, then perhaps their relationship would have resonated with viewers.

The film also attempts to echo its screenwriter Eric Roth’s previous (and hugely more successful) effort Forrest Gump in terms of structure. However, the film again falls short of its goals because of the weakness of its main character. In both Button and Gump the protagonists have "conditions" and look at things from a slightly different perspective than those around them. Both men meet a variety of people and touch their lives in unique ways. However, Forrest is a soulful, relatable character whose impact on others is easily understood by the audience. Benjamin’s effect on those around him is less evident; one woman he meets is Mrs. Abbott, a wealthy, unhappily married woman who feels she has never done anything with her life. After a brief affair with Ben, she goes on to follow her dream of becoming the oldest woman to swim the English Channel. How knowing Ben inspired her to do that is totally mystifying to me when all he made me want to do was sleep.

Benjamin’s character was so flat, so lifeless, so ruinous to the entire film that I began to wonder just how such a remarkably dreadful personage was ever brought to the silver screen. It couldn’t just be blamed on a poor script and directoral choices, could it? This got me thinking about last year woefully abysmal piece of squalor The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford and how that protagonist was eerily equally devoid of personality. What’s the common denominator here? Brad Pitt! At last I had hit upon what precisely made both these films such abhorrent bores. Despite his good looks, the man cannot carry off a "straight man" type of role. When given strongly written characters (like in Fight Club), he is altogether adequate, but when given a nondescript personage, he is unable to inject charisma, likeability or empathy into it and, in lieu, delivers a bland performance.

In essence, Button was an insipid film made worse by the poor writing, directing, and acting of the main character. Readers! I urge you: skip it. Or if still want to go against my advice, well, at least maybe you'll get a nice nap out of it. But seriously, don't go. Your money and time would be put to better use by seeing that terrible looking Marley & Me movie. Trust me, it can’t get any worse than this.

Eastwood's Latest Clunker: Changeling

My dad has been trying for weeks to get me to see Changeling, espousing praise of its directoral brilliance and Angelina’s stellar acting chops. Though my father and I usually agree on such subjects as film and music (he’s the one who clued me in to my beloved Scissor Sisters), I was wary to say the least. If you know me but at all, you know that I have an age-old axe to grind with Clint Eastwood. I think he is a clunky, unrefined butcher of a storyteller with a propensity for spiraling, un-succinct narratives that fail to evoke any sort of emotional response. So it was for this reason – and the fact that I do not like to support megalomaniacal, husband stealing Big Lips in her filmic ventures – that I was disinclined to see the film. However, after my father offered to pay me $10 if I went to see it but didn’t enjoy it, I finally relented.

The film relays the true story of Christine Collins, a single mother who – after leaving her child alone for a few hours at home – returns to find him gone. After months of searching, the corrupt Los Angeles police department – in an effort to repair their grizzly reputation - “reunites” her with her alleged child. The only problem? It’s not really her child. The more Collins protests, the more the police take action to keep her silent – they even lock her up and subject her to extreme maltreatment in a mental institution. It is only after a killer who potentially murdered her son is discovered that she is finally released. And that’s only the first half of the movie! At the risk of spoiling the end to any who will still want to view the movie after reading my critique, I’ll say no more.

The film’s principal weakness is Eastwood’s desire to preserve the historical facts of his subject matter. Though Collins’ tale is admittedly a phenomenal one, Eastwood tries too hard to include all the painstaking real-life details, and in the process ends up creating a film that sprawls too broadly over a number of storylines, themes and characters and - in consequence - lacks any real focus or emotional impact. Is Changeling aiming to tell a character-based story of the personal quest of one woman? Is it an exposé on the dark underbelly of the Los Angeles police department? A psychological study of a crazed and deranged lunatic (played deftly by Jason Butler Harner)? In theory, Changeling is all of these. In actuality, it is none. The film straddles its focus between each of these themes without pulling any of them off. Christine Collins – though one identifies with her plight – remains a cold and remote figure that never manages to become anything more than a one-dimensional victim rather than a nuanced human being. (To her credit, Jolie’s acting is more flat than bad, which I attribute to the screenplay and direction rather than to her inherent capabilities as an actress.) And though the film does succeed in scathingly depicting the police corruption of the 1920s, and in creating a thoroughly blood-curdling psychotic villain, neither of these subplots demands enough screentime to be considered the heart of the film. The result of these competing themes is a film that strives to include as many real life facts as possible without noticing that the outcome is a disjointed, ineffectual product.

Eastwood’s desire to keep the facts of the case intact also affects Changeling’s pacing. The film starts out briskly enough, but as soon as Collins becomes enmeshed in the corrupt ways of the police department, the film grinds to a standstill. Seeing Christine in the asylum is really a pointless exposition. We can all infer what sorts of horrors go on in such a place, and showing them is a waste of precious narrative time especially since the whole ordeal is peripheral to the overarching plot.

The film reaches a climax at about the 60% mark when a young boy confesses to witnessing and participating in the murders of several young boys, one of who may have been Collins’ son. That scene and the subsequent one in which the boy is forced to dig up the remains of the bodies serve as the film’s narrative and emotional pinnacle. I figured Changeling would be over soon thereafter, and was incensed to discover that I still had 45 more minutes to sit through!

The remains of the film prove to be the most tedious and the least focused. Eastwood drags us through not one but two separate courtroom trials and then subjects us to several lengthy scenes between Collins and her child’s potential murderer that are factually accurate but serve zero purpose in furthering the plot of the film. By including such pointless wastes of time into his film, Eastwood clearly shows that his propensity for telling a factual tale outweighs his desire to relay a captivating, efficient narrative.

The film also includes several classic Eastwood cringe-worthy moments. One happens at the asylum, when Collins’ hard luck hooker pal tells her that there are times when a lady has got to say “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on” to authority. In the following scene, Christine repeats this line to her power-tripping psychiatrist. The effect of this line is so clichéd, so trite and so irksome, I could have left the theater right then and there. It is as if Eastwood is winking at the audience hoping that the payoff of this repeated, obnoxious dialog will awaken audience sympathies by depicting Collins as a strong female despite her generally wooden character. In another needless scene, Collins listens to the announcement of the Oscars over her radio and – in a completely out of character fashion – delights when her underdog choice of It Happened One Night wins Best Picture. Again this stale attempt to lighten the otherwise downtrodden mood feels like a cheap and nauseating way of appealing to the Academy for a nomination. These moments – as well as the film’s overall weakness in structure – elucidate that Eastwood is a director who is out of touch with how to captivate his audience’s attention. His attempts at being visceral feel hackneyed, his humor pedestrian. Needless to say, I got my $10.

I Drank the Blogger Kool-Ade

It was just a few short years ago when I took a sacred, moral oath never to become one of the pretentious, self-absorbed windbags who inflict their oft-moronic, miniscule ideas upon the masses via blogging. And now look at me! So what, you ask, has led to this massive break in my convictions, this Benedict Arnold act of personal treason? Have I changed my opinion on blogs, or decided to attempt an oxymoronically non-pretentious one? No and no! I still feel that most blogs are frivolous wastes of time and cannot promise that mine will be any different. The reason for breaking my own moral code and jumping on the blog bandwagon is simple – I'm bored. And my morals were never that strong in the first place.

Having perhaps said too much already, salutations and welcome to my blog! On the off chance that you are not personally acquainted with me, I shall provide some very brief but delightful choice tidbits about myself. I am an inveterate cinephile, music obsessee, carouser, over-opinionated TV watcher, shower singer, knitter, whiner and a drunk. And - as I am currently a gainfully unemployed scourge upon my family and humanity at large - I have dangerously large amounts of time on my hands. Thus, the blog!

Apologies for the affected blog title. For those sadly not versed in French I shall elucidate: en français, noix means nut, thus the title is jointly referencing my own status as a film nut, and the 1940’s genre of film noir of which I am fond. I ran the title by my dear friend Zander over at Zandervision and he decried it a mite pretentious, though exclaimed that our demigod ex-professor Andrew Sarris (who, for lack of any other worthy photo candidates, is pictured above) would be proud of my clever witticism. As the title gently hints, the blog will pertain to film. Truly though, I intend to write about anything that strikes my fancy. I am opinionated to a fault, and therefore intend for this blog to be a place for me to air my various thoughts, no matter how trivial or asinine. Reader beware! This blog – like so many blogs before it – will be insufferably inconsequential, self-absorbed and probably hideously uninteresting. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.