The Visitor

Gathering my thoughts for this post, I thought to myself that "The Visitor" feels a lot like what I'd written about "The Station Agent" back in January. Turns out both were written and directed by the same guy: Thomas McCarthy (often credited just as Tom). Who, by the way, starred as the snakey, Stephen Glass-like character Scott Templeton in one of the top, oh, say three TV shows ever made: "The Wire."

But I'm off topic, and, what the hell, let's go even further afield. I'm moving away from New York after 12 years here, and one of the things I've been up to is making a list of things I'll miss (and trying to decide if any of them are stoppers), i.e., the Staten Island Ferry, the ability to see Swedish vampire movies the weekend they open on, at most, two screens nationwide (this one's almost a stopper, but hey, that's what Netflix is for, right?), the variety of food. And that's about it.

But today I added one tiny thrill I'll miss: spotting celebrities whose work I admire, which often seems to correspond with the kind of actor, etc., who you might read in Entertainment Weekly decide that the "legitimate work" in New York trumps living in LA for them. So today I added Seth Gilliam, who played Sgt. Ellis Carver, to my small, but quality list of "Wire" players. Okay, there are really only two, the other being a really crabby looking, though perfectly in character, John Doman, who played the bush league Machiavelli, Deputy Ops. Rawls.

But these two, Jim Jarmusch, Sigourney Weaver and Peter Greene (Zed, "Pulp Fiction," with whom I got in a now-hilarious shouting match over a stool at a downtown bar) do not a home make. So I'm out. (But if I bump into Omar, Bunk, Bubbles and Stringer Bell at my going away party, I'm cancelling the damn truck.)

Mmm, and right, if you liked "The Station Agent," and what's not to like, add "The Visitor" to your queue.

How the mighty have fallen...

...for Zooey Deschanel. I will likely lose all critical credibility with this next bit, surprising, and ever so pitiable, on the order of, say, a big tough guy having a soft spot for The Notebook. (Zing!) But I flipped to Failure to Launch on TBS tonight and couldn't flip away. Their "one movie, every night of the weekend" programming never made much sense to me until now. I'm a 21st century hobo, meaning I have no DVR (and ride the rails eating out of tin cans), I missed the first 20 minutes, and I just may tune in to the makeup session.

It's not a bad story idea. McNutty is the wounded but idealized supermanchild of the sort you find on every other page of Men's Health. (Extreme mountain biking! Rock climbing! Perfect abs! He's got it all, except for love.) And he can't let go of the security of living with the folks. SJP is a once-jilted hagshrew who needs to make the past right by controlling the present, and topping every scene partner. (I'm Carrie Bradshaw, dammit.)

Ol' Matthew gives a winning, easy performance, and for once you don't resent him coasting on his now-exhausted "awright-awright" charm. Are his teeth really that white? Kathy Bates and Terry Bradshaw are funny and touching as his parents. They clearly care for him; they just want some space. Bradshaw's "Naked Room" performance is worth the price of your time. And Bates, reliably, has one, sharp moment that cuts you.

And okay, SJP, who I cannot find the right words to express how much I dislike (witchface), manages to find one or two vulnerable moments (clown makeup), and here and there play someone more than a character from her new series, Sex in the Suburbs (glamour magazine conspiracy).

But the real payoff, is Zooey Deschanel's performance. You know her from Elf, maybe from All the Real Girls; her sister is Fox's Bones. She's gives the most tired dialogue a witty snap, has a fresh take on a been-there scene in a sporting goods store with Rob Corrdry's gun clerk, and flashes her big Suicide Girl eyes under her Vargas pinup haircut. SJP (beauty?mark) just can't hold the screen against her. You know, I think I take back everything I ever said about bangs. Pow!

P.S. Yes, there are inexplicable CGI animals with personalities. They eventually serve a, the?, story point. But there were other, better ways to get there. I guess the producers had money to burn, and decided to graft a kidflick to their adult comedy. I mean what does a kid care about the leaving Mom's cooking blues? I don't know, I guess I did say he was a manchild.

Hancock

B-. [Spoilers] In the order they occur to me now: 1) Upgrade the villain. Not exactly Eddie Marsan's fault; he really doesn't have any good lines, and the devil always should. But why settle for a poor man's Hans Gruber? 2) Recast Mary (Charlize Theron). She's too hot to begin with, so you can't pull the old glasses on/glasses off! makeover trick. Maybe Jennifer Garner, but she's awful pretty too. And she's already played married to Bateman (Juno) and costarred with him in a (far superior) Peter Berg joint to boot (The Kingdom), so I give myself a C- for originality. 3) While I'm psyched that a first-time scriptwriter with a great idea got a movie made, it shows. There's unfinished business everywhere, e.g., the relationship with the little boy could pay off so much more, the therapy sessions sputter out, and, uh, so Hancock would rather keep his super powers than experience the "joy" of natural love and mortality? Okay, I probably would too. But in service of exploring the concept more fully, I would have gladly sat through 30 more minutes.

Bottom line: great idea, mildly executed, Bateman saves the thing.

Be Kind, Rewind

"You guys. Listen. You guys. Life without civilization is brutal, nasty and...short! If you're gonna' come around here and spread pizza all over the walls with your gats, you're gonna' miss out on some good movies."

- Jerry (Jack Black)

I was going to write, I can't remember a movie this charming about the restorative magic of movies since "Cinema Paradiso." But, forget the qualification, this is one of the more charming movies I've seen in a while, period. I was duped into skipping it by the cumulative lukewarm reviews on Metacritic.com. (Yeah, I'm talking to you Robert Wilonsky, who crawled up in your soul and blew out the pilot light?). But something about it just got to me.

I'll admit it's a loose-limbed mess at times. You'd love to see more of the "sweded" movies on-screen. And you wish the "let's make a film!"-film were better. And Jack Black only just barely operates within the limits of my patience here, but who cares? Open your heart.

A large part of Be Kind's (nice, right?) appeal is Michel Gondry's abiding, open-hearted creativity. Sure, the movie's set in a fairytale version of Passaic, NJ. And the Benetton-ready cast seems only marginally less idealized since a certain Democrat beat the paste out of Billary. But that's the hook, the idea that creativity and love and assuming the best of your fellow man, not settling for, or even cynically finding pleasure in, the worst of the other guy, can get you through.

[Spoiler-ish] I only have one wish for Santa here. If you've seen it, how great would it have been if the final shot had pulled back to reveal a movie set, the storefronts were only facades on a lot, the crane shot revealed a second smaller crane? Too clever?

Stan Winston, R.I.P.

Sydney Pollack's recent passing is sad enough, but considering my strong personal connection to The Thing and Aliens and a hundred other genre classics, the death of Stan Winston marks a black day indeed.

The Winston link above connects to a fine article discussing his knack for blending prosthetic and digital effects, a topic that's been on my mind since seeing Favreau's smooth incorporation of both in Iron Man, while bracing myself for The Incredible Hulk.

And here is a collection of eulogies and tributes to Winston posted on AICN.

Watchmen

[I drafted this a week ago and left it in the cheese cellar to age. If it smells that means it’s good, right?]

While I was home for Christmas I rediscovered my old comic book collection, specifically The Dark Knight graphic novels, written by Frank Miller in 1986. Credited with rescuing Batman from camp and restoring him as a tough guy icon, who even now is enjoying an even meaner, dirtier third coming with Christopher Nolan's Batman Begins and forthcoming The Dark Knight, Miller's gritty, nuanced story peeled back the mask, revealing the bent psychology that motivates one to dress up in tights and punch crooks in the face. Hard.

Right around the same time, 1986-87, Alan Moore, who also wrote the graphic novels upon which the lame movie adaptations From Hell and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen* were based, wrote a similar story about an entire world of superheroes entitled Watchmen. I never read it. I bought issue #1 of the mini-series on the advice of Greg The Pusher at my local shop. (Now valued at $12 by comicspriceguide.com. The comic. Not Greg.) But that was one of the last comics I bought before moving on to more adult collectables, like torn concert tickets and old W2 forms.

Now, considering the critical lather it’s whipped up in the last 20 years, I figured it was time to give it a shot. Good stuff. What Miller accomplished in miniature, Moore conjured on an interwoven, global scale with an all-original posse of costumed freaks like Dr. Manhattan, The Comedian, Nite Owl and Rorschach. It starts off slow, but builds to a satisfyingly complex crescendo.

So I was excited to learn recently that Zack Snyder is adapting, and given the home run he hit with Miller’s 300, yeah, I’m a little fired up. And, hey, Gerard Butler’s cool, but check out who he’s got signed on now: Billy Crudup, Carla Gugino (rrrowl), and in a hand-in-glove bit of casting, Jackie Earle Haley is the personification of how deeply odd and imbalanced a masked, self-righteous vigilante would be: Rorschach.


Yes, what’s 1986 is awesome again. This includes me. Tip your waitresses, good night!

*Instead, I recommend you see this goofy pro bowling documentary: A League of Ordinary Gentlemen.

The Station Agent

The story unspools in that unruffled, languorous way that some of the most enjoyable indie cinema does. Imagine the the idiosyncratic surety of Jim Jarmusch crossed with the mannered aimlessness of David Gordon Green.

The Station Agent is populated by the kind of quirky but caring, wounded but basically decent folks who inhabit the best liberal daydreams. The kind of daydreams you imagine JFK might have had. It's a world in which each is hobbled in their way, living without any visible or realistic means of support, and yet my bitter baker’s chocolate, processed by hand from small batches of locally-grown, pesticide-free cacao beans, and your sugar-free, organic peanut spread, just one color in the rainbow of end-products of a thriving multi-culture farm (not to be confused with a multi-cultural farm, but that would be cool too, man), run by a bon vivant grass farmer named Herman, come together in a whorl of politically correct, eco-friendly decadence. Yes, you can have your conscience and eat it too.

Mmm, conscience.

Filmwise.com's Invisibles Quizzes

Click to check out Filmwise.com's weekly "Invisibles" quizzes. Each week they digitally remove the actors from eight movie stills, leaving just the sets and costumes standing like a scene out of, well, The Invisible Man. At first glance they seem really tough. But don't give up and submit your answers too quickly. It's the kind of mental exercise that proves the .38 Special Rule.

For Your Consideration

The decline of The Christopher Guest Project can be graphed on a steep, sad curve. We start with Waiting for Guffman, naturally, on 11.

If you're a stickler, the embarrassing and literally career-ending Chris Farley vehicle, Almost Heroes, follows, but it's not the product of The Guest Players, and he only directed, so let's throw it out as an anomaly.

Best in Show, may actually be the best in class. I usually slot Guffman higher because of its' formal innovation. But I think Best in Show's subject is more broadly appealing, it's funnier throughout, and then Fred Willard kills. Hell, let's call it a 12.

Then, A (so-called) Mighty Wind blows in like a flute solo. A flute solo played, that is, by anyone other than Ron Burgundy. Or Jethro Tull. (Which, I should mention, is not actually that guy's name. It's Ian something. He's a farmer, which explains why his band's named after the inventor of the seed drill. And he's a flautist. Oh, and don't' forget awesome. Yeah!) But really, folk music? Come on, the stuff is already satirizing itself. And if you handfeed the hippies you'll only encourage them. I give it a 5, a haircut and a punitive scrubbing.

Finally, we have For Your Consideration. I waited for the funny, telling myself we had a lot of characters and just had to knock out some exposition. While still waiting for the funny, I actually snagged a good line to jot in my notebook: "It wasn't the apple in the tree, but the pair on the ground that caused all the trouble." But that strikes me as the type of quip that's been around for 100 years. No points for originality. Plus it's a pun. Do as I say, not as I do. Pun comedy is weak. But so, apparently, am I.

And so I waited yet longer for the funny, assuring myself it was working up to some awe-striking, mind-splitting meta-joke that was larger than the movie itself. And then. It was over. I felt like I'd sat through an Andy Kaufman routine. Or worse, Man on The Moon. Graphically speaking, we're approaching zero to infinity. (And beyond!)

[Spoiler]

Today marks the 1st anniversary of Netflog. I don't have any special remarks prepared, so I thought I'd do a little administrative business. Seriously, if you see [Spoiler] here and you haven't seen the movie and you have any intention of doing so, please bail out of the post. It will spoil as promised. And I can't be responsible for that.

I'm moved to emphasize this point after rereading some of my recent [Spoilers]. I realized just how much they whisk the curtain back, revealing the little projectionist. Also, I'm going to write about a couple of fantastic movies in the next few days and I want us all to be clear before I begin.

One more thing, your McDonald's coffee is really hot. Be careful.

Juno

This is the story of a precocious 16 year-old who gets pregnant accidentally and threads her way through giving the baby up for adoption and figuring out whether or not she loves her best friend, the baby’s father. It was written by a smart, funny, slightly too-cool-for-school former stripper (who danced so she could blog her way to a book deal, natch), and the script is peppered with quips and comebacks with real zing and sting. And it’s got a great cast: Ellen Page, Michael Cera, Jason Bateman, J.K. Simmons and Allison Janney are all winning and real. Except maybe sometimes when their mots are a little too bon. But you will laugh. You might cry. You will enjoy.

This is the kind of movie I’d like to write, oh, about a dozen times. That would be a nice career. It’s funny and sweet and the characters actually care about each other (or don't, and that's real too). Most touchingly, the parents are written with the kind of witty compassion and humanism you wish you had gotten, or were capable of giving, whichever might currently apply.

Don't Try This At Home

After watching Eastern Promises, I tried to emulate this menacing gesture with an upward snap of my neck:


Following two weeks of soreness and a rigorous micro-semester of Google Med School, I'm upgrading my diagnosis from simple whiplash to spondyloptosis. Or rickets.
__________

Unrelated item: don't you think Donald Sutherland could play David Cronenberg in the biopic?



Just not permed, mustachioed Sutherland.

Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan

Watched this again last night for the first time since seeing it in the theatre, and I predicted "we'll stick with this for about five minutes." But I was surprised to find that it is still really funny. The first time around all I could watch were the rubes. This time I had room to focus on Cohen's reaction, or lack of, to the things he was hearing. Man, what a Rock of Gibraltar improviser he is. Every setup is a master class on staying in the moment and maintaining the scene.

I also realized just how much subtitled gibberish improv there is throughout between Borat and his producer, Azamat Bagatov. That stuff's hard, you know? Ever tried to tell a joke with some made-up Russian in the middle? It usually sounds weak, but they make it look so easy.

Finally, by now you've probably heard that Sacha Baron Cohen announced he's retiring Borat Sagdiyev, explaining that among other things, the success of the movie makes good "gets" that much more difficult. Well played, sir. Well played.

Fast, Cheap & Out of Control

No, not the excellent documentary by Errol Morris. But if you haven't seen it, do yourself a favor. You'll get that uncommon feeling that your mind is stretching, and walk away with an excited bounce in your metaphysical step. It will make you feel an enlargement of the possible.

No, what I mean is that I myself aim to be faster, cheaper and, well, a little more out of control here. I've been jammed up by my own perfectionism and a feeling that each piece needs to be a highly polished, multifaceted jewel. Not that I've met that standard with any regularity, but one should aim high. Meanwhile the backlog of movies I want to tell you about is kind of staggering. I'm going to apply this new ethic, as much as the editor who sits on my shoulder will allow, despite my strong reluctance to write off a movie with a shrug and a "meh." I mean, it kills me to dismiss so much hard work with a casual joke or two. My snap review during the credits always, always softens once I so much as start the making-ofs. But I've got to make some headway, and when inspiration (and time) allow, I'll give a movie, even the crap one, the more full consideration it deserves.

So, let's go: I Am Legend. [Spoiler] I liked it. But isn't the problem of the castaway story that we don't really want Robinson Crusoe to get off that island? Not that this Crusoe quite does, but I always hate it when the sails of so-called salvation heave into view. Maybe it's just me, but I don't think so. The idea of having New York to yourself, nocturnal, rage-infected zombies notwithstanding, is just too appealing, especially after a day of playing sidewalk pinball and subway sardine can. Another issue I have is that Legend repeats a, the?, crucial mistake of I, Robot. Does the "C" in CGI have to stand for cartoon? Why not use actors instead of animated "dark seekers?" Just look at how terrifying the zombies of the 28 Days/Weeks movies are.

No Country for Old Men. [Spoiler] A lot of complaint out there about the ending. After my second viewing, with just a few other people in the audience, I heard "what?," "that blew," and a couple of soft "boos" as we filed out. I think that disappointment stems from a feeling of having been baited and switched. Spending so much time with him, and only briefly dropping in on the sheriff, you feel you're watching the story of Llewelyn Moss. And when his time's up, but the story continues, you're not quite sure what to hang on to. I think this is the Coens taking the audience on an uncertain, disorienting ride similar to Sheriff Ed Tom Bell's, which is a nifty trick if you think about it, but I can understand how it could make you ornery.

Once. [Spoiler] I'll paraphrase, but I think "larryifromla" expresses it best on the Once IMDb board: Here is a warm, humanist, impressionistic movie in which not a whole lot actually happens. It rolled out in limited release, was "discovered" and hyped by vocal, articulate moviegoers, and is now ultimately met by an expectant, overly hopeful viewer, like myself, with a shrug and a "meh." Cue the making-ofs, "aww, now I get it," and, okay, it's stuck with me a for a few days. And my affection for it doubled when I learned that her answer, in Czech, translates as "No, I love you." But I hoped the awe-struck looks on various actors' faces as they reacted to each new song would be how I would actually feel. Oh well.

More later.

Image courtesy of Keith Wiley. Related article here.