With the inspired curatorial assistance of one-time Godard collaborator Jean-Pierre Gorin, the Cinematheque Ontario has put together a pair of outstanding programmes on the essay film in recent months. The current programme is especially notable for its inclusion of Thom Andersen's much-admired, rarely-seen gift to cinephiles, Los Angeles Plays Itself. This is a witty and insightful dissection of Los Angeles (not "L.A.," Andersen insists) as represented in (mostly) Hollywood cinema. Surpassing even Martin Scorsese's epic pair of cinephilic essay films (A Personal Journey with Martin Scorsese Through American Movies, My Votage to Italy) in the diversity, complexity and originality of its ideas, Los Angeles Plays Itself is essential viewing for anyone with an insatiable appetite for film history -- or history as defined by films.
Based on Shutter Island's effective, but relatively generic trailer, you'd have no way of knowing that this seemingly by-the-numbers horror film is actually one of Martin Scorsese's most ambitious, assured and enigmatic films to date. There's a tendency to speak of Scorsese's considerable talents in terms of "technical virtuosity," as if he simply knows how to push the right buttons on the tools at his disposal. However, as Shutter Island proves, this technical skill is at the service of something much more substantial: Scorsese's incredibly rich and original imagination. He shoots scenes in a manner that is visually striking, yes, but he also invests even the most mundane moments with unexpected detail, insight and purpose. He's the consummate filmmaker, but with the wealth of wildly original ideas on display here, you get the sense that he could thrive in any creative field.
People necessarily take short cuts when reviewing movies -- particularly in conversation -- but cribbing your thoughts from reviews you've read is the height of disrespect for the art of cinema. Since virtually nobody in the world uses the words "twee" or "precious" to describe anything except Wes Anderson films (and maybe Belle & Sebastian records), you have to wonder why virtually every anti-Anderson critique relies so heavily, lazily and incorrectly on these two words. The problem, I suppose, is that it wouldn't sound like a criticism if you called these films "fastidious," "polished" or "exacting" instead. Let's face it, "precious" and "twee" are more annoying words.
Forget (almost) everything you've read about The Box. Slammed by virtually every critic who's come anywhere near it -- including those who like it -- this is further proof that Richard Kelly's films are the wrong kind of critic-proof. With the exception of a few appealingly out-there voices in the American film critic community, most critics have developed painfully conservative, compromised tastes designed to anticipate the reactions of their not-especially-knowledgeable-or-adventurous readerships. As a result, it seems that there's no place for films that value ambition over coherence. This is unfortunate, not only because some of the finest films ever made thrive on uninhibited self-indulgence (Fellini anyone?), but because Richard Kelly is quietly making some of the most striking American films of his generation -- and he's being mocked for it.
In recent years, the zombie comedy has become a legitimate sub-genre. Since the release of 1985’s Return of the Living Dead, Shaun of the Dead is the reigning title-holder, but there have been many other memorable zombie efforts in those years, including the films of Sam Raimi (if supernatural demons qualify), Robert Rodriguez (if you include zombie-style vamps and other diseased, zombie-like creatures) and zombie maestro George A. Romero. But this newfound popularity isn't necessarily a good thing for zombies. These days, meaty zom-coms are drowned-out by lackluster re-makes and straight-to-video drivel like Zombie Strippers. Even Romero’s last couple zombie efforts -- particularly Survival of the Dead, which screened earlier this month at TIFF -- bordered on unwatchable.
Inglorious Basterds takes everything you know-and-love (or hate) about Quentin Tarantino's films and exaggerates it to ludicrous extremes. There are too many characters, too much dialogue, too much violence and too little discipline. Paradoxically, this is both the secret of the film's success and the recipe for its ultimate undoing. Of all the films Tarantino has directed, this is the least cohesive -- and yet it features some of his most bravura sequences to date. For this reason, it's very possible that someone with extremely mixed feelings about Inglourious Basterds (ie. me) could feel just about the same as someone who thinks it's a masterpiece. The second guy's just a lot quicker to remember the film's peaks and forgive (or forget) its many valleys.
