The Glorious Darkness of the Movie Theater

I've written the above phrase many times before but have never really delved into detail or offered up a precise defintion of what makes an un-illuminated cineplex so wonderous. The feeling swept over me a few days ago yet again when I gave myself an Oscar Sunday present in the form of a fourth theatrical viewing of "Atonement".

Movie theaters are dark during the actual movie, as we all know, but how does that darkness assume glory? How does sitting in a dilapidated seat, your knees possibly pressed up against the seat before you, some moron checking his or her cellphone a couple seats over, take on such magic? How does the munching of popcorn and rustling of bags containing said popcorn sound more eloquent, more romantic than the lapping waves of the Pacific against a California beach? How is that I took two and a half years of Spanish and can hardly remember a word of it but I still recall precisely what the woman sitting beside me in the theater at M. Night Shymalan's "Signs" looked like? And how was the Landmark Century Cinema on Clark & Diversey more special, more intense, more transcendent last Sunday during "Atonement" than St. Patrick's Cathedral in Manhattan when my sister and I visited it last August?

When you step inside St. Patrick's Cathedral you will find dozens upon dozens of people situated in pews communing with something bigger and more powerful than they and witnessing this conjures up thoughts of sitting in the movie theater and waiting for the show which I have come to see start. These peaceful preludes have been taken away to some degree thanks to the hideous Movie Watcher Network and the pre-movie movie ads. This isn't always the case - it wasn't at the theater where I saw "Atonement" on Sunday - but I have learned to combat it through use of my trusty Ipod. (Favorite Pre-Movie song: "What I'll Remember Most" by Over the Rhine.)

Finally, the lights dim, the screen pops to life and, if you're lucky, it gets off and running straight away with the luminous sight of that green screen and the words worthy of Tolstoy: the following preview has been approved for all audiences by the motion picure association of America. It doesn't even matter if every preview is for a movie that looks like crap - and a lot of them do - because 1.) They only last a couple minutes and 2.) It's part of the experience. You listen to the National Anthem at a baseball game even though you've heard it 3,447 times before because that's the way it works.

And once all the pre-movie festivities have concluded it's on to the good stuff. The situation is what determines my course of action at this point. In most circumstances I ensure I'm completely settled in my seat, adjust my glasses, fold my hands in my lap, and get properly focused on the screen before me. If it's a movie I've been anticipating for some time than I get really focused on the screen. What do I mean by really focused? Hey, look, you either understand what I'm saying or you don't, and I sincerely hope you do. And if it's a movie I've already seen and have returned to see again because I adore it so much - like "Atonement" on Sunday or, say, a revival of "Casablanca" - I close my eyes and say a quick "thank you" to whatever deity may be upstairs keeping an eye on things.

People watch movies to escape and I do, too. But my definition of escape differs quite a bit from everyone else's. Receiving what I expected when I plunked down my hard-earned money for a ticket does not assist in my escape. The greatest escape comes via a film that not only sees my soul, not only touches it, but understands it. A movie that has no interest in keeping both feet on the boring, old earthly plain.

A movie like "Atonement" leaves the earthly plain behind. I don't just get lost in the narrative, I vanish into its woodlands and marshes - never to be seen again. I don't just drink it in, I get drunk on it - smashed, sloshed, stumbling about incoherently and clinging to a bottle of Glenfiddich aged 15 years. A movie like "Atonement" doesn't stay on the screen. No, the screen wraps itself around you and science and physics are rendered meaningless as the movie itself succeeds in in merging with you. The darkness of a movie theater becomes oh-so glorious when you lose sight of the fact you are in the darkness of a movie theater.

During the last 15-20 minutes of "Atonement" last Sunday, and this is a true story, a slight vibration of some kind spruced up and caused my movie theater seat to shake to a slight degree. I noted it and then was gone again - off into the sea of Briony and Cecilia and Robbie. I wasn't the only who felt it, though, for as I left after the final credit rolled a woman outside the auditorium was asking her fellow theater-goer if she too had felt a vibration below her seat during the last 20 minutes of the movie. And if so, what had it been?

Yes, what had it been? Well, I'll tell you. Last Sunday the darkness of the theater turned so glorious the earth literally started shaking.

Dedication

In the near future, mark my words, Billy Crudup will get a film role that's mainstream, but not too mainstream, with complexity and bite, and he will knock the thing so damn far outta' the park they might have to stop production midway through and just give him the Oscar on set. But as good as he is in Justin Theroux's "Dedication", and he is good, this isn't it. But it also isn't his fault.

Crudup is Henry, an author of children's books but also a misanthropic mysogynist. Henry and his illustrator Rudy Holt (Tom Wilkinson) have brainstormed an idea for a new book about Marty the Beaver and I'll let you discover from where said brainstorm develops. The book does well and contractually the two men are obligated to put out another book for Christmas. Tragically, Rudy dies and so Henry is left without his mentor and essentially his only friend. Enter Lucy (Mandy Moore), whom Henry's publisher offers a bonus of $200,000 if she can manage to wriggle a new Marty the Beaver book out of Henry in time for the holiday season.

We know, of course, that Henry and Lucy will fall in love and I had high hopes the movie could get us to that plot development authentically and originally. For awhile it seems to entertain that possibility, primarily through the work of our two leads. Crudup does a lot with not much yet again by making Henry's assortment of tics seem plausible and as we go through the various stages of him falling for Lucy he convinces us that, maybe, he is changing a little bit. In one breathless moment the movie stops and stands still as Henry lists all his tics for the benefit of Lucy. "I have a rag I can't throw away because it might have feelings."

Mandy Moore is Crudup's equal. I will admit to having said some unflattering things in the past about Ms. Moore's acting ability but I take it back - I take it all back. Lucy brings her own baggage to the dance but she has not allowed all optimism to be beaten from her. She is sweet, but wounded. (In fact, that's the new match.com profile for me. I want someone who is sweet, but wounded.) Moore allows herself to spend a majority of the film in an uncomely parka, her hair askew. These characters with these fantastic performances attached to them seem ripe for a full-on exploration, a movie that goes for the soul and follows these two all the way down the road to the end, not betraying who and what they are.

So why oh why did it have to turn into a by-the-numbers romantic comedy? The problem with "Dedication" can be traced directly back to the screenplay. You can see the potential romantic comedy seeds being planted - the huge bonus that Lucy hides from Henry, and Lucy's boorish ex-boyfriend - and I suppose I should have known better but my allowed myself to hope and as Morgan Freeman once told us, "Hope is a dangerous thing". Instead "Dedication" melts away under too many montages and Henry finding out about the bonus as a means to drive away Lucy so she can go back to the boorish ex-boyfriend for no other reason than to allow a scene of Henry coming to grips with what he has thrown away so he can then literally run after his one true love to declare his feelings (which Crudup manages to sell pretty well) in a public place. As all this was unfolding I actually said aloud to myself, "Why did you have to go here?!"

And don't even get me started on the device of having the deceased Rudy hang around as some sort of figment of Henry's imagination. Yes, I understand this is supposed to represent the fact Rudy was Henry's only friend and Henry can't let go of him but 1.) the writer should have made that known in the first 15 minutes and 2.) Rudy keeps showing up so Henry has someone to whom he can exposit dialogue.

There's nothing wrong with a pleasurable romantic comedy but when your movie has the potential to be more, when you have characters who seem intent on standing outside the romantic comedy genre, when you have two actors so clearly willing to go for broke, why not take a chance?

Oscar Reaction

My thoughts & feelings regarding the 80th Annual Academy Awards....

-Okay, so Amy Ryan didn't win for Best Suppporting Actress. It's wrong - dead wrong - and we all know it. But at least they didn't give it to Ruby Dee for her dull-as-a-butter-knife turn and instead gave it to someone who offered a fantastic performance, Tilda Swinton for "Michael Clayton".

-And how about that Best Actress upset? Marion Cotillard for "La Vie En Rose"? The DVD I've had in my hand at Blockbuster at least 3 times only to put it back down by thinking, nah, she won't win Best Actress so why do I need to see it?

-In regards to my Oscar Nomination Reaction we have now been able to ascertain that since Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova won for Best Original Song for "Once" that yes, Virginia, there is a God.

-And, by the way, how about Jon Stewart bringing Irglova back out to say her "thank you" after the punk-ass orchestra played her off before she could speak. Jon, you're a stud.

-My favorite Jon Stewart line of the night was him pleading with the powers-that-be to invite the writers to more of the award galas with the following: "Don't worry, they won't mingle".

-Dress of the Night goes to Nicole Kidman, and not necessarily because of the dress but because of the colossal necklace she was wearing that placed attention - let's be honest, people - squarely on her necklace-free left breast. As my friend and fellow filmmaker Daryl said (with his wife sitting right beside him, mind you) in relation to Ms. Kidman's lovely breast, "I just want to nuzzle it."

-"Atonement" earned victory for Best Score and I'm just ecstatic it won something.

-Diablo Cody. My homegirl. Can someone who went to the University of Iowa to write but decided the whole thing was b.s. (just like me) and taught herself to write (just like me) and worked at an ad agency not as a copywriter but as a gopher (just like me) win an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay? GOD DAMN RIGHT.

A Defense Of The Tracking Shot

(NOTE: If you have not seen "Atonement" and know nothing about it and want to see it without knowing anything about it do not read any of the following.)

When I first saw "Atonement" the night it opened in Chicago I had no idea it contained a tracking shot that seemed to last about twenty minutes longer than its actual five. Set at Dunkirk during WWII one of our main characters, Robbie (James McAvoy), and two of his fellow soldiers parade along the beach, witnessing horror after horror, as the camera moves with them and keeps going and going and going....

In my original (and admittedly - after now re-reading it - still-rosy-glow-on-my-cheeks) review I made mention of a tracking shot but did not give away where and when. Of course, every review I read after seeing the film (as you may know, I do not read reviews of the movies I most desperately want to see prior to seeing them) not only makes mention of the tracking shot but tells you where and when it happens. Is this why I find the tracking shot so mesmerizing? Is it because I knew not a thing of it beforehand and so I didn't have a "you-better-show-me-how-good-you-are" attitude going in? Is it because I had no pre-conceived notions and therefore was not instantly ready to harp on it once it happened, as we Americans are prone to do regarding anything that gets talked-up?

The greatest tracking shots have earned a special place in cinematic lore. You know the three, the opening in "Touch of Evil", the nightclub in "Goodfellas", and the opening/nightclub in "Boogie Nights". Those three are Washington, Lincoln, and Jefferson on the Mount Rushmore of Tracking Shots.

Orson Welles' shot in "Touch of Evil" is the godfather and the man did it without a steadicam - all crane. But in my mind it doesn't resonate as much as the other two because it is not as thematic. In "Goodfellas" Scorsese's camera follows Ray Liotta and Lorraine Bracco as he escorts her through the back entrance of the club and through the hallways and the kitchen and out onto the floor and so on and so forth. It's impressive camerawork, yes, but what the scene really shows us is the world of Ray Liotta's character unfurling extravagantly before Lorraine Bracco. How could she not get caught up in the gangster lifestyle after such an introduction. Likewise the virtuoso tracking shot to open Paul Thomas Anderson's "Boogie Nights" starts outside the club and then moves inside but rather than existing solely to make your jaw drop it lays out an entire family, albeit a slightly dysfunctional one, for us.

The other famed tracking shots, such as Altman's in "The Player" (in which they reference "Touch of Evil's" shot) or maybe even Tarantino's in "Kill Bill", are impressive technically but don't go above and beyond.

Joe Wright's tracking shot at Dunkirk in "Atonement" is quite a technical achievement, no question, but it also comments on the film's theme and I cannot for the life of me figure out how anyone cannot see the same thing.

The theme of "Atonement" is imagination vs. reality and the tracking shot shows the reality of WWII coming not just at Robbie (James McAvoy) but at the audience in one, single unstoppable torrent. This is the movie's ultimate argument for how reality drowns out the imagination (which one winds in the end I won't give away).

As I watched the tracking shot unfold I, honest to God, didn't even realize it was happening in a single take until it was very nearly done. But, again, I wasn't sitting there the whole movie waiting for it because I didn't know it was coming. I wasn't conditioned to be ready for it, much like Robbie was in no way ready for everything that comes at him in the tracking shot.

Do I have a little anger in me? A little bias? I most certainly do. "Atonement" seems to be sort of an ugly step-sister in this whole Oscar Best Picture horse race. A lot of critics have crapped on the tracking shot in "Atonement" as being a "LOOK AT ME!" statement and then turn around and lavish canyons of praise on the theatrical conclusion of "There Will Be Blood". To my eyes (which, truth be told, are adorned with coke-bottle glasses), the end of "There Will Be Blood" screams "LOOK AT ME!" a whole hell of a lot more than the tracking shot in "Atonement".

I'm certain I've opened myself up to a multitude of counter-arguments with my diatribe and that's fine. Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion. Mine is that "Atonement's" tracking shot is Theodore Roosevelt on Mount Rushmore.

Why Amy Ryan Should Win The Oscar

My friend and fellow film snob Rory the Movie Idiot used his faithful blog last week to promote "Into the Wild's" Hal Holbrook, the person he most wants to see take home an Oscar this Sunday. Naturally, I feel it is my duty to offer up a companion piece and campaign for the person I most hope to witness earn Academy hardware Sunday evening. You know who she is, of course. I ranted about her awhile back and then alluded to that rant and I could re-allude to it but, boy, that just seems silly.

Rather, I'll start fresh. So prepare yourself, dear readers, for a soiree of superlatives. A hodgepodge of hyperbole. An amusement park of aggrandizement. It is I, after all, and I know not another way. Other film critics can be cautious with their emotional vocabulary but I possess the opposite inclination. Cinema Romantico is a blog where caution is not merely tossed to the wind but tossed with utter glee. Cinema Romantico is a blog where a bit much is not enough. Cinema Romantico is a blog where it's everything and the kitchen sink. And Cinema Romantico is worried that Academy voters may have thought it wise to honor a woman simply for playing a man or rewarding a woman simply because she's old and it's her "time". I mean that not as a thuggish knock against the esteemed Ruby Dee but a rebel yell to voters to wake up and smell the coffee laced with arsenic. And I mean that not as a threat to potential Academy voters but a little joke to ensure they understand the seriousness of the votes they cast. These ballots are not foolhardy trinkets to be taken as lightly as a new Jessica Simpson album but treasured pieces of cinematic history. You can ensure a magnetic performance that invokes immortal Ingrid and conjures living legend Kate will take home a statue that was deserved not merely for some, shall we say, political purpose. And so I stand before the movie world today with the aim of laying down a point-by-point, in depth, leave-no-stone-unturned analysis of why the peformance of which I rant and rave doesn't just deserve an Oscar but screams out for it like Fay Wray in "King Kong". Allow me summon the movie gods' presence and ask them to make my thoughts clear and razor-sharp for if my argument suffers even a single blow this house of dime store cards could topple like a Colorado Buffalo Football Coach (present & past) when facing anything remotely resembling pressure. It is up to me and I must not fail. My words must hit hard, pack a certifiable wallop, underscore, highlight, convince, and transform while containing truth, poignancy, bombast, and color. Lots of color. They must form a picture within your head and the heads of all Academy voters requiring some sort of dissertation that can ease their minds into knowing the vote which they cast is sound like Albemarle. And so the time is nigh. I begin my voyage of persuasion. Let's get to it.

Wait....what was I talking about?

Awarding a Retroactive Honorary Oscar

Q: What do all of the following lines have in common?

- "You know what top secret means?"
- "You remind me of myself fifteen years ago."
- "We may lose this battle but we're gonna' win this war."
- "Leave your god-damn hula shirts at home."

A: They are all lines spoken by Alec Baldwin in "Pearl Harbor."

If you were to turn on your TV and then somehow managed to sift through the god-awful glut of reality television you might happen upon the NBC comedy "30 Rock". And on it you would find Alec Baldwin's performance as fictional NBC President Jack Donaghy to be the funniest thing found on any TV set at present. Make no mistake, the writing of Tina Fey (the show's creator and its other star) is excellent, but Baldwin can sell even the lines that on paper proably don't amount to much. For example, the scene from the recent Christmas episode wherein the parents of Tina Fey's character present Jack Donaghy with a canister of popcorn and he opens it to exclaim, "Cheese, carmel, butter, all my favorites. How did you know?" The way he phrased that made me laugh so hard my stomach hurt.

Yes, Alec Baldwin's long been a great actor that has flown under the radar (perhaps because he is a Baldwin) and so his turn as Jack Donaghy shouldn't be surprising but for anyone paying attention you would have seen the roots for his latest character planted all the way back in the horrendous shlock of 2001's "Pearl Harbor" (a movie so terrible it made me vow never to pay to see another Michael Bay film, a coda which I have kept).

In it Baldwin portrays Colonel James Doolittle, the man famous for leading the Doolittle Raid into Japan (also portrayed in "Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo" - which starred Spencer Tracy as Doolittle) and Randall Wallace's script has Doolittle spouting line after line that would cause even the curator for The Hall of Cliches to raise an eyebrow and give pause. If Dolittle's not simultaneously criticizing and commending Ben Affleck's character for playing-by-his-own-rules then he's speaking almost strictly in War Recruiting Poster Lines. So how did Baldwin make this drivel work?

If you'd given the role of Doolittle in "Pearl Harbor" to Pacino he would have simply screamed every line at the top of his lungs in a futile attempt to hide their wretchedness. If you'd given the role to DeNiro he would have done extensive research on not just Doolittle but on every commanding officer in all of WWII in a futile attempt to make each line sound authentic. If you'd given the role to Day Lewis he would have participated in some sort of voodoo ritual to quite literally become the real James Doolittle at which point he would have read the script and said, "Wait a second....I never said any of this crap."

Baldwin was aware of the bad lines he was being forced to utter but rather than trying to mask their badness he played straight to it. He delivers them almost as if they're zingers. Notice the twinkle in his eye nearly every time he speaks. He seems to be looking past the actors to whom he's speaking and instead looking into the hearts and minds of his audience as if to say, "Come on, that line was just plain not good. You know it. I know it. What would you have me do? Try and convince you what you're watching is real? No one would benefit from that. Let's have some fun, what do ya' say?" Compare his facial expressions here to his facial expressions as Jack Donaghy and you won't see a big difference. The funniest character on TV was actually conceived in the film that Michael Bay took (and these are his words, people) "very seriously."

But the worth of his performance takes on even more significance when you consider the fates of the other main players in the most terrible of movies. Ben Affleck had won an Oscar a few years earlier and seemed poised for stardom. But it was shortly after "Pearl Harbor" (and before the whole J. Lo debacle) that he started becoming the butt of so many jokes. Only now - post "Gone Baby Gone" and seven years later - does he seem ready to get out from under. Josh Hartnett was also set to break through but this movie derailed that hope and he never seems to have fully recovered. Kate Beckinsale had been saddled with the Just A Pretty Face logo before "Pearl Harbor" but the role did her no favors to shake that tag and might have made things worse. And then, of course, there's poor Cuba Gooding Jr. in an atrociously under-written supporting role. No, he didn't have much going on before "Pearl Harbor" but he followed it up with "Rat Race", "Boat Trip", and (gulp) "Snow Dogs". Ouch. In the aftermath of "Pearl Harbor", Cuba sank even lower.

All four of the previously mentioned actors, however, clearly came at their roles seriously. They were trying to make their lines emotionally resonate. This is why their lines cause you to cringe and Baldwin's lines leave you chuckling. It's why from the pit of despair that was "Pearl Harbor" only one man emerged, not only unscathed, but with dignity completely intact and managed to go on to bigger and better things.

If that isn't worthy of an Oscar then I don't know what it is.

The Diving Bell and The Butterfly

Locked In Syndrome. This is a rare medical condition in which a person is awake, completely aware, in full control of his or her mind, but unable to move or speak. I look at its defintion on wikipedia and it advises the syndrome has been described as "the closest thing to being buried alive". That probably provides all necessary information regarding the condition - a condition the real-life Jean Dominique Bouby (Mathieu Amalric), the one-time editor of the French magazine Elle, found himself in after a terrible stroke over ten years ago. His speech therapist (the, I must be completely honest, uber-luminous Marie Josee Croze), however, assists him in communicating via the only means available - his left eye. She can list the letters of the alphabet and he will blink when she lands on the required letter. Also, one blink will mean yes, two blinks will mean no. And so using this technique he sets about dictating a book called The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, upon which this filmed was based.

I have not read Bauby's memoir but I would imagine filmable was not a word that leapt to the mind of any who have read it. Creating a movie wherein your main character can do nothing more than blink and so spends his time either in bed or a wheelchair demands a certain type of director, someone rather artistic.

Enter director Julian Schnabel, a man who, in fact, is an artist. He includes a bounty of POV shots, specifically from Bouby's left eye. The first half-hour or so of the movie is strictly from this POV angle, which may grow grating to some viewers. Schnabel is up to something here, though, and shows it when Bouby finally declares to his speech therapist courtesy of the blinks that he has decided to cease pitying himself. As this scene unfolds we realize Schnabel has pulled back to a far more traditional two shot of the characters, no longer in POV. Only once Bouby has done away with the pity is both he and the audience allowed to get outside of being locked in.

At this point Bouby partakes in fantasies within in his own head and Schnabel enacts these fantasies out for us onscreen. There also several flashbacks to Bouby's past, and particularly of note is a key sequence with Bouby's father (Max Von Sydow) whom my friend and fellow film snob Rory the Movie Idiot discussed at length.

We are introduced to the mother of Bouby's children (Emmanuelle Seigner) whom Bouby never chose to marry. Instead he was seeing another woman prior to his stroke, a woman who chooses not to visit Bouby in the hospital. Looking at Bouby's relationships to these women and to the various women he meets in the hospital we get the sense they are somewhat disposable and all the same to him.

And that brings us to the movie's issue - it is hampered by a lack of a true, fully realized narrative. Bouby changes to a degree but the film doesn't build quite as much as it should while progressing and the end - for me, at least - did not pack as much emotional power as one would expect. Certain individual scenes, on the other hand, cut deeply. Personally, the scene in which we first see Bouby beginning to dictate his memoir had my eyes watering up.

Quite clearly, locked-in syndrome is beyond my comprehension. (I kept thinking that if I ever end up locked-in the first damn thing I'd blink to my speech therapist is: I want music.) We can't truly imagine what that condition would be like but we're told that if we had it we can imagine. Even something as horrifying as locked-in syndrome can't beat back the imagination. And that's a powerful message.

One Serendipity Post Begets Another

I've been defending Kate Beckinsale's somewhat-unrespected talent for years and was happy to stumble across Esquire Magazine's Great Kate Beckinsale quiz - dubbed as "the most challenging Kate Beckinsale quiz you will ever take". I almost nailed it (I got 8 out of 9, though one of them was a guess that I was really happy to find out was right) and encourage you to take it, too. Maybe you'll look at her in new light. Or maybe not.

A Serendipitous Explanation?

My friend and fellow film snob Rory the Movie Idiot recently forwarded me a link to always humorous AV Club wherein they broke down 14 crappy romantic comedies. Lo and behold, what movie should have popped up at #2 but "Serendipity", the one I love so deeply and watch each and every Christmas and that everyone else in America hates. (Except, of course, for the not-so-esteemed Gene Shalit who wrote, "I’ve been reviewing movies for 35 years and 'Serendipity' joins my personal list of matchless romantic comedies!" You tell 'em, Gene!)

I've attempted before to explain my love of this film I should have no business loving, but it seemed inadequate - and judging from the responses I received you felt it was inadequate, too. But one line in The AV Club's rant caught my eye and offered a moment of clarity.

"But rather than exchanging names and phone numbers, Beckinsale — whose crippling search for 'signs,' Cusack inexplicably sees as charm rather than insanity — decides they should write their respective contact info on a $5 bill and an old book, and leave their next meeting up to fate...."

Recently I was talking with my friend (and the best cinematographer in Illinois, Wisconsin & Manitoba) Matt about my theoretical match.com profile and what I would say I was looking for in a women. I determined it should simply read: Must be a petite emotional basket-case.

And I realized my theoretical match.com profile in conjunction with The AV Club's wonderful line puts my whole "Serendipity" infatuation into perspective. Much like Chuck Klosterman tends to "equate sadness with intelligence" (and I do that, too) I tend to equate insanity with charm. I tend to equate OCD with passion. (I also tend to equate bitterness with beauty, smoking with sexiness and shyness with allure.)

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Kate Beckinsale in "Serendipity" would not frighten me. If I met a woman who looked like her and spoke with a British accent and rambled on about fate and destiny and then determined we both needed to get on separate elevators and pick a floor and if we picked the same floor than we were meant to be together, well, I'd fall madly in love with her at the speed of sound.

Maybe Kate Beckinsale of "Serendipity" is insane. Fine. But I'm not going to deny my feelings for her. She'd be the most beautiful woman in all the mental hospital.

4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days

Prior to delving into this stark Romanian film that has received four stars from just about every film critic on every continent (I would give it three and a half) I want to advise that anyone unfamiliar with details regarding the plot and that possesses any desire to see it without having any of these plot details beforehand should stop short of reading this review. I'm not going to give away the ending, or anything that substantial, but perhaps this movie's most remarkable quality is that it does not set the table for you all nice and proper at the start. It doesn't spell out for you exactly what is taking place in the first five minutes and instead you have to watch and absorb and slowly, but surely, you will come to get a grasp on the proceedings. It's pretty phenomenal to witness these opening passages and so I'm just offering a fair warning if you wish to watch "4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days" stone cold.

Otilia (Anamaria Marinca, spectacularly haunting) and Gabita (Laura Vasiliu) are roommates at a university. As the movie starts, Otilia roams the halls of their dorm. She buys some cigarettes. Then she goes to a hotel where Gabita was to have made a reservation but didn't. Why didn't she? Hmmm....Otilia instead finds another hotel and makes a reservation. She meets a mysterious man named Bebe (Vlad Ivanov) who seems none too happy it is Otilia who has come to meet him and not Gabita. Otilia and Bebe meet Gabita in the reserved hotel room. Finally, we are clued into the fact Bebe has come to perform an abortion on Gabita. And we will come to discover to what lengths Otilia will go to help her friend.

Gabita does not seem all there. Clueless is a word that leaps to mind. She seems unsure of exactly how far along she is in the pregnancy. She was supposed to have met Bebe but sent Otilia instead. She did not make the reservation at the hotel Bebe requested and now Bebe's ID is with the hotel desk clerk. Gabita says she was worried that if she told Bebe the truth he would not help her. Now she's telling him the truth, he's upset about it, but he'll still go through with the procedure - once he's done his best to make it clear to both women just how much potential danger they face.

Quite often this movie feels like an extremely immediate documentary. There is no music. The camera is often very still and if it does move it is not with a smooth glide or pan. There are hardly any cutaways. The camera sets up a shot - usually with two people very close together in the frame - and stays there, whether it's the two people in the frame talking or those two conversing with someone outside the frame. The conversations occur in real time. They begin with the beginning and end with the ending and if you think that sounds simple, well, it is, but it's also a rare sight seen anymore in movies.

Last week on his blog Jim Emerson posted a link to and discussed an article called "Are Movies Going to Pieces?" written back in the 60's by the late, legendary film critic Pauline Kael. Amongst other issues, she discussed how at that point time films were starting to move away from more traditional narratives and becoming more like exercises in filmmaking. She lamented jump cuts, skipping around and away from the story, actions and motivations appearing out of thin air. Well, I think Kael might just have loved "4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days" if only because there is no jumping around - not ahead, not back. No quick cuts, as stated. A scene is shown to us and we stay with that scene until the characters themselves have finished with it. There is a lengthy scene where Otilia finds herself at a birthday party for her boyfriend's mother. She sits at the head of the table, stuck between her boyfriend, his father and mother, surrounded on all sides by these blathering party-goers she does not know. And the camera never - not once - leaves her face for the duration of this as she struggles to maintain her sanity.

As a proud introvert I found this scene so uncomfortable I nearly threw up.

This intimacy adds to the intensity. We are right there with these people in their dingy rooms and we - like them - have no escape. Their situations are harrowing and you will feel it.

So what is director Cristian Mungiu trying to "say" about abortion? Or about the old Romanian society? What was their "point"? Let's come at it from a different angle, what do ya' say? Let's look at the characters as presented to us. Good, evil, moral, immoral, right, wrong, whatever - Otilia, I think, has looked at Gabita and decided this is not a woman who would make a good mother.

Sunday was a cold day in Chicago. Temperatures were below zero and the wind chill was a handful of degrees below that. I left the theater, the arctic wind smacked me across the face and yet I don't recall being all that bothered by it. It felt just a tiny bit colder back inside the theater.

Gone Baby Gone: DVD Release

Your netflix queue anticipates your arrival. Your local Blockbuster calls out your name. The mom and pop video store 'round the corner would love a little business. Ben Affleck's directorial debut has arrived on DVD today and so if you missed it at the theater your chance to see its brilliance is now. Check out my original review if you need further clarification on this issue.

Go forth and rent. The best performance of 2007 awaits you.

In Memoriam

It starts as a close shot of Roy Scheider's boots as he ambles down a country road in rural Maine, the camera tracking with him, and then it moves up and shows us his face. He hums to himself, carrying a rifle and a turkey wrapped in paper with a receipt attached to it. He realizes, though, he had told his family back at the house that he was going out to hunt for the Thanksgiving turkey, simply so he could get some precious time to himself. He removes the receipt. It switches to a long shot. A stark, barren mountain in the background. A tractor on the edge of the frame. He sets down the turkey. He jogs across to the other side of the road and shoots his rifle once, thus if the family checks the gun in relation to the turkey they will see he is down one shot. He jogs back to the turkey, scoops it up and continues on his way. Over the whole scene there has been a light, warm, beautiful acoustic guitar. This is a scene from one of my all-time Top 5 Favorite Movies, "The Myth of Fingerprints", and I adore it. I mean, I adore it. Everything about it. It's funny and poignant simultaneously and sums up this character in a way no long-winded speech could. It makes me smile to think about and when I watch it the smile is even bigger. He has many wonderful moments throughout the film but this is the one I cherish the most. In fact, last August I listed it as one of 30 Reasons Why I Love Movies.

It's the scene I think of in the wake of Mr. Scheider's passing yesterday at the age of 75. I know that every tribute to him will include mention of his roles in "The French Connection" and "All That Jazz" and, of course, as Police Chief Brody in "Jaws" (my favorite scene of that entire movie was always Brody's wife and Richard Dreyfuss talking at the dinner table while Scheider sits in the foreground, opens the bottle of wine, pours a glass, and has a long drink). A lot of people probably don't even "The Myth of Fingerprints" exists and that's why I feel it's important to mention it.

I don't think you make a movie like "The Myth of Fingerprints" to pull down a cheap buck. It's an ensemble cast, a first time director, not a big Hollywood studio, and you're filming in the middle of nowhere. You make a movie like that, I think, because something about the material appeals to you, or relates to you. It speaks to you in some way. And you make a movie like that in the hopes that people watching might have to speak to them in the same way. If you can touch one person the way the material touched you then it's all worth it. Isn't that the cliche?

Obviously, I never met Roy Scheider. But if I had this is what I would have wanted to say: "Mr. Scheider, that scene in 'The Myth of Fingerprints' where you're walking by yourself with the turkey, well, I can't explain it in words but that scene means the world to me. The whole wide world. Thank you."

Black Book

Paul Verhoeven - the man behind "Starship Troopers" and "Basic Instinct", amongst others - has never been known for shying away from excess and pulse-pounding pace. It's his vocation. The man isn't going to sit and ruminate, okay? He's gonna' come at you, guns blazing, bells ringing, wind blowing, thunder clapping, lightning striking, every man, woman, and child for themselves. And "Black Book", his first feature in his native language in some time and currently out on DVD, set during and then immediately after the German surrender of WWII, doesn't just follow the Verhoeven blueprint but decides to kick it up a few notches.

Rachel Stein (Carice Van Houten) is a Jewish woman hiding from the vile Nazis in a Dutch farmhouse. One day she's out on a dock, listening to some music, when a friendly young man sails up to her and asks her onto his boat. She accepts but before she can leave the dock behind a German plane roars in overhead, dropping its bombs, one of which lands several feet away in the lake, and another which lands directly on top of the farmhouse where Rachel was hiding. So now Rachel stows herself with the friendly young man when a local police officer shows up in the shadows to advise the Nazis know where she is and are coming for her. The police officer sets her up with some people who can smuggle her to safety in Belgium. Prior to this perilous voyage Rachel is re-united with her father, mother, and brother. All is well! Or is it? On the voyage a Nazi patrol boat shows up and guns down everyone - including Rachel's father, mother, and brother. Only Rachel, of course, escapes.

And that's just the first 15 minutes!!!

I mean, this movie moves. It's like a freight train. An out-of-control freight train! An out-of control freight train engulfed in flames! Are you one of those people who constantly has to ask questions while watching a movie? You know, "Who is that?" "Why are they doing this?" "Where did they get that?" If you are, zip your lip and prepare to digest because you won't have time to get out even half of your question before Verhoeven's made it so you've got another three queries to pose.

Once Rachel has escaped the clutches of the Nazis, well, she ends up falling in with the Nazis. Yes, Verhoeven turns Rachel into Ingrid Bergman of "Notorious" for she winds up garnering the trust of a Nazi officer by, ahem, sleeping with him to elicit secret info for the resistance. But if you think Verhoeven is content to simply polish and spruce up Hitchcock's 1940's masterpiece, think again. That whole plot angle keeps his attention for about another 20, 25 minutes and then he revs up the engine and takes a different fork in the road, and then another, and another, and....dear God! This is the type of movie where once the war has ended a character says, "The war's just beginning."

The movie runs about two-and-a-quarter hours and you may want to consider pausing it every now and then to catch your breath. Walk the dog. Fix a cocktail. Splash some cold water in your face. But don't think for a second that I'm trying to discourage you from seeing this movie. "Black Book" is a movie I would term entirely watchable. It's pure, rousing, kinetic entertainment. It moves at breakneck speed but nothing feels tacked-on, fluffed up, or bloated. Plot twists are plentiful but never confusing. And take immense note of the way Verhoeven almost entirely avoids using montages. Do you know how rare that is for a modern-day action picture?

The story goes that when George Lucas finished writing the first "Star Wars" that the script, in fact, was all three movies (meaning "Star Wars", "The Empire Strikes Back", "Return of the Jedi") together. But realizing the colossal task of filming a movie so big he merely took the first act and filmed that. He then, of course, filmed the second act, and the third act later. I get the feeling "Black Book" was the same situation. The script was really three movies in one. But rather than deeming it too colossal, Verhoeven merely bellowed, "The hell with it. We're making the whole damn thing."

My Great Movies: Dick

In the year 1999 I crusaded to convince anyone I knew to see "Dick", a film that on the surface seemed nothing beyond a teeny-bopper spoof of the Watergate scandal. I ranted and raved about its immense brilliance. I argued incessantly that Kirsten Dunst's rich, wise-beyond-her-years performance deserved that year's Best Actress Oscar (a contention I will forever keep). Most of the people who heeded my advice either disliked it or found it only mildly diverting. "Kirsten Dunst was okay," said one of my friends. "Anyone with an encyclopedia could've made that movie," said another. (I did find some solace in the the wake of Deep Throat's identity being revealed a few years ago when slate.com agreed that "Dick" was the Watergate movie that got it right.)And then the vein in my forehead would bulge. "Idiots," I'd mutter under my breath. But in this Presidential year I feel it's high-time we get to the bottom of what director Andrew Fleming's Watergate movie really is.

Two ditzy teenage girls, Betsy (Dunst) and Arlene (Michelle Williams), are about to miss the midnight deadline for the "Win A Date With Bobby Sherman" contest and Arlene desperately wants to earn the top prize. To ensure they can get out of Arlene's Watergate apartment (wink) and to a mailbox and back into the apartment without trouble they put tape over the lock to the door (wink, wink). A break-in is reported and you know where that goes from there.

Besty and Arlene, meanwhile, head off the next day to the White House on a school field trip where our heroines happen upon the same man they happened upon at Arlene's apartment once returning from mailing her letter to Bobby Sherman. That man? G. Gordon Liddy (Harry Shearer). This second encounter also affords them the opportunity to stumble upon the infamous CREEP list, which they initially mistake to be "tee-pee" stuck to Liddy's shoe. ("This isn't tee-pee. This is just a list of names with amounts of money next to them".)

In order to keep the girls quiet President Nixon (Dan Hedaya) makes them the Official White House Dog Walkers. It doesn't take long for the girls to, of course, blunder into a room where documents are being shredded. ("Paper mache is a hobby of mine," explains Nixon.) But the girls earn a reprive since they constantly deliver cookies unwittingly laced with Betsy's brother's marijuana that the President and his staff must have on a daily basis. (Never thought you'd see a stoned Lenard Brezhnev belting out "Hello, Dolly"? Think again.)

But things go wrong when Betsy and Arlene discover a tape recorder in the Oval Office and Arlene - who has developed a typical schoolgirl crush on the commander & chief - records her confession of love to the President. Betsy returns from walking the dog on her own to find Arlene still rambling on the tape ("You've been talking for eighteen and a half minutes") and they wind up playing back some of the tape to realize their beloved President (gasp!) has a foul mouth and treats his dog rather rudely.

Upon learning this the girls cut the chord on their friendship with Nixon and make a prank call to the Washington Post to talk to the "muck-raking bastards" Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein (Will Ferrell - yes, Will Ferrell - and Bruce McCullough) to whom they claim they can provide inside info about Watergate. To hide their identities Betsy and Arlene offer the codename Deep Throat, in honor of the porn film Betsy's brother has just been grounded for seeing.

And so on and so forth. The movie gets far loonier as it progresses. It's undeniably a great lampoon of "All the President's Men". Woodward and Bernstein are not portrayed as fearless, intelligent heroes but as selfish dimwits who seem more concerned with their image than with anything else. (In a meeting with their editor, Bernstein makes some inane comment and Woodward admonishes him, "Don't do this to me.") So then what precisely does this film offer up beyond the surface? Well, I'll tell you.

"Dick" says more about current American politics than any movie ever made.

Not about politicians, mind you, or about politics themselves but about how we as Americans - for the most part - approach this political rigmarole. There are issues aplenty in the upcoming election but deep down the majority of voters simply want a President that seems likable. They want someone who seems relatable. They want someone with whom it seems they could have a beer. Really, people, why the hell do you think George W. was a two-termer? If I had a quarter for every time someone told me in 2004 they felt as if they could have a beer with George W. but not with John Kerry I'd be able to do my laundry for the next couple years. (The same goes for 2000 with George W. and Al Gore.) Whether or not the President is in actuality likeable or relatable or the sort of person with whom you want to have a cold adult beverage isn't really the point. As long as the President seems to possess those traits, we're fine - for awhile, anyway.

In the volatile world of politics most us aren't any more well-informed than two teenage girls who have less going on upstairs than - in the words of the film's Bob Haldeman - "yams". I know that's not true of everyone, of course. There are people out there who must be completely up to speed with Obama's views on the economy and Hillary's theories regarding our dependence on foreign oil and McCain's thoughts on immigration reform and Romney's opinions toward universal health care and so on and so forth. But most people when it gets down to it want someone who seems genuine. I remember a couple of people I'd just met upon my moving to Phoenix (which was right after the 2000 election) who said they trusted Bush more than Gore simply because he seemed most likely to follow his gut instinct as opposed to looking which way the wind was currently blowing. And why are people at present so hideously upset with George W.? They feel he lied to them.

Betsy and Arlene don't get ticked off at Nixon because of break-ins or illegal wiretaps or slush funds or even because he ordered troops into Cambodia. They get ticked off at him because he's prejudiced, has a "potty mouth" and kicks his dog. He lies to them. Initially it seems to them that Nixon is a nice person and they come to find out he is not. It all comes back to the most basic, the most primal of traits. The movie argues that this is what initiates the downfall of Nixon.

And it's what essentially initiated the downfall of our current President. He seemed genuine but in the end people decided that he was not. John Kerry, on the other hand, couldn't overtake him because he never seemed genuine to most people from the get-go. Then, of course, you've got Hillary, whose campaign here in '08 finally took an upswing when she shed a few tears. Ah, but then she up and shed a few more yesterday. Did she take it one step too far?

When it comes to politicians America really is nothing more than a vast land of ditzy schoolgirls. We might crush on one candidate for awhile but if that candidate does just one thing to make us feel jilted, well, in the words of Arlene, "we're not friends with him anymore!"

Cloverfield

At film's opening a couple title cards advise that what we are about to witness is footage recovered from Central Park....excuse me, my apologies, that should be the area formerly known as Central Park. For the footage, you see, shows us a group of friends throwing a surprise party for Rob and then luckless Hap being put in charge of filming everyone's goodbyes to Rob and then a possible "earthquake" rocking New York City and everyone naturally freaking out except it turns out not to be an earthquake but instead Godzilla....excuse me, my apologies again, as we don't know for sure that it's Godzilla we'll call it "Godzilla" (the quotation marks being used to indicate that it's a Godzilla-like creature which is never explained, thank God). The film follows us a group of several characters who, rather than evacuating, head into the heart of midtown Manhattan to save the woman Rob loves.

Now because the movie's gimmick is that we're watching recovered footage of the event this means the entire movie is filmed from the vantage point of this one character running around with a video camera. And this, of course, means herky jerky, motion-sickness-inducing camerawork is bountiful.

How is it that the woman Rob loves just happens to be in midtown which just happens to be where "Godzilla" seems insistent on causing the most damage? If "Godzilla" were to suddenly land in whatever town you, my faithful, devout reader, reside in tomorrow and there was one person you loved in a different part of the town you needed to rescue, well, of course that person would be in the one part of town where "Godzilla" was insistent on causing the most damage. It's called The Way The World Works. Deal with it.

Why wouldn't Hap simply put the camera down? One question I heard tossed about rather often post-September 11 was how so many people with cameras just happened to be in New York City on such a significant day. Uh, they didn't just happen to be in New York City. No, that's what people in this day and age do in an extreme, historical situation. They grab their cameras and film. I fully believe if "Godzilla" showed up and started wreaking havoc in Chicago that I'd see tons of people out on Michigan Avenue documenting the whole mess.

Would he film for so long and even in situations where he needed to assist friends in times of crisis? Probably not. But then you have to be willing to suspend disbelief, don't you? Or do you?

Okay, while I found some of "Cloverfield" fairly engrossing, this is the problem I had with it. The whole concept actually made some parts of the film less effective just because you couldn't see what was happening. I understand that's part of the experience - the characters don't know what's happening and so we don't know what's happening - but a lot of the drama, I think, gets lost in the shuffle. Why can't a filmmaker meet in the middle ground between a full-on movie and something like this that wants to feel like a full-on documentary? I thought there were parts of Speilberg's "War of the Worlds" that found that middle ground and when they did, oh boy, was it fantastic. But since it was Spielberg and Spielberg, as we know, anymore seems intent on ruining his own movies to the fullest extent of capabilities it all ended up falling apart. And there were glimpses of those moments in "Cloverfield" but not enough and none for truly extended periods of time.

So I'm calling on some director out there to take this whole "Cloverfield" concept and not film the whole damn thing on a video camera but still do it with a pseudo-documentary feel and not get all happy crapsy, let's-tie-everything-up-with-a-lovely-bow at the end and see what happens. Michael Mann, maybe? Could you please stand up?

And finally, does the herky jerky camerawork make this an emotionally and physically unsettling experience? Well, I'll admit that I had a little headache and felt sorta' nauseous but when our characters were standing in one tall building and set to jump over to another tall building that was in a state of collapse to climb down air conditioner shafts to find a woman who may or may not have been alive and all with the agonizing moans and groans of "Godzilla" in the distance I couldn't help but think if I was in the same situation that, well, I'd probably have a headache and feel nauseous.

Smiley Face

At Sundance last year the latest film from Gregg Araki generated some positive buzz and so I made a mental note of it and then never heard about it again until the other week when I was perusing the new releases on Netflix and came across it. I put in the queue but then last Friday while searching for a few DVDs at Blockbuster on a cold, snowy night I happened upon it again and picked it up. And I enjoyed it a whole lot.

Now, you may be wondering why I, a person who has zero interest in drugs and who is perhaps the only male in his age bracket who did not find "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle" all that amusing, would recommend an unabashed stoner comedy but be patient and I'll get to it.

You see, that's what "Smiley Face" is - an unabashed stoner comedy. It's "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle" except with one female named Jane trying to get to Venice Beach instead of White Castle. Jane (Anna Faris) is a struggling actress with little ambition, a constant need for the ganja and a roomate she hates. She wakes up one morning, smokes a little pot, gets the munchies, eats her roommate's cupcakes (they are strictly off-limits) which, of course, turn out to also have pot in them, and this leaves her uber-stoned. Tragically, there's a lot she needs to get done that day. She has an audition, plus she has to pay the electric bill in person or else.... But having eaten the off-limit cupcakes she now has to purchase more pot to make some new cupcakes and this leaves her deep in debt to her dealer who advises her to meet him at the hemp festival in Venice Beach at 3:00 or else....

So yeah, it's hi-jinks galore. (The Communist Manifesto also works its way in, but never mind.) I'm not a guy who gets into a movie solely because of hi-jinks, however, and, truth be told, the hi-jinks here aren't even really as semi-entertaining as the hi-jinks in "Harold and Kumar". Neil Patrick Harris doesn't turn up, for instance.

All right, so I don't like stoner movies and I didn't find the hi-jinks in this particular stoner movie all that entertaining. So why am I recommending the movie? Two words - Anna. Faris. This is a virtuoso performance, a total tour-de-force. Really. I mean it. I'm being serious.

You probably know Faris from "Scary Movie" and its who-knows-how-many sequels, though I most fondly remember her as the braindead actress from "Lost in Translation". But her work in "Smiley Face" is extraordinary. "Harold and Kumar" always felt like pawns in some screenwriter's savage game. Jane could have felt the same but Faris makes the whole outlandish enterprise seem authentic.

She appears in every single scene of the movie and in every single scene of the movie she is stoned. The old adage in film acting is that Less Is More but when you're portraying someone who is, as I said, uber-stoned the old adage goes out the proverbial window. More Becomes More. She is required to indulge in dozens upon dozens of whacked-out facial expressions and you never really catch her repeating the same expression twice. None of it feels staged or, shall we say, actressy (?) because she sells everything with such fervor. She flushes her precious government marijuana down the toilet thinking the cops are coming - when, in fact, no cops are coming - and is so proud of herself you can't help but genuinely feel happy for her. Occasionally the film requires her to reign the expressions in (such as when she is unwittingly reading a magazine upside down) and she does it, no problem. Her line readings are hilarious and most especially when the line itself isn't that hilarious.

-"You're talking in riddles!"
-"No problem, my good man."
-"Yes, that's exactly what happened."

She carries the movie. Without her, it sinks into an abyss. It's that simple. Of course, the question then becomes do most people really want to watch a stoner movie based solely on acting ability? I don't know. Probably not. But so be it. I'm not most people. So I recommend it. A lot.

At present everyone and their pet goat is blathering on about how Daniel Day Lewis's performance in "There Will Be Blood" is epic and how he's hell-bent and how it goes-for-broke. Look, I love Daniel Day Lewis. We all know this. For God's sake, I have a poster of "Last of the Mohicans" with his likeness hanging on the kitchen wall. But what's true is true. If you really want an epic, hell-bent, go-for-broke performance ignore the multiplex showing "There Will Be Blood" and go down to Blockbuster and rent "Smiley Face". It will be cheaper, anyway. Every other film critic in America can take Daniel Day Lewis striking oil. I'll take Anna Faris flushing her government weed down the toilet.