Song of the Day: Que Sera, Sera

*For Mom, who sang it with me in our booth at Big River Restaurant yesterday*

The Academy Award winner for Best Song in 1956, "Que Sera Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be)," music and lyrics by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans, is probably the most memorable thing about Hitchcock's film, "The Man Who Knew Too Much," a remake of his 1934 British film. Watch with me now Doris Day's iconic and eternal performance of the song at the climax of the film. As film scholar Robin Wood once said of the tune: "Middle-aged academics are not supposed to admit that they burst into tears every time Doris Day begins '[Que] Sera, Sera," but in my case it is a fact. What makes the moment so moving is its magical resolution of apparent oppositions. ... I see it as resolving the more practical and prosaic opposition of motherhood vs. career: it represents Jo's triumph simultaneously as mother and performer (and we can admire the power of her voice even if the embassy audience is a trifle taken aback)." Oh, how moving it is.

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Random Musing: How To Be a "Good" Film Critic

It is common knowledge that the film industry would not be the lucrative market it is without the assistance of film critics. Critics’ “blurbs” can make or break new films in the advertising stage (even more so for independent and limited release films). However, film critics also depend on films as the source of their criticism. Therefore, the marriage between the film industry and its critics is a tenuous one, each depending on the other, no matter how pleasant or unpleasant the results. In addition, a similar marriage is true for a film critic and his or her readers—film critics need readers, and readers need film critics for advice on which films to see. When a critic writes his or her reviews, he or she has to keep certain things in mind in the process in order to accommodate to his or her readers and to ultimately be deemed “good” at what he or she does. He or she must be a critic who is able to transform a single film evaluation into a powerful weapon capable of molding the opinion of any reader through a variety of ways which I will outline...

Consider the audience.
It will do no good for readers if a reviewer full of film jargon is unloading his arsenal on a group of people uneducated in film studies who just want to know which new release will be best for a Friday night date. Therefore, a critic for “Cineaste” magazine is not going to be the right one for the people of Bloomington, Indiana, who read the local “Herald-Times.” A reviewer should recognize who his or her audience is going to be and tailor his or her reviews to said audience. This does not mean, however, that a reviewer must essentially “dumb down” his or her knowledge of film for his or her less academic audience, but it does mean he should be careful to make his thoughts on film approachable for any “Joe Plumber.”

Stars are a film critic’s best friend.
The star system might well be the fastest and most efficient way a film critic can inform his or her audience as to what he or she recommends for screening. (A reviewer must be careful, though, to make sure his or her star ratings match the opinion in his or her review!) Many reviewers use a four-star system to judge films. For example, in my reviews, ★ means that the film is horrendously atrocious, ★★ signifies an “average” film, ★★★ stands for a well-done film, and ★★★★ represents an absolute masterpiece. Be aware, though, that the star system’s meaning differs for film critics. For example, I judge films based on how well they achieve what they set out to do as films (usually on merit alone—as in, I judge how well film systems have been constructed). “Moonstruck” would get four stars, “Dirty Dancing” might be three stars, and “Yentl” is two stars. However, for other critics—Roger Ebert, for example—some use the “genre system” and compare films by genre:

When you ask a friend if “Hellboy” is any good, you’re not asking if it’s any good compared to “Mystic River,” you’re asking if it's any good compared to “The Punisher.” And my answer would be, on a scale of one to four, if “Superman” is four, then “Hellboy” is three and “The Punisher” is two. In the same way, if “American Beauty” gets four stars, then “(The United States of) Leland” clocks in at about two (Ebert).

When passing judgment on a film, in general, though, it might be helpful to some readers if a critic’s criteria are more or less spelled out somehow. One way is to compare the film at hand to other similar (and well-known) films. Another way is for the critic to inform the reader as to what his or her personal tastes are—if he or she hates war movies, then he or she should explain why he or she had difficulty connecting to “Platoon” or “The Thin Red Line” and not just slash it to pieces without explaining why.

Knowing something about films is always good.
Even if excessive film jargon should be removed from a film review, this does not mean that a reviewer should ignore his or her own knowledge of film. Often, being a cinéphile (like many reviewers, such as Roger Ebert, Pauline Kael, Andrew Sarris, and all of the Cahiers critics) has its advantages. For example, in a review about “L.A. Confidential,” a critic could compare it to the film noir of classic Hollywood, including such films as “The Maltese Falcon,” “The Big Sleep,” and “Double Indemnity.” Using such films as a “foil,” it can prove why the film at hand is good or bad at what it does. Moreover, comparisons can simply be more helpful for readers so they can get a better idea about what the film at hand will be like.

There is no “I” in review. Ok, maybe there is, but ignore it for argument’s sake!
One of the worst reviews that can possibly be written involves an introduction concerning a reviewer’s entrance into a movie theater. In what will be dubbed the “Sour Patch Kids review,” the reviewer takes us on a journey of his or her time of arrival at the theater and/or his or her candy selection at the counter. These reviews tend heavily on the side of the reviewer’s experience in the theater instead of his or her experience with a particular film. As film critic Rex Roberts (“Film Journal International”) once told me, “No one cares about you. They want to know about the film.” Therefore, a “good” review should focus exclusively on the film’s merits (or shortcomings) and nearly efface the “I.” At the same time, readers also do not want to hear about a reviewer’s “life story” in comparison to the film unless it serves a crucial point. Contentious statements are accepted, but personal histories are not. After all, readers want to know why they should see a film, not why a reviewer could not believe that “The Master of Disguise” was actually a terrible film, despite what Betty and Veronica said (unless he or she explains why!). As you can see, there is a fine line between the valid use of “I” and the gratuitous use of “I”, so a reviewer should simply be careful which kind he or she employs. When in doubt, the “I” is best when it makes a contentious claim.

Raise your voice. Make contentious claims; be opinionated.
Active verbs and first-person statements can be the key to making a reviewer heard. Remember that a film critic’s first job is to criticize. Even if it is difficult to connect to a film, it is still necessary to mention that difficulty, even if a reviewer feels that he or she should have felt a connection with a widely regarded film, such as “Casablanca.” A reader will have a much more difficult time following a passive review of a “great film” than a review that contains solid, well-argued thoughts about a film, no matter how scandalous they might be (i.e. ““Casablanca” is the worst film of all-time because…”).

Do not be afraid to use a template.
In the reviews I have read by critic Bosley Crowther, they all go something like this, no matter the film: introduction, identification of theme, narration of plot, recognition of every single actor onscreen, acknowledgement of director and perhaps cinematography, etc., and conclusion. Even if this template can get repetitive after forty or so years of reviewing, sometimes it can be a great way to set up a review when a reviewer is struggling with its genesis. When a reviewer becomes more and more comfortable with his or her writing, though, he or she will realize that his or her thoughts will be able to flow together more economically and less rigidly. Until then, though, a template is still an acceptable resource on which to fall back.

Be funny.
This is one of the key points I remember Rex Roberts explicitly telling me. Wit is absolutely necessary in a film review, as in most writing. Different styles of wit match different authors’ voices—for example, Roger Ebert is a bit laconic, but Pauline Kael is sardonic. What is important is the fact that a sense of humor can inject flavor into a review, just like in conversation. Sometimes, even witty remarks can make points about a film.

Avoid the cliché.
You can call a film “Best Picture of the Year!” once, but make sure not to call twenty films in the same year by that signification. Also, avoid insignificant “fluff” that means nothing to readers—after all, calling Stallone’s performance in “Cobra” “dynamite” (You know who you are…) is not going to say anything about how his performance is constructed. Essentially, too much cliché can rob a critic of his or her credibility. Without something thought-provoking to say, readers might hit the road.

“Laundry lists” are unnecessary.
It is not necessary to identify absolutely everything about a film in a review. Bosley Crowther does this excruciatingly in some of his reviews, for example the ones of “Mrs. Miniver” and “The Graduate,” but this approach is unnecessary. A “complete” film review only has to identify the most important main points of a film. Endlessly identifying everything about a film could call into question a reviewer’s credibility and ability to connect with readers.

Some jargon is okay.
Although an “average” reader might lose the concepts of montage, racking focuses, or tilting in translation, it does not mean that a reviewer has to eliminate film jargon completely. “Average” readers still likely have some idea what cuts, shots, and cinematography are, so these terms can still be applied to help readers get a sense of the film. In addition, jargon might even be essential to identifying a film’s strengths.

You can narrate the plot, but never give away a big secret!
When reviewing a film, at some point it is, of course, necessary to give readers an idea of the plot. Sometimes a critic “narrates” the plot, as in he or she retells the whole film sequence by sequence, but generally some kind of analysis that accompanies it saves it from complete monotony. (However, sometimes the critic’s whole review might be a plot summation, which is not “good.”) In any case, the best plot summary is a short, concise one that gives readers a good idea of what to expect, but a longer “narration” is still acceptable (I think Ebert would say so!). When a reviewer comes close to describing the climax, though, it is in good taste to leave the reader with questions about what comes next. Film critics are, after all, notorious for being the guardians of a film’s secrets. For example, in early 1993 at a pre-Academy Awards discussion between film critics Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert, Ebert accosted Siskel for giving away one of the biggest secrets of the year—the one in Neil Jordan’s “The Crying Game.” Even if some film critics might tell a film’s plot to the length of a short novel, film critics are wise to continue hiding the ending—after all, readers still need some secret to which to hold on until they can see the film!

With all of these points in mind, any film critic can become a “good” film critic ready to put his or her opinions into the public eye to shape its “viewing pleasures.” Not only are film critics essential to the film industry as the “gatekeepers” to a film’s critical and financial success, but perhaps more importantly, they are essential resources in connecting the value of films to audiences by way of their reviews. Jonathan Rosenbaum once called film criticism a “social act,” and as I have outlined above, a film critic’s work is essentially contingent upon the consideration of and sharing with others. Therefore, perhaps the greatest rule of all: You cannot be a “good” film critic without remembering your responsibility in writing for others.

Originally written for my independent study in film reviewing in the spring semester of 2009. In this study, my professor and I studied, compared, and contrasted the works of everyone from Roger Ebert to Pauline Kael and the Cahiers du Cinéma critics in order to find out just what makes a “good” film critic.

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Written on the Wind

**** out of ****

One of the great paradoxes of humanity is the way that we audibly deplore reality television and especially soap operas for their over-the-top melodrama and absurd storylines, but we also, in secret, cannot get enough of the theatrics. Humans thrive on the attention-grabbing, eye-pleasing cotton candy confectionery of relationships presented in melodrama. This is why “Written on the Wind” makes for such a great film for audiences. Combine the rich entertainment value with sleek, beautiful art direction, impressive direction by Douglas Sirk, stellar performances, and irresistible dialogue, and “Written on the Wind” may be one of the greatest melodramas, if not one of the best films, ever made.

Forget “Dirty, Sexy Money” and everything you know about what is “beautiful, dirty, rich”—the Hadleys of “Written on the Wind” are the precursors of probably every disgustingly decadent, morally handicapped family in film and on television. The film begins with Kyle Hadley’s (Robert Stack) pursuit of New York executive secretary Lucy Moore (Lauren Bacall) that leads to a whirlwind courtship and quick marriage. Mitch Wayne (Rock Hudson) is Hadley’s loyal friend, a strong, sensitive type who always takes care of his silver spoon-fed friend, the son of Texas oil baron, Jasper Hadley (Robert Keith). Jasper Hadley’s other child is daughter Marylee (Dorothy Malone), a devilishly sexy woman who desires Mitch but contents herself with a number of male sexual partners in the meantime. Kyle Hadley’s impulsive marriage begins to fall apart when he is told that he is deficient in his ability to reproduce. He turns heavily to the bottle for consolation and reacts violently when his wife, Lucy, happily tells him that he is indeed not a failure and that she is pregnant. However, the seeds of doubt have been planted in his head by Marylee, who has implied to him an affair between Lucy and Mitch, who is indeed in love with her from a distance but remains loyal to Kyle. Kyle’s reactions spiral out of control, leading to the wildly tenuous conclusion and to perhaps the self-destruction of the Hadley clan.

Most importantly, “Written on the Wind,” with its handsome direction by Douglas Sirk, is a picture that must be considered in “epic proportions”— as “a melodrama to end all melodramas.” With the aid of cinematography and art direction, the film’s rich colors are one of its greatest features, revealing the superficiality and artificiality intrinsic to the lifestyles of the Hadleys (also with the help of mirrors as a motif). In addition, the score is romanticized in the sumptuous style of Wagner (complete with leitmotifs!), which continues to allude to the film’s lushness, which, in turn, reminds viewers of the story’s greater superficiality.

Another enjoyable aspect of “Written on the Wind” is the performances. Bacall and Hudson are formidable in their roles as Lucy and Mitch, but the antagonistic, brazen—almost audacious—performances of Stack and Malone as spoiled rotten Kyle and Marylee far outweigh the more subdued acting of the main stars. Malone is indeed the biggest scene-stealer in the whole film, and her Academy Award is duly noted. Her facial acting is impressive in scenes where Sirk frames her in all shadow, save for her eyes, and other scenes, including the scene where she reflects alone by the pond and the scene of her final redemption, are particularly touching. Demonstrating her dynamic range of acting skills, Malone is also impressive as “sex kitten.” Interestingly enough, although she does thirst for sex, especially with Mitch, I would not call her the nymphomaniac most critics call her (which I would go so far as to identify as a result of double standards in identifying the sexual desires of women). Malone’s sexuality is a great plot device in “Written on the Wind,” and the strength she brings to the role of Marylee certainly fuels the film’s sexuality, which bubbles forcefully just below the surface.

Speaking of the film’s underlying sexuality, there are euphemisms abound in “Written on the Wind,” which often salaciously spice up the dialogue. For example, in the morning after Kyle’s and Lucy’s night in Miami, his use of the word “fun” basically talks coyly around the idea of trying to bed her the previous night. Interestingly enough, possibly constructed in part due to the Hays Code in effect at the time, I think the film’s veiled naughty conversation actually comes off much more delightfully than if it were allowed to be “spelled out.” Innuendo, after all, is more sugary sweet to the ears. This kind of well-written dialogue is also bolstered by being fiendishly catty, scandalous, and full of incredible one-liners (my favorite being Malone’s biting “Because I never had him… but your wife has”). Best of all, though, the plot has ridiculously over-the-top twists (like most good melodrama), which makes the whole film so indelibly delicious.

And it is this deliciousness that will keep us watching Sirk’s picture for another fifty years. The film’s exquisite beauty has not lost its luster over the years, and the film’s audacious plot is still as delightfully tacky today as it must have been in 1956. Sirk’s story of superficiality might, then, be ageless. “Written on the Wind?” Hardly.

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Autumn Sonata (Höstsonaten)

*** ½ out of ****

Most people would like to blame their parents for the difficulties in their lives, and in the case of the 1978 Swedish film, “Autumn Sonata,” the blame might actually be well-founded. This beautifully photographed picture that finally brought together two of the greatest Swedes in the film industry, director Ingmar Bergman and actress Ingrid Bergman (no relation), is the powerful, haunting story of an estranged mother and daughter rehashing personal wounds from the skeletons of their closets. In “Autumn Sonata,” Charlotte (Ingrid Bergman), a virtuoso concert pianist, finally visiting her daughter, plain, simple Eva (Liv Ullman) after seven years, ultimately does not get the warm welcome she expects. Although the film gets a bit talkative, it is a nearly perfect account of damaged human relationships.

One of the great powers of “Autumn Sonata” lies in its two main actresses. Ingrid Bergman, unfortunately in her last theatrical film role, brings life to selfish, lonely Charlotte. Her skill at the piano is exquisite—she masters music, notably Chopin, in the way she says his “Prelude No. 2” should be played: so perfectly it is almost imperfect. However, Charlotte’s mastery over her own family is poor—the neglect of her husband and two daughters has led Eva to great personal anguish that she has long bottled up. Eva, in the meantime, assumed the role of the “mother” of the family at an early age, sitting with her abandoned father and caring for her sickly sister, Helena (impressively played by Lena Nyman). She notes that, unlike her mother’s Chopin, her own imperfection has long been something that has had to be corrected, not emphasized. Ullman’s interpretation of her character is rather affecting and certainly astonishing as she transforms from simple wife and daughter to a violently angry woman scorned by her mother.

The acting is certainly augmented by Ingmar Bergman’s skillful direction. This film is an explosive study of human relationships, and Ingmar Bergman treats it as such. By way of the many close-ups he posits, he essentially puts his characters under a microscope. Furthermore, the cuts are quite infrequent, as if Bergman is only interested in putting the camera in someone’s face and studying the way he or she feels. Even Viktor (Halvar Björk), Eva’s husband, says twice in the film that sometimes he likes to watch his wife when she is not aware. Within the film frame, viewers study the relationship between Charlotte and Eva, but within the film’s door frames, Viktor sometimes studies Eva. The film, then, is a self-reflexive allegory on the way we all study each other in life and on film.

“Autumn Sonata,” with its study of the estrangement of family members, recalls such later films as “On Golden Pond” and “Postcards from the Edge.” However, the relationships depicted in those two films, though both extremely well-acted, hardly hold a candle to the explosive performances of the deeply wounded Bergman and Ullman as Charlotte and Eva. While the film does get wearingly talkative at times in its ninety-seven minutes onscreen, the lightning the two actresses strike together is certainly poignant. Amidst the magnificent oranges, reds, and yellows of the film’s mise-en-scène, their misery recalls the foliage that begins to fall in the autumn. For them, unhappiness continues to fall with the leaves.

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One Year Later!

Happy anniversary! My blog is one year old today, as I announced last Thursday, so today is the day to unveil the new title! *drumroll* In 1942's "Now, Voyager," Bette Davis says, "Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon... we have the stars." The second half of this famous, memorable quote is going to become the new title of my blog! The stars refer to my weapons as a film critic, and the "we" indicates my participation in the film community. I might be a singular film critic, but as Jonathan Rosenbaum says, film criticism is very much a "social" activity.

Here's to another year of new film reviews, random musings, and quotes- and scenes-of-the day, etc., just for you! Cheers!

*NOTE: No need to press "read more" beyond this. Thank you.*

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I Love You, Man

** ½ out of ****

In an age when Brody Jenner is searching for his new best friend by way of “bromance” on MTV, it should come as no surprise that Hollywood would eventually make a film based on this kind of distinctly heterosexual union between two buddies. The film is “I Love You, Man,” which, like “I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry,” also appropriates the idea of homosexual romance and twists it into heterosexual humor.

This film centers on Peter (Paul Rudd), a real estate agent who has just become engaged to Zooey (Rashida Jones) and realizes he has absolutely no groomsmen to match the bevy of female friends his fiancée espouses. He decides to ask his father (a well-cast J.K. Simmons) to be his “best man,” but he changes his mind after his father only indicates Peter’s gay brother (Andy Samberg from “SNL”) to be one of his two best friends (“Along with, Hank, of course,” Hank being a friend of thirty years). Thus, Peter decides to go on some “man-dates” to find a best friend who can ultimately become his “best man.” After his first few attempts to find real friends do not pan out, he gives up and throws himself into selling the mansion of Lou Ferrigno (who makes an amusing cameo). There, he meets an uncouth prospective client named Sydney (Jason Segel), only around for the delicious paninis and the attempts to hit on divorcées, who eventually becomes the buddy Peter never had—they both love fish tacos, walking "Anwar Sadat," Sydney's dog (apparently named so because of his striking resemblance to the former Egyptian president), and jamming to the music of Rush. Soon, however, the time Peter spends with Sydney starts to compromise his happiness with Zooey, putting a strain on their relationship just weeks before the wedding. Furthermore, when Sydney’s motives for befriending Peter become questionable, Peter is put in a bind. What is a “bro” to do?

“I Love You, Man” is probably the funniest commercial film since “Knocked Up,” and it is full of original jokes and wit certain to inspire fits of uncontrollable laughter (as you can glean from the plot alone). It seems as if, based on the beginning of the film, the humor will rely mostly upon crudeness, sex, and gross-outs, but eventually the film settles into itself. The humor becomes pleasantly and surprisingly hilarious because a good deal of it hinges on the main characters’ awkwardness. (One great thing about “I Love You, Man” is that all of the characters are fleshed out well.)

Paul Rudd makes an amusing main character who generates humor through his dependence on imitations of leprechauns (or things that apparently sound like leprechauns) and awkwardly constructed slang words (which fit the character so well that they almost seem ad-libbed on cue). However, he lacks the innate charm of other major comic actors, such as Seth Rogen, so he is ultimately overshadowed by co-star Jason Segel, who falls into the character of grungy, unconventional Sydney so well that his performance can best be described with a certain “je-ne-sais-quoi.” Anyone who can make normal the ensemble of a button-up shirt, swimming trunks, and Ugg boots while walking an Egyptian-named dog and growling in men’s faces like said dog is putting in a “tour-de-force” performance in my opinion.

Amusingly enough, this film reeks of Judd Apatow and Seth Rogen, but incidentally, neither has ever been involved with it. (A good deal of this misattribution likely rests upon the appearances of Paul Rudd and Jason Segel, both of whom appear in several of the films Apatow has produced and directed.) Nonetheless, the humor is very much in the vein of “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” “Knocked Up,” and “Forgetting Sarah Marshall.” “I Love You, Man” is probably the best “buddy movie” in recent memory, and it depends heavily on its quotable one-liners, hilarious situations, and funny actors. For the 105 minutes “I Love You, Man” is onscreen, prepare to be entertained—the humor makes up for the film's lack of depth. It is not as if the Apatow films do not lack themselves either—all that matters is that you are laughing.

Originally published in the March 25 issue of Versus Magazine: Entertainment & Culture

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A Change is Gonna Come...

Where did the title go? For you loyal readers, I shall remind you that after 121 posts, I am now about to finish my first year online! On March 26, my blog will have been a whole year old, so I think it is time to celebrate that year. To match the sophistication I think my blog and reviews have achieved in that time (especially in recent months), I want to make the title more sophisticated, as well. Although "Grimwood's Great Film Reviews" was sufficient enough so far, I do not want such a title to reflect any kind of intrinsic narcissism or poorly conceived naming anymore. Thus, on March 26th at 4:00 p.m., the time my site went online one year ago, you will see a brand new title on my blog. Get ready because it will be so much more interesting. Be there or be square.

*NOTE: No need to press "read more" beyond this. Thank you.*

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In the News: Natasha Richardson

I only saw her act in one film, Disney's 1998 remake of "The Parent Trap," but I know her credits extend far beyond that one. In any case, the death of actress Natasha Richardson is a tragic one and certainly too soon for her young age of 45. (Her skiing accident-related death also recalls the death of Sonny Bono eleven years ago...) The following write-up on this respected actress' life is derived from the Associated Press/Yahoo! News (but paraphrased)...

Tony-winning actress ("Cabaret") Natasha Richardson died Wednesday at Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan of a brain injury sustained Monday after falling on a ski slope in Quebec. Her accidental death, the result of bleeding between the skull and the brain's covering, has been ruled an accident. Richardson will likely become best-known for her work on Broadway ("Cabaret," "Closer," "Streetcar Named Desire"), but she was also a film actress, playing roles in "Patty Hearst," "The Comfort of Strangers," "Nell," and the 1998 Disney remake of "The Parent Trap." Richardson was born in London in 1963 to Oscar-winners Vanessa Redgrave and Tony Richardson. She was the grandchild of Oscar-nominee Michael Redgrave and stage/film actress Rachel Kempson. She leaves behind her husband, Oscar-nominee Liam Neeson, two sons, Micheál and Daniel, and a sister, actress Joely Richardson.

Farewell, Natasha. You will be missed.

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Two Lovers

* ½ out of ****

“Two Lovers” is a significant film because it features what actor Joaquin Phoenix is calling his “last film role” as he goes off to pursue a career in rap music. This fact is about all that is significant about “Two Lovers.”

The story concerns a young bipolar man (Phoenix) who lives with his “émigré” parents in New York City and works for their dry cleaning business after his fiancée leaves him. Eventually, he meets his “lovers”: the nice Jewish woman his parents want him to marry (Vinessa Shaw) and the mysterious “shiksa” who lives in the same building (Gwyneth Paltrow). This plot might sound intriguing, but it all comes off rather tepidly. It is a drama, but not quite the romance the title implies and certainly not passionate (in many respects). The dialogue is flat, banal, and unconvincing and spoken by actors who, though well-known, are overwhelmingly unimpressive. However, the appearance of Isabella Rossellini is always quite a treat (she even shares the strikingly soft features of her mother, Ingrid Bergman, these days) and here she plays the mother of Leonard (Phoenix), but it hardly makes up for the oil-and-vinegar onscreen chemistry of Leonard, Michelle (Paltrow), and Sandra (Shaw). (Even Jack Black and Gwyneth Paltrow had better chemistry in “Shallow Hal”!) I found myself wondering several times why Joaquin Phoenix even has the titular two lovers because he lacks palpable sex appeal in the film. Though something of a method actor, his approach to Leonard is generally awkward and uninteresting. (What a dud for “Going out with a bang.”)

Vinessa Shaw is perhaps the best actor in the film playing the most sympathetic character. She accurately personifies simple, normal Sandra with unglamorous charm. Sandra, though not as beautiful and more ordinary in comparison to Michelle, is selfless and pleasant. On the other hand, Gwyneth Paltrow, for whom the role of Michelle was written (according to imdb.com), delivers a performance about which I am indifferent—so indifferent that I really have little to say about it.

The filmmaking is pretty unforgivable because director James Gray’s fourth directorial effort comes off as amateur and uneven film school fodder. Though the subject material may be cliché (woman falls in love with married man who will not leave his family; man has unrequited love for woman), it might have held up as melodrama had the acting not been so lackluster and the dialogue so trite. Nevertheless, the plot drive is choppy and generally insipid. It has shining moments, but those only occur when the acting does become effective. In other parts, the story grows oppressively tedious. Meanwhile, the film’s choppiness also becomes apparent by way of the camera. The cinematography at the beginning of the film presents tight framing that leaves some visual information hidden, confusing viewers, but this curiously makes interpreting what is going on much more interesting and pertinent. However, this different approach at visual storytelling seems quickly abandoned in favor of a conventional one (the camera as an invisible narrator), which is quite unsatisfying in light of the approach at the beginning of the film.

Because of the general lifelessness of the film’s visuals, story, and acting, I contemplated leaving the theater several times because walking anywhere would have been more interesting. (I rarely seriously consider such things, by the way.) As a word of warning, if you are searching for the grand love story on par with “Casablanca,” then stay home—romancing any kind of stone would be more fulfilling.

Originally published in the March 18 issue of Versus Magazine: Entertainment & Culture

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Watchmen

**** out of ****

It should come as no surprise that the mid-80s DC Comics maxi-series that redefined the medium of comic books would later become the film that would (re-)revolutionize the superhero genre. Hot on the heels of last summer’s epic blockbuster, “The Dark Knight,” “Watchmen” may actually eclipse it in terms of visual style, plausible narrative drive, and density. Though “The Dark Knight” is notably more elaborate than most “superhero movies,” incorporating the feel of a crime drama, “Watchmen” has a more stylized look, like a colorized version of “Sin City,” but also embracing “a bit of the old ultra-violence” and philosophy of Kubrick’s “Clockwork Orange.” While the conflicts in “The Dark Knight” seem created at will to keep the film moving, the conflict of “Watchmen” builds slowly into a mind-blowing climax. If “The Dark Knight” was almost perfect, “Watchmen,” supported by the brilliant original story by Alan Moore (who requested to be uncredited) and Dave Gibbons and sharp direction of Zack Snyder (“300”), is a masterpiece.

But it was a masterpiece that almost never saw the light of day. “Watchmen” festered in “development hell” for twenty years, falling into the hands of several studios, screenwriters, and directors before finally settling into Warner Bros. with Snyder at the helm. While others had tried to interpret “Watchmen” in different times and settings with occasionally different events, Snyder emphasized integrity to the original comic book series and made, for all intents and purposes, a faithful adaptation. The story remains the same—former non-powered, costumed adventurers find themselves being killed off one by one while the world hinges on the brink of nuclear destruction in a Cold War-ridden alternate 1985. Snyder tweaks things here and there, though. He removes the “Under the Hood” texts and the vignette “Tales of the Black Freighter” but does allude to them briefly, and he cleverly streamlines the story of the first team of heroes, the Minutemen, by a montage of alternate American history in the credit sequence. Otherwise, he adapts the comic book—often word-for-word and image-by-image—to the screen. Putting a comic book on the screen could cause the story to retain the two-dimensional feel, but “Watchmen” is far from flat. It lives because Snyder realizes that film is a medium all its own, just like comic books, so he uses the specific powers of film to make the story even more visually real and compelling. For example, the film’s climax (of which you “Watchmen” readers are well aware) made me feel literally suffocated, whereas the images from the comic book were striking but unaffecting. In general, a good deal of the (literally) graphic, violent images of the comic book transferred with unprecedented intensity to the screen.

Meanwhile, whoever chose to steer clear of the “big names” in casting made an excellent choice. Jude Law, Tom Cruise, and Keanu Reeves had all, at one point, been attached to the film in its various stages of development, but thankfully, a casting director realized “the star system” would be too heavy for “Watchmen,” detracting from its unbelievably complex story. All of the main actors personify their characters well, but the real star of the film is Jackie Earle Haley as Rorschach. If the Academy is going to nominate and endow Heath Ledger with an Oscar for his work as the Joker in “The Dark Knight,” then they must consider Haley for his work. Though hidden under his mask for most of the film, Haley embodies the mysterious, shrewd detective so well that his performance frighteningly reproduces the character. He effaces emotion, but he contains it, as he is sickened by the morally devoid world around him. (Moral ambiguity festers from start to finish in “Watchmen,” and the horrifying conclusion rests on this potent theme.) The computer-animated blots on Rorschach’s mask are a nice touch on the part of visual effects—they help viewers (attempt to) read him even if they cannot see his face. Anyway, the performance is seamless and anyone would be hypocritical to recognize Ledger's contribution to a “superhero movie” without acknowledging Haley's equally admirable work.

Interpreting this “superhero movie” on a greater scale, the whole genre can never again be snubbed or rebuffed as amateur. “The Dark Knight” was the herald, but “Watchmen” is the tower. “Watchmen” transforms the laughable “hero saves the world with no real story” film (a.k.a. “X-Men”) into a masterpiece of visual, narrative, psychological, and philosophical sharpness. “Watchmen” is going to be loved, first and foremost, by the fans of the comic book series/graphic novel. However, this does not mean that the film itself (all 163 minutes) is incapable of being digested by people new to the story. The fights would at least capture the interest of action film junkies, and the story still has bite in today’s post-9/11 world. The film is brutally graphic, but the visuals are so alive that they pack more wallop than even that pencil scene from the “The Dark Knight” did. Again, if you thought “The Dark Knight” was something to see, then you should see “Watchmen.”

Originally published (in abridged form) in the March 11 issue of Versus Magazine: Entertainment & Culture

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