Movie Review

(In theaters, March 2002) For some reason, swashbuckling adventure is a genre that, if well-executed, never fails to set my spirits soaring. The romance, the action, the drama of it all! The Count Of Monte Cristo is the first such good film since 1998’s The Mask Of Zorro and the wait has been worth it. Here, the filmmakers run back to the classics for source material (Alexandre Dumas’ eponymous novel) and run with the concept, producing a film that has the feel of a timeless treat. Jim Caviezel surprises as Edmund Dantes, the innocent-to-awesome hero of the story; while Caviezel’s previous roles have been serviceable but hardly impressive, here he gets the chance to exhibit a great deal of range, strut a badass attitude and triumph against all odds. (He even exhibits a killer goatee) In comparison, even the dependable Guy Pearce is over-staged. (On the other hand, Luis Guzman finally gets a juicy supporting role!) Technically, the film is highly successful, with limpid directing, a good screenplay and top-notch cinematography. Even though the film is a solid 135+ minutes, it feels more epic than overlong. The epitome of good fun for everyone, The Count Of Monte Cristo is an unqualified success. There’s no reason to bitch and moan about the level of quality of Hollywood movies as long as films like this one continue to be released; go, rent, watch and enjoy!

(In French, In theaters, March 2002) French-Canadian cinema has, in the past ten years, adopted many marketing tactics from Hollywood, and here comes yet another one; the bestseller adaptation. Given the success of Chrystine Brouillet’s mystery series starring inspector Maud “Biscuit” Graham, its cinema incarnation was inevitable. The result is not bad, though it feels heavily derivative of everything else in the American serial-killer tradition, perhaps unjustly; is it possible to read a profiler story nowadays without thinking about Silence of the Lambs? From a technical standpoint, there isn’t much to complain about in Le Collectionneur; the direction is efficient, the overall level of quality is comparable or even higher than most low-budget crime thrillers. The script, on the other hand, is a mixed bag; levels of language vary widely, often even in the same scene with the same characters. The “edgy” child-prostitute sidekick feels gratuitous and annoying. Even the acting had occasional bad moment; Maude Guerin is often flat as the heroine, usually-dependable regulars like Yvan Ponton and Yves Corbeil are unnoticeable and the child actors are only a notch above annoying. Luc Picard mails in his performance as the psycho; it’s a good one, but it’s not up to his usual intensity levels. Still, the film has a definitely local atmosphere, and isn’t bad at all when seen as a whole.

(In theaters, March 2002) Whenever you get tired of loud action-packed WW2 dramas, why not go for quiet drama-packed WW2 dramas? Charlotte Gray takes a different approach to a common historical subject, almost a feminine/romantic angle as compared to the usual masculine/action focus. The incomparable Cate Blanchett plays the titular heroine, a young Scottish woman send deep behind the lines of Vichy France to liaise between the French Resistance and the English Secret Service. What follows is a long, sometimes dull, drama involving collaborators, resistance, Jewish children and Gray herself. While not overly absorbing, it’s a nice change of pace from the usual war film, and it manages to build up to a credible climax. Some threads -probably inherited from the source novel- are a bit superfluous and should have been strengthened or cut entirely. The acting is fine, though purists like your reviewer would have liked it best that the characters would have spoken the appropriate languages. (Here, like in Chocolat, everyone speaks British English, except for the rustic French, who speak English with a French accent… sigh…)

(In theaters, March 2002) I can recognize that Michael Mann is a great director, but goodness—please give him some espresso so that his films move more quickly. It’s not enough to spend the first twenty minutes of the film on a single fight, but we have to spend another five minutes later on jogging through the capital of Zaire and interminable moments on trivial details of Muhammad Ali’s life. It’s not only slow; it’s wasteful! Ali doesn’t add up, despite the best efforts of everyone involved, to a very good biography of its title subject; Seeing the documentary When We Were Kings immediately after this film gives an idea of the real significance of Ali, and how Mann’s Ali completely misses the target with a plodding, anecdotic narrative. Will Smith only looks like the younger Ali (not the older one of the “Rumble in the Jungle”) but whenever he talks, his voice inflexions are undistinguishable from the real Ali. It’s a courageous film (the political dimension of Muhammad Ali is never too far away) but ultimately a flawed one that ultimately squanders precious talent on a script that doesn’t give us a true measure of the man. Too bad!

(Downloaded, February 2002) In a nutshell, the message of this film is that drugs are bad for you. Simplistic? Well, yes, but you’ve never seen it expressed in such a visceral fashion: Director Darren Aronofsky packs tremendous audiovisual impact in his narrative, and the result is a memorable film that will stay with you a long time. The four protagonists’ progressive descent into hell is implacable and merciless. Watching Requiem For A Dream is a lot like being repeatedly struck by two-by-fours. You’ll enjoy it and ask for more, because this is cutting-edge cinema. It’s not safe, it’s not boring and it’s certainly not average. You might not want to see it twice, but you have to see it at least once.

(In theaters, February 2002) Is it possible to tell the difference between a social-issues film which demonstrates its views through action and a melodrama which looks to social issues as an excuse? You’ll have a hard time deciding while watching John Q, a film whose message at time seems too forced to be taken seriously. (And that’s not even considering the health care panel discussions between hostages and hostage-takers.) The real acting treat in the film isn’t the ever-dependable Denzel Washington as much as it’s the supporting characters played by veterans James Woods and Robert Duvall. Despite heavy audience manipulation and the inconsistent tone, John Q is a competent thriller, an undemanding drama-of-the-week with a sheen of social respectability. Rarely subtle (good=poor=black, bad=rich=white), often shameless and barely surprising. But it works, somewhat.

(In theaters, February 2002) Another one of those “actor’s movies”, focusing more on intimate drama than out-and-out conflict. Here, sharp words have the emotional impact of a nuclear detonation. Bad things happen to ordinary people, and the film essentially follows the consequence of the resulting grief. It’s long and leisurely paced, which occasionally helps in getting in the characters’ mind, and occasionally hinders as nothing seems to happen for a long, long time. The title promises a touch of voyeurism, and indeed we get tight close-ups, revealing character traits and an emphasis on so-called normality. While the film may initially seem disconnected and sloppy, closer attention reveals a superior depth of background information and many clever touches. (One of the best being a framed photo of a lawyer, his wife and their dogs leading to a devastating “You don’t!” reply. Blink and you’ll miss it.) But even being generous doesn’t mitigate the overall blahness of the film, which plays things so low-key that they risk being invisible. Marisa Tomei turns in a good performance, but seemingly disappears from the narrative during the last quarter. It’s a good family drama, but most viewers already suspect the limits of that genre.

(In theaters, February 2002) Everyone’s got their favourite movie genres, and if yours happen to be prison films, war adventure or courtroom drama (or better yet, all three), you’ll love Hart’s War, a derivative thriller that pulls many different familiar elements in a satisfying whole. After our protagonist is captured by the Germans late in World War 2, he’s thrown in Stalag 6, a Prisoner-of-War camp where it doesn’t take five minute for him to make an enemy out of the highest-ranking American officer. What follows is a prison film, a murder mystery, a courtroom drama and a war movie, in this order. It’s all very convenient, but it flows well and entertains a lot. Colin Farrell continues to impress with a sympathetic -but flawed- protagonist, and Bruce Willis is completely comfortable in a role highly reminiscent of his character in The Siege. Director Gregory Hoblit turns out another fine film (after 2000’s Frequency), with a good mix of crowd-pleasing elements. I could have done without the unsubtle anti-racism preaching when it wasn’t required, but I was also generally swept by the rest of the film, warts and all. Good entertainment; solid and pleasant.

(In theaters, February 2002) There was a time, during the eighties, when Arnold Schwarzenegger could star in any action feature and draw crowds. Now, either the quality of his films has declined, or the audience has tired of the formula, because since 1995 (Eraser, End Of Days and now Collateral Damage), it doesn’t work quite as well. In fact, given the film’s simplistic pre-11/9/2001 approach to terrorism, it’s hard to see past the stupidity of the ending, the dullness of the setup and the ridiculous nature of the narrative. In another decade it might have been an enjoyable shoot-em-up, but not it border on the offensive. No wonder (North)Americans are so hated elsewhere in the world; if this passes for popular entertainment, we’re due for a serious re-evaluation of our priorities. Now, granted, Schwarzenegger is fine as a protagonist, even though he -as a “fireman”- sets up explosive devices with the skill of a Navy SEAL. (There are also a great pair of supporting performances by John “No one gives a damn about us Canadians” Turturro and John Leguizamo.) The problem lies elsewhere; the film attempts to be complex, but that intention is constantly undermined by silliness, awful coincidences and a pitiful climax. (Doesn’t it strike anyone that it might be a bad idea to cut metal natural-gas pipes with an axe, sparks and all?) In short, it’s too sombre to be fun, and too stupid to be clever. There isn’t much left.

(On TV, February 2002) This renowned teen-anthem movie isn’t terribly compelling when watched a decade too late, but it’s still an intriguing portrait, and a much better teen-film than some of its late-nineties contemporaries. This surprisingly theatrical narrative -limited spatial location, successive soliloquies- follows a group of obvious genre clichés (the princess, the nerd, the jock, the rebel and the antisocial) as they’re stuck together in weekend detention. The featured adult also represents a full blown cliché, that of the ridiculously bitter principal. Don’t be so quick to dismiss this as paint-by-number screenwriting, though; while the film is quick to feature the staple sex, drugs and rock-and-roll, it manages to extract a surprising level of truth and emotion out of stock elements. Oh, when John Hughes was good…

(In theaters, January 2002) In words, it sounds like an interesting concept; a film shot in digital video is then re-worked (painted-over, essentially) by artists so that it becomes an animated film. It works even better when considering the subject matter of the film, a series of loosely-connected (or totally-disconnected) vignettes/musings on the nature of reality, dreams and life. It could have been good. But the way it’s presented on-screen, it’s just a pretentious mess. Everything I needed to know about Waking Life, I learned from reading cheap science-fiction. (Including Philip K. Dick, who’s explicitly referenced at the end of the film.) While I could tolerate a lot of mid-brow philosophy, what I can’t stand is oodles of cheap nauseating animation. Here, the backgrounds float in all directions, the perspectives don’t make any sense and what’s worse, precious little is made of the possibilities of animation; most of the film is a series of talking-heads. And not very pretty talking-heads. I’ve seen better rotoscoping in cheap Japanese animation. The animation is Waking Life is fast, cheap and out of reasonable control. Combine this to the bla-bla-blah nature of the subject, and the combination isn’t pretty. I briefly dozed off during the film and scarcely noticed any difference, which is pretty ironic.

(In theaters, January 2002) There are hundreds of jokes to make about an old guy driving a lawnmower across the country, but don’t worry; you will have time to tell them all during the interminable length of The Straight Story, the most conventional -and most lifeless- film ever directed by weirdmaster David Lynch. Here, however, the tepid pace of the film is announced in the very first scene and rarely lets up. You’ll be screaming “No! It can’t be this dull!” in pure futility, given that it is this dull. There’s a pretty good 80-minute film in these 130 minutes, but you’ll have to be severely narcoleptic to find any enjoyment in The Straight Story as it is. To be fair, Richard Farnsworth makes a sympathetic protagonist and the sheer odd nature of his endeavour is admirable. But you can only see so many unrelated scenes before screaming “enough!” and this film reaches that limit only thirty minutes in. I can’t wait to see a non-director’s cut in which the fat is trimmed away. In the meantime, I’ll stay home.

(In theaters, January 2002) Repeat after me; the emperor has no clothes. It’s not because it’s hard to understand that it’s smart. Heck, it’s not because it’s smart that it’s necessarily hard to understand; in this case, it’s because it’s incoherent that it’s difficult to understand. Art is partly about presenting complex emotions to a wide audience, and that’s a test that Mulholland Dr. fails miserably. The first half of the film promises an oddly eerie thriller with at least three different threads. But the second half essentially gives up on trying to piece any of this together and instead giggles madly as it throws nonsense on the screen. Too bad; for all his substantial faults, director David Lynch is adept at presenting strong individual scenes and coaxing good performances out of his actors. It’s too bad that all of it resolves to nonsense or at the very least a disjointed semblance of an oniric “explanation”. It doesn’t help that the film has considerable lengths. By the end, maybe you’ll be like me and my sister, whispering at the screen “We don’t care, David Lynch.” “You can’t make us care, David Lynch.” “Not even your gratuitous naked lesbian sex scene can make us care, David Lynch.”

(In theaters, January 2002) From the plot description (In 1932 England, a rich industrialist is killed during a weekend-long hunting party), you might come to expect a comfortable murder mystery à la Agatha Christie. Robert Altman films are rarely about plot, however, and this one is quick to redirect our attention toward the real underpinning of these murder mysteries and in doing so illuminates some of the hidden engines of the genre. Gosford Park shows us, in detail, the divisions between servants and masters, and the small-army logistics of maintaining a small manor. Well before any crime is committed, we suddenly realise that the hoariest cliché of the genre, “the butler did it!”, is nothing short of a panicked cry of social despair from the aristocracy; not only are the commoners getting uppity, but they’re also killing the rich! Altman piles detail upon detail, with a Hollywood film producer, a bumbling police inspector, a clever servant girl, an impostor in both worlds, hints of scandals and lots more. It adds up to a long and quiet film, but a curiously entertaining one, with good performances all around. (Watch Clive Owen, and try not to imagine him as James Bond.) It’s much more than a murder mystery, especially given that the mystery isn’t that hard to solve.