Category: Film Review

Curtis Hanson’s 1997 neo-noir L.A. Confidential is a brilliant film. It pays respect to an entire genre while simultaneously doing its own thing as a piece of art and entertainment. This striking piece of work would start that glorious run for Hanson in the late 90’s/early aughts (Wonder Boys, 8 Mile, and In Her Shoes would follow), but this is clearly his finest effort as a filmmaker, and it’s a movie that just gets better and better every time you take in a viewing. Who would have thought that two young and relatively unknown Australian imports – Guy Pearce and Russell Crowe – would make such PERFECT 1950’s Los Angeles cops? The way they played off each other in this film was riveting, with Kevin Spacey as the ultimate comic foil to Pearce’s intensity and Crowe’s ferocity. Kim Basinger, in an Oscar-winning performance, is the heart and soul of the dense, incident-packed narrative (Hanson and Brian Helgeland won Oscar’s for adapting the seminal novel by James Ellroy), and the chemistry she shares with both Pearce and Crowe is electric. Dante Spinotti’s lush and muscular 2.35:1 widescreen cinematography is propulsive, slick, and gritty when necessary, and the way he captured the final shoot-out at the motel by moonlight is nothing short of sensational. Jerry Goldsmith got invited back to the play in the crime noir genre, crafting a thundering and magnificent musical score (his notes here sit right next to his legendary work on 1974’s Chinatown), and the insane supporting cast includes seemingly every actor of the moment back in the day: James Cromwell, Ron Rifkin, Danny DeVito, David Strathairn, Paul Guilfoyle, John Mahon, Simon Baker, and Darrell Sandeen. I can remember seeing this film on the first weekend that it opened in wide release (these were the high school days!) and I immediately knew that I’d seen something special. Naturally, budding movie lunatic that I was, I’d go back the following weekend for more. And over the years, I can probably think of few films I’ve revisited more than this one. It’s fabulously entertaining, exceedingly stylish, every plot thread fits oh-so-snug, and the film’s numerous and often times bloody action sequences have a distinct visceral integrity without ever becoming gratuitous or unnecessary. It’s a shame that Hanson has been quiet over the last few years as I truly miss his classy and skillful cinematic touch.

Joe Carnahan’s The Grey is macho, brutal poetry, a film that wears its bruised, wounded heart on its heavy-flannel sleeve. This is a force of nature cinema experience that leaves me crushed every time I experience it. Quiet, oppressively cold, and deeply introspective, this is an intense, Jack London-esque tale of machismo in the face of all-but-certain-death. Had this movie been released at the end of 2011 the Oscar nominations would have been different, as Liam Neeson’s towering performance would surely have been recognized with a nomination. Jumping into this project almost immediately after the death of his wife, he couldn’t have known how real life would have informed his aching, forceful work in The Grey. When the final 10 minutes of this film arrives, there’s a major twist, and it makes the entire film even that much more moving and powerful. I’m aware of the fact that many meat-head audience members were near riotous over the fact that The Grey wasn’t some sort of WWF-style smack-down between the guy from Taken and a pack of rabid wolves. With certain movies, the job of Hollywood marketing teams seem to be to hoodwink potential ticket buyers into thinking they’re lining up to see one type of movie, and this is what happened when people saw the ads for The Grey – they saw guys running away from wolves and Neeson throwing up his dukes so they expected a near constant wolf-brawl. Yes, some of this stuff does happen, just not in the way you’d think it would happen. Carnahan wasn’t going for the cheap and easy with this unflinchingly emotional piece of work. And when things do get rough, they’re believably rough, with chilling consequences. And besides, the wolves in this movie are as much metaphorical creations as they are living manifestations of animals; to literalize every single thing we see in a feature film is to do a disservice to the artists who are asking more of us as viewers. Carnahan is a 70’s influenced filmmaker, and in this film, he was deeply interested in character as much as bloody action. His eclectic output over the years has been interesting to observe and as a filmmaker he’s hard to pin down; my guess is that he likes it like that. I’ve long felt that he’s a filmmaker constantly at odds with the money-guys, as he’s always seems interested in digging beneath the surface of things, no matter the genre or aesthetic style. He’s due to have that film that truly blows him up and I can’t wait for that day. With The Grey, I was not prepared for how still and patient the filmmaking would be one minute, and then how visceral and violent it would get the next. It’s a gut-punch type movie, a piece of work that will likely haunt anyone who encounters it. Featuring one of the most harrowing depictions of a plane crash ever captured on film and ending on a note of tremendous ambiguity and narrative power, The Grey isn’t a film for the weak stomached or weak willed.

It’s positively insane to think about the fact that legendary actor Harry Dean Stanton has never been nominated for an Oscar over the course of his 250 screen performances. It’s essentially Crimes Against Cinema, and when you look at his IMDB page, one is left gob-smacked by the names he’s worked with: Ridley Scott, Lewis Milestone, John Carpenter, Stuart Rosenberg, Harold Becker, Joss Whedon, Monte Hellman, David Lynch, Bill L. Norton, Lou Adler & Tommy Chong, Sam Peckinpah, John Milius, Arthur Penn, Ulu Grosbard, Alex Cox, Wim Wenders, Nick Cassavettes, Sean Penn, Terry Gilliam, Martin McDonagh, and Gore Verbinski. And that’s just the tip of the ice-berg! He’s been one of the most important, valuable, and versatile character actors that the acting profession has ever had, and I can think of no better salute to him as an artist than Sophie Huber’s graceful and heartfelt documentary Harry Dean Stanton: Partly Fiction. This is a wonderful film about a passionate artist, and it goes to some surprisingly dark and soulful areas of Stanton’s life, while also celebrating his utterly extraordinary filmography. Seamus McGarvey’s stylish, silky smooth, black and white cinematography is perfectly mixed with bold color snippets and a variety of clips from Stanton’s eclectic performances, and it’s during the sequences with David Lynch and Kris Kristofferson and Sam Shepard where the film really hits some terrific notes of friendship and professional camaraderie. Huber’s direction is sensitive to her subject yet probing in all of the appropriate ways, and when you get to hear Stanton sing some renditions of classic American folk songs, you sense his disappointment that he never took his music career to the next level (he openly laments this fact), while still getting the sense that he’s a man with lots of life to live despite his youth obviously in the rear view mirror. His amusing anecdotes are great fun to listen too, as he’s always giving of the sense that he’s young at heart. And that’s the message that Huber sends with this poignant, thoroughly engaging documentary about one of cinema’s most prized possessions. This unique item was filmed at Stanton’s home and at his favorite Los Angeles watering hole, and one is left with the utmost respect for this living legend.

I have long been enamored with the work of Oscar nominated cinematographer Seamus McGarvey, as for the last 25 years, he’s been putting his stylish, distinctive mark on motion pictures with some of the best filmmakers that the industry has to offer. He can seemingly do it all: small family drama (The War Zone), massive Hollywood blockbusters (The Avengers, Godzilla, 50 Shades of Grey), challenging art films (We Need to Talk About Kevin), true life drama (World Trade Center), moving documentaries (Harry Dean Stanton: Partly Fiction, Los Angeles: Skid Row is My Home), character based comedy (High Fidelity), and most notably, four incredibly impressive outings behind the camera with filmmaker Joe Wright, who ranks as one of the most exciting and visually dynamic young directors currently working. Their collaborations – Atonement, The Soloist, Anna Karenina, and Pan (judging the latter solely on its glorious trailer) – have all been fanciful and exquisite, showing a clear mastery of movement, form, and camera placement, while always forging ahead with bold aesthetic choices that push the form in unique visual ways. And if one simply takes a look at his long and varied resume, it’s abundantly clear that his talents have been put to great, eclectic use on a variety of interesting and challenging pieces of work.

The work that McGarvey pulled off during Anna Karenina is nothing short of breathtaking, constantly asking the question “How’d they do that!?” while each ravishing scene unfolds, and through his sensual, highly attuned sense of light and texture, he gave the emotionally chilly narrative of Anna Karenina hot-blooded visual juice that kicked up the entire production – it’s a criminally underrated film featuring stellar work from Keira Knightley. In The Avengers, he was responsible for shooting one of the most anticipated summer movies in decades, and I can’t help but feel that the iconic “hero shot” of all the superheroes on the street of NYC in that circle is one of the best ripped-from-the-pages-of-a-comic-book images I’ve ever seen. And then there’s that insane bit of madness at the airport in Godzilla, where the audience is treated to a humongous wide shot of exploding airplanes and helicopters from within the interior of the terminal, as Godzilla and the U.S. Military stage an attack on a fantastical beast – when Godzilla’s massive foot comes crashing down into frame during this sequence, McGarvey was able to maximize the audience’s sense of how large the radioactive beast might actually be in real life, bringing true size and dimension to an image that features a CGI creation, something that in other, lesser refined works might have come across as rubbery or wonky within the realm of the real world. No matter the genre, the size of budget, or the narrative intent, McGarvey’s images have that long lasting, timeless appeal, where you just know that someone truly exceptional was calling the shots.

Roman Polanski’s masterpiece Chinatown is one of those movies that one should really view at least once a year, if only to be reminded of how perfect a film can be when all of the elements are in such perfect cinematic harmony. Robert Towne’s truly serpentine screenplay is incredibly layered yet never opaque, and even when the characters frequently explain the plot it never feels forced or manufactured to help the audience; it feels organic to the situation at all times. Jack Nicholson’s smirking, sly performance gets tons of mileage from that famous nose bandage, and Faye Dunaway’s porcelain doll features were perfectly captured by John A. Alonzo’s amazing camerawork. Seriously – this movie looks INCREDIBLE, with one bravura shot and sequence after another. Studying this movie solely on a formal and compositional level would truly be an experience. The final sequence is still crushing in all the proper ways, with John Huston doing some nasty and creepy character work all throughout. And I love how the cynicism of Towne’s script still feels vital to this day. Jerry Goldsmith’s classic score punctuates the drama at all times, and the way that Polanski effortlessly brought all of the elements together is truly a master class of direction. The film looks pristine on Blu-ray.

Move over, Marvel. There’s some REAL ass-kickers coming to town. You’ve had your bright, cheery, primary-color fun with your tongue planted firmly in your cheek for a while now, and personally, while I’ve mostly been a fan of the product, I’m ready for something different. It’s now time to see huge filmmakers with gritty visions take on the DC universe, which I was always way more of a fan of as a kid. I’m SO excited to see the superheroes that I personally obsessed over for years finally get a chance to explode in a massive way on the big screen courtesy of filmmakers like Zack Snyder and David Ayer and Patty Jenkins and James Wan and more to come. Batman vs. Superman looks like a dream come true, and Suicide Squad looks edgy, punk, different, and totally unhinged for this genre. Get here. Just GET HERE. I am so excited to see this world unleashed on the big screen; we’re even going to get a new Green Lantern which could really be special if correctly handled. After Nolan’s TDK trilogy and the utterly amazing Man of Steel from Snyder, we’re at the dawn of a new, more intensely dramatic age for the superhero movie. It’s time to treat the genre with serious, adult-minded thrills while still delivering the sensational action that has invaded our dreams ever since we saw similar images on the pages of comic books. DC FILMS POWER!!! Bring it on and do it with gusto!

The aggressive, purposefully awkward comedy style of cinematic provocateur Jody Hill simply can’t be denied. Before he’d become a mainstream force with HBO’s Eastbound and Down and predating his extraordinarily transgressive studio comedy Observe & Report, in 2006 he released the phenomenally funny, super low-budget laugher The Foot Fist Way, which, if you aren’t familiar, could easily become the comedic discovery of the year for you as a viewer.  The action centers on the insanely clueless Fred Simmons, played by Danny McBride in what amounts to his crowning achievement as an actor, a blissfully moronic, fourth-degree black belt in Taekwondo who runs his own small-town dojo in North Carolina. In classic McBride/Hill fashion, Simmons thinks of himself as a tough-guy hot-shot, full of big speeches with empty bravado, prone to tooling around in his Ferrari while always looking for new potential students. Everything is shattered after he learns that his wife Suzie (the fantastic Mary Jane Bostic) has manually relieved her boss after a night of heavy drinking at an office party. With his confidence and ego destroyed, Simmons sets out on a path of manly redemption, but this being a Jody Hill movie, stuff gets insanely outrageous and just a bit nasty. To try and get himself back on track, he attends a martial arts expo in an effort to seek out his long time idol, B-movie action star Chuck “the Truck” Wallace (Ben Best, Hill and McBride’s frequent creative collaborator, who also co-wrote the script), who actually turns out to be a hilariously pathetic loser with an axe to grind. The Foot Fist Way piles on conflict after conflict, incident after incident, some of it sexually scandalous, some of it harmless, some of it violent, all of absolutely priceless. McBride’s signature, loud-mouth, white-trashy antics have rarely been captured better than they were in The Foot Fist Way; he’s one of the ultimate cinematic buffoons and I love how he was going to be a director before David Gordon Green insisted that he take a small part in All the Real Girls. The final act of The Foot Fist Way is a total pisser (literally and figuratively…) and I’m constantly amazed by Hill’s fearless sense of what he thinks might be acceptable to his audience to laugh at. He’s primed to explode on a massive level at some point – he’s due his Hangover-type success – and I have a feeling we’ll be hearing a lot more from him in the coming years. If The Foot Fist Way was one of those little movies that snuck by, take it from me, this is one of the most enjoyably asinine films in a looooooong time.

In 2008, horror-thriller maestro Eric Red (Bad Moon, Cohen & Tate, Body Parts) released his nifty chiller 100 Feet, which stars a beyond intense Famke Janssen. This is one of those classically told ghost movies that isn’t afraid to get bloody and nasty (no surprise given the filmmaker’s previous genretastic output!), and at the risk of spoiling the wicked fun, I’ll simply allow that the narrative pivots on a woman under house arrest (Janssen) who becomes terrorized by the demonic spirit of her abusive husband (Red favorite Michael Paré) who she killed out of self-defense. Co-starring Bobby Cannavale, Ed Westwick, Patricia Charbonneau and Kevin Greer, this is a straight-up, effective, gruesome-at-the-finish thriller (seriously, the end set-piece is all sorts of messed up and wildly horrific) with a terrific lead performance from Janssen, who in movie after movie has proven to be highly capable of delving into any role in any genre and running away with her part. She’s sexy, she’s vulnerable, she’s got an edge when needed, and because Red’s focused screenplay keeps her at the center of all the action, you invest heavily in her character. There’s an affecting psychological angle to the proceedings too, with Janssen’s character going through all sorts of mental anguish over the off-screen actions that have landed her under house arrest, and because she’s in virtually every scene of the film, you become all the more attached to her and her precarious situation. 100 Feet works as well as it does because Red understands the value of true suspense, and then when his big moment of shocking violence occurs, the impact is made all the more startling because of how well placed and timed the scares are. While shot on a low budget, there are some nifty bits of gore involving the ghostly spirit, and in a fun secondary role, Cannavale brought just the right amount of antagonism to his part of a disapproving cop who has to keep tabs on Janssen. Let’s hope that Red has more juice left in the cinematic tank because his brand of hardcore cinema needs a major resurgence.