Change Your Image
Youngman_Grand
Reviews
Only God Forgives (2013)
Beautiful, blood-soaked, hollow to it's very core.
This is the kind of movie that provokes a one or five star review and little in between. It doesn't open itself up for much reasonable debate either, since most of the five star reviews contain a sneering disdain for the naysayers, those who it seems should go back to Michael Bay and James Cameron movies, who apparently need plots and characters spoon-fed to them like pablum to toddlers. I think N.W Refyn has targeted this former audience as his key demographic, since I can't quite imagine that every five star review has been written by a viewer who didn't find this a frustrating and disappointing experience, but who feels compelled to try and find the beauty and the meaning which is not elusive but frequently non-existent.
As has been repeated ad infinitum, this is a gorgeous and mesmerising visual opus. But visuals are only one aspect of cinematic craft and Refyn has abandoned all other requirements in favour of producing something meticulously crafted by the very best technicians, strikingly beautiful to observe, but without any element of an emotional or moral core. This doesn't result in a dark and brooding fairy tale, it creates a cinematic vacuum where the film simply exists without point or purpose. After the deserved success of 'Bronson' and 'Drive', Refn seems to have retreated back into the makeshift wonderland that made 'Valhalla Rising' such an equally polarising experience. Lengthy, dialogue free stretches make the cardinal sin of not bothering to narrate via coherent images and simply parade endless tracking and panning shots over artfully lit backgrounds, while the minimalist dialogue tries to multi- task by simultaneously filling in character backgrounds, relationships and plot direction - all cloaked in a jargon of silly vulgarity that aspires to Tarantino but falls miserably short. The violent money shots are not exactly shocking, more a necessary punctuation of this contrived dream-scape, and as per usual there is no hero, only a dualistic set-up where both main characters are equally corrupt, both demonstrate their remaining shred of humanity in their response to the crime that brings the two into collision, yet both are neither identifiable nor relatable.
Refyn of course fills the picture with ambiguity, looping dreams within dreams, alternating locales and environments with little explanation or sensibility. Not least the bizarre asides where brutal murderers take time out to croon love ballads in karaoke bars. The dedication to Alejandro Jodorowsky articulates perfectly what he is trying to achieve: the gruesome splatter of 'El Topo', the stylised pretension of 'The Holy Mountain' and the maternal fixations of 'Santa Sangre'. Jodorowsky is not a particularly likable filmmaker either, but his films, for all they were a product of their time and artistic culture, abound with ideas and a fascination with the absurd, the ostracised and the mystical. Refyn has no interest in creating anything other than provocative examples of technique - this film fails to operate as a character study, as a depiction of a self-contained and fantastical world or as a revenge-motivated Jacobean tragedy. It doesn't really do much of anything other than retread the portayals of human cruelty that cinema has produced for over a century, albeit with more envelope- pushing unpleasantness. It isn't fun, it isn't engaging, it isn't thought provoking, it isn't an experience. It's a simple exercise in the dry tedium of directorial narcissism; Refyn seems in thrall to his own talents and this is the self-penned hymn that others are expected to pay for.
American History X (1998)
Weak, shambles, facile moralising.
Making a movie about racism is a very easy way to tap into an audiences pre-existing righteous anger without the need to really explore the subject, treat it with respect or develop any kind of understanding around it. AHX knows this, so advances a paper thin plot with any number of ludicrous clichés, cardboard characters and dopy narrative devices. Edward Norton is no longer the Universes least convincing skinhead (stand up, Elijah Wood), but this movie stretches credibility way past breaking point.
The movie doesn't actually try to analyse racism on the more subtle, insidious way in which it exists in most peoples lives. Sure, there are neo-nazi and black power groups around, but this isn't most people's experience of racist behaviour. Only at the end of the movie do we get any hint this, when we see Dereks father discussing his pejudices over the dinner table. But this is very fleeting and it doesn't really give adequate justification for why Derek decided to go down this road in the first place. The movie should have spent far more time looking responsibly at the root causes of such peoples actions and ideologies - but that isn't as easy or as sensationalist as portraying all racists as maniacal cult-heads or separationists. The presence of characters like Stacy Keach's Manson-esquire demagogue serves the questionable purpose of allowing audience members to distance themselves entirely from these kinds of beleifs. Most people I think struggle to some degree with inherited prejudices as a result of ethnicity, class, geography, economic status etc, but films like this pander to our solipsistic view of ourselves as utterly non-judgemental by suggesting that racism only occurs amongst the lunatic fringe.
Additionally Tony Kaye more or less disowned the finished product, claiming that Edward Norton used his star clout to have the film re-edited so that it was more to his liking. The main point of contention seems to have been that Kaye felt the film should have had 'an adequate black voice'. I'm not quite sure what was exactly meant by 'adequate', but I can totally agree that the films narrow scope shifts sympathy onto the white protagonists in a confusing and dubious way. Because almost all of the black characters are so unlikeable, aggressive and one dimensional, with no context to explain their actions, and because one of them ends the film by murdering Furlongs character (a child) for pretty much no discernible reason, it's hard not to feel like we are expected to empathise with Derek and possibly feel like his original agenda was justified. AS well as this, when a 'liberal' character like Murray is portrayed as an ineffectual, idealistic fool, you begin to wonder why the film is so intent on making a violent, near-psychopathic skinhead into some kind of marginalised voice of reason.
Films that attempt to tackle the race issue in modern society will always fail to deliver as long as they are content to sit back and simply push buttons in order to generate a calculated response. The overwhelming majority of people in society know racism is a bad thing, but most ignore how endemic it is. Pinning it all on some gun totin' extremist hooligans, then not even being able to properly decide who you are sympathising with is not the mark of accomplished, mature filmmaking.
Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010)
Me vs. Cynical money-spinning exercise in audience manipulation.
The one star rating isn't something to be dispensed lightly; there are very few films that have so little in the way of entertainment value that they deserve such a critical pasting. Most flicks I've seen that fit comfortably into the category of 'awful' have some redeeming feature, even if it's the dreaded 'unintentional comedy' factor. That being said, when the movie in question is already being marketed as a comedy, a person can really find themselves reaching. So it is with SPVTW, a movie that manages to not only be thoroughly unentertaining and an ordeal to sit through, but one that doesn't even have the decency to let you laugh at it. This is that rare beast: a film that actually makes the rational audience member seethe and froth with rage at how shallow and calculating it is, how utterly empty and devoid of any soul or any artistic sensibility.
Of the actual plot, there isn't much to say. Blah, blah, urban ennui, blah, blah, cardboard existential angst, blah, blah, the theme tune from Legend Of Zelda? Blah. Michael Cera once again sleepwalks through a part he seems to be playing via satellite link-up. His philosophy, behaviour, fashion sense and interests are all carefully delineated in order to make him the ultimate hipster composite, an icon for trend-whores everywhere. Will he get the girl of his dreams, whose quirks are equally well chosen to make her his ideal match? Will his tedious garage band make it big? Will this movie try and challenge its audience in any way? Seems to me the mark of a good film is to start from more or less a neutral position, then to actively make you enjoy it via good writing, acting and direction. This is the emo equivalent of one of those dreadful Christian Bible films, where quality is pretty much irrelevant since the faithful will always defend it on the grounds that it's Jesus-friendly. Here the target audience will be so enthralled to see it's own interests acknowledged in 35mm that normal standards won't apply.
Hollywood has always made its money by tailoring genre films to demographic expectations - so it really shouldn't be any surprise that a movie so resolutely targeted at 20-something hipster/slacker/poseurs should be as blandly plastic and artificial as any Disney puke-athon. But for those of us who quite like things like old 8-bit video games and anime, it's hugely irritating to find them hijacked and press-ganged into service as garnish for some smarmy indie manifesto. And it's even more annoying that someone like Edgar Wright, who up to now I rather respected for his subversive take on sitcoms (Spaced), Zombie horror (Shaun of the Dead) and crass action flicks (Hot Fuzz), is basically pandering to a ready made market with something as utterly conventional as this. Because ultimately, though it might seem superficially to be a fresh and original product, this movie is total formulaic sludge, full of low-budget indie tropes, jacked up on a hundred million dollar budget.
Had it been made by a genuine independent company, with a cast of unknowns and utilising the whole retro gaming aesthetic more authentically, it might actually have been a lot better. Because it is kind of cute and fun to see some old Super Mario graphics crop up in-film, and sometimes the use of sound FX is clever enough to justify the exercise. But then it would probably have won a bunch of awards at Sundance and been remade as precisely the film we have now. So Edgar Wright has thoughtfully cut out the middleman. Indie cinema nowadays is generic enough in it's attempt to be the 'anti-Hollywood', but once mainstream studios have finished co-opting its clichés and CGI-ing the crap out of it, this is the result.
Terrible, terrible film.
The Invention of Lying (2009)
Lies make Baby Jesus cry.
The Invention Of Lying starts with a brilliant premise, then almost immediately begins to squander it in a vain search for profundity. A person gets used to most comedies taking a little time out for pathos or drama; I don't always agree with it but sometimes it works if the characters are well defined enough to care about or if it enriches the story. But it's almost aggravatingly stupid how quickly the message kicks in here. Gervais discovers he can tell lies in world where no-one knows or says anything but the truth. Now you would normally expect this to be exploited for an hour or so, before the inevitable repentance, redemption and change-for-the-better in the third act. And the humour of those initial 60 minutes would be what you were looking forward to. Right? Well, in its attempts to dig deep, the movie lurches so awkwardly from gimmick laden comedy, to schmaltz, to inept moralising and back again that whatever potential was there is buried under a mountain of ego. Early on, Gervais decides to lie in order to get sex. However he almost instantaneously decides that this is wrong. That's about it for the man using his gifts for evil. Surely that should have been the meat here? An unlikeable character darkly abusing his ability and eventually getting his comeuppance? Would that not have been more sensible? Obviously not. After this it's just a wealth of misunderstandings and good intentions gone awry which form the backbone of the film, and the humour withers and dies like a neglected plant.
His mum dies, and in what is truly one of the most embarrassing scenes in recent cinema history, a weepy Gervais fabricates tales of a wonderful afterlife to comfort her in her final moments. I was howling. Of course, word gets about and our man becomes something of a prophet. Now, this is an interesting angle, granted. It seems to have irked more than a few people. Are religion, god, and belief founded on lies? If so, were they intentional, unconscious, well-meant or malicious? Who can say? But, and this is important, this is supposed to be a COMEDY, not a humanist screed. If you're going to put religion into it, have some jokes about it! Life of Brian managed to do that, and make its point as well. But Ricky Gervais is too intent on hammering home the message, so instead of gags there's a lot of angsty depression and endless introspection.
Eventually it ends with an entirely predictable outcome. Hooray! The best bit of the movie is actually a cameo by Stephen Merchant and Sean Williamson. It's awkwardly shoe-horned into the plot and the style of humour is completely different to the rest of the film but it's such a relief to see a proper bit of genuine comedy thrown into the mix that it will have you laughing out loud. Seriously, why couldn't the rest of the film been more like that?
Hell Ride (2008)
Watch a man with no sense advertise the fact!
Hooray for Larry Bishop! Would that we were all able to live out our silliest, most juvenile fantasies at the rip old age of 60! However (and a 'however' there must be), no-one actually needs to see or pay for the privilege of watching this play out on the big screen. Presumably QT cast Larry in Kill Bill as yet another quirky fanboy insert; after all the man has actually been in some genuine 60/70's biker films and Tarantinos movies are full of oddball types dragged up from obscurity and cult limbo. But why give the man the greenlight to make a movie? I'm assuming a script was available in advance? I'm assuming the backers read it? And I would have assumed that QT might have had some kind of epiphany at this point. So three scenarios emerge:
1) Tarantino never read the script, and had total faith in Larry Bishop to deliver the goods. Caveat Emptor.
2) Tarantino read the script, but actually secretly hates Larry Bishop and felt that having his own name associated with the movie was a small price to pay for how much of a complete and utter fool Larry makes of himself.
3) Tarantino loved the script and has therefore clearly disappeared into some kind of artistic black hole.
There is of course a fourth alternative: that there was no script at all. This doesn't sound quite so far fetched when you listen to the dialogue. But the pitch for this was clearly something along the lines of 'Lots of naked girls. Tough guys with cool names. Booze and guns.' On paper, a sure fire winner. The adolescent bloke in all of us loves that kind of stuff. Its one of the most sure-fire ways of guaranteeing a profit on a movie. So how can you take such a simple, fool-proof formula and churn out such utter dreck that fails as entertainment on every single level? It can't be enjoyed as a cool, sadistic, visceral thrill ride, because it isn't one. It can't be enjoyed as a homage to a retro genre, because it contains none of the elements that make the original films enjoyable. It can't even be enjoyed ironically, because to do that would require it to have some degree of charm and unintentional level of quality. This is a miserable, bargain-basement, bottom of the barrel turd that somehow tries to elevate itself to the level of sleaze-art when it has neither the wit nor the intelligence to be anything otther than just one mans frenzied last stab at ego masturbating.