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In the Loop

Posted : 3 months, 3 weeks ago on 31 October 2017 09:21 (A review of In the Loop)

Can we all just admit that television-to-film adaptations typically don’t work, and that they emerge as bloated episodes on the big screen? Or that they emerge with a distinct feeling of three or more episodes strung together? Well, prepare to be amazed as In the Loop functions on its own merits as a brilliant piece of wicked political satire with no prior knowledge of the show necessary to enjoy it all.


In the wake of our current never-ending political quagmire it’s almost difficult to even mildly chuckle at the lunatics running the asylum. Yet the sight of Peter Capaldi wrapping his Scottish brogue around a series of expletive-laden verbal tirades is impressive in the musicality and muscularity with which he attacks them. A personal favorite is a threat of sticking his cock so far down someone’s throat that it’ll come out their anus. That’s nearly avant-garde poetry in its maximalist prose and graphic absurdity.


Even better is how even the adults in the room are rendered into mere cartoons and we’re displaced into a phantasmagoria of chest-thumping egos clashing in one verbal sparring match and slapstick spectacle after another. Among all of the raucous personalities there’s the major plot of a hapharzd minister (Tom Hollander), who can’t seem to keep his foot out of his mouth, inadvertently supporting a US war based on questionable intelligence from a source dubbed “Iceman” and fending off a constituent who claims his office wall is destroying his mother’s garden (a hilariously deranged Steve Coogan).


In-between all of this is a State Department warhawk (David Rasche) fighting with a more stable-minded colleague (Mimi Kennedy) and a lieutenant that’s a bit of a dove (James Gandolfini). In the Loop isn’t afraid to make any of these people appear incompetent for their jobs or as fragile children warring on the playground, and this is funny in the spikiest way imaginable. After all, it’s a satire of the Iraq war and Dubya years, but there’s a relevance here as our current commander is saber-rattling with North Korea and in a persistent state of petulance over special investigations.  


In the Loop will make you laugh out loud, and then squirm in a way that only truly good satire can. There’s too much of a kernel of truth here for comfort. Even when we want to pertend that adults are running things, there’s frequently plenty of evidence to the contrary. This one is just soundtrack to Capaldi calling everyone a cocksucker or telling them to go fuck themselves like a piece of classical symphony.

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Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales

Posted : 3 months, 3 weeks ago on 31 October 2017 02:35 (A review of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales)

Well, this one is at least better than the prior entry in this never-ending franchise that has grown stale and cemented into a series of character tropes and ideas recycled from one chapter to the next. There’s nothing new added to the expanded mythology here besides the presence of young, dewy lovers who are obviously intended to take over the franchise once Johnny Depp is ready to let Jack Sparrow rest, and even then, they play out as lukewarm versions of the characters played by Orlando Bloom and Keira Knightley. Any franchise has a natural lifespan, and Disney’s refusal to let this one go makes the freewheeling, anarchic, bloated fun of Gore Verbinski’s three films look worse as more chapters dilute their luster.


Dead Men Tell No Tales borrows its title from one of the few pieces of ephemera in the ride that the prior films hadn’t already consumed and regurgitated back up on the screen. Part of me waited for the talking skull to drop the line before a shocking action or explosive action scene kicked in, but there was no such luck. Instead, we’re treated to another entry where a villain is stuck to live a supernatural life stuck out at sea. The franchise seems to view the seas as both the nurturing mother, the charismatic devil, and a perpetual state of limbo depending on where they fall on the protagonist, antagonist spectrum.


Here we follow Henry Turner (Brenton Thwaites, just as bland and dreamy as Bloom) as he tries to break the curse left upon his father at the end of At World’s End. Concurrently we also follow Carina Smith (Kaya Scodelario), a young woman doomed to be killed for the crimes for witchcraft because she can perform complex mathematics as she tries to unravel the mystery of the map that no man can read. Naturally, their ambitions dovetail as they seek the same object: the trident of Poseidon, an object with the ability to break any of the sea’s many curses. Jack Sparrow gets drawn in, Barbossa (Geoffrey Rush is still in glorious ham mode) replays his fremeny antics, and our villain is a ghoul stuck at sea with a past that ties directly with Sparrow’s.


If any of this sounds routine and familiar in this franchise, then good, that means you’re paying attention. Dead Men Tell No Tales is simply a Frankenstein-like super-entry in the franchise that takes pieces from the prior four films and shoves them all together. Occasionally it manages to liven things up, a zombie shark attack is bit of spark and fun that much of the surrounding film is missing and Javier Bardem playing to rafters of the neighboring theater, but it mainly feels like you’ve seen all of this before and done better. It’s the sight of a franchise doing a soft reboot on itself after fourteen years.


And it still repeats the major problem of On Stranger Tides by mistaking Sparrow as a leading character when he works best as a loopy, chaotic supporting player. It was shocking to revisit The Curse of the Black Pearl and be reminded of how shocking and daring his original performance was in lieu of what has happened since. It’s now a predictable series of tics strung together in a perfunctory manner that suggests the sight of Marlon Brando slumming it in dreck like The Island of Dr. Moreau. It doesn’t help that Thwaites can’t manage the straight-man demeanor to Depp that Bloom actually did well with, and that whole scenario merely becomes something of another cog in a noisy machine.


Somehow, Dead Men Tell No Tales is the shortest of the four films at just a little over two hours, yet it still manages to feel as stretched out as At World’s End, the longest entry in the series. A good chance that the film’s inability to surprise us like the first three could with their completely bonkers set pieces and mythology could. Now this franchise feels like one of the rides at the Disney theme parks – rigidly locked into place and stiffly moving through the same motions over and over again. Except it’s not as fun as any of those rides.


They’ve already announced plans for a sixth film. Please, for the love of god, send this franchise to the locker already. Send it out to sea, return it to the murky bilge, insert whatever sea-related pun you’d like Disney, just give this franchise a rest already.

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The Invasion

Posted : 3 months, 3 weeks ago on 30 October 2017 04:26 (A review of The Invasion)

Ah, The Invasion a movie compromised by committee interference and the last minute decision to bring in not only the Wachowskis to rewrite the script but James McTeigue to handle the reshoots. This leaves The Invasion as a film in search of an identity. Well, that and a core idea, any idea will do after a while. These additions stick out for how improbable and tonally different they are from everything else going on around them, and the long-standing tradition of adaptations of Jack Finney’s novel reflecting the main paranoia hovering in the zeitgeist of their time crumbles with a gentle breeze.  


You see, The Invasion is the fourth in a series of these things, and the clear winner for Worst in Show. They come out roughly every fifteen to twenty years (1956, 1978, 1993, 2007, so we’re due for another in a few years), and tend to keep the basic pieces in place but shift around what exactly they’re an extended allusion for by swallowing whole major political and cultural concerns of their eras. The Invasion makes vague posturing towards the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the war on terror as a concept, and other such things that kept us all paranoid and awake in fright during the Dubya-era, but it does nothing with them. They merely exist as window dressing for a psychological thriller that dissipates quicker than cotton candy in water.


While it’s impossible to know what exactly the original vision was from Oliver Hirschbiegel, it was clearly not this. A climatic car chase is everything that’s wrong with modern blockbuster film-making in its visual incoherence and flagrant disregard for the laws of physics, and a tacked on happy ending is just a slap in the face to the audience. No, it might be worse than that, it might even cross the line into straight-up contempt for the intelligence of the audience at large. All of this leads to a pile-up of problems where the film feels simultaneously unfinished, overly indulgent, and completely underwhelming in its chaos.


Even worse is how it wastes such a killer group of talent in front of the camera with thankless tasks and incoherent performances. Nicole Kidman and Daniel Craig seem completely lost here, with Kidman on paper a brilliant choice for a human trying to masquerade as a frigid alien in order to survive. She’s best when dealing with darker material and impulses so she’s fine in the first half, but The Invasion asks her to suddenly become an action-heroine in its final moments and she’s ill-equipped for this. And poor character actors like Josef Sommer, Celia Weston, Veronica Cartwright, and Jeffrey Wright are left with half-sketched out characters that they try valiantly to make work. It’s a sight to behold, especially Cartwright as a woman who knows something is wrong because her husband no longer abuses her, and one only feels for their herculean task.


If only The Invasion had risen to the level of a good bad movie instead of just being an impotent bore. It just lays there spinning along making 99 minutes feel like interminable hours upon hours of flaccid paranoia and empty spectacle. This can’t even arise to the level of cult or camp enjoyment, and that’s the real sin. If you can’t be good, at least be enjoyably terrible.

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Million Dollar Baby

Posted : 3 months, 3 weeks ago on 30 October 2017 02:30 (A review of Million Dollar Baby)

Sometimes Clint Eastwood’s penchant for fast, loose, and cheap directing projects ends up working in the film’s favor, and other times it sinks the production because the sutures bleed throughout. American Sniper’s quickie nature was evident, look no further than that laughable fake baby, and The Bridges of Madison County excelled because an overly popular dime store romance became something greater in his no-fuss hands. Then there’s the films like Million Dollar Baby which not only benefit from the fast and loose approach, but the material demands it and is enriched by it.


I don’t go to Eastwood looking for radical alterations to the formulas that he so often works best within, but that doesn’t mean he can’t surprise you. Million Dollar Baby follows many of the conventions and beats of a typical boxing film, and then it shocks us with a twist that remains true to who these characters are, what they want out of their lives, and where they’re trying to reach.


Sometimes Eastwood’s work can hit squarely in sentimentality that feels unearned or garish, but not here. There’s still a sentimental streak, but it’s rough-hewn and calloused, much like the main characters. There’s a confidence on display here that’s quite rich and rewarding in how deep emotional resonances are never spelled out but lived-in and honed with a fine eye of character detail and imagery. Look at the relationship between Eastwood’s ornery bastard and Morgan Freeman’s former boxer Eddie “Scrap-Iron” Dupris. Eddie functions as the film’s observer and chorus, narrating this story of strived for redemption, failure, and penance. He exists as Eastwood’s lone employee and, seemingly, only friend as a form of apology and emotional flagellation for allowing him to partake in a fight that he never should have in the first place.


None of this is spelled out, but it’s right there on the surface if you’re ready to engage with the material and look for it. It is a type of unadorned art that doesn’t announce itself as such. Much in the same way that Eastwood’s failures and regrets as a father and brought to the fore by the presence of Maggie, the boxer of the title, and the ways in which his character taunts and teases a Catholic priest with a series of escalating questions about the absurdity of the religion. This is the closest to acts of faith he can go until the very end where the last shot is something of a quizzical blur. Has he achieved a level of penance for his sins, or is he still beating himself up for yet another one?


The film never answers these questions, but instead presents us three individual characters and looks at them with an even-keeled and clear-eyed perspective. We see them as they are, faults and failures, dreams and ambitions, all of it. It’s also an excuse to sit back and watch three superb performances. Eastwood and Freeman are veterans who can imbue pathos into this material in their sleep, but both of them are clearly engaged and enlivened by what the script tasks them with. Eastwood in particular is shockingly good, full of depth and a kind of poetry of streamlined acting. There’s not an ounce of fat in his directing or acting choices here, just a presentation of everything we need to know about the characters and their world.


But Million Dollar Baby would live or die upon the central role of Maggie, and Hilary Swank proves that the Oscar she won for Boys Don’t Cry was no fluke one-off. Swank’s become something of an uneven actress, prone to overacting like in Amelia, or poor material choices like The Reaping, but when she finds the right role she’s positively engrossing and electrifying. (Glimpse The Homesman for a more recent great turn from her.) She’s stubborn and intense here, a woman striving to better herself and find a way out of the extreme poverty and low station that she comes from, and thinks that boxing might be the best and only option. This back-story is not entirely dissimilar to Swank’s own life as a trailer-park girl who became a movie star, and that core of truth is something that other actors couldn’t bring to the role. Two Oscars may seem a bit much for her career, but she deserved them both and this performance may even be the better one between the two.


If there’s any fat to be found in Million Dollar Baby it’s in the scenes with Maggie’s white trash family. These scenes play out as grotesque comedy, almost a vaudevillian series of interludes to the dour, somber film that orbits these scenes. Margo Martindale plays her role as the mother to the tilt by emphasizing the vainglorious, ignorant nature of the character that immediately receives an act of kindness and questions the motivations and ramifications of it. These scenes are brief and over nearly as soon as they begin, and it’s quiet easy to write them off as everything else around them is so strong.


Simplicity is the key to the effectiveness of the story here. It’s not entirely a boxing film as it’s a film about a boxer. There’s training montages, series set in the boxing ring, but it’s what happens in a fateful fight that reveals its deeper ambitions and hidden moral quandaries. What happens feels authentic and believable to these characters, and that’s all that we can ask of a great story well told, really.

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The Manchurian Candidate

Posted : 3 months, 3 weeks ago on 30 October 2017 12:42 (A review of The Manchurian Candidate)

Not a direct remake of the sweaty, paranoid original by John Frankenheimer, but another adaptation of the source material, this version of The Manchurian Candidate still can’t seem to emerge from the omnipresent shadow of the 1962 film. Not entirely fair as this version makes numerous changes (some that pay off, many that don’t) to the narrative and truly tries valiantly to be its own. The problem is, the changes more often than not render the story as a mere political thriller that becomes ephemeral while the other lasts for its political ramifications, trenchant satire and dark humor, or its hothouse of escalating paranoia.


Jonathan Demme’s reworking of the material is far too self-serious for much of the time and it throws the material off balance. It plays all of its science-fiction brainwashing with a straight face and this causes some of the audacity to wash away. This one reveals itself less and less about vast potential conspiracy theories or foreign entities disrupting our political system and more about the vast media landscape and the power of corporations over our lives. It’s necessary to differentiate itself, but something is deeply lost in the mix.


A major change is how Denzel Washington’s Marco is now more of a piece of the central plot whereas Frank Sinatra’s was merely trying to help Shaw regain his life and mind by  exposing the puppet strings. Here, Marco is not only intertwined with the conspiracy, but he’s a pawn that they can use to justify and examine their ends. This all holds together until the very end where things don’t just go sideways, but buckle under the strains and fall apart. It ends with Marco setting a photo of his platoon adrift at sea while walking around the brainwashing facility, and the whole thing smacks of contrived and reaching uplift. It doesn’t jive with the rest of the world and ideas expressed within this film.


This would all be forgivable if Mrs. Iselin, here reworked as a long-term Senator, was as engrossing and disturbing as she was in the original. Angela Lansbury’s Mrs. Iselin was a terrifying ice queen who pulled the strings out of lustful ambitions for power. She was a woman who would happily give everything to achieve her goals in an Old Testament-style form of sacrifice. Here Senator Shaw is a woman operating out of mere hubris and is far less shocking and villainous. Try as valiantly as Meryl Streep might to reconstitute the role into her own imagining, there’s no removing Lansbury’s career achievement work in the original and Streep’s essay on the role comes across poorly.


Then there’s the choice to downgrade the tragedy of Raymond Shaw. Laurence Harvey, not a great actor by any stretch, expressed a haunted, wounded soul that was marching towards a tragic ending no matter what. Liev Schreiber’s Shaw is missing that sense of impending doom, of a noose lingering over his head just waiting to coil around his neck and tighten. It is a unique spin on the material to watch Raymond and his mother locked in a death embrace on the world’s stage as their preordained doom awaits, but it hit you harder in the gut when it was Raymond himself taking out his enemies and then himself.


It remains nearly impossible to gauge this film on its own merits because it plays everything so damn earnestly. It’s the sight of a bunch of very talented people taking on juicy material and then delivering something pedestrian with it. It’s competent and nothing more, and that’s the grand tragedy of this version of The Manchurian Candidate. Of the spate of unnecessary remakes released in the mid-00’s (The Omen, The Amityville Horror among them), this is probably be the best of that lot. But that’s damning it with the faintest of praise.

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Barton Fink

Posted : 3 months, 3 weeks ago on 25 October 2017 06:53 (A review of Barton Fink)

What exactly is Barton Fink about, really? What do all of these vague symbols and political allusions add up to, and does the deeper “truth” to them really matter? Barton Fink seems in deeply enamored with its own ambiguities, both in narrative architecture and thematically.


It’s about the mental and emotional unraveling of a blowhard writer lacking in any discernible talent but not lacking in any smug self-satisfaction an ego with some references to fascism thrown in. I remain unsold on there being more to “get” here than merely a cavalcade of disparate but fascinating ideas crammed together with panache. The Coen Brothers manage to sustain the weirdness and free associative nature of the plot and characters, seemingly held together by black humor and a pervading sense of dourness, with artistic bravado and technical mastery.


Look no further than the persistent symbolism of Barton’s unraveling blind and artistic blockage. It’s first glimpsed by the wallpaper of his hotel room coming undone, and Barton trying to push it all back in place as if restoring creative order to the world. It’s followed by a series of character interactions that reveal layers of deceptions and artifice in order to keep the wheels of Hollywood spinning. The creative muse is a fickle mistress throughout Barton Fink, not only to the lead character, but to one resembling a funhouse mirror of William Faulkner, descended into alcoholism and his writing performed by his mistress/secretary.


Deals with the devil do not provide Faustian bargains, there’s no sweet moment of euphoria before the bottom drops out. There is only the bottom dropping out and the creeping rush of encroaching darkness. Not only in the surprise twist with Charlie, Barton’s neighbor in the hotel and a pleasant everyman insurance salesman type that’s also the most likable character in the movie, but in a high-ranking producer and the studio executive that spit rapid-fire insults laced with profanity as they do empty ego-boosting platitudes. Tony Shalhoub is great in a bit part as the producer, but Michael Lerner as the studio head is really playing for the rafters. I mean that as a compliment as he’s a riot of vulgarly wielded power, clearly playing his studio head as a riff on Louis B. Meyer and probably some more modern references behind the scenes.


Of course there’s the bewildering shrug that I meet with the reoccurring image of the woman on the beach only for Barton to meet her in the end. What does it mean? No idea. Frankly, I don’t really care. It made me laugh, and I think the entire point of it was some kind of cosmic joke. It’s almost as if you must take on Barton Fink on an image-by-image basis. Individual scenes clearly throb with deeper meanings while others are merely there to land a joke or provide a character actor a moment to shine.


The thing that ties it all together is an extremely game cast. John Turturro as Barton is overly earnest, completely lacking in self-awareness, and prone to rhapsodizing about his lofty goals with no output or talent to match. Turturro’s a perfect match for the dark comedic tone that the Coen Brothers are striving for throughout. While John Mahoney gets to turn a caricature of William Faulkner into an excuse for mugging, a ridiculous accent, and slapstick. Judy Davis as his secretary/mistress plays everything with an arched eyebrow and wry tone of voice. While John Goodman clearly walks away with best in show for his overly polite, jovial manners masking over monstrous secrets that lead towards the film’s apocalyptic finale.


It is a strange journey, but a highly enjoyable one for me. Some may find the dourness and frankly overall sour pointing towards misanthropic if not nihilistic tone a bit much. Maybe my sense of humor is just that skewed, but I rode out Barton Fink’s wavelength towards the closing credits and had a good time. What does it all? Anything you want it to mean.

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Posted : 4 months ago on 17 October 2017 03:43 (A review of Kagemusha)

If Kagemusha isn’t as daring as Akira Kurosawa’s other samurai epics, like Seven Samurai or Throne of Blood, then it is still a pleasurable jewel of a late master throwing around his considerable artistry and craft. The troubled birth and production doesn’t show (much), and it is an immensely pleasurable experience throughout. It simmers in its weightiness and epic scope, and Kurosawa still manages to pull it off with grace, beauty, and a deft touch that numerous imitators have tried and failed to achieve.


The title refers to a common thief who bears a striking resemblance to a warlord, and he effectively becomes his “shadow warrior,” what kagemusha translates to. This shadow warrior is something a spectral entity, more of an emotional cipher than a fully-realized character for the narrative to pivot around. We do not understand his motivations, nor are we lead to believe that he does either, but we follow him through his descent into a kind of madness and power-grab. Is he possessed by the warlord’s spirit or merely haunted by the warlord’s legacy?


This ambiguity becomes a driving force the latter portions of the film. In fact, a dream sequence can function under either reading of the material. These dream sequences in the third act of the film are the most audacious throughout the entire film as so much of it is a medium shot that takes in the vastness of the surroundings and the numerous players in the frame. They play with perspective and demonstrate our shadow warrior being terrorized and haunted by the warlord’s armor, or maybe he’s slowly being possessed. (Personally, I think he’s cracking up because his identity is being subsumed by the legacy and demands of his role, but plenty of professional critics have argued the other meaning.)


Yet there’s a pervasive irony to much of the middle portion of the film as the warlord’s death means that the thief must become the man, and only a handful of people know the truth. The “shadow warrior” begins to believe his own lie and slowly finds himself wanting to obtain power. The final masterstroke of this thread comes in the climactic battle, one of Kurosawa’s greatest sustained sequences of cinematic pageantry, where the thief dies chasing after the banner and unable to catch it. Not only was this thief never truly a warlord, but he was unable to maintain the illusion and cast out into the wilderness.


It’s a fairly simple plot and it’s only as good as any particular scene, some of which are transcendent and others reveal the break Kurosawa was forced to take between projects. At this point, despite being heralded by the New Hollywood class as a role model and iconoclast artist found funding hard to come by. Four years separated this film from his prior work, and the scenes where Kurosawa’s paintings are clearly adapted are the best. Others show a bit of aching joints, or like watching someone trying to get feeling back into a hand or foot that fell asleep.


None of this means that Kagemusha is a bad film, it is very much not but it is more of a second-shelf Kurosawa work and bettered by its predecessor, Ran. It perhaps colder than some of his greater works, but it’s still a great film. Kurosawa bookends the film with two sequences, one completely quiet that effectively explains the power dynamics at play and the other a bitterly ironic ending note. These two sequences alone are worth the viewing experience, but there’s so many other riches to discover along the way.   

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Posted : 4 months ago on 16 October 2017 04:25 (A review of Carousel)

Call me crazy, but I almost miss the cotton candy fluff of other Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals if the alternative is Carousel which presents domestic abuse in the most questionable way imaginable. After all, the lousy main character gets semi-redeemed while his widow and orphaned child spout out that if someone loves you enough that being hit by them doesn’t hurt at all. Cue the heart-swelling music and fade out as we walk out with a knotted stomach when we’re clearly supposed to feel euphoria.


I have no aversion to dark musicals or musicals with thornier subject matter, I absolutely adore the work of Stephen Sondheim after all, but Carousel just doesn’t work for me from top to bottom. Maybe it’s better on the stage, but there’s something deeply “off” about the entire film. A majority of it is structured as a flashback, not a problem, but we never feel the weight or reality of the romance between these characters, major problem. Even worse is how the female lead is stuck in long-suffering, supportive mode with no other characteristics. She gets put through mounds of abuse and personal turmoil, but remains wholesome and pure throughout. The sense of ick is strong here.


Where Carousel excels is through its songs, most obviously in the evergreen “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” Shirley Jones’ powerful, emotionally demonstrative voice nails the romanticism and emotional longing in each of her songs, and she’s wonderfully delicate and pretty throughout, which is about all the film asks from her. In contrast, Gordon MacRae has more to do, and rich power that threatens to upend the film routinely. He’s giving a more ornate and realistic performance than the film’s artifice and studio-bound aesthetics can handle.


Perhaps that’s the central conflict of Carousel, a duality of pervading culture tone with a sensibility that is in stark contrast to it. There’s an emotional unease and darkness to Carousel, but it’s presented in glossy, candy-colored veneers like any number of its brethren. Perhaps it’s a noble failure of translation, look at how The King and I from the same year managed its melancholy, or perhaps it’s a consistent scarcity of cinematic ideas, one of the best moments is an extended ballet on the beach that announces itself as something completely different from the rest of the film by its sheer audacity.


Carousel is dour and sour no matter how heart-tugging the score gets or how comically cornball moments like “A Real Nice Clambake” are, that tone and feeling is prevalent. Same with knowing that our leading man is dead, so his eventual death scene is robbed of some of its power as we know he’s coming back down to check on things and try to make them right. It’s hard to engender sympathy for these characters, and Carousel beats us down in demanding that we do instead of earning it.


What keeps it hovering as an average movie musical is the strength of its score and two leading performances. Take away either of these elements and the entire thing would implode. As it remains, it’s an uneasy balancing act that shows its strain repeatedly and much of it doesn’t work.

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The Duke of Burgundy

Posted : 4 months, 3 weeks ago on 30 September 2017 01:53 (A review of The Duke of Burgundy)

The pastiche exterior and S&M teasing are the enticing bits, the coy titillations to peak your interest and rope you in. Then there’s the bait-and-switch as the power struggle reveals numerous complications and eventually settles into a quieter examination of the sacrifices and struggles involved in sustaining a long-term relationship.


The Duke of Burgundy is a beautiful film in every way, from the costumes to the sets to the thematic elements and performances. Everything about it works, and it all works at an optimal level. It also smartly keeps the eroticism at a low boil, never indulging in potentially exploitative nudity or in shock-value water sports. We know these things are going on, and routinely, but it’s merely a framing device to go further in its explorations of what keeps a couple together.


We meet Evelyn (Chiara D’Anna) first, and the first half of the film is glimpsed through her prism, as she’s riding a bike towards a secluded estate. She is the picture of timid and frail European schoolgirl beauty. We think she possesses very little power or sway in this relationship as Cynthia (Sidse Babett Knudse) is older, the owner of the house, potentially her employer, and an exacting mistress. It isn’t until roughly the halfway point that we realize just what the truth is.


Evelyn and Cynthia recreate the same day every day, with Evelyn having created the script that must be followed precisely. The S&M mind games, water sports, and humiliations are all based upon Evelyn’s wants and needs, and Cynthia clearly struggles in consistently providing them. These two women obviously love and care for each other a great deal, but one partner is sacrificing herself and her own needs to make the other happy. Trouble is looming and about to hit them with the blunt force of a natural disaster.


It’s extraordinary how something that felt so palpably strange and possibly on the verge of erotic exploitation is so easily redressed as merely a fact of life as it exists for this couple. S&M is a part of their daily life because one partner needs and demands it, and the other recognizes that even though it causes her discomfort sometimes you have to just suck it up and do the thing to make your partner happy. The eventual revolt feels like a natural outgrowth as one partner is sucking up all of the attention and making all of the demands, and the precarious balance that any relationship rests upon is clearly tipping too far one way.


It is here that The Duke of Burgundy proceeds to dig deeper into its material, and the window-dressing of erotic cinema is revealed as just that. These two could just as easily be fighting over the pets, or how one of them loves to go to some dive-joint for brunch every weekend and the other just wants to sleep in and be lazy. Arguments like these, the banalities of life and the friction involved in any two people occupying close quarters, happen with more frequency and urgency in the latter half. Chiara D’Anna makes a complaint about Knudsen’s chewing on nuts too loudly sound like a howling cry of anyone who’s ever snapped at their lover over some banal infraction while really stewing about a deeper problem.


It isn’t just Peter Strickland’s direction that sells this material, but his two lead actresses who deliver performances that feel fully realized and lived in. Our first introductions to them and their dynamic make it seem outré, but the longer we’re with them then the more we can see ourselves reflected in them. They spar, they reconcile, they try to meet each other half way, or go too far in the other direction to stay together and do the hard job of maintaining and strengthening intimacy with each other. Who knows if these two will stick it out for the long haul, but by the end we understand just what they have and why they fight to keep it together. There’s an air of tragedy here, but also one of burning intimacy and a desire to surpass limitations.

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The Best of Roxy Music

Posted : 4 months, 3 weeks ago on 29 September 2017 08:16 (A review of The Best of Roxy Music)

We begin at the end with Bryan Ferry’s transformation into remote, sphinxlike pop icon complete and work backwards through the droll lounge lizard and end with the cracked out, cynical romantic. The Best of Roxy Music admirably stitches together the two disparate phases of their career with more emphasis placed on the wilder, weirder earlier years than the more easily accessible disco-rock of the later. It’s a bit ingenious to be honest, we listen to them transition from sophisticated pop romantics into some asymmetrical art project.


It doesn’t hurt that The Best of Roxy Music is the essential one-disc collection of their career. Every album is accounted for, three of the non-album singles are here, and a smattering of smartly chosen album tracks make an appearance. More prevalent compilations make the band split their running time with Bryan Ferry’s solo career, as if to argue that Roxy Music was merely a prelude and backing band to his self-created mythology as a pop star.


While this is true up to a point, he was the front man and main songwriter after all, it downplays the unique contributions that guitarist Phil Manzanera, saxophonist Andy Mackay, drummer Paul Thompson made throughout the lifespan of the band. Not to mention Brian Eno’s predominant influence on their first two albums. Roxy Music was a group through and through, and one hell of a unique and original one at that.


They produced a series of singles and albums that transformed romantic language and imagery into a kind of aching art, and surrounded it in music that was prone to extended instrumental breakdowns and freak-outs. It’s impossible to imagine the New Wave scene without their first five albums, and their earliest glam-infused art rock clearly helped pave the way for the punk explosion. Seriously, listen to “Editions of You” from For Your Pleasure and try to tell me that something that barn burning didn’t help clear a path.


All of this is to say that like any truly great “best of” compilation, The Best of Roxy Music makes an authoritative and compelling argument for their place among the greatest bands of their generation, and maybe even of all-time. It’s hard to argue against when you get slammed in quick succession by songs as strong and dominating in their pop luster as “Avalon,” “Angel Eyes,” and “Oh Yeah.” Then we transition into the mutant-pop hooks of songs like “Love is the Drug,” a mission statement for Ferry and the group if there ever was one, and the experimental beauty of “Mother of Pearl.”


There doesn’t appear to be anything essential missing, and arguments for the presence of songs like “In Every Dream Home a Heartache,” “Prairie Rose,” or “Ladytron” would push it past its main objective as a one-stop shop and primer for the band. By no means the lone Roxy Music album you should ever have in your collection, it is a veritable sonic feast none the less. The balance is just right, it makes a cogent argument, and the music is uniformly superb.


This is a great jumping off point, and from here I would suggest checking out their first five studio albums and Avalon. Only two (Manifesto, Flesh + Blood) of their eight studio albums are mediocre, everything else is a delirious combination of the avant-garde, fashion, glamour, heartbreak, romance, kitsch, and sleek pop music.


DOWNLOAD: “Virginia Plain,” “Both Ends Burning,” “Pyjamarama”

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