Three Pronged Rant: Dogville, Scarface, Kill Bill

Three Blind Rants

Now, as it happens my last two film reviews have been pretty glowing, and there are more in a similar veign to arrive shortly, which is pretty much down to me being on a good run of films. But it's important to note that a) I don't like ALL films, b) I'm not unwilling to regard films I don't like and c) some films piss me off by proxy more than quality. I'm talking here about the laziness of the viewer, the lack of individual taste and, frankly, the general pretention of the films in general.

I've managed to find three that annoy me for differing reasons, including two that are insanely popular among film fans who never seem to find reasons to justify it. I will not pull punches. There's a few others I might have included, James Cameron's money making schemes pop into mind, but I'll leave that for another day.


Dogville

Dogville, from Dogme director Lars Von Trier, is the Dane's first foray into Hollywood filmmaking, backs a quality cast, a decent premise and story, and of the course the aforementioned Von Trier at the helm. So far so good.

I'm not reviewing this, so I'm just going to cut to the chase and express my fury at the level of pretention and false artistic enterprise on show here.

That would be because Dogville, a story of a mysterious woman who wanders into a peaceful midwest town, is a play. I mean that literally, as well. It's a play, it takes place on a stage, with few props and markings indicating buildings and such. Now, I know what you're thinking; I'm having a go at the beauty of stage acting, the purest form of performance. But I'm not. Consider that this is also a film, advertised as such, put in cinemas and on DVD, and most importantly never seen anywhere near live performances.

It's not daring, it's lazy. Why in the name of God's appendage would you go to a cinema to see a play? To turn the tables, it would be like going to the Old Vic to see Laurence Olivier play Henry VIII only for the stagehands to wheel out a giant TV and play a recording of an earlier work. Would you not feel cheated? The result is that we lose the best part of the play, being there in the flesh, because performances are even more impressive and magnificent when the actor is performing only a few yards in front of you.

Of course, you could always argue that it's all about the story. Well, it's difficult to really appreciate the story when the film has no sets, props, score, cinematography or anything else that a film really, really should have. On top of that, the story isn't the best. It works well on paper, but doesn't stand up when it's THE ONLY THING on show. Nicole Kidman is at her willowly worst, chanelling Natassja Kinski's annoying sombre performance in the film adapatation of Tess of the D'Ubervilles.

The worst part is that the pretentious, corrupt extravangance is brought to you by a man of undoubted talent as Von Trier, who could have taken us on an original journey but instead chooses this. The fact it's highly regarded despite it's cripplingly misguided idea makes matters worse. Somehow it manages to insult but stage-plays and cinema motion picture in one go. Bring out the fucking Oscars.


Scarface

Once again, there's an element of 'I know what you're thinking' with added 'Oh no, please God, don't!' about this entry. So for the record, I'm not going to tell you I hated this film, and no it's not an utter waste of time. It's a badly flawed but occasionally entertaining film which falls for me somewhere between 5 and 6 out of 10. This rant has more to do with how the film is perceived.

To open with, I'll point out the mentioned flaws. Namely a lack of substance to match the style, a rickety and overlong plot that relies too heavily on it's violence, and one of Al Pacino's weakest performances. This came during a bad stage of his career, namely the eighties. Sandwiched between the ill-judged Cruising and the disastarous Revolution that almost ruined his career.

And it's Pacino's poor turn that perhaps represents the film's biggest problem, being that Tony Montano is one of the most unlikable lead characters in any film. By way of example, Pacino played someone equally morally reprehensible in the form of Michael Corleone, but made him sympathetic through sheer pathos of performance and genuine personality. Montana is a charicature, as over the top as everything else about a film where Brian De Palma loses his sense of control. There's no real personality aside from a psychosis and a perverse determination to reach the top of the drugs trade. We never encounter the loss of soul, because he never had one, and as a result his rise and fall never interest the viewer on a personal level. No character development, it's just 'that Cuban asshole', who starts off as a poor underdog asshole, then becomes an all powerful, self made asshole and finishes up as a dead asshole.

This is where the problems begin, because I can leave the film alone if it weren't for the fact it's so highly regarded. I frequently hear people citing it as their favourite film, and these people are usually all connected by social groups in which personal opinion is rarely cited. I have an inkling that alot of these people haven't actually gotten round to watching it, but that's human nature and the deep seeded desire to fit in. It's as unlikable as big Tony's narcotically fuelled shenanigans orgy. Ultimately, Scarface ends up being a macho fantasy because it involves savage violence, drugs and Al Pacino (as the way in which to gain more credibility within their 'taste').

To hear somebody claim Montana is one of the greatest film characters, or that Pacino's acting is more than disappointing is pretty much disrespectful to great film characters and acting. The film's failings come from a badly written main character and a misguided lead performance. If you want to see a similar but superior film, catch Carlito's Way. De Palma, Pacino, Hispanics, Drugs, 10 years later, and a brilliant film with Pacino at his best and a lead character who feels like your buddy despite his murky origins and way of life.

But then again, you'd have to go against the crowd, so don't bother. Or you could always keep it quiet.


Kill Bill (Part I & II)

I've left the worst till last, because Kill Bill shares all the ingredients of the two previous entries: utterly misguided self-indulgence and insane popularity.

Now, the worst films are usually the ones where the man in charge is not given any restrictions whatsoever, everything gets lost in the temptation and frankly a mess ensues. Prime example here.

Tarantino is a fine, nay, great filmmaker. Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown brought him from video store worker to the hottest thing on the market, a guaranteed box office pull. So naturally, the producers give him a big budget and full control to do whatever the hell he wants because it will sell. The result was Kill Bill.

I have an appreciation of silly, over the top entertainment, and I'm well aware that Tarantino's own personal tastes will occasionally slip into the league of obscure reference by way of converting the film. But he's at his best when he sticks to his cheerfully immoral stories and retains a grip on a common theme.

However, Kill Bill is, aside from perhaps Caligula, one of the most indulgent pieces of tripe I've had the pleasure of seeing. Tarantino weds together his love of classic Western, Far East martial arts, ironic juxtaposition, Hammer style violence and tangent in a rambling plot which also has the annoying trait of displaying deliberately wooden acting to move along. The clash of styles turns into a quagmire of boringly orchestrated katana fights, stand offs and plot twists as Uma Thurman (without the merest hint of charisma, despite her fine talents in this regard) makes her way across deadlands and Asian woodland to track down and kill her boss, the rarely seen Bill (David Carradine).

Give a film buff no limits and he will inevitabley throw in everything. Sure, he'll love watching it himself but the taste is subjective and even Tarantino diehards will double take. Or at least they should. To top it all off, it even comes in two parts with an abrupt ending to the first half, which is an utter luxury since so much time is wasted it could have fitted neatly in one go. The payoff is a bizzarely brief endgame.

Yet once again it is lauded, both critically and by fans, in a way that makes me wonder whether I'm missing the joke or possibly just crazy. For a film to drag during it's marquee action and fight sequences, in particular when Thurman's Bride fends off dozens of sword yielding suited bodyguards, is the sign of bad things being present. So, for me, it wastes time and shows a distinct lack of understanding of what makes a film great (from a man who most definetly has that understanding). And yes, like Scarface, I'm again sharing no sympathy, empathy or care for the lead character. And again, it's an utter travesty since the quality actor is there but the acting isn't.

So, all three succeed because despite being messy, hugely flawed and badly conceived, they escape from the prospect of flop by means that are an utter mystery to me.

Rant over.

The Prestige: Film Review

9/10

Following his caped crusader reboot with the previous year's Batman Begins, and his patchy Insomnia, Christopher Nolan goes back to the mind bending, non-linear routes with a dazzling and gripping tale of two leading magicians in turn of the century London who's rivalry becomes increasingly sinister as they fight to top each other's feats.

Told in flashback, we see how friends working as understudies to a reknowned but fading showman, cockney commoner Alfred Borden (Christian Bale) and wealthy American Robert Angiers (Hugh Jackman), become direct rivals after Angiers' young wife (Piper Perabo) dies during on an onstage accident which results from Borden's mistake. Initially, Angiers pursues a vendetta by rigging Borden's displays, even going as far as to shoot off two of Borden's fingers in a 'catch the bullet' trick. Enlisting the help of expert Cutter (Michael Caine), Angiers looks for innovative methods of raising his profile, but is hampered as Borden indulges in unexpected revenge attempts. While Borden marries and has a child (Rebecca Hall plays Sarah Borden), Angiers brings on board glamourous assistant Olivia Wenscombe (Scarlet Johansson) and the two duel for top status in London. However, their pursuits are turned on their head when Borden introduces his impossible new trick, the Transporting Man, in which he appears to literally teleport. Angiers is so enthralled that he works to solve, and match, this effort. At this point their obssessions begin, leading to wrecked personal lives, ventures into the unknown and ultimately moral event horizons being reached.

As you would expect from Nolan and his screenwriting brother Jonathan, The Prestige can best be described as mind bending both in terms of it's format and it's unfolding story, slight of hands a plenty coupled with red herrings, MacGuffins and geniusly layed clues to a truly astonishing climax where the real magic is laid bare. In many ways, the film itself is like a magic show, constantly dazzling and shocking while always teasing and holding back answers.

Bale and Jackman are stellar, if not superb in their leading roles, with Jackman's showman like qualities clearly on display as the charismatic entertainer Angiers, while Bale's unpredicatable, dual-persona is excellently and subtly handled. There's also fine supporting work from Michael Caine as the veteran Cutter, often acting as Jackman's moral centre and constantly reigning in his prodege. Scarlet Johansson has real charm and complexity as the mysterious Olivia, while Rebecca Hall is wistfully enthusiastic yet over time left beaten by Borden's on-off love. There's even room for a small, but hugely important, performance by David Bowie as Nikola Tesla, who is brought into the unfolding plot by Angiers' increasingly dangerous actions.

An excellent and aptmospheric score from David Julyan, composer for Nolan's earlier masterpiece Memento, staples the film and sets a dark but enthralling tone, while London is beautifully rendered by underplayed design work and attention to detail. There's even room for some much needed humour, much of it down to the showmen's habit of small tricks to lighten the mood.

Something you can always say about a Nolan film is that it demands a rewatch, and The Prestige follows in the wake of Memento in truly offering something so densely layered that you have to admire the sheer thought into the overall story. This isn't shock value cinema, because everything is there to suggest the destination, with little touches that are quickly forgotten adding to a mosaic which only a detective could piece together on the first round. As the film's tagline itself says, 'Are you watching closely?'. This pretty much sums the film up, it's all in the detail.

Some may have criticised occasional leaps, particularly personified by Tesla's role in proceedings, but it never jumps the shark in so much as it doesn't feel out of place, is never over the top, and is never too convenient for the sake of plot. The idea of escalation in film is brilliantly displayed here, as things get more and more out of hand, pushing the boundaries into near darkly disturbing fantasy.

If there is only one criticism I can level at the film, and it perhaps robs itself of a pefect ten as a result, it's that there's little room left over for emotional investment in the characters. Neither Borden nor Angiers are particularly sympathetic, but the pace of the story and the enthralling plot means you simply must know what will happen, whether you care about Bale or Jackman aside.

Overall, a truly brilliant feat equal in amazing visualisation of story to Inception, if not quite on the same emotional level. A magic show about magic. Nine out of ten, watch it.

Burn After Reading: Film Review

8/10

The Coen Brothers get back to their darkly comic, farcical routes here after the serious and symbolic No Country For Old Men, with this off beat and surreal comedy of errors.

Burn After Reading follows a chain of events that occur after CIA Analyzer and all round windbag Osbourne Cox (John Malkovich) is fired for his "drinking problem". His sudden urge to write a memoir, despite having no real stories to tell, sees the leak of potentially important intelligence, which is picked up by two idiotic gym workers, Linda (Coen regular Frances McDormand) and Chad (Brad Pitt) who see the potential for profit, mainly to pay for Linda's urge for plastic surgery. In a knock around way that involves divorce, stalking, internet dating and DIY sex devices, their blackmail attempts also drag in Cox's straight-laced wife (Tilda Swinton) and her lover, former bodyguard and sex addict Harry (George Clooney). Confusion and misunderstanding reign supreme as a dance of destruction is led.

The film really is reminescent of earlier Coen brother efforts such as Fargo and The Big Lebowski, with it's oddball humour, bizarre yet fascinating characterisations and inspired use of a quality cast. Coincidence and bad luck are keypoints to the farce unfolding, and this is ostensibly what this is, a farce. Of course, there's still the sprinkling of unexpected violence which somehow fits the almost surreal aptmosphere of the piece.

In as much as the script is superb, with some realistic yet hilarious dialogue, it leaves a lot for the imput for the actors, and they have a great time with the material. McDormand plays things out as an almost obliviously pessimistic optimist, citing her irritation at negative attitudes while pitying her own physical shortcomings. In an oddly innocent way, she uses those around her and uses her mantra of moving forward as a means of avoiding the burden of the damage she causes.

Brad Pitt, bizzare to watch with skin tight cycling shorts and a hair dye malfunction, is a childlike buffoon with a bizzare habit of repeating himself and dancing at inappropriate moments, almost has a charm about him reminscent of Father Dougal McGuire. In one scene his reaction to being punched in the face is that of a heartbroken and confused infant, more baffled than worried.

Tilda Swinton and John Malkovich get to enjoy interesting spins on their images, with Malkovich all pomp and bluster but invariably loathed by those around him and with no real source for his high self opinion, while Swinton's ice queen seems unaware of what goes on around her despite clear intelligence and a commanding presence, relying mostly on put downs when she doesn't understand or care to understand the behaviour of those around her.

For me, the film is dominated by George Clooney's hysterical performance as the borderline ADHD, love rat Harry Pfarrer. When not speaking at length about his various allergies, with a breakneck pace of speech reminscent of Michael Keaton on the white powder, he is bedding various women despite very much loving his wife. His character is similar in ways to Pitt's, in that there's a boylike quality in which he often misses the mark while trying to please, while also holding back paranoia which is solidified by a mystery car following him as he goes for his post-nuptials run.

There's also sterling work from eternal 'that guy' character actors Richard Jenkins, the only sympathetic character in the story as Linda's boss and unrequited admirer, and J.K Simmons, as a baffled CIA director being appraised of the unravelling disaster.

Beefed up by an oddly melancholy score and excellent slow burn editing, there's a laid back pace about the story despite it's content, while a couple of shocks register but are always a source of laughs rather than game changers.

Overall, Burn After Reading is a great gem of a black comedy, filled with enough plot, hidden touches and subtly played laughs to ensure a high rewatch value. Very much recommended.

A strong 8 out of 10.