The Help
Hugo
Leap Year (trailer)
Our Idiot Brother
Poetry (trailer)
Young Adult
Sometimes literary/film characters use the personals section too. Which leading man posted this want ad?
SWM seeks able governess. Not looking for romance; been BURNED before. Hobbies/skills include horseback-riding, international travel, abrupt changes in mood, and surviving multiple arson attempts. Enjoys scowling at servants and darkly brooding on the moors. Appearance unimportant, as house is ill-lit and shadowy. NOT MARRIED.
This week, I saw nothing because it was a holiday weekend and I spent 14 hours driving up and down the Eastern seaboard (blurgh). These links, however, made my life better:
–This 2004 New Yorker profile of Grady Hendrix is DELIGHTFUL.
–Hendrix-san lists twenty of the best Korean movies available for streaming on Netflix.
–Having grown up during the 90s (and therefore never having seen a Muppets movie), I was utterly indifferent to the new installment until I read this review – now I can’t wait to see it.
–This smart Whitney Cummings write-up makes me wish 2 Broke Girls was more interesting and funny and a LOT less racist so I could STAND it.
–If Susan Orlean can make orchids interesting (supposedly), I’m sure she performed wonders in her biography of Rin Tin Tin.
Last week, I interviewed Jose Padilha, the Brazilian director of Bus 174 (a superlative documentary), Elite Squad 1 and 2, and the upcoming Robocop remake starring Michael Fassbender for BoxOffice Magazine. I asked him to explain why Elite Squad was the first ever Brazilian film to have a policeman as a protagonist, how cops in Rio are like American soldiers in Iraq, and whether he’ll be the first Robocop when the technology becomes available.
For a quick and dirty guide to everything there is to know about Brazil, head over to BoxOffice Magazine to read my introduction to the country that gave the world bossa nova, Victoria’s Secret models, and “the landing strip” via its post-City of God films. A sample:
Gays: Despite being a predominantly Catholic country, Brazil is host to the world’s largest Pride Parade, with last year’s celebrations in São Paulo attracting over 3 million participants. Although homophobic attacks are on the rise, things are definitely looking up with the Brazilian Supreme Court unanimously instituting gay civil unions earlier this year and the majority of Brazilians considering homosexuality “natural.” Loosely based on the life of a drag queen/bandit/street fighter/father of seven, Madame Satã (Madam Satan) is a wild rush of a biopic. Admittedly, it’s not the most representative film about being gay in Brazil, but it’s a good sign that a queer man has not only reached the status of national icon and folk hero, but also the most popular legend in Latin America: the outlaw.
A sensibility of cruelty, particularly towards women, pervades Lars von Trier’s filmography. In Breaking the Waves and Dancer in the Dark, the female protagonist is killed; in Dogville, repeatedly raped; in Antichrist, genitally mutilated by herself. But with Melancholia, von Trier zooms past his usual misogyny and misanthropy into the indifferent arms of nihilism. Melancholia views the sudden and inescapable destruction of our planet through the eyes of two sisters, the depressive misanthrope Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and the caring, conventional Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg). In the long first half of the film, Justine struggles against her lethargy and hostile disinterest to get through her wedding. The second half takes place soon after the wedding, with Justine convinced, despite scientists’ reassurances to the contrary, that a large planet called Melancholia will hit Earth and looking forward to humankind being wiped out forever. Claire, meanwhile, reacts like a normal human being by being scared shitless and panicking the fuck out. The film’s very pretty and very pretentious introduction reveals that Melancholia does hit Earth, shattering our planet into pieces. This knowledge creates an unremitting sense of futility and fatalism throughout Melancholia‘s two hours, and subtly asks the viewer to side with Justine, the calm prophetess of doom, rather than with Claire, the mother who grieves that her young son will never have the chance to live his life.
*
But the thing is, it’s extremely difficult to sympathize with Justine unless you’re the type of useless nihilistic asshole whose most ardent desire is to see the world burn. Von Trier has stated that he conceived of Melancholia as an exploration of apocalyptic psychology: How might people react to the news of the imminent deaths of themselves and everyone around them? But the set-up of Justine and Claire as diametrical opposites is so obvious and without ambiguity that they’re hardly characters. Von Trier presents Justine as an enlightened sage, but she’s mostly just an incredibly selfish and cruel person who can barely muster sympathy for anyone beside herself. She puts her new husband through the humiliation of a grandiose wedding and a marriage that she has no interest in participating in, and pointedly mocks her devoted sister after (SPOILER: the latter’s husband kills himself in a fit of despair). If I were Justine’s sister, I might welcome the end of the world too, just so I could avoid spending another second with her.
*
Claire is a lot more sympathetic a character, but despite Gainsbourg’s superb performance, there’s an unrealness to her as well. Von Trier very well might have wanted to examine apocalyptic psychology, but on which planet? The humans about to be nullified out of existence in Melancholia are barely recognizable as such. Justine and Claire are sisters that not only look nothing alike, one of them speaks with an American accent and the other like a Brit. They live in a real-life castle with a stoic manservant and an 18-hole golf course, and they never, ever leave the estate or invite anyone over (with the exception of the wedding). It’s not at all clear in which country the characters live, or even in what era. With the exception of one brief scene involving the Internet, Melancholia might well have taken place in 1930. Psychological portraits require a minimal level of verisimilitude for viewers to establish identification, but the characters in Melancholia are too archetypal and the setting too indeterminate or remote from normal experience to evoke a sense of lived reality. The final scene of the film, with Justine, Claire, and her son all holding hands as Melancholia hurls towards Earth, is undoubtedly moving, but the overall sense is that of walking past a stranger’s funeral: all the elements of tragedy are there, but you’re a bit scandalized by your own niggling sense of detachment.
This week, I saw The Skin I Live In (review here), Elite Squad 2 (review coming soon), and Melancholia (review coming sooner). These links made my life better:
–Reading these reviews about the pregnancy bodyhorror in Twilight: Breaking Hymen, I’m wishing all over again that I was into this Bella/Edward/Snoutface phenomenon. I like Kristen Stewart (she’s a good, if limited, actress), I love vampires, and I’m finally starting to see Taylor Taut-abs’ hotness. But that first movie was so boring.
–These doll-head cups are probably way creepier than anything Twilight could pull off.
–I’m glad I don’t live in a world that caters to dog wants, but it’s nice to visit.
–Animals commit suicide sometimes. Sadface.
–I almost never read anything of the Seven Habits of Rich Dad, Poor Dad Winning Friends and Influencing People variety, but this article on how to shape your career or find a new one is probably the best thing I’ve read all week.
When The Skin I Live In (La piel que inhabito) premiered last month, Slate culture critic June Thomas wrote an exhaustive list of the recurring images, plot points, themes, and actors in Pedro Almodóvar’s movies. But I’ve been exhausted by the self-recycling and auto-homage in Almodóvar’s work for quite a while — since the mid-2000s, in fact. I appreciated Volver much more than I liked it, and watching Broken Embraces felt more like an obligation than a treat. (That’s not a criticism of those films or of Penélope Cruz; my unenthused reaction was merely the result of my Almodóvar binges of years past.) So I went into The Skin I Live In with low expectations (for pleasure, not cinematic craft). About half an hour into The Skin I Live In, I began to wonder if, despite the uncharacteristically Gothic tone and unfamiliar quasi-medieval setting, the only pleasure Almodóvar offered me now was his impeccable taste in dramatic interior design. I was happy to be swiftly proved wrong: The Skin I Live In is a spellbinding, narratively complex revenge/love/sci-fi story somewhere between Pygmalion and Frankenstein that explores more deeply than any of the director’s other films the creepy, morbid, even macabre side of love.
If you haven’t seen the film yet, do yourself a huge favor and watch it unspoiled. The film answers the questions it poses — Who is the body-stockinged woman (Elena Ayana) that a plastic surgeon (Antonio Banderas) has trapped in his home? Why won’t he let her leave? And why does Banderas’ housekeeper (Almodóvar veteran Marisa Paredes) want the mystery woman killed? — rather languorously, and much of the viewer’s pleasure lies in guessing, then being shocked by, the twisted relationships between the characters. (If you must spoil yourself, click here.) Much like 2004′s Bad Education, Skin asks the viewer mid-way through the film to reconsider her sympathies for the protagonist by methodically revealing the murky but depraved motivations and desires of the mad doctor, thereby blurring the categories of (anti)hero and villain.
There are almost as many rapes in Almodóvar’s films as women on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and Skin features two rape scenes of different women. For a director known and admired for his fully developed female characters, Almodóvar has gotten into occasional trouble with the P.C. police for his idiosyncratic rape scenes, most notably for Kika (1994), in which he attempts a humorous rape scene. (Almodóvar’s experiment earned the film a virtual ban in the U.S.*) Jason Mittell, a media scholar, observes that “rape is a more taboo and emotionally volatile crime to portray on-screen than murder” — a situation that undoubtedly attracts the provocateur in Almodóvar to the topic. Several critics describe Skin as cold, clinical, and emotionally unengaging. While the film is indeed elegant and medical, I found it to be quite emotionally engrossing, and wonder if those critics found their sympathies for the characters inhibited by the fact that Almodóvar offers redemption to one of the rapist characters.
* Almodóvar’s take on the rape scenes of Kika and Vera, the mystery woman in Skin: The rape of Kika, like the rape of Vera, are terrible events, but they happen to two extremely strong women who have decided that they’re going to survive whatever happens to them, including the rape. At the moment, during the rape, when the victims try to talk to their rapists, it creates a kind of comic effect. Some people are outraged that there’s a comic aspect to those rape scenes, but I think you have to take it as it is. I’m not joking about rape at all, but sometimes in the course of the most terrible events, when somebody has decided that they’re going to survive, they may say or do things that appear comic to the spectator.
This week, I saw Harold and Kumar 3 (my reaction here) and Horrible Bosses (just horrible). These links made my life better:
–This week, Americans laughed at Rick Perry for his 53-second brain fart, but they seem to love the fact that Adam Sandler’s somehow successfully parlayed his brain farts into a decades-long career. He also gave an black hole of an interview on Thursday’s The Daily Show. It was so bad Jon Stewart offered to re-do the interview for the studio audience, then just wound up apologizing twice for how lame it was.
–Nic Cage is, of course, a total nutjob. I’m sort of glad he’s an internationally recognized movie star, because he needs the big checks from Hollywood to continue to be a ridiculous human being who still has both his kneecaps.
–This review makes me wish I liked Sons of Anarchy, because there is nothing good on TV these days. (Exceptions: Parks and Rec, Community, Hung, maybe Modern Family.) Suggestions welcome!
–Farewell, Google+. We hardly knew ye, because you were boring and derivative.
–Sometimes I think about becoming a stage mom to my gorgeous dog, but I don’t think she’d go for this type of abject humiliation.
Over at BoxOffice Magazine, I explain why the stereotype-shattering stoner series isn’t really that enlightened:
Harold (John Cho) and Kumar (Kal Penn) were heralded as ethnic saviors, proof positive that not all Asian Americans are robotic workaholics devoid of creativity and sex appeal. Through the haze of the skunkweed, I saw that Harold and Kumar subverted stereotypes about Asian Americans-well, Asian American males, anyway, who Hollywood regularly portrays as meek, asexual nerds or inscrutable but well-meaning kung fu masters. But as a female Asian American viewer, my first impression of Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle wasn’t identification—it was disappointment tinged with disgust. I found myself resenting White Castle for seducing me with its Asian Asian protagonists (and the fine Cho and Penn), then squandering my interest by flashing boobs, telling poop jokes and extolling the delights of homoerotic male bonds.
