Art for Everyone's Sake
To the Editor:
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To the Editor:
An angry clown is a strange sight to behold, and most critics seemed to regard "Observe and Report" with an appropriately quizzical attitude. Why, they pondered, had Rogen -- a swiftly rising star in the firmament of American comedy -- chosen to shed his loveable (and bankable) screen persona, in favor of this morbid confection? Rogen's performance as Ronnie Barnhardt, the racist, sexist, violent nut-job of "Observe and Report," embodies all of the characteristics that a mainstream comedian should presumably avoid. Even the film's most vociferous detractors seemed humbled by the audacity of the stunt, which few of Rogen's fellow comics would ever dare attempt. When was the last time you saw Will Ferrell or Jim Carrey beat a drug dealer to death with a nightstick?
Even the most casual movie fan would be wrong to regard this statement as anything less than tremendous. Within the film world, Needham's prediction is roughly comparable to President John F. Kennedy's declaration in 1961 that the United States would land a man on the moon in 10 years; bold, gutsy, based more on ambition than hard facts, but still staggering in its implications. Imagine the most comprehensive movie site on the web, whose list of titles dwarfs the knowledge of even the most devout movie buff, someday offering every single film in its catalog for instant public consumption. Everything from Kate Hudson's latest rom-com to black-and-white Slovenian dramas from 1962, viewable at the click of a button.
The Oscars are obsolete. Year after year, the Academy has proven itself to be hopelessly out of touch with public taste, and this year's nominations are no exception. It's an unforgivable travesty that beloved blockbusters like "The Dark Knight" and "Wall-E" were left out of the Best Picture category in favor of pretentious "art" films that nobody has ever heard of. Seriously, five nominations for "The Reader?" Just because a film stars Kate Winslet doesn't automatically make it good, Academy. And "Slumdog Millionaire" was an entertaining little movie, but when your Best Pic frontrunner is a low-budget Indian film with no major stars, don't expect us to tune in for another interminable award ceremony.
The credits of "Gran Torino" claim that Clint Eastwood plays a character named Walt Kowalski. This is not quite accurate. Clint Eastwood plays Clint Eastwood, and he's really good at it. At the tender age of 78, Eastwood's status as the reigning badass of American cinema remains relatively unchallenged (Jack Nicholson runs a distant second). And how could this be? With his taut, wizened features stretched tight over a perpetual grimace, Eastwood bears less resemblance to a human being than to something carved from a very old piece of wood. Throw in the voice -- which has coarsened with age from a throaty whisper into a low, snarling rumble -- and the effect falls somewhere between self-parodic and terrifying.
It seems like Anne Hathaway has been teetering on the edge of superstardom for ages, but for one reason or another her career has remained just inches away from the A-list. It doesn't help that the actress -- a luminous beauty, with more than a little talent lurking behind her porcelain features -- carries the dubious mantle of a teeny-bopper idol, courtesy of her early work in the "Princess Diaries" franchise (2001).
Clint Eastwood's new movie "Changeling" is a masterpiece of technical craftsmanship. The editing is crisp and concise. The cinematography is gorgeous. The score (composed by Eastwood himself) is full of lyrical grace. The art department's recreation of 1920s Los Angeles is the best I've seen since "Chinatown"(1974). With such immense talent on display, it's a shame that the movie itself is as dull as toast.
Where in the world is George W. Bush? With mere days remaining before America selects its next president, the current one has become harder to find than a WMD. He has been almost entirely absent from the campaign trail, emerging from his bunker only when certain circumstances (like, say, the global financial meltdown) demand an obligatory sound byte.
"Choke" is a charming little movie, but appreciating it requires an enthusiastic appetite for sleaze. Here is a film made in the spirit of cheerful depravity, a comedy that manages to cram an endless parade of debauched behavior into a mere 90 minutes of screen time. Sitting through it is like listening to a dirty joke that goes on forever; there's no punch line to speak of, just an endless tirade of filth.
When we first meet Genghis Khan, he's an uppity little nine-year-old named Temudjin, whose penetrating stare suggests he's got big plans for Central Asia. The son of a local warlord, Temudjin is offered his pick of all the prepubescent girls in the village to take as his bride ("Make sure she has good legs," his father cautions). He selects a bright-eyed cherub named Borte, and everything seems to be going swimmingly -- until a violent uprising drives Temudjin away from his home and into the wilderness.
Over the next few months, throngs of excitable young people will seek refuge from global warming inside the air-conditioned womb of the multiplex, where they will be treated to that particular brand of sensory assault known as "the summer movie." Every summer, Hollywood lets loose a thundering stampede of enormous films, full of the hottest stars, the coolest special effects and the probable absence of little extras like plot. It's rampant commercialism elevated to the level of delirious pop, and I mean that as a compliment.
Charlie, it seems, is not cut out for the rigors of public school. When he shows up on the first day wearing a suit and tie, his classmates mistake him for a teacher. When a resident bully asks about his briefcase, Charlie politely corrects him: "Actually, I believe it's an attache case." Relentless beatings immediately ensue. Things aren't much better back home: With his father out of the picture, Charlie has been left to look after his rich floozy of a mom (Hope Davis), who pops pills and guzzles chardonnay with alarming enthusiasm.
Despite an awfully good chance that the writers strike will torpedo this year's Oscar ceremony, the Academy has gone ahead and released its nominations anyway. There are a few unexpected surprises (did "Norbit" really get more Oscar nominations than "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead?"), but for the most part it's business as usual for an awards ceremony increasingly regarded by many as an irrelevant glam-fest.
Audiences who venture out to Spaulding Auditorium this Friday to see the acclaimed thriller "Michael Clayton"(2007) will have no trouble recognizing the chiseled features of George Clooney, who stars as the eponymous lawyer embroiled in a vast corporate conspiracy. But nestled in the film's supporting cast is a face that students in the audience may be even more familiar with: Dartmouth's own Sam Gilroy '09.
You get a few thoughtful recommendations to tack onto the Netflix queue at your leisure, while I get the pleasure of reminiscing about my favorite movie-going experiences of the past 12 months. Even better, I get to fend off attacks from legions of impassioned readers who are predictably chagrined that I left (insert your favorite movie here) off my list.
The posters for "Short, Sweet and Supernormal" feature a large erect phallus pointing at the title of the show. When I asked director Avni Shah '07 what the illustration had to do with the performance, she smiled knowingly.
If you ever have the unfortunate luck to find yourself in the same theater as "August Rush," here's my advice: Shut your eyes. This is a movie to be heard, not seen. A catastrophically wrongheaded film about an orphaned musical prodigy, "August Rush" is two hours of beautiful music stapled onto one of the dopiest movies I've ever seen. The soundtrack is transcendent. Everything else is dreck.
One thing's for sure: never have the Dark Ages looked so chic. "Beowulf" was filmed two years ago, but has since been labored over by a team of digital animators who have given every frame of the movie a computer generated imagery-facelift. The result resembles an eerily realistic video game, in which the actors play digital avatars of themselves. As the titular Scandinavian warrior, Ray Winstone looks about 50 pounds lighter than usual; Angelina Jolie, meanwhile, has been transformed into a buck-naked she-demon, whose sensitive areas are concealed by strategically placed slime.
Oh, but what it could have been. With a remarkable cast that includes Tom Cruise, Meryl Streep and Robert Redford, the film is as much a waste of talent as a political sentiment. Cruise plays Jasper Irving, an ambitious Republican senator who orchestrates elaborate military strategy from his perch on Capitol Hill. Hoping to win public support for his latest stratagem -- something about the mobilization of American troops in Afghanistan -- Irving calls in journalist Janine Roth (Streep) for an exclusive interview. The dialogue between these two oscillates between the banal and the improbably eloquent; listening to them blather on, I yearned for the movie to switch gears into something more interesting.
I first saw "Lonesome" a little over a year ago, at the Telluride Film Festival in Colorado. I had seen roughly 12 feature films in the preceding 72 hours, and was drifting along in a sleep-deprived movie coma when our program director announced that the next screening on the agenda was a black-and-white silent movie from 1928. I remember sighing in blissful relief at the thought that, at last, I had come upon a film worth sleeping through.