Star Wars—Episode II: Attack of the Clones

Attack of the Clones ventures into new territory for a Star Wars film. Where The Phantom Menace was light, innocent, and regal, this middle episode of the prequel trilogy is brooding and dark. Its noir-ish mystery plot is fairly uncharacteristic of George Lucas’ established narrative approach and a welcome shift in tone. Clones features some exotic locales and set pieces that feel fresh and alive. For instance, after a sensational chase through Coruscant, the film takes us to the city-planet's Blade Runner-esque street level, a seedy place cocooned from the sterile rooftops occupied by Jedi and politicians. But in spite of these energetic flashes in storytelling, Lucas again fails epically at creating a real moment between characters. More pointedly, his struggles with dialogue are especially evident in this entry, which sees young love bloom between Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala. Here we see that Lucas’ problem with dialogue is not just a matter of stiff writing, but also with faulty delivery that in most cases lacks rhythm. I suppose Lucas can fall back on how the players in his young lover’s tale don’t know how to be in love (which in part explains their awkwardness), but that doesn’t let him off the hook for his unshakeable propensity for explicitly stating or visualizing every idea he wants to convey. This represents the main problem with the prequel films. Because we are carefully taken from Point A to Point B with such painfully direct methods, the films are rendered incapable of suggesting or observing anything beyond their pixilated panoramas and consonant-free dialogue. (Next week I'll discuss how Lucas finally finds his voice and offers more successful attempts at visual poeticism with Episode III.) As for Clones, we are only afforded brief glimpses of the lucid storytelling and simple, powerful images that marked the original films. In particular, one stirring vision of lumbering spaceships riding to the horizon of war amid orange skies captures more feeling than anything before it in the prequel movies. While not making up for Episode II’s flaws, these images fleetingly realize the potential of a marriage between digital technology and narrative. Unfortunately, they also illustrate the missed opportunities of these films. (George Lucas, 2002) **½

Drive

Drive is a jolt of aesthetic pleasure the likes of which I can’t recall since Michael Mann’s Miami Vice. Like Vice, it breaks free from the confines of plot and turns what could have been a straightforward genre picture into a wholly original and evocative vision. Some critics have noted that Drive feels like an updated version of Taxi Driver, as both films are about an isolated driver (played in Drive by Ryan Gosling) who carries out a violent fantasy to save a woman. Others have observed that it channels 80s pop cinema (particularly Risky Business), with its sprawling pink title lettering and 80s-infused electronica tunes. Both are true, but the list of the film’s thematic and stylistic influences runs much deeper. Drive is a pastiche of disparate styles and genres, gleaning outmoded cinematic dressings and repurposing them onto a splashy canvas of mood and color. Director Nicolas Winding Refn’s precise, sumptuous compositions coupled with a hypnotic soundtrack imbue the proceedings with a dreamy atmosphere that contrasts well with the guarded emotions of the characters. As the performances go, Albert Brooks stands out as a producer-turned-mobster who dispenses with his enemies with casual ease. His portrayal of controlled psychosis is frightening and masterful, and it is one of Drive’s many lyrical touches. (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2011) ***½

The Help

“No one had ever asked what it feel like to be me.” These are the words of Aibileen Clark, a black maid—brought to vivid life by Viola Davis—whose painful story provides the basis of The Help. If only it had the courage to tell her story, this movie might have been remarkable. Instead, despite several soulful performances, The Help is Hallmark-style comfort food. Set in a small Mississippi town in the pre-Civil Rights ‘60s, the film introduces a slew of characters and plotlines coalescing around central themes of racial injustice. I had a hard time following names (except Aibileen), so please bear with me as I try to make sense of the various subplots. First, you have the young white girl (Emma Stone) who decides to interview Aibileen and other maids for a book she's hoping to have published. Her story is complicated by a strained relationship with her insecure mom (Allison Janney), who lacks the backbone to stand up for what is right. Meanwhile, an unrelenting racist bitch (Bryce Dallas Howard) will stop at nothing to stand in the young white girl’s way from telling the maids’ stories. On the other side of town resides a sweet white girl (Jessica Chastain) who wants to fit in with other white girls but finds connecting with her maid (Octavia Spencer) much easier. I’m sure there are a few I am forgetting, but you get the idea.

Writer-director Tate Taylor ostensibly wants each of these stories to illuminate a different shade of a larger, more significant patchwork narrative. But none of these threads resound as deeply as Aibileen’s and those of the other maids. There is a deeply moving scene late in the film that illustrates the film’s misguided focus and failed potential. After struggling to find maids to go on record for the book, Stone’s character walks into Aibeleen’s house and finds it full of women wanting tell their stories. It has a raw power that resonates within the context of the previous scenes and also as a broader statement of courage. But the moment is fleeting, since the movie then depicts the telling of the stories in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it montage, presumably in effort to push on to resolutions for the other plotlines.

I initially had reservations toward The Help taking a painful story and turning into inspirational fluff. But come to think of it, I would have settled for inspirational fluff if it were actually about Aibileen. Alas, merely telling us that certain stories need to be told is not enough. You have to tell the story. Only then can we know what it feels like to be Aibeleen or any other of the maids whose stories are glossed over by The Help. (Tate Taylor, 2011) **

Star Wars—Episode I: The Phantom Menace

I was 16 years old when The Phantom Menace was released. And for the previous 10 years I had watched the three Star Wars films with what some would call an unhealthy regularity. When I saw Episode I for the first time, I didn't mind or even notice many of its problems. I left the film exhilarated by the visions I had seen: dangerous encounters with underwater leviathans; a maze of Venetian streets and pathways; a machine army marching in perfect unison; an entire planet covered in cityscapes. More than a decade later, I am pleasantly surprised by how well many of these images hold up. And I would still argue that the three-way light saber battle at the end of the film is one of the high points of the entire series. Having said that, George Lucas’ failure to meet the most basic criteria of competent filmmaking makes The Phantom Menace feel like an amateur film at times, proving every bit as grating as its reputation suggests. Lucas has become infamous for bad dialogue since the prequels, but this was also a trait of the original Star Wars and can quite honestly add to the fun of storytelling. Where the film really suffers is with its schematic narrative, poorly staged and edited scenes, and a misguided sense of humor that veers on embarrassing. In addition, Lucas' drawing of the young Anakin Skywalker—most notably his accidental late-film heroics—is so wrongheaded that one has to wonder whether Lucas had been questioned at any point as the movie was being made. Unfortunately these flaws are so pronounced that they overshadow what the film gets right. For instance, Liam Neeson is convincing as a calmly defiant Jedi and the villain Darth Maul has a palpable screen presence. I also love the frenzy of the opening scenes, which moves from location to location without allowing much time to take in what's happening. Then there are also smaller pleasures like the background activity to the marketplace scenes on the desert planet, which very much capture the spirit and detail-oriented sense of the original films. But, in whole, The Phantom Menace is glaringly disjointed. I still maintain that its qualities are overlooked, but Lucas' startling ineptitude with some elements of filmmaking/storytelling craft make it a hard film to defend. (George Lucas, 1999) **

Six Fridays of Star Wars

As if we don't have enough Star Wars in our lives, I've begun work on a rather epic essay series on George Lucas' six-film opus. In light of how saturated pop culture and criticism has become with Star Wars for nearly 35 years, my goal is to offer a slightly different and perhaps fresher perspective on one of cinema's most visible works. Thus, I am currently in the midst of re-watching all of the films. I don't foresee completing this project for a few months, but in the mean time I'll be posting short reflections on each film for the next six weeks, starting today with The Phantom Menace. Keep in mind these reviews are brief critical perspectives and will likely bear little relation to how I am approaching the series in terms of the larger project. Enjoy!

The Artist

It’s easy to see why the pseudo-silent film, The Artist has emerged as this year’s darling in the Best Picture race. Its nostalgia for cinema’s yesteryear is emblematic of an increasingly visible trend in Hollywood lore to romanticize the analog days. But The Artist sets itself apart from other works pining for the past because it is built entirely on a gimmick. Playing to broad traditions and styles of 20’s cinema, screenwriter and director Michel Hazanavicius tries to embody Hollywood’s golden age while lamenting the inevitable progress of technology. That’s about as far as it goes regarding thematic depth. The film’s real showcase is how skillfully it manipulates and presents film form. In this regard, Hazanavicius serves up a few particularly inventive visual tricks and every so often teases us with moments of compositional beauty. But the story's focus on the tragedy of a silent star's fall from prominence and how the guilt-stricken Vamp revives him is askew. So unless I am missing deeper significance of the mimicry and layers of meta-ness, The Artist amounts to little more than a stylistic exercise, albeit a modestly enjoyable one. Even so, Hazanavicius’ emphasis on style and simple storytelling is not what dogs The Artist. That it is a copy and a gimmick bears little relation to the deeper truth that this film lacks a soul. (Michel Hazanavicius, 2011) **½

[Note: I'm currently penning a longer essay that looks at the critical dialogue and argues for the value of the film in a different context.]

50/50

For a movie about a person stricken with cancer, 50/50 goes down pretty easy. That it is so pleasant to watch makes it a distinctive entry in the cancer movie lexicon, if also a problematic one. Based on screenwriter Will Reiser’s own experience with cancer, 50/50 fearlessly takes on a difficult subject—a young person facing death—and treats it with even amounts of reverence and humor. On hand for the laughs is Seth Rogen, who once again serves up his foul-mouthed but cuddly schtick. There are a handful of knockout moments, most stemming from the subdued sensitivity with which Joseph Gordon-Levitt plays the central character. If only the storytelling were approached with the same grace and knowingness as its thematic core. The narrative is too clean. Gordon-Levitt’s strong performance, for example, helps conceal the fact that his character is too good to be true. It’s as if the filmmakers are screaming from the rooftops, “Look at how promising this kid’s future was before he had cancer!” In the same vein, the closure given to nearly every relationship and plot thread diminishes the film’s impact and nearly compromises its nimble sensibilities. These problems may account for how 50/50 pulls off such a delicate balance and yet fails to resonate as strongly as it should. (Jonathan Levine, 2011) **½

Page One: Inside the New York Times

The pillars of print media have shown a remarkable inability to adapt to the changing conditions imparted by digital media in recent years. This and the subsequent decline of traditional media represent the compelling narrative at the heart of Andrew Rossi’s documentary. The film explores the shifting media market through the prism of several journalists at the New York Times. Among the reporters on the proverbial front lines of the precipice is David Carr, a quick-witted former addict who regularly “vaporizes” those who decry the Times and traditional media in general. Carr is a fascinating screen subject and a unique voice in the media wars. The film, however, lacks its own voice. In its rapid surveying of the numerous factors in the changing media landscape, Page One fails to make coherent case about any specific or broader point. Rossi goes to great lengths to portray the Times as a storied institution with a rich history and reputation for journalistic excellence (which it is, albeit less so in recent years), though his reasons for doing this are unclear within the context of the film’s greater purpose. While I prize ambiguity in most films, I expect informed accounts on the current state of journalism to be clear and articulate, neither of which can be said about Page One. At one point during the film, Carr overturns the familiar Marshall McLuhan phrase and suggests that with media services like Twitter, the message is in fact the medium. The problem with Page One is that it adopts the same logic. It eschews a cogent journalistic argument in favor of a barrage of messages as ephemeral as a tweet. (Andrew Rossi, 2011) **

Cave of Forgotten Dreams

Werner Herzog is a man of eclectic interests. His recent films have explored everything from Antarctica to death row. But as any loyal Herzog fan is aware, subject matter is only of topical concern to the filmmaker. His investigations into the lives of seemingly off-the-map individuals often tap into life’s deeper questions and abstractions; and yet he often remains befuddled by the both the simplicity and the wonderment of existence. Perhaps no place is better suited to Herzog's unpretentious stylings than one within the earth that few eyes have seen. Cave of Forgotten Dreams follows Herzog into a cave in France housing some of the oldest artistic representations in history, preserved for some 30,000 years. Sprawled across its rolling walls are renderings of men and beasts, stories frozen in time. It’s the stuff tailor-made for Herzog’s enlightened narration and trademark tangents. Watching the small team of filmmakers and scientists navigate the caverns is a breathtaking sight, but it is dwarfed by the stirring visions carved onto rock. Despite the limiting filming conditions, Herzog’s camera beautifully maneuvers the cave’s surreal surfaces, from the fossilized bones on the ground to the theater on the walls. These would surely make for compelling interludes in any film. But authored by Herzog, they become encounters with stories and people from a distant life. (Werner Herzog, 2011) ***½

Win Win

I resisted seeing Win Win for several months on account of its indie-pastiche marketing design. As a friend of mine pointed out, it was made to look like a Wes Anderson film, evidenced by the poster's bold yellow title text, symmetrical composition, and characters directly facing the camera.* The real tragedy of this is that a Fox Searchlight felt it had to sell the film to a niche audience to secure viewership, when in reality it faintly resembled the poster/DVD cover and should have wide appeal. It is life-affirming without being formulaic, hilarious without resorting to hackneyed stereotypes, and full of sharp observances without lecturing. As we have come to expect from Paul Giamatti, his performance is one of quiet subtlety. Few actors can pull off the challenges Giamatti meets in portraying a man hewing ethical lines in his struggle to make ends meet. Win Win doesn't just belong to Giamatti, but also to Amy Ryan, Jeffrey Tambor, Bobby Cannavale, and Alex Shaffer, each of whose performances contribute in making the dialogue and comedy—and the film as a whole—come alive. However, Win Win isn’t without flaw. David Edelstein sums up my criticisms far more succinctly and elegantly than I, expressing a wish that director Tom McCarthy would open and free up his frames and maybe hold shots longer. But these are minor complaints in the scope of what he achieves with this, his third feature. Perhaps most unique about McCarthy’s budding directorial voice is how skillfully in each of his three films he orchestrates a rich assembly of characters and performances in service of simple, but wholly genuine story told with nuance. (Tom McCarthy, 2011) ***

* I don't dislike the Wes Anderson aesthetic. Nevertheless, it has become tired and often itself a cliché akin to the very contemporary tropes Anderson ostensibly is out to undermine.