Archive for year: 2012

Pure hokum, along the lines of a Disney after-school special – Spin & Marty, anyone? – but an enjoyably inoffensive gloss on the surfer culture I now find myself living amid. There’s no acting worth mentioning, and the women are window dressing, but the shots of the ocean, and the surfing, are worth sticking around for.

A very adult thriller from Hollywood – bravo, Ben Affleck! The danger was real and historical, yet there weren’t any conventional bad guys: the Iranians were shown to have full justification, in their minds if not ours, for their actions. The hostages were presented as unglamorous everyday people – in fact, their appearances uncannily matched their real-life counterparts. Washington bureaucrats were the other big obstacle, but their decisions, however cruel for these individuals, made sense in the larger picture. Affleck’s filming techniques and the intercutting with contemporary news reports added substantially to the realism, if recent events in Benghazi hadn’t already driven this home.
Then there was the comic relief: it would have been hard to believe the John Goodman/Alan Arkin sideshow if the Hollywood scenario hadn’t had a substantial basis in fact. Regardless, it was wonderful: I totally relax whenever Goodman is on the screen, and every one of Arkin’s zingers was hilarious. The slapstick of “Argo” melded with the suspense in Tehran to form a remarkably seamless and well-rounded whole. Holding it all together was Affleck, underplaying behind a beard. Why his character would take on this assignment was never explained, which was just as well for I probably wouldn’t have bought any explanation. The point is, he did it, and we could cry with pleasure because he did.
I do have quibbles: the airport scenes at the end larded on too many cliffhangers. Would the tickets come through, would the producers get to the ringing phone, would the rebels get to the control tower, would the racing Jeeps catch the taxiing plane? The realism that had been built up seemed to be tossed aside to manufacture even more intense suspense. By that point, though, the stakes were high enough, and I wish we could have been treated like adults for a few minutes more.

The Star Tribune called this a “must-see for serious film lovers and a challenge for everyone else” – and here I thought all along that I was a serious film lover. For me, this was one pointless scene after another: the ‘Master’ rides a motorcycle on the desert salt flats – to what end? the ‘Master’ is arrested for owing money(!) – but money is never mentioned again; the Disciple beats a critic to a pulp (or kills him?) – but the police don’t seem to notice. Nothing seems to string together; it’s all, “here is another scene.” Joaquin Phoenix is amazing as a drunken psychotic, to be sure, but I don’t relate to, or particularly enjoy watching, drunken psychotics. The other half of the relationship – and if the movie is about anything, it is about this relationship – is an unconvincing Philip Seymour Hoffman, more teddy bear than charismatic cult leader. The one interesting character is the wife, played with icy steel by Amy Adams, but it is not her movie.