[MSPIFF] I have yet to see a film about Tibetan (or Mongolian) nomads that wasn’t overwhelmingly beautiful, and this was no exception. Unfortunately, there was no story or drama, except for two minutes when the yaks went missing. When committing to film a summer in the life of a nomad family, the documentary filmmakers need some luck to have something interesting happen. This time there wasn’t any.
Far and away the most beautiful movie I have seen, or probably will see, this year, Shirin Neshat’s study of Iran in 1953 packed a social and political wallop as well. The liner notes and the director’s dialogue explained much that I would have missed, notably America’s role in overthrowing democracy in Iran 50 years before we purport to be demanding it there, and the analogy between the man’s role in the family and the dictator’s role in the country. Of the women without men, two existed in the real world, two in a world of magic realism, but their experiences were similar and taken together they encompassed a large swath of Iranian society, from the prostitute to the aristocrat, from traditional to cosmopolitan. This was a movie to think about, and talk about, after the screening, and Neshat’s images, especially the woman Musin on the rooftop, are indelible.
Long on style, short on sense, these three made-for-TV crime dramas had a Twin Peaks flavor to them, with suspenseful music and an overriding sensation of never knowing exactly what was going on. Partly this was due to the Yorkshire accent, which begged for subtitling, but mostly it was due to the misdirection, which withheld key items of information and threw in red herrings instead. Who killed whom in the Karachi Club after Eddie Dunford took his revenge? Why? What happened to the shopping mall? What happened to the corrupt cops? To Helen Marshall? Why did she have a relationship with Rev. Laws? Why did Peter Hunter’s wife keep calling him? So many of the characters and situations seemed familiar from Prime Suspect and other shows of that ilk, most of which I preferred. It does seem that the scriptwriters in London have a pretty low opinion of what goes on out in the English boondocks. Red Riding (what does that mean?) did offer one novel twist: the three episodes had a common bad guy but a different hero, each of whom was suitably engaging.
On my list of rock’n’roll biopics, this would come in at #27. Every well-worn element was present: dysfunctional family, rebellious teens, Svengali producer, drugs, clashing egos, band breakup, good (not great) soundtrack. On the other hand, I would be happy watching Kristen Stewart read the phonebook, so seeing her play hard-rocking Joan Jett was a treat. Dakota Fanning, not so much.
No criticisms, but the movie seemed rather ho-hum and superficial in comparison with the book. It kept me engaged, but mostly to see how the next plot development would be handled – what would be skipped, what elided.
Totally over-the-top performance by Nicolas Cage, one of my favorite ott actors, in film by Werner Herzog, my favorite ott director. Corrupt on the outside, with great police instincts on the inside, our lieutenant with the consuming drug addiction found new ways to be hysterical in every scene and somehow made me root for his amoral ride through life. The happy ending was a neat bit of legerdemain. An interesting film to compare with Crazy Heart.
Extremely Hitchcockian music, by Alexandre Desplat, and the bleakly austere setting of “Martha’s Vineyard,” made one sense danger at every turn. Pierce Brosnan, Ewan MacGregor and especially Olivia Williams acted beautifully, and the pieces fit together like a Swiss watch. In short, this was a wonderfully made film. The only problem was the plot, which required one to accept that the CIA, without a recent success to its name, could engineer Britain’s entry into the Iraq War; and that the generally impotent (v. major powers) International Court of Justice could provoke a worldwide hue-and-cry over a Prime Minister’s “rendition” of four alleged terrorists, when the U.S. was doing worse on a weekly basis. Undoubtedly, this story would play better in Europe, where director Roman Polanski, for familiar reasons, is in exile.
A forgettable piffle, saved mainly by being a French piffle and the lovely Juliette Binoche. Saw it on the plane four days ago and have already forgotten what it was about.
A hilarious riff by the Coen Bros on growing up Jewish in St. Louis Park, 1967. A latter-day Job (though I should re-read the book), beset by calamity after another, with allusions as well to Sodom and Gomorrah, while Larry seeks to find out how Hashem talks to mortals, and what he is saying. The rabbis are better at questions than answers, the voice of the day is Jefferson Airplane, and when we do hear God’s voice, is it a tornado?
Strangely unaffecting, in a Chekovian manner. Aristocrats stand around distraught, but we don’t care. About them, the Tolstoyan movement, or Tolstoy’s copyrights. The announced theme is Love, but there is no real chemistry between Helen Mirren and Christopher Plummer; and the younger couple, James McEvoy and the luscious Kerry Condon, exhibit more lust, or puppy love, than any serious model. Paul Giamatti is either miscast or unnecessarily sleazy – what’s his game?, you wonder. An empire of sorts is collapsing, but we don’t care.
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