Gambling on a road to nowhere

SAINT JOHN OF LAS VEGAS (2009)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

"Saint John of Las Vegas" has got everything I love about an independent quirky road movie. It's got Steve Buscemi, which is a major plus, naked cowboys, Sarah Silverman in happy mode, handicapped strippers, odd encounters and locations (having lived outside Albuquerque, NM, I do know how odd most of that Land of Manana can be), small-time gambling, and a thousand bucks to spare on lottery tickets. What it does not have is resonance or enough of a point - the film eventually meanders and sputters out to a far too tidy finish. The journey in getting there is kinda fun though.

Buscemi plays John, a former Las Vegas gambler who works at an auto insurance company. He is hoping for a promotion from his boss, Mr. Townshend (Peter Dinklage), whose desk is surrounded by four ostentatious Greek pillars. John's latest job is to go on the road to Sin City, the place that got him into past troubles, with Virgil (Romany Malko), the top insurance fraud specialist. Together they investigate an auto accident claim by a stripper whose car was struck by another driver in the middle of the desert. Fraud is suspected.

Virgil doesn't make John's life easy. They sleep in the car instead of going to a motel. When they meet a carnival human torch (played by John Cho in one of the oddest characters I've ever seen in a movie) who is also a tow truck driver, John has to ask the questions, not Virgil. When John tries to win a Happy Face doll at the circus (the smiley face is a recurring symbol) for his girlfriend-to-be (Sarah Silverman), he can't throw worth a dime but Virgil can. And then Virgil takes John to a sudden moment of unexpectedness that you won't see coming (at least I didn't).

"Saint John of Las Vegas" is often hysterically written and directed by Hue Rhodes - he has done a capable job of maintaining an air of Coens Brothers mentality but without the often cartoonish, loud rush that inflates some of the Coens work to unwatchable extremes (I am talking to you, "Raising Arizona"). This film has sass but it is also restrained so as to not hit you over the head with its offbeat gestures and characters (the story is allegedly based on Alighieri's "Divine Comedy"). You keep wondering where John's gambling inclinations will take him. When we finally get to the ending of this 85-minute odyssey, I felt a little too underwhelmed. Don't get me wrong - the ending is an appropriate finish technically. I just felt distanced from it, wishing the film had more to say and engaged us more with Buscemi's John and Malko's enigmatic Virgil. The ride is fun and breezy but it needed more of a finishing touch.

You know what is interesting about Knocked Up? Everything!

KNOCKED UP (2007)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

"Knocked Up" is the 2000 version of Cameron Crowe's classic "Say Anything." The difference is in the execution because "Knocked Up" is a raunchier, zonked-out, free-for-all, highly spirited version of the same old story of a lovable male loser and a sophisticated, firm, ambitious woman. It is also given intelligence, humanity and honesty by one of our best writer-directors, Judd Apatow.

Seth Rogen plays a slightly overweight, slightly unlikable romantic lead named Ben - a rarity in this genre. I say it is a rarity because a character like his, a stoner with a predilection for pop trivia, is often in the sidelines as the comic relief, the occasional foil, to a more strapping, handsome leading man. Not so with Ben - he has some charm but very little to offer beyond drinking beers, smoking pot and creating a website about nude celebrities in movies. He lives with three other roomates who do pretty much the same, mooching off of Ben's 14,000 dollar settlement from a previous accident (he's down to 900 dollars that he hopes to spend within two years). They all go clubbing one night where Ben meets Alison (Katharine Heigl) who is tickled by his humor, especially his canny method of getting beers from a bartender. Ben and Alison have sex that night, nary a condom. 8 weeks later, Alison discovers she is pregnant, which may be met with unease considering that she is one of the star reporters for the E channel! Alison decides that it is best to let Ben know, despite their rickety, fractured relationship.

The screenplay wisely avoids the usual trappings of a movie like this. Alison lives with her allegedly unhappy sister, Debbie (Leslie Mann, who first made an impression on me with "She's the One"), who has a husband that needs some time to himself. She could've easily been portrayed as a disapproving, hateful woman once she becomes aware of who the father is. Instead, she respects Ben, despite his stoner existence. And the husband, Pete (the reliably genial Paul Rudd), could've been shown as another hateful prick who uses violence against Ben. Instead he becomes best friends with Ben, even going on a trip together to Vegas to sort out their complicated lives.

That is at the heart of "Knocked Up." The movie has the messiness and complications of life. Nothing is watered down or made to seem contrived. Every action, motivation, performance and line of dialogue underlies the reality of getting, well, knocked up. Added to that are notable pop-culture references to "Spider-Man 3," "Short Cuts" and "Munich" ("Those Jews kicked ass!") Any movie this romantic, funny, pop-culture savvy without sounding obvious, and unsparing is certainly worth more than a mere mention as one of the finest, rawest romantic comedies in quite some time.

Writer-director Apatow has managed to make a sensitive romantic comedy that doesn't stoop down to cliches or needless graphic sex scenes (though be warned that there is some graphic sexual language). The film has its heart in the right place, and one can be thankful for at least that much. Interestingly, Rogen and Heigl don't exactly have chemistry - they rock as a genuine pair with whom you are not sure if they are in love or if they just love each other as friends. Though Apatow concedes to the expectations of the happy resolution that comes packaged with any stale, alleged romantic comedy, "Knocked Up" does it with surprise, pathos and lots of big, raunchy gags (especially Apatow's own "The 40 Year Old Virgin"). Don't be surprised if you shed a tear for this couple, even if it was just a baby that brought them together.

Killer E.T.'s

WAR OF THE WORLDS (2005)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

(Originally written in 2005)

Ever since Steven Spielberg's "Schindler's List," the renown director has fashioned his films with darker themes and less heroism than usual. Consider "The Lost World," a mediocre, joyless sequel to "Jurassic Park" that is darker and gorier than the original. Then came "Saving Private Ryan," a bloody, realistic (and patriotic) war picture; "A.I.," a bittersweet tribute to Stanley Kubrick, and the noirish sci-fi spectacle of "Minority Report." "The Terminal" and "Catch Me if You Can" were playful diversions for the Spielman. "War of the Worlds" is a whole other matter - a nail-biting, scary and strenuous ride that recalls the fear factor and atmosphere of "Jaws" and "Jurassic Park." Just when you thought that there was nothing remotely vivid or thrilling about alien invasions - Spielberg pulls one of the best ever made out of his hat without breaking much of a sweat. The audience will be sweating.

Tom Cruise is Ray Ferrier, a crane dock worker who doesn't like to work overtime. He lives in a small, cluttered house in Northern New Jersey, facing the city of New York. It is a post-9/11 world where terrorism is spoken of and the World Trade Center is conspicuously absent from the New York skyline. Ray is not a model dad out of "Father Knows Best" (or "Everybody Loves Raymond" for that matter). He is late in picking up his kids from his ex-wife (thanklessly played by Miranda Otto) who is going on a trip to Boston with her new husband. Naturally, Ray's kids are not fond of Ray, including his ten-year-old daughter, Rachel (Dakota Fanning), and his teenage son, Robbie (Justin Chatwin) who basically hates him. Robbie reluctantly plays catch with his father, and steals his car for a ride around the neighborhood. Father and son issues don't last when one cloudy afternoon, electrical shocks from the sky pierce the neighborhood that knocks out the electromagnetic fields (electricity is wiped out and cars won't start). Nobody thinks much of it until the next day when huge, threatening tripods burst out of the concrete avenues and start firing laser beams at people and buildings, turning everything into dust. Nope, it isn't the Republicans who are suddenly emerging or some fascist underground army - these ominous tripods are aliens who have decided to zap us away without rhyme or reason (though we are told in the opening narration that the aliens are envious of our world. Since when? I know this is in H.G. Wells original text but I still find it hard to believe).

"War of the Worlds" is essentially about survival as we witness Ray and his family running for their lives from the alien tripods. These machines advance and announce their evil with a loud, thundering horn (reminiscent of the thumps and roars of the dinosaurs in "Jurassic Park"). They also have technologically advanced tentacles that suck up human bodies like madly advanced vacuums (and also perform some sort of grisly human disembowelment though it is unclear why or for what purpose). These aliens are unforgiving in their brutality and relentless nature - they plunge forth violently destroying everything in their paths. Can these destructive aliens be destroyed? What will Ray and his kids do as they scream and argue through most of their journey to Boston to catch up with the kids' mother? And will human beings ever learn that in a crisis, it is better to act civilly than to shoot each other or trample over each other?

"War of the Worlds" is an unremitting assault on the senses, perhaps more so than anything Spielberg has ever attempted before. The first alien attack is so scary that you'll end up on the edge of your seat clutching the arms of the person next to you - you feel like you are right there with the crowds of people. Spielberg's trick is to see the havoc from the point-of-view of the people, including Ray's own POV. We also witness a severe bridge collapse, SUV's thrown up in the air, roads cracking open, buildings demolished, a flaming speeding train, clouds of ash filling the air (a signature moment from "Schindler's List"), bodies littering a river, and red alien weeds covering a desolate countryside after it is nearly demolished by the alien intruders. There is also a truly nerve-frying sequence where something crashes and burns outside a basement window, though we are not initially shown what is causing such a ruckus. Spielberg's gift is for never showing the audience too much - he leaves us with the long-forgotten act of using our collective imagination.

Writers David Koepp and Josh Friedman are somewhat deficient in supplying strong character development. Ray is shown as the average father, the Everyman, who learns to bond with his kids again in a crisis. Yawn. Well, maybe a slight yawn since the writers nor Spielberg lay it on too thick. Still, Ray is just a survivor, like everyone else, and commits an act at one point that will disturb many. It is a Tom Cruise part built for his own sincere persona but it lacks the nuance of some of his best roles. Dakota Fanning simply plays a smart child who knows how to tear up and scream better than most - she is also more sensible than her dad. Justin Chatwin is not given more to do either, though he has some sort of eerie appetite for being in the midst of destruction.

"War of the Worlds" is not merely a thrill machine because Spielberg imbues it with enough gravity to give you the chills and emotional involvement that lesser directors might have failed to do ("Independence Day" comes to mind). It is executed with enough tension and panache to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Many will admire the director's need to deliver this tale with the urgency of the world we live in now. Others may be dismayed by the director's darker recesses after showing us such friendly aliens in "E.T." and "Close Encounters of the Third Kind." For myself, it is proof that Spielberg still knows how to tap in to our nightmares and potent fears better than anyone.

A Little Bloodsoaked, Pop Culture-Based, Green Bag

RESERVOIR DOGS (1992)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

When I first saw Quentin Tarantino's debut "Reservoir Dogs," I found it to be a gory heist film, a sort of latter-day Scorsese take on modern-day hoods minus any real moral complexity. Times have changed since 1992 and "Reservoir Dogs" is still gory but it bursts forth with such energy and vitality that it would be wrong to dismiss it a second time. I think what I missed the first time was the black humor and the strong personalities of its characters. The violence, as brief and abrupt as it is, is so strong and vivid that it can almost demolish anything else. But what I had missed was Tarantino's evident talent in his own screenplay.

The opening sequence is already a classic. The setting is a diner as a group of robbers sit around the table and ruminate on subjects like Madonna's "Like a Virgin," tipping, and rock and roll songs ("The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia" is briefly discussed). In retrospect, none of this has anything to do with the rest of the film. What it does is set up a mood and establish its characters. Following that sequence is a title sequence where the robbers walk in slow-motion as "Little Green Bag" plays on the soundtrack. Then the film shifts in time and place to a bungled robbery where Mr. White (Harvey Keitel) is in a getaway car as Mr. Orange (Tim Roth) screams in agonizing pain after getting shot in the belly. They are off to a meeting place, a warehouse where coffins are stored! They meet with the obnoxious Mr. Pink (Steve Buscemi), a lanky mess of a robber with a goatee and an attitude like a junkyard dog (as does everyone else in the movie). There is much talk about whether or not to take Mr. Orange to a hospital or wait for the big boss, Joe (Lawrence Tierney), and tell him that the robbery was a possible set-up.

Then we confront the Lee Marvin fan, Mr. Blue (Michael Madsen), a trigger-happy, obscenely violent criminal who feels that shooting the hostages one by one was justified since they might have initiated the alarm. This man is suave but also a cruel, mean psychopath with no misgivings about slicing a cop's ear while listening to "Stuck in the Middle With You" (a nod to the violent ballet dance of "A Clockwork Orange" complete with "Singin' In The Rain" being sung by Alex, the prototypical antihero of the 1970's). This controversial scene is so disgusting that it caused major walkouts, particularly among women. But Tarantino, who has been criticized for showing gratuitous violence, knows when to cut away, pardon the pun, and how much to show on screen. His scenes of violence are quick and effective, precisely because they occur too fast. It is the brutality inherent in the violence that gets to people.

And I have not yet discussed Tarantino's screenplay - it is quite wonderful and it shares a particular speech style where everyone tries to interrupt each other and go off on tangents. Basically, one can think of it as Mamet-speak but the energy level is different, more stylized. Consider a near-perfect sequence where we discover Mr. Orange's true identity and the story he tells to the group about a marijuana deal. Mr. Orange describes in detail how he had a carry-on bag with marijuana in the bathroom where the cops (and a loud dog) watch him as he stands by the urinal. In this scene, Tarantino defies logic and narrative construction by having Mr. Orange tell his tale, speaking the words as he stares at the cops, as if he was in a situation that never actually occurred. It is by far the most memorable sequence in the film. Sometimes, characters indulge in conversations that have nothing to do with the story at all. For example, one scene has Nice Guy Eddie (Chris Penn) tell the story of a Pam Grier-type waitress who, well, you have to hear to believe it. The characters discuss movies and TV and songs and other people's lives the way people in real life do. But when it is time for some business related to the robbery, they get in character.

One aspect I noticed about "Reservoir Dogs" is that this is a man's world. Women hardly figure in the film, they are only discussed as objects or as criminals (like the Mr. White story of a female robber named Alabama). These guys discuss and joke about explicit sexual acts to each other. At one point, Mr. Blue, fresh from being released from prison, fools around with Nice Guy Eddie, who tells Blue that his sexual acts with black men messed up his mind. The end of the film has Mr. White comforting the dying Mr. Orange, calmly caressing his head as if they were lovers. There is a curious homosexual subtext, or we can just see it as men who act macho by discussing having sex with each other. I'll go with the latter.

"Reservoir Dogs" is fast, furious, nasty and extremely entertaining. It placed Tarantino on the map, just prior to his crime epic "Pulp Fiction" a couple of years later. My one criticism is that his characters are shallow and lack much depth. Still, since no one in the film knows much about each other then perhaps that was the point.

Stan's the Cinematic Man

BRAKHAGE (1998)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

(Viewed back in 1998)

"Brakhage" is a hypnotic, reverential documentary on one of the most experimental, purely filmic filmmakers in history. Having seen some of the short films he made including "Window Water Baby Moving," "Creation," "Dog Star Man," and others, I was surprised to find a gentle, caring man of ill health who nevertheless spoke in common sense terms about his films, and their inherent meanings. His films are purely images, either scratched, painted, or using several superimpositions, or all the above. Some are more like home movies, as is one where there are hauntingly beautiful clips of his children in slow-motion, and the images are often cut from color images to negative images.

"Brakhage" shows several clips of the man himself, and insightful commentary on his children and how they felt when they were photographed most of their lives, and how his ex-wife struggled with his idiosyncratic moods regarding his mental processes of counting, I assume, the number of frames in each of his films while editing. Brakhage also makes vivid comments on why his films have no sound, declaring that film art lost its purity when sound was introduced in the late 20's. 

Many will feel that Stan Brakhage makes beautiful use of images, and his rhythmic patterns of editing, 
at times jarring to the naked eye, are well-constructed yet what else is there? Is this man saying 
anything specific in his layered style of imagery? Perhaps, perhaps not. That is entirely up to 
the viewer to decide. I love Brakhage's works because they are purely visual, and nothing more 
which is not to say they are insubstantial or lacking in content. To pick an example, I would say that 
the controversial "Window Water Baby Moving" is one of the finest, most educational films ever 
made on childbirth though it is not for the squeamish.  

The documentary itself uses jarring, screeching sound effects that are not essential in capturing 
the man and his work, especially if most of it is silent. Also, it would have been nice to hear from 
people who perhaps developed an antipathy towards his works...some members of the audience 
screening I attended certainly did. Nevertheless, this is an exemplary, insightful documentary by 
director Jim Shedden guaranteed to fascinate and provoke many. A must-see, and one of the finest 
films of 1999.                

Deprogram the Homelanders

SPLIT IMAGE (1982)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

 

If a suburban kid is an amazing athlete and is subjugated into the world of a religious cult, can he find his way back home or is he ushered into a new way of thinking about oneself? That is part of the story of 1982's forgotten "Split Image," an intriguing and thought-provoking film by director Ted Kotcheff that dares to ask if "normal American life" is corrupting our souls, our identity.

Michael O'Keefe is Danny Stetson, a college athlete whose goal is to be in the Olympics. He has two loving parents (Brian Dennehy and Elizabeth Ashley) who want only the best for him. One day, Danny runs into a beautiful girl named Rebecca (Karen Allen, who bears a sunshine smile that could melt any man's heart) who has a staring match with him. They talk. He is sarcastic with her and hopes for sex, and she only wants to get to know him. She is a delicate flower and he obviously is willing to go wherever she goes. After a brief scuffle involving a supposed kidnapping of a university student, Danny and Rebecca and friends head off for a weekend getaway to Homeland, a commune for young people. In all actuality, it is a religious cult commune, a place where everyone loves everybody. There is no violence, they all eat organic foods that they grow, they build their own houses and there is no real privacy either. If Danny tries to masturbate while she sleeps, he is stopped by someone who says, "Don't be a prostitute!" If he tries to urinate in a bathroom, he is followed by two women (eh, that may not be so bad). When Danny has a group meeting, he tries to understand why there is no discussion of "social problems."

Peter Fonda is Neil Kirklander, the leader of Homeland, who doesn't exploit the kids ("This is not a Communist country!") and wants everyone to be loved, to be free of the ills and greed of the world and to find meaning.  Kirklander proclaims that the parents of each young member is "dead" and changes the members' names in a fiery ceremony where all vestiges and personal items are burned to a crisp. Thus Danny's brief weekend stay with Rebecca is becoming permanent - he is suckered in and changes his name to "Joshua."

Most of "Split Image" is compelling and powerful but it is the transition of Danny into Joshua that has me split (no pun intended). Danny is an individual who may have found his true calling as an athlete, and who questions everything with deep sarcasm. It is hard to believe he would have stayed at Homeland longer than two seconds, let alone several months. The sermons by Kirklander are spiritual yet empty, and Danny knows it. The screenplay by Robert Kaufman and Robert Mark Kamen never quite establishes the "Jekyll and Hyde" transition where Danny turns into Joshua. In one scene, he attempts to escape Homeland and is almost killed when he jumps off a cliff into a river. Neil tells Danny he can go if he wishes, but he will go back to being lost. The irony may be that Danny is lost anyway.

"Split Image" doesn't show Homeland to be an evil place - that would be too easy. The truth is that such a place that encourages love to others is not a bad ideal to have - our own American society since this film's release in 1982 doesn't encourage us to love one another.  But the film never probes deeper questions into Kirklander himself, a man who is at peace and lives in his own house which he shares with no one. All members of Homeland share the same sleeping quarters. But who is Kirklander really, and why is a chain-smoking deprogrammer (the electric James Woods) needed to deprogram these kids in a place that is truly not threatening at all since all they do is promote "love." You can love yourself but save some love for others. The "self" matters less.

"Split Image" was financed by the now defunct Polygram Pictures and distributed by the bankrupt Orion Pictures. Clearly neither had much faith in the film since it was released in 129 screens and was quickly dispatched to home video and cable. It is a shame because, despite faults with the screenplay's depiction of two main characters, the film does ask tough questions about our place in a world where greed and capitalism take over any semblance of "love." Danny and Rebecca eventually find they are in love and lust with each other, two aspects of human relationships that are somehow outlawed in Homeland's cult. Even the deprogrammer can't truly bring Danny back from Joshua dreamland, and he knows it. Danny has been changed, he has been split. The most probing question the film asks is: if you escape from Homeland, what are you escaping to?

Alexander's doors of perception need expanding

ALEXANDER (2004)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

"Alexander" is a bloated, beautiful, muddled mess of an epic. There are images and performances of searing power, and there is just enough melodrama to make fans of lavish epics puke.

Blonde-haired Alexander the Great (Colin Farrell) was one of the greatest of all conquerors, a visionary whose initial principal focus was to conquer Persia. Yep, he conquers and fight the Persians in the battle of Gaugamela but his sights go elsewhere - he wants the entire Persian empire. He intends on conquering every land leading to India in a journey and several battles that end up dividing his troops and losing many lives for the sake of...well, nothing. Almost everyone turns against Alexander and conspire to kill him by poisoning him.

Alexander's father is the one-eyed Philip of Macedonia (Val Kilmer), a drunk who had strong aspirations to overtake the Persians but was also killed. Most of the blame is attributed to Alexander's seductive mother, Queen Olympias (Angelina Jolie), who has an affinity for snakes and claims Alexander's real father is Zeus (Huh?) It is clear from the start that Olympias hates Philip and wants Alexander to be king, but to what end? Political ambition or just pure hatred of Philip? Seems like those scenes were on the cutting room floor, like most of the movie.

Oliver Stone throws everything into this epic except the kitchen sink. There are battle scenes with war elephants tearing apart crowds of soldiers, hundreds of arrows fired into the air (a cliché by now), and an eagle eye's perspective of these widescreen battles. Some blood and gore here and there, though relatively restrained judging from the blood-soaked standards set by "Gladiator."

The performances run hot and cold. Angelina Jolie easily gives the best performance, reigning in her almost Transylvanian accent and her seductive presence ten fold (you almost expect her to bare fangs at some point). Colin Farrell screams and hollers, but he never truly inhabits the character. I hate to say it but Farrell humanizes the character so much that he comes off as more wimpy than a commanding, persuasive conqueror. Anthony Hopkins as the narrator Ptolemy seems ready to keel over, whereas Christopher Plummer handles his Aristotle role with exceptional clarity. Other actors such as Rosario Dawson, who is criminally wasted as Roxane, Alexander's Persian wife, and Jared Leto as Alexander's close friend, Hephaistion are thrust into the film's jumbled, flashback-driven narrative without much conviction or need. Vangelis's beautiful score alleviates some of the film's faults and lack of cohesion but not by much.

I appreciate what Oliver Stone has attempted here - an intellectual epic far removed from the cartoonish theatrics of "Gladiator" or "Troy." Some scenes are awesomely staged, but just as many are flat and monotonous. Stone hasn't placed much faith on the character of Alexander or his bisexuality - he is more spirited and engaged with Angelina's Olympias character than anyone else in the entire movie. Whether it was studio intervention or not, Stone doesn't make this the risky venture we expect from him, and that is a shame.