Personal yet nonconfrontational

MARGARET CHO: ASSASSIN (2005)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Margaret Cho is a comedienne who prides herself on honesty. As she points out in her latest concert film, "Assassin," she is too honest for the Republican crowd. Though there are some funny moments in "Assassin" (though nothing quite as hilarious or pointed as I think she can be), something irked me about Cho. She makes the unstated assumption that jokes on sexuality in and of itself is funny - not if you don't place the jokes in a comedic context.

What I probably just said makes no sense because if it is a joke, it is in a comedic context, right? Not if the idea that sexuality solely is funny - it is not. So we hear Cho speaking of lesbianism, sometimes in a slightly funny context when spoken of politically. There are also references to the Pope (is he in drag?), tired cliches on the Bush administration, the Terry Schiavo case, the Iraq War, and so on. The Schiavo joke is extreme but not really humorous (though I agree the case was overexposed on TV). Her ranting and raving about same-sex marriage also lacks humor. Cho is a lesbian herself but she never confronts these issues in a personal way - she just wants us to be shocked and awed by the very nature of what she is saying. I once saw Eric Bogosian in Princeton, NJ in a very personalized, confrontational concert that left many (myself included) exhausted yet also enlightened - you felt Bogosian spoke from experience and found a way to make what he said humorous. Cho misses with every aim she makes.

I enjoyed Cho's riffs on her mother and a particular kind of Asian female - I would assume the geisha kind but I can't be sure. But the rest of this concert film, shot in May 2005 in Washington, D.C., does nothing more than assault the audience rather than to provide the jokes with any sort of social commentary built on humor. The bottom line is that this time out, Margaret Cho is simply not very funny.

Peace, love and nonviolence

KUNDUN (1997)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

(Originally reviewed in 1997)

The life of the fourteenth Dalai Lama (the human manifestation of Buddha) is a complicated one: a Buddhist monk who sought to protect Tibet from the Chinese communist forces by employing nonviolence. This is a project that other directors such as Zhang Yimou ("Shanghai Triad") or Chen Kaige ("Farewell My Concubine") would have aptly taken on. I never expected Martin Scorsese, the poet of violent, lowlife characters, to undertake such an overwhelming, ambitious project. On the other hand, this is the same man who brought us distinguished achievements such as "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore," "The Last Waltz," and "The Age of Innocence," not to mention his memorable gangster trilogy: "Mean Streets," "GoodFellas" and "Casino." "Kundun" is a gorgeous film: a lavish treatment of the Dalai Lama's life, but it is just that - a treatment.

"Kundun" is the secret name of the Dalai Lama, and it is a name only his family or close members use. Kundun's life is chronicled in linear fashion: from his days as a young boy screaming "This is mine. This is mine!" as he is discovered to be the fourteenth incarnation of Buddha, to his days as an eighteen-year-old bespectacled leader whose best defense against the Chinese army is to leave the palace in disguise, on a journey to India. Tenzin Thuthob Tsarong plays the leader as an adult who finally meets the Chinese dictator Mao Zedong (Robert Lin), and his shiny black shoes, in Beijing as Tibet is being invaded by the Red Army. Mao's response to the Dalai Lama's pleas for religious tolerance is "Religion is poison."

The first half-hour of "Kundun" is at its best when conveying Kundun's childhood as he is taken from his humble village to the Holy City of Lhasa where he brings in forbidden treasures such as "Life" magazines, film projectors where he runs cowboy films and silents, and cars. Despite all these trappings, Kundun keeps forgetting he's the Dalai Lama and that he has a country to protect, including the 5,000 soldiers who guard it. "But I am only a boy," proclaims Kundun. "What can I do?" His spiritual guides convince him that he is the Dalai Lama and, therefore, must know what course of action to take.

All of "Kundun" is very subjective: it is all told from his point-of-view. There are no Western outsiders like Brad Pitt or Peter O'Toole to distract us. This is a noble, risky achievement but the movie does not succeed in letting us inside Kundun's soul or his spiritual beliefs. As written by Melissa Mathison ("E.T."), the screenplay reduces the Dalai Lama to a statue for us to look up in wonder; a man representative of peace and nonviolence, but little else. Didn't Kundun ever have some doubts about his spirituality? Did he ever question the fact that he was the Dalai Lama? Mostly, we see Kundun weep at the thought of imminent violence, and we see him being greeted and idolized by others as he walks in a solemn state with his red robes. The film's best sequence is Kundun's nightmarish vision of his followers murdered by the Red Army in a vast landscape of death - we see several corpses surrounding him in an atypical "Gone with the Wind" shot of Scorsese's canon. Beyond that, the film is not very introspective of Kundun - we see glimpses of his soul but not much more.

On the plus side, "Kundun" is the most beautiful movie of Scorsese's career - it is so voluptuously shot by Roger A. Deakins and so beautifully composed that you are not likely to see a purer example of cinematography for a long time. There's never a wasted, uninvolving shot making the whole film as captivating and involving as it can be. It is also elegantly edited by Thelma Schoonmaker, full of dissolves from minute details of pearls and cuffs to wide shots of the villages occupying Kundun's existence. The scenes of the Buddhist marches, ceremonies and rituals are as powerfully executed as you can imagine, especially the funeral procession of Kundun's father being fed to the vultures. The film is certainly not boring and it is rightly meditative and slow-moving, much like the superior "Why Has Bodhi-Dharma Left for the East?"

"Kundun" is a major departure for Scorsese - it is possibly his most spiritual, peaceful film since "The Last Temptation of Christ" (the last half hour showing Kundun's escape from Tibet is extraordinarily moving). The problem is Scorsese detaches us from Kundun's soul, and is much too respectful of him (Even Jesus Christ had his flaws). A common criticism of Scorsese's past work is that he takes an objective view of his characters; what he really does is create behavioral portraits. I never found myself detached from any of his main protagonists (except for Jimmy Doyle in "New York, New York"). Travis Bickle, Jake LaMotta, Newland Archer, Rupert Pupkin, "Ace" Rothstein are but a few examples of Scorsese's most successful, soulful portraits. Kundun could have been another example.

Exciting, lean,electrifying Owen

CROUPIER (1998)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

(Originally reviewed in 2000)

A croupier is a dealer in charge of a gaming table. As simply put, a dealer who is there to watch you win or lose. The dealer's main concern is that you lose. In director Mike Hodge's latest crime caper, "Croupier," Jack is one of those dealers, keenly aware of every move you make, including the people he knows outside the casino.

Clive Owen plays Jack as a cool, detached wanna-be novelist, told to write a book on soccer. He is living with his uncouth girlfriend, Marion (Gina McKee), whom he only "half-loves." Marion is a store detective with vaguely romantic notions about writers. But Jack is virtually bankrupt on any story ideas - he needs inspiration. It finally comes when his gambler father (Nicholas Ball) advises him to take a job at the Golden Lion, a London casino. Jack is interviewed and gets the job, much to the disappointment of Marion who prefers for him to stay home and write, and sleep the same hours she does.

Jack is an expert on counting cards and counting money - he is quick, smart and clever, nothing can escape him. He also never gambles. As we are told in narration by Jake, Jack's literary alter-ego (the basis for the book he is writing on his own experiences), the croupiers are there to watch you lose. There is also the complete detachment expected from croupiers towards other clientele, or clients. Nevertheless, Jack's alter-ego takes over and breaks all the rules he so steadfastly held. He has a brief affair with Bella (Katie Hardie), a drug-addicted croupier, and parties with another croupier who is stealing from the casino. Jack also gets involved with a femme fatale, Jani De Villiers (Alex Kingston from TV's "E.R."), a regular player at the Golden Lion who sees literally a wealth of opportunities with Jack, if he complies with her plans.

"Croupier" never makes a wrong move in plotting or characterization, but its main strength is the character of Jack. My favorite films are usually the most subjective, and this is also true of "Croupier" which features Jack in every single scene. Every move he makes is seen from his point-of-view, or heard by the reliable use of narration. Jack is at firsthand unlikable, and perhaps untrustworthy, but slowly we start to sympathize with him, understanding that he is doing a job he does not like solely for creative inspiration. A great scene is when Marion reads the first few chapters of his book and says she does not like it, claiming it has no hope and that the character is a zombie. Jack counterattacks, asking her if her job as a store detective makes her happy.

If the film does not quite strike the vivid chord of film noir or neo-noir at its best, it is largely due to the casting of Alex Kingston as the conniving, sexual predator Janni. She is meant to be a seductress but is too homely and innocent to make the character convincing (imagine Anne Archer as a seductress and you may know what I mean). Don't get me wrong, I love Kingston, and her work in "E.R." is extraordinary, but she is better suited to less dangerous character parts.

One other minor gripe is that I wish I saw more of Marion - a character who understands Jack all too well. She knows what he thinks, how he behaves, and she is aware that she cheats on her with Bella, but she still loves him and wants to marry him. Marion is a complex character to be sure, if only there were more of her to do Jack's character real justice.

Otherwise, "Croupier" is an exciting, lean, and electrifying film - atmosphere and style are essential to noir landscapes and this film has it in spades. Clive Owen shows remarkable chaste and suaveness in Jack, exuding double the charisma and coolness of someone like Pierce Brosnan. Finally, Owen shows us that Jack may think he knows every trick in the book when playing cards, but he also finds that life plays its own tricks as well.

Howlingly indifferent

AN AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON (1981)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

John Landis has never struck me as a talented comedy director, nor do I hold any of his work in any high regard. Though "The Blues Brothers" and "Animal House" make me laugh (not to mention a couple of Eddie Murphy comedies he helmed) yet "Into the Night" is as dull and inert as most black comedies can get, and the less said about "The Stupids" the better. Horror comedy or comedy-horror is certainly not his forte, and "An American Werewolf in London" is neither horrifying nor very comedic. Landis confuses the two so often that it is a real test of patience to consider what his intentions were.

In the opening sequence of the film, two American students, David (David Naughton) and Jack (Griffin Dunne), are walking through a deserted road across the English moors. It is deserted enough in those lonely country roads to be spooky. They arrive at some tavern where they are told to walk on the same road they came on and not go beyond it. Being that a full moon is ahead, they stray from the path and get bitten by a werewolf.

Jack dies from severe wounds yet David survives. He is kept at a hospital treated by a kind, sexy nurse (Jenny Agutter), falls in love with her and moves in with her. Unfortunately, David starts getting visits from Jack's decomposing ghost, who warns David that he will turn into a werewolf unless he kills himself. David refuses to listen, has nightmares within nightmares (the best jokey nightmare involves Nazi commandants as monsters invading David's family home), becomes a werewolf and goes on a killing spree in London, and keeps getting unwanted visits from Jack and the victims whom David kills.

The problem with "An American Werewolf in London" is that its tongue is not fairly planted on its cheek. The humor is wanting when the blood and gore take over, and there is copious amounts of both. Landis stages everything as if it was a horror movie trying to squeeze itself out of the comedy-horror film it is pretending to be. The killings are gruesome, and whatever humor there is left is supplied by Griffin Dunne (in his debut performance), who is not as funny as one might hope as the relentless cadaver.

The special-effects are well-done, as is the astonishingly good transformation sequence - easily the movie's highlight. But with pallid, indifferent characters and a highly uneven approach to the genre, "An American Werewolf in London" merely delivers a whimper. As for the abrupt ending, it is not a hoot. It is just howlingly bad.

I can see you had some college

HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER (1986)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

I attended a screening of "Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer" at a Times Square movie theater back in 1990, expecting to see what a New York Post critic regarded as "a real horror movie." I saw it and when it was over, I looked at every single pedestrian in the area, making sure I was not followed though that can be tough in a city as big as New York. I have only seen the film two more times since and I do regard it as a great film but not one I can revisit too often. "Henry" is the real deal, a completely riveting portrait of an actual serial killer from Texas, Henry Lee Lucas, who killed a lot less people than he claimed (600 was the total number at one time). The film is scary but only in the way in which it regards an average joe as completely banal who has no remorse for anyone he kills.

Michael Rooker is Henry, an exterminator living in the city of Chicago with his best friend, Otis (Tom Towles), a drug dealer. They live in extremely modest digs, to say the least, with no real regard for anything exciting in their lives. Otis' sister, Becky (Tracy Arnold), stays with them after she leaves her physically abusive husband. Becky develops an attraction to Henry but Henry is more interested in killing people. Otis becomes Henry's partner in crime as they kill prostitutes, random people in the streets and others who they deem as perhaps lower than dirt (some of the victims are reprehensible people, like a fence who has video cameras and TV's). One terrifying sequence shows the home invasion of a family who are systematically slaughtered, all from the point of a video camera. The sequence is doubly disturbing because we realize the footage is being watched by Otis and Henry in their living room! This takes voyeurism to a whole other level that not even Hitchcock or Brian De Palma have ever attempted.

"Henry" is directed with acute observation and near-documentary realism by John McNaughton, who was going to initially make a film about alien monsters. The film has a trifle few moments of gore, though mostly McNaughton relies on implication of violence rather than a slasher film mentality of monotonous carnage. The opening of the film shows a couple of dead prostitutes, one lying on a grassy field and another in a bathroom with a coke bottle in her mouth, and McNaughton slow zooms in and out of each victim while we hear their shrieking cries of help on the soundtrack. It is very effective and it also asks the viewer to sympathize with anonymous victims, even those considered deviants of society. The aforementioned nerve-jangling home invasion sequence will give you nightmares. There are also two magnificent scenes where the threat or actual act of violence is examined in an artful manner. One shows Henry sitting in his car at a shopping mall parking lot as he navigates his next victim. There is a woman he stares at intently and he follows her to her home only to find her being greeted by her husband or boyfriend. Henry drives away. Next is the guitar-carrying hitchhiker he picks up on the road. We do not see the outcome of the hitchhiker but we sense she is killed since Henry returns home with the guitar. It is scenes of this disturbing nature that will make you feel queasy and rightly horrified.

As for the actors, the steely-eyed Michael Rooker looks like an average joe as Henry and he is absolutely captivating to watch from first frame to last. When he tells the story of how he killed his mother, you will cringe. Tom Towles, who has since worked on many films as a supporting actor, is mean and nasty and completely unwatchable at times - he plays this role far too well. Tracy Arnold is the definition of banal, a sweet angel who is completely naive especially when she complements Henry on being a real gentleman! 

"Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer" is not an entertainment (though there are touches of black humor) nor it is a thriller, nor is there any suspense. This film serves as a powerful document of poisonous, dangerous and deeply sickening minds who occupy our streets. They are anyone and anybody - there are no colorful aspects or any visible traits to make the killers identifiable as monsters. After you watch the film, you might check closely to make sure nobody is following you. 

The Forrest Gump of the drug trade

BLOW (2001)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

(Originally reviewed in 2001)

The drug-dealing business has been shown time and again on film in great detail - it is a business that has shadowed American films as far back as Frank Sinatra's heroin addiction in "The Man With the Golden Arm." The year 2000 saw the interminable ugliness of addiction in the tough-as-nails "Requiem for a Dream" and the futility of the war on drugs in "Traffic." I still must ask this one question: what else is there to say about drugs at this point that has not been said? Well, "Blow" is fascinating for detailing how cocaine arrived in the United States in the first place, and the picture is not pretty in telling it.

"Blow" stars the usually doleful Johnny Depp as George Jung, a drug dealer who first begins his business by selling marijuana in Venice Beach. He hooks up with his best friend, the portly Tuna (Ethan Suplee), and his new girlfriend, Barbara (Franka Potente from "Run Lola Run") at a beach house - they all have no desire to work real jobs though Barbara is a stewardess. A contact through Barbara, the effeminate hairdresser Derek (Paul Reubens), helps establish George's business deal as long as he can be a viable partner. Before you know it, they are rejoicing in tons of cash and partying with petite, blonde women on the beach. Deciding to make more money, George considers extending their business to the East Coast where there are some eager college students. Thanks to Barbara, she can fly out there and sell the marijuana for big bucks. Of course, he gets busted, as he does numerous times in the film and goes to jail.

In jail, he gets wind of the cocaine business in Colombia and George decides that such a drug would make a killing in the United States. It sure does, and he makes more money than he ever dreamed. He also has a stunning wife (Penelope Cruz) who becomes addicted to all the wealth and all the monetary glory. There is no end to it, but of course all good things must come to an end. Thus, George's trusted friends become backstabbers, even his own wife. How can such a business for one man turn itself upside down? Maybe because everyone wants a piece of the pie and they all want to become versions of George Jung. 

"Blow" is the rise and fall of a cocaine king, a story told countless times before as in Brian De Palma's jumbled "Scarface." The big difference is that George got their first, and he is not someone that handles business matters with machine guns or chainsaws. He is seemingly unaffected by his surroundings and that is a major flaw for a rise and fall tale like this one. Who is George Jung really? Does he have any ambitions in life besides cocaine and marijuana? The only inkling we get of his persona is through his parents (both played by Ray Liotta and a far too thickly-New-York-accented Rachel Griffiths) who want their son to be successful. Only George's mother does not share her son's enthusiasm for drugs - she even rats him out in one scene. George's father just wants his son to be careful, as if the drug business was like any other which it decidedly is not. Still, as played by Depp, he carries the same doleful expression in every scene. He has shown far more nuance as Ed Wood or as the book seller in "The Ninth Gate" than he does here.

Director Ted Demme ("The Ref") borrows stylistic camerawork and editing styles from "GoodFellas" and "Boogie Nights," using freeze frames and a roving camera to keep situations flying from one scene to the next. It often works, as does the dazzling opening sequence where we see how cocaine is made and shipped. Too often though, the film gets repetitive and monotonous but it does seem to perk up occasionally to maintain interest. Still, if you have seen "GoodFellas" or "Boogie Nights," you have seen this tale before.

"Blow" is largely uneven and inconsistent but it does burst with some magnetism, and at its core is a sad story of a man who truly had nothing to offer in his life except drugs. The downbeat ending accentuates the life of a man who had no inner life and no sign of intelligence - a Forrest Gump of the drug trade. All we learn is that George simply blew it.

Woody deconstructing Woody

MELINDA AND MELINDA (2004)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

A great Woody Allen flick is a reminder of the cinematic glory he was (and still is). A good Woody Allen flick is better than the average comedy (and, sometimes, the average drama). Then there are the three or four bad films he made in the last forty years ("Anything Else" is clearly his worst). "Melinda and Melinda" is almost top-notch Woody Allen, a highly incisive and challenging work by the Woodsman - his best film since "Deconstructing Harry." The concept behind "Melinda and Melinda" is less about the contrast between tragedy and comedy than it is about Woody Allen himself - sort of a postmodernist spin on the creative process and who else could do it besides Woody?

The film begins between four people at a restaurant. They converse on a rumored story about a suicidal, depressed woman who moves in with her friends after crashing a dinner party. The idea is simple: can it work best as a drama or as a comedy, or both? We see both versions of this tale, told not as two separate stories but as part of a whole. Melinda (Radha Mitchell) is the woman in both versions. We start with the dramatic version where she moves in with her high-school friend, shopaholic Laurel (Chloe Sevigny) and her husband (Jonny Lee Miller), an aspiring actor. Melinda has just endured an angry divorce trial, separated from her kids. She is hesitant to start a new relationship, but there is a classy pianist and composer (Chiwetel Ejiofor from "Dirty Pretty Things") whom she feels comfortable with.

The comedic version has Melinda already living in an apartment shared by neighbors, such as highly charged independent film director (Amanda Peet) and her sexually frustrated husband (Will Ferrell), the other version of the aspiring, unemployed actor. Melinda still suffers from depression but it is treated with comic innuendoes, and there is the other classy pianist (played by an actor who is nowhere near as classy and sophisticated as Ejofor). And if you have Ferrell (hilariously delivering dialogue that Woody would've if he had cast himself) and Steve Carell appearing, you know you are in for a few laughs.

What's wonderfully illuminating about "Melinda and Melinda" is its juxtaposition of these two versions. Scenes play out one way delivering an outcome, and then the very same scene is delivered in a different context with another outcome, sometimes unexpectedly. The dramatic scenes carry strong, unbridled tension, well handled by Mitchell in some delicious long takes with little or no coverage that Woody is best known for. The comedic version plays like one would expect from Woody, including a visit to the Hamptons where a rich dentist resides that plays like a scene from "Mighty Aphrodite." I waited with breathless anticipation for Ferrell to say he hates snorkeling, and I got a different reading of a similar line where Ferrell exclaims, " I hate beaches. The sand, the water." Yes, Woody, we know you hate the outdoors.

The cast is uniformly perfect, including the star-making performance of Radha Mitchell ("High Art"). It is a performance (or performances) of stunning power - one interpretation of Melinda is clearly poetic while the other is pure silliness done with some comic bravado. Kudos must also go to Will Ferrell who does a fine job of handling Woody's one-liners. Also nice to see Chloe Sevigny in a small but pivotal role as Laurel, the naive, caring friend, a brief but torrentially funny Vinessa Shaw as Ferrell's date, Larry Pine and Wallace Shawn as competing playwrights (both also appeared in "Vanya on 42nd St."), and the watchable Chiwetel Ejiofor. Jonny Lee Miller I can live without. By the way, there is also Brooke Smith as one of Laurel's friends who also appeared in "Vanya on 42nd St." Somebody give this woman a leading role.

Strangely I think some critics missed the boat on this one (the studio did as well by giving it limited distribution). "Melinda and Melinda" is about as personal a statement on the difficulty of writing a comedy and a drama as any filmmaker has ever accomplished on the silver screen. Woody has done some postmodernist deconstruction on his work, essentially saying that he annually does a comedy or a drama - which do you prefer? And you know Woody fans want more comedy, and some of us love his Bergmanesque tales of woe. This time, he has it both ways and he accomplishes something he has rarely done since "Deconstructing Harry" - he is self-critical of himself as a writer and not his fans, as was the case with "Stardust Memories." To some, it may be a masturbatory and self-congratulatory Woody effort. To others, this is essentially Woody Deconstructing Woody.