Bird food for the avante-garde set

BIRDMAN OR (THE UNEXPECTED VIRTUE OF IGNORANCE) (2014)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia
Reprinted with Permission by Steel Notes Magazine

Alejandro Inarritu, an overpraised director who was ridiculously bellied up with raves for the limp "Gravity," has concocted another limp film, a vanity project where the director can show off  his technical prowess. Only his endless long takes burden and suffocate the viewer with portentous characters of little draw or joy, save for the stellar work of Michael Keaton and Emma Stone. "Birdman" is virtually long-take porn and a sad sack character study that is more artificial than all of its magical realism gimmicks.

St. James Theatre on Broadway is the setting. Riggan Thomson (Keaton) is the mediocre actor and mediocre star of a movie franchise that made a box-office killing, Birdman. After "Birdman 2," Riggan flew far away from it all and decided he wanted to be taken seriously. Thanks to sage advice from the late author Raymond Carver during Thomson's early days in theatre, he decides to direct, write and act in his own adaptation of Carver's "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love," which strikes me as an insufferable bore of a play from a writer I do admire, Carver that is (check out the short stories and the sparkling diamond of a film made from it, "Short Cuts").  Riggan's daughter (Emma Stone) is his indifferent assistant who hates picking out flowers for him and seems to hate him, period. The best scene in the film is the most shockingly honest as Riggan's daughter lays down the truth about his stature as an actor and for having adapted a play that only rich people adore.

Such blazing honesty is missing from the rest of Inarritu's Odyssey of Long Takes. I do admire uninterrupted long takes because, for cinematic purposes, they have a sweeping effect of lifting you from your seats and since the film delves into magical realist elements such as Riggan's imagining himself as a flying bird, and sometimes not imagining himself at all, the technical visual strategy is apropos. But it is at a cost to the dramatic conflicts of its characters because what takes place in front of the camera is often inert. "Birdman" has no real pulse, no blood in it, no passion. It assumes the theatre world is full of arrogant dim bulbs (not unlike Edward Norton's own sendup of himself in the guise of a far too technical actor) and I wanted to get away from them as quickly as possible. Even the New York Times theatre critic (Frank Rich would've conked this woman out in real life) is snobbish and can't be bothered with watching the play before reviewing it - she hates everything Riggan stands for.

Michael Keaton is a solid actor but he often mumbles his way through the proceedings. I never felt connected to him -- Bill Murray would've been a wiser choice to play such a dull actor. That is not to take away from several choice scenes Keaton has to play but he often works best when he is restrained (Check out 1988’s "Clean and Sober" for proof). Although I do admire the in-jokes and the atmosphere, "Birdman" is bird food for the avante-garde set - the poseurs.

Personal Crisis weighs a ton of emotion

21 GRAMS (2003)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Originally viewed on January 2nd, 2004

It is difficult to explain why "21 Grams" works so powerfully. One can say it is the unconventional structure which, in hindsight, is not as unconventional as we might think. Others may say it is the stellar acting turns by most of the cast. I would say that director Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu proves to be a force-of-nature on film - his grainy images and hand-held camerawork create a dizzying immediacy that few other filmmakers can approach. "21 Grams" feels alive, and you will feel quite alive in ways one can't easily describe after it is over.

We always hear complaints (myself included in this camp) that few recent movies ever focus so clearly and definitively on characters. "21 Grams" could be considered a film that overdoses on characters and character details. There is Paul (Sean Penn), a mathematician who has just received a heart transplant from a car accident victim. He is unhappily married to Mary (Charlotte Gainsbourg) who moves back in with him after his surgery to help him. She wants to have a baby through artificial insemination, though Paul is initially dismayed by the prospect. Meanwhile, there is Jack (Benicio Del Toro), an ex-con who has followed Jesus and his Gospel more devotedly than your average Catholic. His life is guided by the Bible and by God, and even helps troubled kids at a reform school. He is married and has kids but his past continues to haunt him. And then there is Christine (Naomi Watts), a once-happily married woman who faces a tragedy few can bear, and resorts to drugs to cope.

Somehow, all these lives intersect in ways that may surprise and titillate you. The structure of going back and forth in time between one isolated incident and another may drive you up the wall. One moment, Sean Penn has a beard and is walking around with an oxygen tank, the next moment he is clean shaven and having lunch with friends. Yet another moment, he is seen driving Christine to a prison where Jack is being held. Say what? Well, when the film proceeds along with such extended scenes out of order, we begin to understand what director Inarritu is doing - he is focusing on aspects and details of behavior in his characters that lend to greater introspection by the time the film is over. This is not an intentional shuffling of scenes for his sake - it is a gathering of collected moments that pinpoint each different crisis facing each character. At first, it may be jarring to see Christine sniffing coke in the bathroom, looking glum and unglamorous, before seeing her smiling at a swimming pool. What this technique does is to illustrate how a character once felt before a tragedy took place - it is like looking through a prism of one's past, present and uncertain future.

Sean Penn, in what may be his most glorious year ever after such a powerhouse performance in "Mystic River," is a true revelation - exuding his charisma and body language with a deep level of understanding of Paul's own future and past. Paul may have a better perception of who he is than anyone else in the movie. I personally pick Penn as the Best Actor of 2003 for his stunning work. A major actress emerging from the shadows, especially since "Mulholland Dr.," is Naomi Watts who gives us a shattering performance of such emotional gravity that I was blown away - Watts embodies everything we might feel if we were parents and lost an entire family. And as for Benicio Del Toro, we see an actor who is at his best keeping it low-key. Yes, he does lose his cool in many scenes but, this time, it is in keeping with the character's own inner and outer rages - he is still a loose cannon even with a strong belief in God being omnipresent.

There is no real plot in "21 Grams" but there are richly-drawn characters that leave you feeling pity for them. Everyone goes through a crisis, a moment in time that can't be changed no matter how much guilt and confusion sets in. The actors give us such pained, realistic performances that I swear I had shed a tear for each and every one of them. Yes, "21 Grams" is tough, uncompromising and unsentimental. This is not wholesome entertainment, nor is it meant to be. But it is rewarding, gloomy and poetic - the kind of film where the uncertainty of people's lives leaves one feeling incomplete leaving the theater. And whose to say that feeling is nothing like real life.

Scrappy diverting poke at Old Hollywood

HAIL, CAESAR! (2016)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

I love Hollywood satire and there is enough to admire from the Coens' "Hail, Caesar!" but I did wish there was more to chew on. The targets are there from Old Hollywood, from the Cinemascope movies that used to populate theaters back in the 1950's to the traditional movie fixer Mannix overseeing the production of a big-budget Roman tale, to hiding a pregnancy from a known actress, etc. As I said, there is plenty to look at in "Hail, Caesar!" but the film curiously holds back.

George Clooney is Baird Whitlock, a movie star who looks out of place in Roman soldier gear (Clancy Brown looks more appropriate in a fine cameo). That may be the joke of the film yet it is also the fact that Baird is not all that bright. He is kidnapped and sent to a Hollywood executive's home which is a meeting place for Communists who read books like "Das Kapital" and promote their cause known as "The Future." Why Baird is taken to this Communist meeting is beyond me except maybe to indoctrinate the idiotic actor or teach him the evils of capitalism.

Meanwhile, Eddie Mannix (Josh Brolin, exceedingly good), head of Capitol Pictures, tries to maintain several debacles at once, Baird's kidnapping being one. A cowboy star who can sing but can't act (Alden Ehrenreich) is cast in a sophisticated drama where he has trouble saying the line, "Would that it 'twere so simple." The impatient British director Laurence Lorenz (Ralph Fiennes) has an unforgettably hilarious scene where he endlessly tries to help the actor enunciate with proper diction. Good luck with that. Another debacle is DeeAnna Moran (Scarlett Johansson), the Esther Williams of underwater musicals, who is pregnant and has to hide it - the remedy is to tell the press that she has adopted. Oh, we also got two gossip column sisters, Thora and Thessaly Thacker (both played by Tilda Swinton) who try to get the latest scoop about everything, including Baird's alleged homosexual encounter with Lorenz in the production of a past movie. To make matters worse, Lockheed astonishingly wants Mannix to apply for a position, though it is unclear as to why.

I enjoyed "Hail, Caesar!" overall and any movie that has references to colorful musicals, the H bomb, Communism, Roman epics and untalented actors from a bygone era merits special attention. But the movie doesn't bite hard enough, it is content to swiftly move from one wacky situation to another without enough irony. Some scenes enthrall, such as the showstopping musical numbers, and other scenes lay flat such as the climactic submarine scene that looks as fake and staged as the movies they poke fun at. Unlike the Coens' own masterful Hollywood-skewering flick "Barton Fink" from two decades ago, "Hail, Caesar!" doesn't go for the extra mile or the comical punch it needs - it floats but it lacks a central motor. There are many scenes that made me laugh (love the scarf that nearly chokes a film editor played by Frances McDormand) and many that made me smile (Clooney giving a long impassioned speech in one take ruined by forgetting a line of dialogue). I just expected more mileage out of this scrappy though diverting poke at Old Hollywood.

Dispassionate WWII romance

THE END OF THE AFFAIR (1999)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia 

(Original review from Jam. 2000)

Watching the dispassionate World War II romance "The End of the Affair," one is instantly reminded of "The English Patient" considering it starred the same lead actor, Ralph Fiennes. Fiennes does not strike me as a romantic lead - he somehow has an aura that is too cold and stuffy. Thus, "End of the Affair" is a beautiful film to watch but it suffers from Fiennes's presence.

The film begins literally at the end of the affair. A well-known, London fiction writer named Maurice (Ralph Fiennes) coincidentally meets an old friend, Henry (Stephen Rea), during a rainy evening. Henry, a dour civil servant, had not seen Maurice in years and invites him back to his house for a drink. After a while, Henry confesses that his wife, Sarah Miles (Julianne Moore), may be having an affair and has reluctantly thought of hiring a private detective. Maurice takes matters in his own hands since he knows Sarah - he once had an affair with her and may be quite jealous as well. Thus, writer-director Neil Jordan ("The Crying Game") fractures the timeline by showing us the affair and its consequences, and its inevitable denouement, while Maurice walks through the London streets in the present day to uncover Sarah's supposed infidelity.

"The End of the Affair" is bold in its time fracturing structure, particularly in how it takes us back and forth from the present day to the past sometimes within a single scene. Neil Jordan often cuts away to the past during a scene in the present that mirrors the past. One notable example is when Maurice first arrives at Henry's house and walks up the stairs and there is a cut to a woman's legs being caressed by Maurice as they walk up to the bedroom. Not a new device of cinematic language to be sure but Jordan handles it with delicate skill and panache.

There are a couple of problems with the story, however, that are handled with less skill. For one, the romance between Maurice and Sarah never quite makes us feel the passion of their affair, and the casting of the less than smoldering Fiennes reflects that. Somehow, it never bursts forth with the fireworks one would expect from a romantic story (one can conclude that Stephen Rea might have been a better choice since his relationship with "the lady" in "Crying Game" was far more passionate). To make matters worse the scene in the building where after they have had one of many earth-shaking trysts, a bomb strikes and there is a sense of God's intervention, is handled badly and strikes too many false notes.

The redemptive stroke of genius in "End of the Affair" is the dazzling Julianne Moore, who encapsulates Sarah with delicacy, charm and nuance - plus, she makes a fitting romantic lead. Her British accent is also down pat, but you knew that already if you saw "Big Lebowski" or "An Ideal Husband." Though I would not call this one of her best performances, she still manages to hold her own against Mr. Fiennes.

If "End of the Affair" had a better leading man in the role, someone not so suffocated with charmlessness, then it might have been a true romantic tragedy. As it is, it strikes some sad notes but it never breathes with verve or passion.

Obsessed with the voyeur in all of us

DE PALMA (2016)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Reprinted with permission by Steel Notes Magazine

I don’t know if Brian De Palma is a visionary. I am not sure he is the Hitchcock copycat he has often been called, aping the visual style of Hitchcock’s own “Vertigo” and its female doppelganger subplot for most of his career. I never really considered De Palma a filmmaker who exploited women or was any sort of demented misogynist. Sure, an electric drill is thrust through a woman’s body dressed in lingerie in “Body Double.” Yes, a woman’s final scream in the throes of death is woven into the soundtrack of a film-within-the-film in “Blow Out.” Yes, Angie Dickinson’s character makes face with a scalpel in an elevator in “Dressed to Kill.” Then there is the honest depiction of a teenage girl with her period getting pelted with tampons in the famous opening scenes of “Carrie.” I still do not understand the misogyny charge any more than when it could have been applied to Hitchcock with Janet Leigh’s sudden demise in the infamous shower scene of “Psycho” or the numerous birds that attack Tippi Hedren and her perfectly coiffed hairdo in “The Birds” or, well, I could go on.

De Palma might have shown more empathy towards women overall. The Angie Dickinson character in “Dressed to Kill” is seen like a floating apparition in white, walking as if she was floating across the floors of the Museum of Modern Art in endless Steadicam takes. So much attention is divulged on her, from her lovemaking to her husband who abruptly takes off after finishing his business, to listening and talking to her son, to her seeing a therapist (Michael Caine) who admits he would make love to her. Then, very abruptly like Janet Leigh’s Marion Crane, she is taken from us and slashed to death. It ain’t pretty but by then, we love Angie, we feel for her and her revelation that she contracted a venereal disease. We care for her, unlike most of the slasher flicks of the 1980’s that could’ve been charged with misogyny more so than De Palma.

A new documentary called “De Palma” deals with some of these charges by film critics who always seem to sharpen their knives when a new film of his comes along. The director himself calls into question what Hollywood wanted from him and what they expected. I still don’t know if they knew what a talented, stylish director they had whose best films were like extended mood pieces that put you into a quixotic trance. Those long takes in an art museum (“Dressed to Kill”), a spacious, high-end mall (“Body Double” which features “the longest walk in film history” as De Palma claims) or the slow-motion, rhapsodic sense of movement and violence in a train station (“The Untouchables”) made me quiver with anticipation – they were dreams with a hypnotic charge of excitement. No other director before De Palma ever took the Steadicam shots and slow-motion to such a degree. They make standard issue mainstream entertainments seems positively underimagined by comparison.

Ultimately, as De Palma conveys through a personal story from his own youth, his best films are about obsessions. They are voyeuristic obsessions, usually with a woman as its focus. “Body Double” is one of the most pleasurably voyeuristic films of all time, taking a page from “Rear Window” and having its central protagonist getting excited over a woman seen through a telescope in ways that not even James Stewart ever had or would be permitted to. It is sexual excitement, not just some passing romantic notions. Same with “Dressed to Kill” as its main killer in a blonde wig and a black trenchcoat often appears looking through a window or a reflective surface before attacking or maiming a female victim. Yet there is another voyeuristic side to that film – Dickinson’s son (Keith Gordon) sets up a film camera outside of a psychiatrist’s house, hoping to catch the killer. De Palma himself tells the story of how he photographed his own father, outside of a residence, having an adulterous affair and confronting him with it. I would never have suspected that De Palma’s visual style and camera placement in “Dressed to Kill” was inspired by some troubling daddy issues.

De Palma speaks honestly about his cinematic triumphs and failures. He acknowledges that the vanity production “The Bonfire of the Vanities” works if you have not read the book (though I think the film fails whether you have read the book or not). He also acknowledges he was only the replacement director for the insidiously boring “Mission to Mars.” I also love his comments about making the most accessible film of his career, certainly the most popular, “Mission: Impossible,” and how he would’ve been dumb to turn down the opportunity to direct Tom Cruise in a feature film remake of the 60’s TV show. There is also the disaster of one of his earliest films and least known, “Get to Know Your Rabbit” with Tom Smothers that was heavily recut by the studio and had Orson Welles in the cast who didn’t memorize his lines. Oh, and how about Cliff Robertson’s tan coloring that didn’t mesh with a protagonist who was supposed to be pale-faced in the aptly-titled “Obsession.”

For myself, “Body Double,” “Femme Fatale” and “Dressed to Kill” are terrific voyeuristic classics – they are like peeks behind a curtain of sexual tension and women who are sexually knowing. “Scarface” and “Mission to Mars” are his worst films (Sorry Scarface fans but I still cannot get behind Al Pacino’s Cuban drug lord and how his story later connected with the hip-hop community). “The Untouchables” is a nostalgic entertainment with a great score and great performances that somehow ended a little too soon. “Mission: Impossible” is thin on plot but it has some captivating thrill-happy scenes. “Carrie” is atypical De Palma but it does show he had a gift for geeky horror with a sensitive performance by Sissy Spacek (and that final shot still gives me the chills). 

If there is anything missing in this otherwise captivating documentary, it is that De Palma (unlike some of his contemporaries like Martin Scorsese) never quite explains what drove him to make certain films. His most personal  works (“Body Double,” “Dressed to Kill,” “Femme Fatale,” “Blow Out”) seems to evolve from the feeling that life itself is often seen through a lens, a refracted lens perhaps, but one where all sorts of possible outcomes exist. That would be true of “Greetings” (his silliest film with hints of truth about the infamous Zapruder film) and its semi-sequel “Hi, Mom!” where Robert De Niro is the classic De Palma protagonist – a Vietnam vet who likes to photograph his neighbors.  The most telling aspect of De Palma’s work is that many of the characters are more attuned to their cameras and binoculars than they are to actual communication with their photographed subjects. When the male protagonists finally come around to having a conversation, it can work and result in some unexpected connection (“Femme Fatale” is one example, as is “Dressed to Kill”). When it doesn’t, tragedy and chaos result in an explosion of violence (“Carrie” being the most notable example, certainly “Blow Out”).  Either way, here’s hoping that this stunning documentary (directed by Noah Baumbach and Jake Paltrow) results in Brian De Palma getting closer to being recognized as to what he always was – the artist obsessed with the voyeur in all of us.

Supreme Ironic Superhero Movie

DEADPOOL (2016)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Reprinted with permission by Steel Notes Magazine

“Deadpool” is not the standard comic-book movie treatment by any stretch of the imagination. We have a superhero who is no hero at all; he is in fact a smart-ass killer who fires off jokes more often than firing a punch at the expense of anyone he is ready to kill, commenting on the action as he breaks the fourth wall of the fourth wall. In fact, this may be the first super-antihero film where a commentary track by the film’s writers, director and actors on a DVD are not necessary – Mr. Deadpool waxes on through voice-over commenting on the action, including the use of music in a given scene, the film’s budget not allowing for more than two X-Men characters and the way a camera moves during an establishing shot. This movie is the first truly Supreme Ironic Superhero movie.

Ryan Reynolds is a WHAM-loving, former Special Forces operative and mercenary, the kind that goes after a scared-stiff pizza delivery guy for stalking a young girl. This former military man is Wade Wilson and he has a propensity for violence but also a soft spot for love, specifically a sizzlingly sexy prostitute named Vanessa (Morena Baccarin, currently in TV’s grisly “Gotham”). They have heavy sex and it gets heavier and hotter with each passing holiday and with music set to Neil Sedaka’s “Calendar Girl.” But, hey, this is no rom-com with sweaty sex scenes every few minutes nor does it turn into some soapy romance tragedy when Wade discovers he has advanced lung, liver and brain cancer, you know, the kind of mess that slowly kills you (perhaps worse than a viewing of “Van Wilder”). Though Vanessa promises that they will work it out, Wade hastily departs for a procedure at some dingy laboratory where he is tortured and burned severely by a ruthless mercenary and super mutant named Ajax (Ed Skrein). After a series of explosions at the lab and Wade being left for dead, Captain Deadpool, ah, just Deadpool, eventually arises (and make no mistake about it, despite this story having its origins in a comic-book, a lot of this reminded me of Sam Raimi’s fantastic 1990 flick, “Darkman”) and he is out to maim and kill as many people as possible to reach Ajax and find a cure for his cheese pizza exterior.

Nothing that transpires in “Deadpool” is all that unique yet how the story is told sets it apart from the norm. Deadpool resembles a cross between Spider-Man and Ant-Man yet, you know, more profane and full of nasty quips. There are too many jokes and his motormouth skills (Merc with Mouth) and rapid-fire zingers are like quotation marks that fill the screen and make you laugh in spite of yourself. When Deadpool’s legs and hands are broken by a solid hulk of an X-Man named Colossus, Deadpool’s only reaction is to make reference to “127 Hours.” Most superheroes may not care if the supervillain dies but this character is one of the few who doesn’t seem to care too much about himself – of course, that is the joke because cutting off one appendage or breaking a bone only leads to regeneration. Armed with two katanas and several firearms, Deadpool leaves a bloody trail wherever he goes. Though a lot of the hyperviolence can get repetitious, Reynolds’ bravura performance and litany of curses keep the movie afloat. When Deadpool isn’t joking around or killing people, he jumps around like a wired-on-espresso-and-cocaine jack rabbit – the guy cannot sit still for long even when caressing an elderly blind roommate with his slowly regenerating hand. He is one of the few that doesn’t just do a double-take, he does a quadruple take.

“Deadpool” lampoons everything about the movie you are watching – it is like having Deadpool sitting next to you and commenting on the action he is performing on the screen and out of it, a hyperactive 3D black comedy of epic superhero proportions. It is the meta of all metas, the first truly postmodernist superhero movie that tells you, “hey, stop taking these movies so seriously comic-book nerds!” Yet despite its goofiness and self-reflectiveness, Reynolds and Baccarin lend the movie and their characters a touch of humanity and some gravitas and they have unbreakable chemistry. One can’t help but feel remorse for Wade when he discovers he has cancer or when he is tortured to such a grueling degree. This is a superhero movie for people who love and/or hate superhero movies, smoothly directed by an overpaid tool, that is debuting director Tim Miller. As for Reynolds, it is a solid corrective to his bland “Green Lantern.” 

Sexual Sparks are absent

BASIC INSTINCT 2 (2006)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

I was not an admirer of the original "Basic Instinct," a vapidly lurid though occasionally watchable thriller that sprang Sharon Stone to superstar status. I am also no admirer of "Basic Instinct 2," a far more vapid though sometimes watchable thriller that relies on Stone to carry it through. Normally I would say that an actress of such magnetism may be enough to warrant a viewing - if only she didn't seem so bored throughout.

Sharon Stone is Catherine Tramell, a sexy novelist whose specialty is luring men to bed to fulfill her own sexual fantasies for the sake of a story. Of course, an ice pick and going commando might help to accentuate the allure - oh, she is a dangerous bimbo/literary type. At the start of the film, she drugs some anonymous guy (a well-known athlete apparently) and enjoys some sexual fun while driving a car at top speeds, until it crashes through some billboard or storefront and into the Thames (yep, this story is set in London). Catherine can't save the guy, so she saves herself. For "Basic Instinct" fans, this looks like the real Catherine Tramell. She smokes, she claims she can never cum again (good for a laugh), she likes her reluctant new therapist, Dr. Glass (David Morrisey), and she makes new friends in the therapist world. Naturally, Dr. Glass is taken by her as he starts taking notice of women in restaurants. But he has other worries - a magazine writer is about to spill the beans about Glass and his ex- wife, or something to that effect. What Dr. Glass is hiding or why he feels his career is threatened is never made clear. All he can do is boink a colleague while looking at a book cover with Catherine's face on it, and boink Catherine herself.

Had "Basic Instict 2" focused on Catherine's insatiable appetite for sex, the latest case for "risk addiction," and how she influences the good doctor through sex, it might have worked. Certainly the original "Basic Instinct" had that in spades - Catherine's sexuality defined her. But such base instincts are left out of this sequel, thanks to either the MPAA or director Michael Caton-Jones who is not the right director for this material. Caton-Jones seems to think he is making a soft-porn psychological thriller, when the only aspect that survives is the soft-porn aspect and not much of it either. And when Stone, with the exception of the opening scenes, seems indifferent and as bored as the audience would be, then what is left?

Interestingly, "Basic Instict 2" is actually not boring but not much fun, erotically speaking, either. Stone is out cold, but there is some level of interest in the Dr. Glass character - I kept wondering what his fate was going to be. I realized just now that director Caton- Jones did the remarkable "Scandal" back in 1989. That film was based on the Profumo affair, and starred Joanne Whalley as the seductress. If "Basic Instinct 2" had a tenth of that film's smoldering sexuality, it might have ignited some real sexual sparks back into Sharon Stone.