Belongs in dusty bin from last season

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER (1997)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Original review written in 1998

I know what has happened to the slasher film genre - it has become limited and uninspiring offering little in the way of novelty or surprise. True, the "Scream" movies revived the dusty genre only because they poked a little fun at it, and brought a self-reflective gaze upon it. But this genre has nothing to offer unless a talented filmmaker can reinvent it and bring some level of humanity. "I Know What You Did Last Summer" is not that film, and it is as idiotic and mind-numbingly awful as you can imagine.

The premise centers on four teenagers who kill a pedestrian on the road at night during a July 4th celebration. They contemplate their dilemma and unconvincingly draw up reasons why they can't tell the police - to protect their futures beyond high school. They dump the body by the docks (though the supposed corpse never seems to be truly dead). A year later passes, and the main teen of the cast (a frail-looking Jennifer Love-Hewitt) arrives home from college to find a note in the mail indicating the film's title. Someone knows, but who? Could it be her ring of friends that night who swore never to tell anyone? Could it be the kid who drove by that night making inquiries? Could it be the backwoods woman (Anne Heche) whose brother committed suicide that same night?

This is a mildly intriguing premise for a slasher film, but all sense of mystery and horror is thrown out the window once the killings and implausibilities set in. We have a body in a trunk full of crabs that conveniently disappears, a killer in a slicker outfit during a hot summer (how conspicuous), a girl's blonde hair chopped off while she's asleep (!), and more and more ridiculous scenarios that will shock you into laughter and boredom.

The actors are bland and forgettable (save for the cute-as-a-button Hewitt), the scares are predictable, the dialogue is sheer rubbish, and of course, there is a door left open for a sequel. Most of these movies ("Halloween: H20," "Urban Legend") are mediocre and thrill-less to being with offering little imagination or raison d'être. Writer Kevin Williamson of "Scream" fame should have known better.

Lester is the Seeker

AMERICAN BEAUTY (1999)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Originally reviewed back in 1999

Watching Sam Mendes's "American Beauty" is like taking a roller coaster tour through suburbia - gleeful yet observant that something awry may be happening in each house of each neighborhood. "American Beauty" is the latest 90's view of dysfunctional families of America, a fascinating, complex, irritating, grandiose and finally (and purposely) uneven satire.

Kevin Spacey stars as the hapless, droll Lester Burnham, a magazine writer for a bland organization run by bland businessmen who seemed to have emerged from the offices of the film "In The Company of Men." He is unhappily married to his frantic wife, Carolyn (Annette Bening), a real-estate agent whose sales have depleted due to the new local hotshot honcho in town (Peter Gallagher). They both have a smug, obnoxious daughter, Jane (Thora Birch) whose sole intent in life is to have augmented breasts. Their new neighbors are not any less strange or threatening to suburbia. There is the intensely coiled former Marine (Chris Cooper) and his catatonic wife (Allison Janney, in an atypical role), and their son, Ricky (Wes Bentley), a video camera freak with a steely gaze in his eyes - he has the ability to see the beauty in things.

There is a dichotomy in the breakdown of these two families. As far as the Burnhams are concerned, Lester and Carolyn (their sexually frustration always in check) listen to dinner music while eating, and Jane (who hates her parents) brings her best friend, a seemingly teenage blonde nymphette named Angela (Mena Suvari), for sleepovers. Angela admits that Jane's father is cute, and claims she wants to have sex with him. Ricky's family has deep seated hatred towards Jews and homosexuals. His Marine father does not want his son Ricky to resort to drugs use anymore, and regularly beats him if he touches his own belongings. Ricky draws more attention to his video camera and films Jane and the rest of her family through his bedroom window - it is his means of escape. And his mother never says a word and seems to live a life of sadness reflected in her endless stares.

By comparison, the Burnhams are living a life with more zest. Lester is drawn to his daughter's sexy friend and has a regressive awakening. He quits his job, starts lifting weights and jogging, and frequently postures and rants about his newfangled freedom. Lester also starts smoking pot, listens to his collection of 70's songs, and tells his family what he really thinks about his life and his marriage. In other words, he is driving them further apart than they were already.

There are many more revelations in the richly designed tapestry of writer Alan Ball's screenplay, and it is unfair to say more because nothing in this film can be predicted. I have been saying for a long time that Hollywood films should take the initiative of relying on character-based narrative to unveil a slice of Americana. Most recent Hollywood films rely on plot to drive the characters forward in motion (see "Pushing Tin") whereas Ball instead lets these characters live and breathe by their passions and hungers - they are not dictated by cumbersome plot points. Essentially, these people are not at all what they seem to be, and slowly other attributes start to evolve in their personalities. Lester undergoes the most thrilling transformation from a jerky, ironic three-piece suit bureaucrat to a t-shirt wearing, posturing, reborn, virile man with lots of attitude to spare, more so than his cheerleading daughter. He is the anchor of the film, and basically underscores all the tension within his family and his next-door neighbors with his rampant, rebellious slant on life.

"American Beauty" scores heavily with Spacey's beautifully modulated, magnetic performance - it is clearly his best work by far. Annette Bening finally has her zestiest, most radiant role since "The Grifters" - here she accomplishes the rare feat of being sympathetic while simultaneously being pathetic and annoying. Thora Birch also does solid work as the cranky Jane (she certainly grew up since her work in those Harrison Ford/Tom Clancy movies). One performance that deserves some recognition is the underrated Chris Cooper as the violently abusive Marine. Cooper also played a dad earlier this year in the gentle "October Sky" and has had decent parts in some John Sayles films. Here he demonstrates an intensity that is nearly unwatchable, and his rain-drenched scene with Spacey will make you squirm. More kudos are deserving of Mena Suvari as the blonde cheerleader friend of Jane's - her role says more about the plight of teenage girls in high school than most teen movies of late. She could give Rachel Leigh Cook a run for her money.

As much as I like newcomer Wes Bentley, his enigmatic Ricky left me unsatisfied, partly because we know so little about him. One critic described him as evil (which he is not) but there is a disarming, almost Norman Bates aura about this kid that is creepily inconclusive. Ditto Ricky's mother who is left in the sidelines, though I imagine we can draw our own conclusions as to why she is virtually catatonic.

"American Beauty" is not perfect or as harrowingly honest as last year's undeniably great "Happiness," but it is entertainingly wicked, insightful and satirical in its unfolding of this slice of suburban life. Once it is over, you will get an urge to drive through the suburbs of any town in America and try to take a peek at what is happening in those family homes.

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.