THE WEEKLY RECAP: August 20 - 26

Songs from the Second Floor (2000)

Directed by Roy Andersson

* * * *

Songs from the Second Floor is one of those films that I can confidently say is purely a work of art, and one that defies any kind of explanation as far as plot is concerned. With that said, you could probably imagine that there’s not going to be any plot synopsis from me here. That doesn’t mean this was a bad movie, though. Not at all, because this is not only one of the greatest surreal absurdist films I’ve seen, but also one of the greatest dark comedies. Imagine of Bela Tarr collaborated with Luis Bunuel or even Alejandro Jodrowsky – it would be something like Songs from the Second Floor. Roy Andersson paints a portrait of the tragic and drab inertia that is modern human existence through a series of vignettes: traffic is stuck with zero movement. A man is fired from his job, and he loses his mind over it, less out of financial worry than because it is all he has known his entire life. Hell, life is so dull and drab that the characters wander throughout life almost like zombies – they even mingle with the literal dead at one point. They make good company together.

Though this is a deeply profound film, it also works on a remarkably subtle level. Each scene is shot in one take, and the camera doesn’t move at all, letting the viewer is subjected to every single inch of the absurdity. Seemingly everybody in this film wears this grayish bland makeup, and works brilliantly on two levels: a metaphor for the artificial “face” we put on everyday, and how that “face” makes us dead in a way. The color palette is also flawlessly maintained throughout – as you could imagine, lots of gray tones. So much so that even the colors that do make an appearance seem to be overcast by the grayness – kind of reminds me of that Lewis Black joke about the grayness of February. In fact, that whole joke perfectly describes this movie. Some might roll their eyes at the idea of yet another piece of art that is pessimistically concerned with the alleged pointlessness of life. Part of me wanted to, at first, but I was quickly taken by what a great film this was. Truly a surrealist masterpiece that I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

Step Brothers (2008)

Directed by Adam McKay

* * ½

Nancy and Robert (Mary Steenburg and Richard Jenkins, respectively) find instant attraction to each other, one of the biggest points of appeal being their mutual care of their grown adult sons, Brennan (Will Ferrell) and Dale (John C. Reilly), both of whom still live with them. When Nancy and Robert decide to get married, the two step brothers and their spoiled sense of entitlement throw one hell of a monkey wrench into this new way of life. However, in between all of their childish antics, things begin to brighten when they find something to bond over: their mutual hate for Derek (Adam Scott), Brennan’s snooty and more successful brother.

As fun as the Will Ferrell era of comedy from the mid-to-late 2000s was, it ran its course pretty quickly for me. It wasn’t a bad time, I suppose. I guess I just got kind of tired of that style of comedy. On one hand, I wasn’t expecting much with Step Brothers – I certainly wasn’t expecting anything bad (nor was it). On the other hand, though I’ve been begged by acquaintances for years to watch Step Brothers, so I set my expectations a little higher than I should have. I enjoyed it, somewhat, but it wasn’t as funny as I was hoping it was going to be. It’s really hard to describe, because it’s not doing anything wrong, it just never really hits many strides, and didn’t leave much impression. I mean, it was made and acted just fine. It just didn’t have much lasting power for me.

I must admit, though, that there were some lines in Step Brothers that were absolutely hysterical – my favorite being “It’s like masturbating in a time machine” while Reilly and Ferrell flip through vintage porn magazines. And I don’t want to make Step Brothers sound like a waste of time, because it wasn’t: it was quite amusing, actually. I wish I had more to say, but there’s really not much else for a mini-review. It was a fun way to spend a little less than two hours, but just doesn’t have much to offer beyond that.

Wonderland (1999)

Directed by Michael Winterbottom

* *

Yet another weekend approaches London for a trio of sisters, their elderly parents, and the latter’s neighbors, all of whom are lonely in their own individual ways. First, there’s the sisters: Nadia (Gina McKee), a waitress in a small café, spends her days posting personal ads and going on dates; Molly (Molly Parker) is pregnant and expected to deliver any day, but her husband (John Simm) is unprepared for the responsibility of fatherhood; and the promiscuous Debbie (Shirley Henderson), a single mother who lets her son spend the weekend with his hot-tempered father (Ian Hart). Their parents are Eilenn (Kika Markham) and Bill (Jack Shepherd), whose marriage has deteriorated to a cold and drab state. We watch as the weekend unfolds for these people, and how they deal with their loneliness in their own ways.

I wanted to really love this movie. Not only do I love hyperlink films, but the subject of loneliness is one of my favorite themes in the movies, but Wonderland just didn’t cut it for me. All of these characters have glimmers of interesting quality – Nadia especially – but there’s no depth to any of them in the slightest. Granted, I don’t like when movies overload the viewer with exposition, but Wonderland doesn’t even insinuate how these characters have gotten to where they are – there’s nothing to think about afterward. Also, the movie is not well paced – there’s no rhyme or reason when it switches focus from character to character, to the point where you might forget that a character or two even exist.

All this said, Wonderland is a film that exists less to tell a story than to observe behavior, and I admire it for that. There’s a documentary quality to the film that goes over quite well. The visual style, though very late ‘90s/early ‘00s, is quite fascinating. Michael Nyman’s score also shines throughout, and speaking of music; Massive Attack’s “Angel” makes an appearance, and anytime I hear a MA song in a film, I give immediate props. But none of this really culminates into a rewarding film experience. It’s not a bad film, but it’s very dry, which is strange, considering it doesn’t look dry at all.

Wrong Move (1975)

Directed by Wim Wenders

* * ½

Aimless and somewhat jaded of the world around him, aspiring writer Wilhelm (Rudiger Vogler), a man of very few words, leaves his mother, girlfriend, and hometown, catching the train bound for Bonn, in search of…maybe he doesn’t even know. Along the way, though, he finds his journey joined by a handful of colorful compatriots – Laertes (Hans Christien Blech), an elderly man with a secret past and a knack for the harmonica; Mignon (Nastassja Schygulla), a mute and alluring street performer; Bernhard (Peter Kern), a clumsy and awkward poet; finally there is Therese (Hanna Schygulla), a gorgeous actress who seems to fancy Wilhelm. Through this journey with such a wonderfully odd party, maybe Wilhelm will find something in this drab life of his.

It seems that most of the time the centerpiece film is always the weakest with film trilogies. Here we are with Wrong Move, the second entry into Wim Wenders’s “Road Trilogy” (as well as a modern-day adaptation of the 18^th Century novel Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship), and it’s unfortunately not an exception to the rule. It’s actually kind of frustrating – the characters are all interesting and kind of fun, and the film tries to take advantage of that, but the writing is almost unbearably dry. I remember the characters and their personalities, but I don’t remember a single conversation or line of dialogue. At least the film wasn’t unbearably long or even felt long for that matter.

On a technical level, however, Wrong Move does surpass the touching and otherwise superior Alice in the Cities (see last week’s Weekly Recap for details on that). This film takes a bit more visual advantage of the whole road concept, and there are some stunning visuals here – much of the final act takes place on a bendy road on a large hill, and it is absolutely gorgeous. All of the actors fit their characters perfectly – Vogler’s terrific abilities as an actor go without saying, and I was particularly struck by the enigma of Schygulla’s portrayal of the mute juggler. Perhaps I just wasn’t feeling this one, because I felt like there was something really interesting going on here, but the dryness just kept it pinned down. Maybe another watch will unveil something spectacular in the future. We’ll see.

EDITORAL: Red Eye and Documentaries, Topical Films

It should come as no surprise that I partake in the twice-annual Criterion Collection sale at Barnes & Noble. This year, one of the new releases I looked forward to most was Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine. For those that know me, adding Moore’s landmark film to my collection might raise eyebrows: aside from his debatable credibility, his viewpoints and messages tend to conflict with my own personal values. I don’t want to get too political, nor do I want to give out too much of my political identity here, but I will tell you this much: I don’t align with any particular party, but I like to call myself a constitutionalist – you can probably guess where my sociopolitical opinions sit. I will do my best to keep elements of my political identity as minimal as possible from this point forward.  

I seriously contemplated straying from topical documentaries when I first started Red Eye. My reasoning: under more circumstances than I’m comfortable with, there tends to be a lot of one-sidedness, distortion of facts, existing less as an educational piece than a cinematic means of confirmation bias, you’ve heard the complaints about “documentaries” time and time again, and I’m saying nothing new. Additionally, I admit that I don’t keep up with the details of world events (life is stressful enough, even without awareness of the world’s countless qualms), so I’m kind of a fish out of water when it comes to certain issues. Even with documentaries that are nobly being as objective as possible, one can still confidently guess where the filmmakers stand on the issue they’re documenting (Jesus Camp comes to mind regarding this).

When I was reviewing new films regularly, I was lucky to not have had to face the predicament of an upcoming topical documentary, but if I do decide to keep up with the latest in movies, I will be more open to topical films, no matter how one-sided they may be. I learned something when I was writing my ‘Great Favorites’ review on Mike Leigh’s Meantime – not a documentary, but still a topical film (Thatcherism in that movie’s case). Granted, I was not around in the UK at the time of Margaret Thatcher, but I still cared enough about the characters in the film, subsequently concerned about Mike Leigh’s interpretation of the effects of Thatcherism.

Many times, a film is not so much a mirror of the world we live in, but simply an interpretation of our world and an attempt to make some kind of sense of it. With traditional narrative cinema, I think it’s fair to say we’re much more forgiving of one-sidedness here than with documentaries. After all, it’s just a movie. Fiction.

With documentaries, however, here’s where things get complicated. Let’s start with the definition of the word, which I’m pulling verbatim from www.dictionary.com:

Adjective

1.       Pertaining to, consisting of, or derived from documents.

2.       Movies, Television. Based on or re-creating an actual event, era, life story, etc., that purports to be factually accurate and contains no fictional elements.

I don’t think I’ve yet seen a documentary film that actually follows the rules of that second definition (maybe with the exception of Tony Kaye’s terrific Lake of Fire), and I think many of my cinephilic peers can say the same. Because of this, I’ve heard documentaries criticized time and time again for not being, well, “documentaries”. While I completely understand this viewpoint, I think it is also being too dismissive – granted, we all have our biases and our values, but so does the person making the film. Perhaps I’m being redundant, but what I’m getting at is that a documentary is still a movie, therefore it is still somebody’s interpretation of a situation. Maybe we should be calling them “editorial” films instead, but that’s a conversation for another time.

Back to the whole “documentary” conversation; though there is an objective textbook definition, from my perspective, the film community has adopted its own definition of the term (call it a “street” definition, if you will), which goes something like this: a film that tells its story primarily through interaction with real people, real situations, and real environments, as opposed to that of fictional narrative cinema. Think about it for a moment: taking traditional documentaries out of the picture, think of abstract and experimental films like Sans Soleil and Koyaanisqatsi. These are films that are telling their stories through very unconventional means, but are still classified as documentaries, and the reason is simply because of the use of real footage.

Now let’s return to the conversation of “topical films”, using Bowling for Columbine as an example. Because this is an editorial piece you’re reading, I am not going to review the film, but I do want to get my nutshell thoughts on it out of the way first. For starters, I do think this is a solid film and has held up remarkably well, an impressive feat for a film as topical as this (unfortunately, due to mass shootings still being rampant throughout the States). This is also an important movie for my development, as it’s one of the first films I’ve seen that really opened my eyes to a whole other way of thinking, specifically the whole theme of fear and consumption (the Marilyn Manson was one of the most mind-blowing things I’d seen in my teenage years). And as somebody who is pro-Second Amendment, I don’t think it is nearly as anti-gun as many people seem to. I see Bowling for Columbine simply as a means of starting a conversation on the reasons for the seemingly daily gun murders in the country.

That said, I also join conventional wisdom without hesitation that Moore is a bit too manipulative and heavy-handed to give him substantial credibility, and Bowling for Columbine is no exception to his usual tropes – his use of two Columbine victims as essentially tools to cease ammunition sales at K-Mart draws great ire from me. Of course I wasn’t there, and maybe those kids really wanted K-Mart to change their ways (I wouldn’t blame them), but when they talk, it sounds like they’re just parroting things Moore told them to say, and the whole scene ends up coming off as exploitive. While I don’t consider Bowling for Columbine a great film (therefore won’t be seeing an entry into my ‘Great Favorites’), I still like it, earning a 3.5 rating from me. So, how could that possibly be, considering that Moore and I are on completely different platforms?

I reiterate that a documentary is still a film, and because it is an art form, its goal is to make you feel something. When you get to a certain age, there’s really no changing one’s opinions on whatever topic it may be, at least for a while. With topical films, though, I don’t think anyone should go into one asking themselves “will this film change my mind on whatever issue is at hand?” I think what the viewer should be more concerned about is “did this film make me care about what it had to say throughout its duration?” I mentioned earlier that I was completely riveted by the drama in Mike Leigh’s Meantime, in spite of having not gone through the alleged hell of Thatcher-era England. And while I’m pro-second amendment, I was still listening, with open ears, to what Moore had to say in Bowling for Columbine.

But what about films that express opinions that I agree with? Well, I’m still willing to criticize where criticism is due. Let’s take Tom Naughton’s Fat Head as an example here, a documentary where Naughton plays devil’s advocate to Morgan Spurlock and Supersize Me by losing weight on a month-long fast food diet. The film talks much about the benefits of high-fat/low-carb dieting, as well as exposing much of the “baloney” we’ve been led to believe by Supersize Me as well as conventional wisdom on fatty foods. I learned a lot from Fat Head, and not only agree with it front-to-back, but I still really enjoy it as a film. That said, I still have my criticisms, namely its condescending remarks towards vegetarianism and veganism. Mean-spiritedness can only get a film so much credibility – the documentary format doesn’t earn it a free pass.

I assure you my intent with this piece is not to paint myself in a light that vainly screams “look how open-minded I am”, and if I come across this way, I do apologize. With art being subjective, I feel I can only express what I have to say by relating my own personal experiences and observations, and these thoughts on topical movies have been on my mind a great deal lately. Maybe I really am reading this issue completely wrong, and it turns out that films like Bowling for Columbine really are terrible. This could be the case, but if it was a bad film, why do I still find myself watching it seriously?

THE WEEKLY RECAP: August 13 - 19

Alice in the Cities (1974)

Directed by Wim Wenders

* * * ½

Sent to America to write a piece on the country, soft-spoken German journalist Philip (Rudiger Vogler) finds himself in a state of disenfranchised inertia, seemingly brought on by the mere atmosphere of the States, with its oppressive barrage of billboards and advertising – needless to say, he is unable to write his piece and misses the publisher’s deadline. Dejected, he books a flight back to Germany. At the airport, he meets Lisa (Lisa Kreuzer) and her boisterous young daughter Alice (Yella Rottlander), a couple of fellow Germans. Unforeseen circumstances lead Lisa to disappear, leaving Alice in Philip’s involuntary care. Though it is a challenge for both of them, they form a sweet bond as they make their way back to Europe.

The first entry into Wim Wenders’s ‘Road Trilogy’, Alice in the Cities is a wonderful first chapter. Tonally, it is almost like a spiritual predecessor to Jim Jarmusch’s Stranger Than Paradise in its depiction of the tragic drabness of America, and the subsequent loss of self that it brings. In depicting that loss of self, the film is masterful, with some truly thought-provoking musings on the subject – there is a discussion on the obsession of photography as a means of proving one’s existence that is just mind-blowing. But at the core of the film are Vogler and Rottlander, who share charming chemistry and become lovable characters.

Road trip films always offer up a great opportunity for stunning visuals, but here is the only significant weakness of Alice in the Cities, as it doesn’t really take much advantage of said opportunity, making it somewhat bland on a visual level. Additionally, there is some choppy and awkward editing from time to time (many instances of interlude shots fading out awkwardly fast before any kind of emotion can generate). Other than this, though, Alice in the Cities is a wonderful and quite humble film that I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

Brief Encounter (1945)

Directed by David Lean

* * * *

As Laura (Celia Johnson) arrives home to her husband and children, she is disoriented from a rather disconcerting experience of a dizzy spell. Perhaps it’s just one of those isolated incidents, but it is here that we learn of her reason for such disorientation: a man by the name of Alec (Trevor Howard), whom she casually acquainted with at the train station. Before long, though, Alec (who is also married) not only reveals his strong feelings for Laura, but also notes that she has the same feelings for him. Though she admits it, she is alarmed by her words, wanting to remain faithful to her husband. As her secret meetings with Alec progress, though, the more irresistible he seems to become.

I won’t be going into details, but stories about love that can never be strike a very intense and emotional chord with me, and Brief Encounter – considered one of the greatest romantic films of all time – is one of the strongest examples of this category I’ve seen yet. The script is absolutely sharp and riveting, always delivering witty and fascinating dialogue from start to finish. Though a romance, the film looks more like a film noir, which is a brilliant move considering the whole theme of uncertain (and, may argue, “doomed”) love.

Though I haven’t much to say about the wonders of Brief Encounter in the previous paragraph, that’s just a testament to how strong the film’s minimal strong qualities are. Even more impressive that I shouldn’t have loved this movie nearly as much as I did – the melodramatic acting and the hackneyed voiceover as a means of backtracking the plot among a number. These are qualities I absolutely cannot stand in movies, but Brief Encounter had me so arrested that I could care less. I only wish the film would have gone even further (running at only 85 minutes), but for what I got, I couldn’t ask for a better movie.

Landscape in the Mist (1988)

Directed by Theo Angelopoulos

* * * *

The pre-teen Voula (Tania Palaiologou) and her younger brother, Alexandros (Michalis Zeke), have never met their father. Even though they have no idea what he looks like (though Alexandros frequently dreams about what he might look like), their mother has told them he lives in Germany (which is revealed early on to be a lie). The children, on their own without any kind of supervision, begin a trek across Europe in search of their father, no matter what thresholds of pain and sadness the foggy highways and train tracks will lead them to.

Do we ever phase out of childhood and into adulthood, as if some great switch is flipped within us? Perhaps a more pressing question; is there really even such a thing as adulthood? Or do the trials of the cold world that we tackle every day lock us down as children (metaphorically speaking, of course)? I often ask myself questions like these, and I don’t think any film has ever externalized these musings more than Landscape in the Mist. A lot of verisimilitude is required for this one, but the film never stretches to the point of farfetched (in contrast to, say, The Wizard) – then again, the film plays as allegory throughout its entirety, so to take the film too much at face value is completely missing the point of the film.

Granted, I do need to get my bias out of the way; I love existentialist/allegorical road films like this, but I can still assure you that this is one of the finest films made in that category. The vulnerability of the two children is always in frame – quite literally, as the two children are almost microscopic amongst the vast and misty, cold gray landscapes captured throughout (there is rarely a sunny day in this film). Though this isn’t a performance-driven film, the two lead children are terrific and make the material even more believable. Though a little difficult to come by, look this one up: it is a truly poetic and poignant film about the cold and uncertain world that we venture into daily.

The Long Day Closes (1992)

Directed by Terence Davies

* * ½

It is post-war Liverpool, and in a flat sits 11-year-old Bud (Leigh McCormack). A student at a Catholic school, he is a rather shy child, always keeping any eye on his surroundings. He lives with his mother and siblings, whom he seems to love very much (and they love him back). When he is not at home or school, though, Bud is at his most joyous when he is at the cinema, always watching the pictures with wide-eyed enchantment and wonder.

The Long Day Closes is a film on a mission to capture nostalgia and the sort of quiet wonder of childhood. In this regard, it succeeds ten-fold. I can’t explain it, exactly, but there’s something about the way it is shot and lit (both of which are terrific, the lighting especially) that captures the emotion of nostalgia perfectly without indulging in nostalgic lingo or pop-culture – it’s a rather timeless film. The unspoken bond between Bud and his mother is beyond lovely – there is a scene early in the film where Bud asks for some money to go to the pictures. His mother declines at first, but moments later, she says “Go get me purse”. I can’t begin to describe the excitement this brought out in me.

So, as well as The Long Day Closes does in looking back on childhood, it doesn’t have much else to offer. There are no predicaments present for any of the characters. Granted, I have no issue with a film that has no plot, but there just isn’t much here. As much as I loved the unspoken bonds between the characters, I couldn’t really tell you much about the characters themselves. I’m actually struggling to write this, as much of the film has escaped from memory. This is one of those films that exists more as a demonstration of what the filmmaker is capable of rather than a complete experience of a film. That said, as substantially empty as the film was, it was at least very, very lovely to watch.

You Were Never Really Here (2017)

Directed by Lynne Ramsay

* * ½

Figuratively and literally scarred from experiences on the battlefield, veteran Joe (Joaquin Phoenix) is a man of very few words but of towering presence. Though a warm-hearted man (he cares for his elderly mother), he is also capable of brutal violence, which he uses to his advantage in his work: he takes contracts to rescue underage girls from human trafficking operations. He takes on yet another job, but things take a turn for the worst when he is attacked by police moments after the rescue, and the fate of Joe seems uncertain.

Walking into this film, I knew the comparisons to Taxi Driver were hyperbole. That said, the widespread acclaim had me looking forward to this one, especially considering that Lynne Ramsay’s last film, We Need to Talk About Kevin, has remained in my top five of the decade since I first saw it. For You Were Never Really Here, though, I can’t say the same things. The biggest problem is a script that is severely underwritten – nothing is ever fully developed.  Like Kevin, this film toys with distorted chronology (though not nearly as labyrinthine). Fine, and could have made for a really interesting technique here, but as a result of the distorted narrative, the film relies a little too much on the “unspoken”, and because of the thin script, nothing really culminates.

One of the great ironies in my thoughts on this film is that as hyperbolic as I perceive the Taxi Driver comparisons to be, this film actually could have been the next Taxi Driver – it hits all of the plot notes from the original, but in a completely different light. There are still great ideas and some moments of genuine brilliance, my favorite moment being Joe’s raid on a brothel – the raid is entirely shown via CCTV footage set to Rose Hamlin’s “Angel Baby”. The overarching theme I took note of is a desperate desire to return to innocence, which is expressed in very subtle and clever ways – Joe’s specific love for green jelly beans being the most glaring example. Speaking of Joe; though I wasn’t totally blown away by Phoenix’s performance, he did create one of the more unique screen presences I’ve seen in a while – very intimidating and threating, but also very graceful and comforting. Knowing Ramsay’s talents, this could have been a great film, but instead was a complete disappointment, and having had to wait six years for her next film, there’s no excuse as far as I’m concerned.

THE WEEKLY RECAP: August 6 - 12

The Conformist (1970)

Directed by Bernardo Bertolucci

* * *

We get to know the reserved yet insecure Marcello Clerici (Jean Louis Trintignant) through a series of flashbacks. An atheist, he marries Giulia (Stefania Sandrelli) under the condition that he goes to confession, where he reveals that he has murdered before. As a matter of fact, he will commit murder again – Clerici is a member of the secret police of Fascist Italy, and his next target is one of his college professors, who is located in Paris. To get the job done, Clerici uses his recent marriage to his job’s advantage, as he and his now-wife decide to Honeymoon in Paris, making for the perfect cover.

I’m just going to get it out of the way now: believe every single bit of hype you’ve heard about its visuals, because The Conformist is one of the best-looking movies I’ve ever seen. It is filmed in a radical and progressive style that is never forced, and still feels fresh to this day, almost 50 years later. The shot composition, the maneuvers of the camera, the lighting, the set design, absolutely everything on this film’s visual level is beyond masterful, and there is not one shot I will ever forget. I can give you my utmost sincerity that you don’t even need to pay attention to the story; get lost just watching the film and it’ll still be worth the price of admission. It’s truly amazing (and a shame) that The Conformist wasn’t nominated for a Best Cinematography Oscar.

Speaking of The Conformist and the Academy Awards, it was in fact nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay, and here is not only what stuns me but also leads to my major criticism of the film; the writing. I had a huge difficulty getting invested in what was going on. First off, the dialogue is quite dry and lackluster, and considering the film’s themes of fascism and conformity, you’d think there would be something poignant in the script. In turn, the characters aren’t particularly interesting (though the performances are solid, considering the material provided). Second, the way the plot is structured – namely the handling of the flashbacks – borders on abstraction and makes things very difficult to follow. The Conformist is yet another entry into my “need to see it again” list. In the meantime, I can appreciate it only from an arm’s distance. But at least I can still watch from that distance, and for now, that’s more than enough.

The Limey (1999)

Directed by Steven Soderbergh

* *

Wilson (Terence Stamper), a jaded and hardened Englishman, is out of prison and now out for blood. His daughter, Jenny, has died; allegedly in a car accident, but Wilson is convinced she was murdered. He flies from England to Los Angeles, and the first subjects of his investigation are Eduardo (Luis Guzman) and Elaine (Lesley Ann Warren), two of Jenny’s acquaintances. Talks with these two bring out a probable suspect for Wilson: Terry Valentine (Peter Fonda), a drug trafficker hiding behind a legitimate record business. For Wilson, there is no compromise; with a couple of handguns in his possession, he hits the streets in search of Valentine.

Steven Soderbergh has made some great films in his expansive catalogue, but in between every great film are a handful of unmemorable flashes in the pan, and The Limey is one of those flashes. First off, read the plot synopsis above and tell me you haven’t heard of a million other films with the same story. Okay, in all fairness, it’s not so much the general plot that matters as much as what is done with the material. Even then, Soderbergh doesn’t really do anything that interesting. There weren’t any particularly compelling characters, no sharp dialogue, no engaging story, not to mention the film is tonally confused. One moment, it wants to be a sort of mature thriller; next moment, it adopts many of the usual ‘90s crime-thriller tropes, and this sort of imbalance leaves the film in this kind of bland limbo and never quite gets out. Hell, even the otherwise underrated and talented composer Cliff Martinez offered nil with his score.

Granted, Stamper can muster up a striking screen presence, but considering the lackluster material, there’s not much for his presence to contribute to. The visual style is kind of cool, but Soderbergh would utilize a borderline identical style to Traffic (which I consider Soderbergh’s towering masterpiece) just the following year. I don’t really know what else to say about this one. While it’s not a terrible movie, it never once gripped me. I just finished the movie right before I started writing this, and I’m already forgetting it.

The Rules of the Game (1939)

Directed by Jean Renoir

* * * *

The Rules of the Game opens with a message of impending doom, that war across Europe – what would be known as World War II – is steadfastly approaching, but this is the only time this will ever be mentioned. After all, there are better things to worry about – for a group of bourgeois socialites, anyway. The people in question are the focus of the film, as they gather at a countryside estate, where their worries will include tangled romance, sexual affairs, petty arguments, rabbit hunting, and a masquerade ball to follow.

Considering The Rules of the Game is often regarded as one of the greatest films ever made, I admit with shame in jest that it has taken me this long to actually getting around to it – hell, this is even my first Renoir film. While this most likely won’t go down for me as one of my all-time favorites, there’s no denying that I have seen a great film. You’ll notice the fairly bare-bones plot description above, and upon typing that paragraph is where the film’s biggest joke hit me, as virtually nothing happens at all in the entire movie, in spite of the fact that there always seems to be something happening. There is not one moment of stillness in this movie, and with the wide cast of characters, this is one I will need to revisit again (and maybe again) to get a fuller perspective on the movie.

Don’t let that last sentence make you think the movie’s a mess by any means, because it’s not – it’s just a matter of so much going on at once. Renoir’s directing of the petty madness throughout is quite stunning in its confident control. As frenetic as everything going on is, it never boils over into complete chaos, but the film is always on that threshold. What I admire most in The Rules of the Game its audacity, that Renoir had the guts to confront the frivolity and blind-eyed upper-class in the wake of something as terrifying as oncoming war. Repeat; I will need to see this again for further appreciation, but I still know I’ve seen a great film. It’s just a matter of uncovering what makes it great.

Sunrise (1927)

Directed by F.W. Murnau

* * * *

This is the story of a nameless Man (George O’Brien) and Wife (Janet Gaynor). They live a simple life in the countryside, and though they were once madly in love, time has unveiled a stale, mundane, and frustrating marriage. The Man finds sexual gratification with a Woman from the City (Margaret Livingston), who tempts the Man to drown his Wife to run away with her. Though the Man begins the attempt, he realizes what he’s really doing as his Wife runs away in horror. He begs for her forgiveness. Though she is reluctant at first, she warms up to his sincerity. They spend a day together in the city, and it is throughout this day that they rediscover their undying love for each other.

Sunrise is one of those films, like Citizen Kane or City Lights, that exists not so much as just a film, but rather as fact. It is one of those films that not only had such an impact on the art form for its time, but stands the test of time as a truly great film that knows no specific audience, region, or topic. As for my own personal thoughts; I not only acknowledge Sunrise’s place in film history (it was one of the very first films to utilize sound), but you have my assurance that I’m not just arbitrarily acknowledging its greatness, as this is an unbelievably great film, and I can’t think of a single bad thing to say about it.

The characters, though nameless and essentially archetypal, are universal, and watching their love blossom from a previously rotten state is nothing short of sweet. There are countless sequences that only bolster the power of their love – the sequence in which they walk into a church during a wedding, undoubtedly my favorite scene in Sunrise, I can only describe as angelic. F.W. Murnau was one of the most prominent figures of the silent era, and films like Sunrise only further justify such a reputation.

Won’t You Be My Neighbor? (2018)

Directed by Morgan Neville

* * *

Though originally driven to become a Presbyterian minister, Fred Rogers made an unexpected decision to pursue a career in television. His reasoning; concerned with the effect of trash TV programs on children, Rogers wanted to provide a more credible and valuable alternative. In time, this would become Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, a warm and welcoming show that, in spite of a demographic of young children, talked about various hot-button topics, from racism to the Kennedy assassination. Won’t You Be My Neighbor? chronicles the overall picture of Mr. Rogers’ impact on television as well as his legacy.

Sometimes I question whether Fred Rogers was actually a real human being, as it is borderline unbelievable that a man as warm, loving, and caring as him could possible exist among a cynical and emotionally hardened society. While I jest, I cannot deny that the unconditionally graceful nature of Mr. Rogers can only be described as magical, if not miraculous, and Won’t You Be My Neighbor? does nothing but honor and cherish this saint of a man. Though I saw episodes of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood here and there as a child, I can’t exactly say I grew up with it, so imagine how taken back I was at just how much guts this man had and just how much he accomplished.

As spellbound as I was by the memory of Fred Rogers, the film itself, while good, isn’t anything too special. It’s been 15 years since Fred’s passing, so I find it unusual that nobody made a film until now, considering his remarkable legacy. Much of the story presented here is already out there, so if you’re already familiar with Fred Rogers’ story, you’re probably not missing much. Additionally, the transitions from chapter to chapter feel a little awkward, like they don’t weave together too seamlessly. I may present criticisms, but this is still a powerful movie, and nothing can take that away. I dare you not to tear up (at the very least).

THE UNSUNG: Black Rain (1989)

Directed by Shohei Imamura

* * * 1/2

NOTE: This is not to be confused with the Michael Douglas thriller of the same, which also came out the same year and also happens takes place in Japan. The irony still stuns me.

At the time I’m writing this, today marks the 73^rd anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing. I’ve just now realized that in spite of being such a significant moment in Japan’s history, it’s not too common to see it in the movies. Perhaps there are just too many painful memories associated with such a traumatic event, but perhaps too many people saw Shohei Imamura’s Black Rain and saw no need to make a Hiroshima movie, realizing that everything that could be said about the aftermath of Hiroshima has been firmly stated by Imamura’s film, and to make another film on the subject would be redundant. Of course, I’d love to think the reason is the latter. If that were the case, though, I wouldn’t be adding this film to the Unsung series.

Black Rain opens on the morning August 6^th, 1945. To use a clichéd phrase, it seems like just another day; the family is gathering for breakfast, discussing the latest in family matters and gossip. It is then that the most traumatic of Japan’s recent memory literally strikes – the city of Hiroshima has been struck by the atomic bomb. The family is not in the midst of the chaos, but some several miles outside of the city, where they can see the mushroom cloud, towering over Hiroshima like a tyrannical colossus. In the moments after the bombing, the family find themselves being showered on by dark drops of fallout – the titular black rain.

Black Rain, however, is not a nuclear drama a la Threads or Testament. Instead, the atomic bombing is only a catalyst for the drama that follows. We cut, in disturbing immediacy, to some weeks or so after the bombing. From this point forward, barely anybody seems to directly acknowledge the bombing, as if sweeping the issue under the rug, even though fellow townsfolk drop like flies due to some after-effect of “the flash”.

Yasuko (Yoshiko Tanaka) has just received a doctor’s certificate claiming she is perfectly healthy, in spite of her exposure to the black rain. Her family is determined to get her married very soon, but prospective husbands decline Yasuko due to her fallout exposure – rumors about potential ailments she is carrying spread like wildfire around town. Her place in society is steadily pushed outward, to the point where she is essentially a pariah. She seems to only shrug her shoulders at rejection, though, as if it’s a character flaw of her own fault that she can work on.

We feel for this family when they can’t marry off Yasuko due to mere rumor and gossip. Interestingly enough, though, I will admit that the family itself isn’t one of Black Rain’s strongest points, as they feel like something out of a run-of-the-mill quality Ozu film. In turn, they feel somewhat bland. Yet why do we feel for them? Perhaps it’s because of Japanese society’s notorious emphasis on status. Perhaps it’s having knowledge of their ordeal with the Hiroshima bomb – as exploitive a device as that may sound, I assure you the deaths of the bomb are not cheapened in any way.

To make a film using Hiroshima as a means to denounce nuclear weapons would be taking the easy route – international TV was already getting that message across with films like The Day After and Threads (this was the ‘80s, remind you). Shohei Imamura was one of the leading figures of the Japanese New Wave of the 1960s. With films like The Insect Woman and Vengeance is Mine under his belt, he proved himself to be one of the most fearless and provocative filmmakers of his time, during a period of notably fortuitous and wild filmmaking, and perhaps that fortitude is no clearer than here, in Black Rain, where he had the audacity to criticize Japanese society after such a traumatic event. Yet how ironic that in spite of the anger at his own people that boils throughout the duration of Black Rain, the film we are physically watching is rather reserved, and quite beautiful.

Without detailed knowledge of Imamura’s Black Rain, one would never guess they were watching a film released in 1989; shot on grainy black and white with fairly minimal camerawork, it looks more like something released in the ‘50s or ‘60s, the age defined by filmmakers such as Kurosawa and Ozu. In spite of this, though, the subject matter of Black Rain is too biting, confrontational, and socially transgressive for something of an earlier era. This contradiction of style and content is brilliantly subtle, and is one of the major elements that makes this such an interesting movie.

Black Rain is terrific on a visual level. Upon watching this film a second time, it really dawned on me what a task it must have been to pull that off the “classic” style so well, to recreate a look and feel that filmmakers have long since evolved from. Double impressive that the style never once comes off as forced nostalgia. And the film looks gorgeous, too; the Japanese countryside is so beautifully captured, even at the film’s gloomiest moments. There’s a shot early in the film when the family first see the mushroom cloud over Hiroshima- this, to me, is one of the most underrated images in the art form.

Aside from the somewhat bland characters, if there is any other weak point of Black Rain, it is probably the writing, which feels somewhat lackluster from time to time. Granted, much of the film’s point is an oblivious populous that mundanely moves on as if nothing’s wrong, but sometimes this intended mundanity dwells a bit too much from time to time. Make no mistake, though; the good most definitely outweighs the bad (not even bad, just weak), and Black Rain still comes out swinging as a powerful movie. Seemingly forgotten these days, but still powerful.

THE WEEKLY RECAP: July 30 - August 5

Combat Shock (1984)

Directed by Buddy Giovinazzo

* * *

Traumatized by his experiences in the Vietnam War, the struggle for survival continues on in the life of Frankie Dunlan (Rick Giovinazzo). Without a job, money, or any prospects, Frankie starves (save for a single carton of spoiled milk) in a filthy apartment alongside his wife (Veronica Stork) and his horrifyingly deformed infant. Desperate and down on his luck, Frankie hits the mean streets of inner city New York for…seemingly everything and nothing at once, whatever gets him away from his stressful home life. But when the streets only offer him junkies, gangsters, and other such urban filth, it’s only a matter of time before the disturbed veteran finally loses it.

I’ve seen my share of films that made me compulsively take a shower immediately following. If I were to compile a ranking of these kinds of movies, you have my utmost assurance that Combat Shock would definitely be up there (though Gummo would still reign at the top). Shot on a shoestring budget, Combat Shock depicts urban decay in such a grimy, gritty way that only minimal funds and fearless direction could capture (being shot on 16mm helps a ton), and that’s without addressing the nastiness that ensues throughout the movie. Okay, in all fairness, the blood n’ guts aren’t as prevalent as the hype suggests, but the moments it does, it is absolutely gnarly, especially the horrifying finale. Oh, and don’t forget about the terrific synth-based score (now available with the limited edition Blu-Ray from Severin Films).

In spite of its low budget and reputation as a schlocky exploitation film, Combat Shock is actually a bold drama that confidently tackles the issue of urban decay and mental instability. Though this is director Buddy Giovinazzo’s first feature, he pulls it off with a passion that only a debut. That said, Combat Shock doesn’t get away clean. This film moves at a rather slow pace. Granted, it’s not excruciatingly slow, and it adds to the slow-burn tension – you won’t realize how much this film has sneaks up on you until the climax. That said, there’s a few scenes that are awkwardly paced, especially the opening Vietnam sequence. Speaking of which, there’s another detriment – on top of it being pretty obvious that they went to the local woodlands, the Vietnam scenes are surprisingly underdeveloped, considering just how essential the experience is to the protagonist’s psyche. Other than that, I’m honestly quite surprised how genuinely chilling and tragic Combat Shock was. An underrated low-budget gem.

The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1981)

Directed by Karl Reisz

* * ½

Anna (Meryl Streep) and Mike (Jeremy Irons) are in the midst of a film production of The French Lieutenant’s Woman, which tells the story of Sarah, an enigmatic social pariah who strikes the fancy of Charles, a biologist visiting his fiancée. In spite of his engagement, he cannot resist her. They engage in an affair, like consumption of the forbidden fruit, and as Anna and Mike carry out their portrayal of these characters, the more their relationship seems to mirror that of Sarah and Charles.

Though The French Lieutenant’s Woman was met with modest praise in ’81, comments the fact that somebody took the courage to film the allegedly unfilmable novel seems to overshadow comments on the film itself. Perhaps if I had read the novel first, I would have more appreciation for the film, but for a film to require that kind of outside knowledge to fully appreciate it is not a sign of good moviemaking. Though not a bad film by any means, I can’t say I really liked this one too much. The segments with the actors are underdeveloped and seem more like interludes between chapters rather than the story-within-a-story quality the film is going for, and the actual story of the French Lieutenant’s Woman isn’t particularly gripping or new. The fact that it is a period piece only makes it feel more melodramatic and hackneyed.

But The French Lieutenant’s Woman is not without some praises from me. The cinematography is quite stunning – that shot of Streep on the seaside walkway on that stormy day is gorgeous. The performances are good, but then again, it does have Meryl Streep – has she ever had a bad performance? Speaking of her, she delivers a terrific monologue in the middle of the woods. One of these days, I may get around to the novel, and in turn may have more appreciation for the film. That said, the fact that I had to refer to outside source material is still a blockade of greatness.

Modern Times (1936)

Directed by Charles Chaplin

* * * *

Chaplin’s legendary Tramp is up to his goofy antics yet again, this time bringing his charming misadventures to the complexity of the modern world, complete with dehumanization as a result of an increasingly industry-driven society. He works at a factory, but has a nervous breakdown on the job, and is sent to the hospital. When he comes back, though, his job is no longer there due to the depression, and a misunderstanding lands him in jail. He is released, but actually prefers jail over the harsh real world, and sets out to do what he can to get arrested again. Here is where he meets a woman only known as Gamin (Paulette Goddard), a young homeless woman, and the two form a sweet bond while doing what they can to make life as much a paradise as possible for themselves.

I have purchased a good handful of Chaplin’s films blindly. So far, he has yet to disappoint me even in the slightest – his work is so timeless, so much fun, and, dare I say, magical that I cannot possibly comprehend how anybody can’t enjoy his work. Goes without saying, but Modern Times is no exception. The gags, as usual, are absolutely hysterical – I was practically on the floor when the Tramp was being fed by a machine as well as a moment where he unintentionally ingests cocaine. Just as wonderful is the bond between the Tramp and Gamin, which is very sweet and heartwarming – the fact that she is something of a rascal herself makes their relationship all the more enjoyable.

I found myself particularly taken by the set design – namely the factory sets, which are a unique collage of cogwheels and pipes. And, finally, though not my favorite part of Modern Times, I must admit that what struck me most was the social commentary. Granted, I was expecting this, but I didn’t expect commentary that is quite pessimistic from somebody like Chaplin. That said, he masterfully balances humor and drama, knowing exactly when to be funny, and when to make time for drama. Nothing less than a masterpiece from the silent slapstick icon.