FILM REVIEW: Coffee and Cigarettes (2003)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

* * ½

As I sit here writing this, Coffee and Cigarettes is quickly proving to be one of the most difficult movies I’ve yet reviewed, so I apologize in advance if this review is not up to my usual standard. To talk about this film as a whole is extremely challenging, as it makes more practical sense to narrow it down from segment to segment (a handful of said segments were originally released as short films, after all), but to do that would result in writing the same overall thing over and over. In the grand scheme of things, Coffee and Cigarettes is one of those films where the idea is better than the movie itself, but it’s still kind of difficult to not be taken by its charming spell.

A series of vignettes featuring conversations between characters with no connection whatsoever, and the only mutual factor in each segment is that each dialogue is had over questionable doses of coffee and cigarettes. In spite of the potential for witty writing and quirky and unique characters (it does feature an impressive cast), the concept (or gimmick, depending on your perspective) of Coffee and Cigarettes offers little to no promise of sprawling production design, gorgeous cinematography, or a gripping plot. On one hand, it is enough to make somebody laugh at a movie of such simplicity has the audacity to exist. On another hand, it’s such a charming idea that you can’t help but be drawn to it, even at the slightest level.

For us Jarmusch fans, it’s simply mandatory viewing.

I suppose Coffee and Cigarettes exhibits the levels of quality Jarmusch is capable of, from his absolute worst to his absolute best. There are some moments are just there with nothing particularly remarkable to say about them, and the most you can say has already been said by the title. One particular segment, “Jack Shows Meg His Tesla Coil” (featuring notable rock due the White Stripes), is insufferable in just how hard its trying to be so quirky and indie.

There are some segments that have something very interesting going on, no matter how little is happening. Take, for instance, “Renee”: a lovely young woman sits by herself reading “Guns N’ Ammo” while the young waiter repeatedly visits, desperate to start a conversation. Though that’s the entire scene, I sense something going on in the undercurrents, and the result is very alluring. Unfortunately, though, the scene cuts too short. There are a number of segments that meet a similar fate.

And then there’s a number of scenes that are just there that I simply cannot comment on if my life depended on it, like “No Problem” and “Cousins” – in spite of some great talent present, there is absolutely no substance whatsoever (with the exception of the latter’s ending). But then there are some moments that truly shine. Two in particular come to mind – “Delirium”, where the Wu-Tang Clan’s RZA and GZA find themselves being waited on by the one and only Bill Murray (all playing themselves, by the way). The other most notable segment is “Somewhere in California”, featuring Tom Waits and Iggy Pop extolling coffee and cigarettes as the perfect combination. The latter segment was once released as a short film, and actually won the Best Short award at the Cannes Film Festival.

As for the overall product: while none of the actors present really exhibit their abilities, their mere presence does bring some excitement, I must admit – how can you not love a conversation between Roberto Benigni and Steven Wright, even if there’s practically nothing to the scene itself? Scenes don't really transition, nor is there any individual identity to the segments, but Jarmusch does captures the very activity of coffee and cigarettes extremely well (and, yes, I am considering that an activity unto itself), with the gritty photography and various cafes utilized. Ultimately, Coffee and Cigarettes is probably more sizzle vs. steak, but it needs to be seen to be believed.

FILM REVIEW: Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai (1999)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

* * *

Gangsters. Hip-hop. Samurai. Mean streets. Meditation. Only a filmmaker like Jim Jarmusch could blend these elements together, and perhaps only Jarmusch could blend them and make them work. This is exactly what he did in 1999, with the release of Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai. While the film may not be a total success due to its slow pace and a few missed opportunities, the film still stands strong, carried along by a powerhouse performance from leading man Forest Whitaker.

Mobster Louie (John Tormey) is summoned by his superiors – one of their own has been whacked, and Louie has the dirt on the killer. That killer is only known as Ghost Dog (Forest Whitaker), a contract killer with a perfect record who only communicates via pigeon-carried messages. He is an enigma of a man, quiet, reserved, and humble, no doubt accredited to his choice of lifestyle: Ghost Dog lives strictly by the code of the samurai, as outlined in the samurai guidebook Hagakure. Now, the mob is out for Ghost Dog’s blood, but Ghost Dog’s not going down without a fight…but does retaliation against his opponents conflict from the code of the samurai?

Just as meditation is essential to the way of the samurai, a meditative quality perpetuates throughout Ghost Dog. Unsurprising, considering this is a Jarmusch’s love for the mundane and everyday. Peppered throughout the meditative Ghost Dog are parables from Hagakure narrated by Whitaker. These moments never fail to leave the viewer’s mind inert, but I’d be lying if Ghost Dog’s meditativeness didn’t overstay its welcome. Even after taking advantage of the film’s numerous opportunities to think about said parables and applying them into the film, these very scenes go on and on, dragging the film’s pace down a few notches – if you ask me, Ghost Dog did not need to be two hours whatsoever.

There is a line that Ghost Dog walks very riskily but never crosses: I find myself wondering if Ghost Dog should even be the protagonist of the film. That may sound strange, considering the movie is named after him, but he is such a uniquely enigmatic and alluring character, much of which is due to his mysterious nature. Is making him the primary focus of the movie weakening his allure? I find myself conflicted in my opinion on that. Granted, I loved spending time with Ghost Dog, but I feel that the character would have made a much stronger impression if he was kept chilling in the shadows. This isn’t so much a criticism as much as it is a possibly missed opportunity. Perhaps some of those slower scenes that I criticized could be replaced with more exploits from the hilarious gangsters, who I can confidently say don’t get as much screen time as they should.

Ghost Dog may stumble from time to time, but it is far, far from a bad movie (or a mediocre one, at that). The strongest element of the film is undoubtedly Forest Whitaker, in what might be his best performance (definitely my favorite of his). He is perfectly in tune with the material at hand, trucking along with a humble swagger that you can get only from a Jarmusch film. The gangsters also deserve a mention, hilarious in their reprisal of comical B-grade gangsters, but never overdoing it.

The film’s writing is a mixed bag for me. Though the Hagakure excerpts throughout are great food for thought, those are the words of Yamamoto Tsumetoto’s, not Jarmusch. Much of the dialogue is fairly bland, with a few highlights here and there, most notably a scene when Louie is describing the unusual nature of Ghost Dog to his superiors, and the hilarious confusion that follows. But my favorite moments involve Ghost Dog’s interaction with his best friend Raymond (Isaach De Bankole), a French ice cream truck driver who speaks practically no English. In turn are Ghost Dog’s chats about books with a young girl named Pearline (Camille Winbush). In spite of the writing’s blandness throughout the majority of the movie, these moments are rich with material, and are undoubtedly some of the most memorable scenes in Ghost Dog.

Topping off the best elements of Ghost Dog is a terrific score by Wu-Tang Clan’s RZA, which blends chill hip-hop beats serenaded with familiar elements of ancient Japanese music.   

It’s difficult to make a truly great film with all of the pulpy and exotic elements used in Ghost Dog – not impossible, but difficult. But for what it’s worth, Ghost Dog is still deserving a watch. Yeah, it’s a slog from time to time, but not only is it still Jarmusch, but it’s Jarmusch experimenting with very unique and singular territory that nobody else is treading into, and not once is he annoyingly overdoing it, contrary to other films and filmmakers who blend styles in such a manner. Make no mistake, though: Ghost Dog is indeed a Jarmusch film, and the fact that he can achieve all of this while still maintaining his unique brand of filmmaking is truly a feat unto itself.

FILM REVIEW: Dead Man (1995)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

* * ½

Dead Man, Jim Jarmusch’s landmark Western, ends on a scene bordering on the Kafkaesque brand of surreal, simultaneously radiating as a moment of transcendent beauty, as a dazed and delirious Johnny Depp trudges through the pathways of a Native American village, inspiring strange yet sympathetic stares from the locals, all set to the screaming guitars of Neil Young’s background score. It was one of those moments that could almost spawn tears from my eyes in exhibiting the power that the cinematic experience holds. I sincerely wish I was as involved in the movie that led up to this incredible moment.

Is Dead Man a good movie? Ultimately, I have to say “no” to that question. I really don’t want to have to say that, because it is also a truly unique entry into the Western genre. Granted, the film stumbles too many times to be able to work. When it does work, though, it takes the viewer into a surreal rendition of the Western American landscape the likes of which we rarely see, if at all. For that alone, it’s worth a watch.

William Blake (Johnny Depp) is just getting off the train after a torturously lengthy trip from Cleveland. He has just arrived to the town of Machine. In one hand is his suitcase. In the other is a letter guaranteeing him work as an accountant for the metal works, run by John Dickinson (Robert Mitchum). When he arrives at his new workplace, though, the position has already been filled. Later that day, he gets involved in a fight that leaves him with a gunshot wound and with blood on his hands, after killing the very man who shot him. It turns out that the man killed was John Dickinson’s son. Now he wants vengeance, hiring three bounty hunters to track him down. Meanwhile, on the run, Blake has been taken under the wing of Nobody (Gary Farmer), a lone Native American who mistakes Blake for the famed English poet of the same name.

The opening scene sets the tone of Dead Man as a dreamlike trip into the rugged west, as well as signaling its biggest issue of the film: pacing. From the opening alone, a scene will fade in just to fade out within seconds without anything happening. Rinse and repeat for several minutes (I’m not alone in this opinion – take a look at the first paragraph in Roger Ebert’s review). In all fairness, regarding the opening in particular, it does add to the disorientation of the train ride, but it still doesn’t completely work, and as I’ve said before, this issue perpetuates throughout the entire movie.

One scene, something significant happens, but then it’s over before you know it. Another scene, nothing much happens, and goes on longer than it needs to. There’s nothing wrong with long scenes that exist purely for mood, but there’s no balance in Dead Man. Additionally, in a great twist of irony, one of the movie’s highlights adds to its awkwardness: Neil Young’s score. First off, it is absolutely incredible, as it wails with rugged screams, lamenting the nightmare that the American West had become – I think the music itself is the best part of the movie. That said, the score kicks in at inopportune moments, and makes dramatic situations become melodramatic, in turn just a hint laughable.

I feel like the performances never become what they have the potential to be, like everybody involved is holding back just slightly, save for Mitchum, who is the most magnetic part of the entire movie – too bad he’s not in the movie very long. Still, everybody gets the job done at least. Nobody overdoes it, but I feel like everybody had potential to give so much more to their roles than they actually did.

As much as it pains me to say this, I think the catalyst for every issue in Dead Man is from Jarmusch himself. His brand of filmmaking doesn’t quite suit the material or the atmosphere he’s going for. There were countless moments where I was being drawn in, and just when I was on the threshold of being completely entranced, Jarmusch brings in one of his usual tropes (namely his brand of comic relief) that just take me right out. Additionally, he’s not completely focused on what he’s trying to say – is this a criticism of the rugged foundation America was built on? Some sort of necessity for the White Man to get back in touch with nature and the spirit world? I acknowledge it could be both, but nothing comes completely into fruition.

The review you’ve read probably makes me seem like I saw nothing about it was good, but I assure you that it’s not all bad. When Dead Man does work, it’s an absolutely fascinating take on the western with some gorgeous black & white imagery. While ultimately unfocused, there are enough hints of themes on the rugged reality of the American Dream, even some bits of existentialism here and there, so if you were more involved than I was, it’ll definitely give you something to think about. There’s a lot of heart and sincerity to Jarmusch’s intentions in Dead Man, though, and I give him credit – I’d rather have unfocused sincerity than focused cynicism. With Dead Man, it’s the former, with a twist of originality.

FILM REVIEW: Night On Earth (1991)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

~ Greatest Favorite ~

As I’ve been writing about Jarmusch exclusively this past week, I’ve begun to truly realize what makes his films. It is not so much his way of capturing the mundanity of everyday life, but the beauty of that same mundanity. Yes, there is beauty to be found there. Think about that one day when you thought you were just going about your business, and then you got wrapped up in some sort of interaction with somebody. Maybe it was one of those talks that somehow got into existential territory, maybe it was just a discussion about music. Either way, that conversation wouldn’t have had nearly as much impact if you were having interactions like that left and right. The interaction demands mundanity to have had any kind of impact on you.

So, to tie it back to Jarmusch, here we have Night on Earth.

It brings an almost tearjerking level of joy to finally get to write the very review you’re reading right now. Night on Earth is one of the very greatest movies I’ve ever seen. Combined with writing and performances that are near-perfect, it is one of those magical movies that makes the viewer feel anything and everything, whether it leaves the viewer with a smile, a tear in their eye, profound ideas to ponder on for a while, or in stitches out of laughter. And the most amazing thing is that it’s not even a complex film with some hyper-cerebral structure; on the contrary, it works on a charmingly simple level.

That very simplicity lies in the concept of the film itself. The title says exactly when and where the movie takes place; over the course of one evening, Night on Earth travels all around the globe, following the daily ventures of a series of cab drivers and one particular fare for their nights. First, there’s Los Angeles; a movie casting agent (Gena Rowlands) is high strung over trouble finding the perfect girl for the role. Having just landed in L.A., she lands in the cab of a tomboy (Winona Ryder) who may or may not be perfect for the role in question. Next up is New York City, where YoYo (Giancarlo Esposito) needs to get back to Brooklyn, but is ignored by every cab in the city. Then Helmut (Armin Mueller-Stahl) pulls up. He’s a clueless German immigrant who can’t even drive, and the only way YoYo is getting in that cab is if he gets to drive.

Then we travel to a whole other continent, landing in Paris. After a cabbie (Isaach De Bankole) has to abandon a couple of troublesome politicians, his following fare is a woman (Beatrice Dalle). She is blind, but she proves to have more insight and perspective than the average person. Not far off is Rome, and a priest with a heart condition (Paolo Bonacelli) finds himself in the taxi of a driver who can only be described as wild (Roberto Benigni). The driver is honored to have a priest in his cab, but can’t restrain himself and confesses all of his sins. Finally, we are in Helsinki. A group of men need a cab after a night of dejected drinking – one of them in particular just had the worst day of his life, but the cabbie (Matti Pellonpaa) delivers a sad story that reminds them that it can always be worse.

Simple premises in movies are nothing particularly new, but it’s the quality in delivery that becomes a more diverse talking point. Night on Earth uses no big techniques to make the film feel bigger than it actually is. No intercutting between cities, no grand-scale cinematography, nothing. Simply and episodic series of taxi rides, taking place exclusively in the confines of the cabs (occasionally taking a gander outside). The only other movie I can think of that delivers on this level of simplicity is My Dinner with Andre.

And Night on Earth, in spite of its limitations (if you want to call it that), delivers ten-fold, and it’s purely based on the writing and performances. Some of Jarmusch’s best writing is present here, from Beatrice Dalle’s profound take on feeling the world around her in spite of being blind, to Benigni’s perverted escapades, which results in one of the funniest monologues in movie history. Every conversation grips you, and you’re simply itching to see where the conversations go. But this writing would not be possible if it weren’t for the performances. Like I said earlier, every single performance is pitch perfect and is in exact tune with the tone of their respective episode.

Night on Earth’s pacing is a subject that doesn’t get enough credit. As interesting an idea as the film is, it would not be nearly as good if not for its sense of pacing. Jarmusch knows exactly when to talk, when to quiet down for a moment, when to take a break to admire the city outside, when to get the talk going again, and when to wrap the ride up. Not once does it become boring or grueling, never overstaying its welcome. I could almost argue that it under-stays its welcome – I would have loved to have seen maybe two or three more cities.

That last comment is not at all a criticism; just a “it would be nice if…” comment. That doesn’t matter, though, because what we got here is one of those few movies where all of the stars align and is just perfect. To this day, it is a timeless and universal masterpiece that, over anything else, goes to show that no matter how far across the world we may be, we have more in common than we may think. That’s the beauty of being an everyday human, and our next chat with a complete stranger just might prove a point.

FILM REVIEW: Mystery Train (1989)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

* * * ½

I grew up in California in my very early years. Considering my steady diet of the family’s VHS collection, it was only a matter of time before I begged my parents to take me to Hollywood, having seen that iconic sign time and time again. Well, they gave in and we took a casual trip one afternoon. Even at that age (I must have been 6 or 7 at the time), I could tell that the movies left out a lot of the rougher edges of Hollywood? Did I care, though? Did I feel like I was lied to? Absolutely not. In spite of such a rough location, there was something magical just knowing I was strolling down the very streets where icons of pop culture had been defined. That must have been what it felt like to be the Japanese couple in Mystery Train, Jim Jarmusch’s cinematic love letter to Memphis, Tennessee, and the spirits of its rock-and-roll heyday that ring prominently.

Mystery Train recalls three stories all taking place on the same night in Memphis, linked together by the seedy Arcade Hotel, run by a night clerk played by no other than Screamin’ Jay Hawkins himself. The first story, “Far from Yokohama”, follows the adorable adventure of a young starry-eyed Japanese couple who idolize Memphis’s rock-and-roll gods – she (Youki Kudoh) worships Elvis, who believes he has a perennial and metaphysical connection to various figures, from the Buddha to the Statue of Liberty; he (Masatosi Nagase) is stern in his belief that Carl Perkins is the true godfather of rock.

Chapter two, “A Ghost”, recounts an Italian widow (Nicoletta Braschi) trying to get her husband’s coffin back to Italy, but due to complications winds up stranded in Memphis, eventually sharing a room with a woman (Elizabeth Bracco) who is leaving the city after boyfriend issues. Finally, we have “Lost in Space”, where Johnny’s (Joe Strummer) recent break-up takes him on a rowdy night of booze and a revolver, eventually having to take refuge at the Arcade Hotel.

There is a ghostly feel to Mystery Train. Not in a horrifying or tragic kind of way, but a kind of energy presence that’s just there – you have no idea what it is, but you know it’s there. Perhaps Jarmusch achieves this in his very portrayal of Memphis. The city is not a sprawling, glitzy metropolis, but rather a boarded up, washed out, dilapidated landscape. A shadow of its former self, so to speak.  Interestingly enough, though, Mystery Train is, without a doubt, madly in love with Memphis and all of the history and culture that surround it, and that love shows in spite of the less-than-pleasing aesthetics. I’m prepared to say that Jarmusch somehow finds beauty in those same boarded up, abandoned buildings without ever sugarcoating it.

Or perhaps the magic of Memphis is captured in the scale that Jarmusch depicts the movie in. When traversing the streets, the characters tend to be quite small in comparison to the frame, which is filled to the brim with Memphis and all of its offerings, almost as if the city itself is becoming a character. Additionally, perhaps all that empty and dilapidated space is what gives it the unique ghostly atmosphere that permeates throughout.

But, of course, there must be substance present, which there is for the most part. Though “A Ghost” drags a little bit for my taste (in spite of a hilarious, if morbid, setup), “Far from Yokohama” is absolutely adorable (as well as my personal favorite chapter in the movie), and “Lost in Space” features a comically violent scenario that predates the Tarantino-brand of indie movies that would come in just a few years.

Performances are pretty enjoyable overall. “Far from Yokohama” would not be what it is without Kudoh’s fan-girl obsession with Elvis and Nagase’s firm stoicism, which makes him funnier instead of annoying (their arguments about Elvis vs. Perkins are always amusing). Like the material in “A Ghost”, Braschi and Bracco aren’t anything particularly special, but they get the job done well enough. And the trio of Strummer, Rick Aviles, and Steve Buscemi are pitch-perfect for “Lost in Space”. And let’s not forget Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’s night clerk and his trusty bellboy, played by Cinque Lee. Though they exist mostly in the backdrop with an occasional moment in the spotlight here and there, they steal that spotlight every scene they’re featured in. Bonus points for Tom Waits, who lends his voice as the night-time DJ for Memphis radio.

Perhaps my biggest gripe with Mystery Train is its pacing. The chapters move along just fine, but there’s something clunky in the transitions that grind to, not a halt, but rather a slowdown. I’ve mentioned it before, but I’ll say it again; the least interesting chapter being the center portion of the film really slows things down, especially considering it follows the best part of the movie. All that said, the movie’s closure gets the job done flawlessly.

I admit that the Elvis era of rock is not my preferred music scene, but I was drawn in by Mystery Train’s unique spell just enough that I was charmed throughout. Sure, there are some slogs here and there, but the great moments are so much so that you will never forget them – I just watched this for the first time in 6ish years, and “Far from Yokohama” was just as wonderful as I remember it. Maybe not Jarmusch’s greatest work, but it’s a very enjoyable one, as well as a sign of his style expanding into new ground.

FILM REVIEW: Down by Law (1986)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

* * *

When a group of people are caught in a rough situation that there’s no getting out of anytime soon, there’s a unique bond that forms between said people that no other set of circumstances could ever recreate. If I may use my own experiences as an example; I remember with great (if somewhat morbid) fondness my days in basic military training and all of the BSing, joking, and reminiscing that was vocally exchanged between us trainees in those small frames of time between the harshness of the experience. Eventually, we all got out and went about our lives, rarely reaching back out to each other (if at all), but it’s almost like there’s no need to reach back out – the bond that formed in those days was so strong, it can never be broken.

Down by Law, Jarmusch’s 1986 follow-up to his landmark Stranger Than Paradise, recaptures this bond wonderfully. Bolstered by three remarkable lead performances, Down by Law is a film that, while enjoyable, feels somewhat padded in between its highlights.

It seems like it’s going to be just another night in the gritty Louisiana streets this evening – at least that’s what pimp Jack (John Lurie) and unemployed DJ Zack (Tom Waits) were probably thinking at first. Little do they know that their night is not going to be spent on the streets, but in a jail cell, as they are both set up and framed for crimes they did not commit. Unsurprisingly, it’s a rough time, and it doesn’t help that neither Jack nor Zack are particularly fond of each other.

Things take an interesting turn when the two inmates are joined by a third – Roberto (Roberto Benigni), an Italian immigrant who may not be as innocent as his cellmates. He carries on with a boisterousness that may be irritating from time to time, but still lightens up the mood of the drab cell regardless. Besides, with Roberto’s insatiable spirit, the three now have the will to do the unthinkable…escape incarceration into the bayou right outside.

Even if this film was a complete failure otherwise, it would be worth watching alone for its three leads. Lurie and Waits both have a gritty, rough-edged persona to them, but in very different ways, and they manage to feed off of each other’s uniquely-branded grit personas and the result is a duo that is wonderful to witness go from enemies to allies (I dare you to tell me that the final scene on the fork in the road doesn’t make you smile). And then there’s Benigni, to which there’s no denying that he completely steals the show. Granted, the kinetic energy on display in Down by Law is about what you’d expect, but also keep in mind that he was virtually unknown to us back in ’86.

Fret not, though, as Down by Law is a solid movie overall. Though the plot sounds like your typical escape movie, c’mon, now; did Jarmusch ever do something typical? In Down by Law, Jarmusch is more interested in the moments in between the plot points (all interluded with terrific music by Waits and Lurie); the card games and cigarettes, reminiscent conversations about life on the other side of the bars, even the occasional fist fight, and it all works to wonderful effect, as the audience begins to feel like a member of their pack; when they’re elated, we’re; when they’re stir crazy, we’re stir crazy. I was so involved that I found myself chanting along with the trio during the famous “I scream, you scream” scene.

That said, Down by Law still doesn’t completely grip me. The first act feels incredibly bloated, in spite of some terrifically textured shots of the roughest parts of urban Louisiana. Once we get the idea of the two men we’ll be hanging around with the rest of the movie, the movie still dwells on and on before anything really happens. It’s one thing if there’s something cool or some interesting dialogue going on, but there’s very little of that in the first act, and it drags the film down with it before anything really begins to happen.

Luckily, the jail sequence makes the wait worth it overall, but the escape sequence feels like a missed opportunity. We have these three strong personalities, and it would be great to see them plot something as ridiculous as breaking out of incarceration, as well as to see them actually pull it off. Not present here. As a matter of fact, the escape just kind of happens. Granted, it does inspire a hearty chuckle when it happens considering just how unexpected it is, but it could have been so much more than we actually got.

I’m still yet to see four of his movies at the time I’m writing this, but so far, Jarmusch has not made a bad movie (with the exception of Permanent Vacation, which I’m more than willing to forgive); just films where style and a collage of ideas outweigh the quality of substance, and I find Down by Law to be the first example of this. It’s dwelling and missed opportunities prevent it from being a truly great film, but it still has enough of that signature Jarmusch coolness to make it work in parts. When it works, it’s irresistible.

FILM REVIEW: Stranger Than Paradise (1984)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch ‘All About the Masters’ Series

~ Greatest Favorite ~

In February 2013, some friends and I made a trip to the Mall of America. It was a very long trip, as it had snowed heavily the night before departure, prompting us to take the long way to Minneapolis. We were initially flabbergasted by the scale and size of the Mall, but it didn’t take long for us (or me, at least) to realize that in the end, these were the same old stores we have back in our same old freezing hometown. In retrospect, I felt like the central trio of characters in Stranger Than Paradise and their impromptu trip to Florida and all of its same-old, same-old blandness.

Thus, we are with Jim Jarmusch’s 1984 breakthrough, Stranger Than Paradise, charmingly simplistic and wittily clever satire of the quirkily dull world of America and all of its slang, football, sunglasses, and TV dinners.

New Yorker Willie (John Lurie) is drifting through life in a shabby apartment, a card game with the guys here, a TV ballgame there, with plenty of laying in bed in between. Sometimes he’s joined by his friend Eddie (Richard Edson) – though he’s a bit more optimistic and lighthearted than Willie, he’s essentially the same person. This comfort in stillness is interrupted by a two-week visit from Eva (Eszter Balint), his cousin fresh off the plane from Hungary. Willie is indifferent about this visit, considering his apprehension to his Hungarian roots, but he teaches her some lingo and ways of American living – the alien nature of it all leaves her unable to decide whether to laugh or be bored out of her mind.

A year passes. Eva has moved on to live with her aunt in Cleveland. Willie and Eddie go on about their monotony, but something compels them to visit Eva. So, with $600 in pocket fresh from a card game, the two hop in their car all the way to Cleveland to Eva’s delight, but nonetheless greeted by the same drabness from their home city (and seemingly everywhere else), but now they’ve got each other. This renewed unity between the three sparks a trip to Paradise (a.k.a., Florida), because why not?

From the writing to the locations to the photography, Jarmusch downplays absolutely everything to its driest core. It’s an acquired taste for sure, but the result of Stranger Than Paradise is one that is absolutely charming, and its strengths are the little moments that break up the monotony, no matter how slight or insignificant said moments are. Take, for instance, when Willie and Eddie first visit Eva at her workplace in Cleveland, where they veil themselves as much as possible so she won’t recognize them at first. The look on her face upon recognition is absolutely wonderful. Stranger Than Paradise is filled with moments like these, but it never once oversteps its boundaries, always staying grounded in its drab tone.

This is partly in thanks to the wonderful abilities of Lurie, Edson, and the gorgeous Balint, who I sincerely believe to be three tragically underrated actors in movies, not because of chameleon-like abilities to transform into other people, but in their ability to stay perfectly in sync with the film’s tone, knowing exactly when and how much to nudge their humorous energy, but always staying in their lane, so to speak.

The visual style is perhaps the most key element of Stranger Than Paradise. Each scene plays out in nearly one take, but these aren’t sprawling tracking shots like that of GoodFellas or the works of Gaspar Noe. Here, Jarmusch observes the action in some sort of enclosed space, with an occasional pan to the left or right to keep the action (for lack of a better way to put it). Like life itself, there are no kinetic cuts from one important piece of action or dialogue to another. Rather, life is one continuous take with lots of nothing occasionally broken up by a remark here or gesture there, sometimes set to the background score of rock n’ roll – Jarmusch is pretty particular on Screamin’ Jay Hawkins here.

Satire is one of the most grossly misused words in the English language, so let me clarify that we are talking about commentary through parody (satire), rather than just parody itself (parody). Now that we’ve cleared that out of the way; yes, there is satire present throughout the film, but it is not self-righteous, pious or smug. In fact, like Jarmusch’s body of work in general, it’s quite humble. It’s there and can spark an interesting conversation afterward, but the satire is a result of the material itself, rather than the material existing for the satire.

Is Stranger Than Paradise for everyone? Absolutely not. Many will be turned off by its dry humor and minimal style, and if these kinds of movies aren’t your thing, I highly doubt this Jarmusch classic will do anything to win you over, but here we are, 35 years later, and Stranger Than Paradise still stands the test of time as a timeless classic in what is perhaps the quintessential indie film.

FILM REVIEW: Permanent Vacation (1980)

Part of the Jim Jarmusch 'All About the Masters' Series

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More often than not, debut films exist long-term strictly as curiosity pieces, specimens of the shoestring-budgeted, narratively choppy, maybe even embarrassing, but humble and sometimes charming beginnings of prominent filmmakers. I’m more than fully aware that there are plenty of notable examples of the opposite (Citizen Kane, anybody?), but I’ve found the former to be much more prevalent, whether it be Who’s That Knocking at My Door? (Scorsese) or Fear and Desire (Kubrick). Alas, the debut of indie superstar Jim Jarmusch is no exception with his 1980 debut Permanent Vacation.

I have a 600-1000 word limit to my reviews. Under usual circumstances, I like to keep my reviews closer to that 1000 word range, but writing about Permanent Vacation in that much depth is an act of borderline futility. Judging from the 2 stars indicated above, it’s no surprise that there’s nothing remarkably good to say about the film, but there’s nothing remarkably bad to say about it either.

Permanent Vacation follows Allie (Chris Parker), a young man with his girlfriend in a shabby New York flat. Without a father and mothered by a woman who spends her days in a mental institution, Allie wanders throughout New York (and life itself) in a state of drabness and inertia. On this particular day, he makes a point to visit his mother in the institution, but continues his aimlessness immediately afterward, in search of some sort of motion in his stillness…and there’s not much else to it than that.

Granted, this is a Jim Jarmusch film, so this kind of minimalism is to be expected, but not much else is offered. Jarmusch is an exceptionally witty film writer, but the writing in Permanent Vacation is probably Jarmusch at his most dull and unrealized. Conversations start, carry on very uninterestingly, go nowhere, and just, kind of, end. Characters don’t exactly compliment the script either, but luckily there are no insufferably pretentious or obnoxious characters present either, so dealing with the characters at least wasn’t the chore it potentially could have been.

That said, if there’s one glaring criticism I have of Permanent Vacation, it is the lead performance from Parker. This kid has absolutely no charisma whatsoever and cannot carry the coolness a Jarmusch film critically requires, and to make it even worse, he’s trying so, so hard to be cool, from the way he puts on his jacket and the way he stands to his very voice. Hanging out with Parker for an hour and 15 minutes was borderline unbearable, but luckily as non-striking as he is, he’s not unlikeable either.

On a side note, that reminds me: the movie isn’t even 80 minutes long, so even on a time standpoint, it’s not the chore it could have been.

Moving on, though; is there anything legitimately noteworthy in Permanent Vacation? Somewhat surprisingly, yes. Jarmusch captures New York in an almost war-torn state, which is most glaring when Allie comes across a traumatized Vietnam War veteran. It’s a unique look with a lot of potential, but like with everything else in the movie, nothing ever comes into full fruition. If there is one fully noteworthy moment present, it is an early scene where Allie dances in his apartment while his girlfriend stares longingly out the window, as if his life-deprived subconscious has manifested physically.

As much as Permanent Vacation most definitely sounds like a Jarmusch film, finding many of his signatures and tropes was really difficult here, but they are present, most notably in the final scene; Allie is getting on a boat, where he crosses paths with a similarly aged Frenchman who is just getting off the boat. These two characters have never met before and are from completely different walks of life, but there’s an unspoken bond and mutuality between these two characters. Classic Jarmusch.

Overall, Permanent Vacation doesn’t show much of Jarmusch’s potential, and is a portrait of a filmmaker with ways to go. If it were 1980, I would probably be ripping this film apart for its dullness and banality, but it’s 2019, and I know the mastery that Jarmusch is capable of, so it’s much easier to let bias take over and forgive this film for its countless shortcomings. Besides, it would only take one more film before Jarmusch showed the world the kind of greatness he’s really capable of.

ALL ABOUT THE MASTERS: Jim Jarmusch

In the world of cinema, I've always found the use of term "indie" a bit too liberal, as anything remotely outside the mainstream assembly line of films seem to be automatically referred to as "indie". Granted, I don't have much room to get huffy about it. After all, technically speaking, it's simply an abbreviation of "independent". Fine by me, but I've always found that "indie" defines a very specific brand of independent filmmaking, one that is stylistically (and many times visually) colorful with a signature quirk, wit, and edge. More often than not, they're charming movies in spite of the commonly morose subject matter - loss, grief, ennui, just to name a few topics - and how fascinating that no matter how quirky and charming the usual "indie" film is, it always remains grounded in its dark subject matter.

Though my desire to make a name for myself as a filmmaker isn't as strong as it used to be, it is still a goal of mine to independently write, produce, and direct a film at some point in my life. Because of this, I have a soft spot for indie films, even at their most laughably stereotypical. It was only natural that I approach the work of Jim Jarmusch sooner or later. I had not only read about his movies (most of which sounded very interesting), but I also noticed that a good handful of his titles were in the Criterion Collection, which is almost always enough to pique my interest in any movie. I was lucky enough to find a used Criterion copy of Stranger Than Paradise, which I snagged right away and immediately watched when I got home. This was the equivalent of me tripping over a rock and falling into the rabbit hole.

One of the first words that comes to mind when I think Jarmusch is "cool". Imagine an Andrew Eldritch-lookalike sitting at the edge of a hole-in-the-wall bar, a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other, looking ponderously off into the distance. He's not asking for your attention, but you can't help but be drawn to him. A conversation with him might seem at first like an insignificant chat, but there was something about the way the conversation carried on with this guy that unveiled an undiscovered beauty in something as simple and unremarkable as everyday small-talk.What I'm getting at is this: if a human manifestation of the typical Jim Jarmusch film existed, it would be something like that.

And what I love most about Jarmusch is the humility that runs strongly throughout his work. There's plenty of room for debate here, but for me, he never seems like he's trying to be cool, edgy, unique, or anything like that (or at least trying too hard, anyway), contrary to the dime-a-dozen indie filmmakers out there today who are so desperate for the attention of cinephile audiences. Jarmusch always remains grounded in the seemingly unremarkable state of his characters and stories, and lets his movies play out as such. What he does instead, however, is honing in on that regularness and brings out the beauty in it. Even in otherwise less-than-stellar films like Coffee and Cigarettes, there is still success found in their reserved nature.

As I wrote that last paragraph, I had films like Night on Earth and Paterson in mind, and while my previous statements ring plenty true to those films, I doubt anybody would call the characters something like Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai "everyday people" (in that film's case being hitmen and the mafia). Even in movies like these, Jarmusch never, ever forgets what makes his films so charming, and continues to remain in the foundation of everyday charms...even in films about African American hitmen who live by the code of the samurai.

That said, this Jarmuschian foundation, so to speak, sometimes works against him. Case in point being Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai, as a matter of fact. While not a bad movie by any means (and we'll be getting to that one very soon), I felt overall that it was a very underwhelming experience, which is double-disappointing considering the originality and coolness of the subject matter, especially the protagonist.

But I digress, because more often than not, Jarmusch has delivered one unique and unforgettable movie experience after another, even at his weakest points. While I've not seen every single one of his movies at the time I'm writing this personal introduction, the strong points currently outweigh the weak ones, and considering the man's track record, I doubt that paradigm will shift. I've been wanting to start this 'All About the Masters' series for a while now, and chose to start with Jarmusch after the recent arrival of a brand-new Blu-Ray copy of Broken Flowers. With a new film on the horizon (The Dead Don't Die), my inspiration is at full force and it is time to get the ball rolling, so without further adieu, stay tuned the next few weeks as Red Eye reviews the films of Jim Jarmusch one-by-one.

Here is a recap of what will be reviewed for this series:

Permanent Vacation (1980)

Stranger Than Paradise (1984)

Down by Law (1986)

Mystery Train (1989)

Night on Earth (1991)

Dead Man (1995)

Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai (1999)

Coffee and Cigarettes (2003)

Broken Flowers (2005)

The Limits of Control (2009)

Only Lovers Left Alive (2014)

Paterson (2016)