The Crystal Method playing AFF

The cat can finally be let out of the bag.

I’ve had to keep quiet about all the behind the scenes maneuvering over the past couple weeks, but it’s now official: The Crystal Method will be playing the On the Doll party at the Austin Film Festival in a couple weeks. This is, of course, a huge deal for me even if TCM are LA-based and seem to be doing a DJ set every few weeks in the neighborhood. Some of the grandeur is definitely off the band now that I’ve seen them do a set at a Best Buy, but I’ve also seen them play to a packed Hollywood Bowl in the past few years as well. This is definitely a pretty big coup for a film playing a relatively small festival like Austin and I expect the party to be one of the city’s big attractions for the night. Nice to be on the other side of the velvet rope for once.

A quick note about The Kingdom

It’s really not that bad people.

I’m in slight ass covering mode at the moment after being first out of the gate with a mostly positive review earlier in the year. My bullshit detector’s pretty high and while the film’s flaws weren’t lost on me I came to the conclusion that the film was definitely worth your time, predominantly for the film’s first and third acts and the performance of Ashraf Barhom. Is it probably too jingoistic for its own good? Yeah. Does it use contemporary fears as a pretense for what amounts to a well-constructed popcorn flick? Yep. But my God, it seems like every film that tries to address current world events either ends up as inert crap like Syriana or a condescending brow-beater like In the Valley of Elah. So a film tries to quicken the pulse a bit and it’s treated like John Wayne’s The Green Berets?

And the kicker is Universal screened the film like crazy for the press all throughout the summer so they must have thought it would be well received. Oh well, the public decides starting tomorrow. I think it will play well all through the next month or so, but what do I know?

No mini-review for this one. If you care you can paw through the month-old gargantuan piece.

http://andrewdignan.blogspot.com/2007/04/when-did-peter-berg-become-better.html

Hoo Hoo: Everyone rips me off, Robin

Mildly amusing footnote to this blog which got a shout-out at Jeff Wells’ Hollywood Elsewhere blog a couple days ago (my God, just typing that makes me realize how little any of this shit really matters) after Jeff decided to call “dibs” on the expression “C.S.I.: Riyadh” as the go-to glib critique of Peter Berg’s quite enjoyable in a rousing, sort of disposable kind of way, The Kingdom. He went so far as inferring that any review that uses the expression should attribute the quote to him in their review (Jeff would no doubt say this was written in jest but I suspect that’s only a disguise of true intent).

First of all why anyone would want to take credit for being the brain trust behind something that’s clearly a plain as the nose on your face call is beyond me (the hard part is simply googling what the capital of Saudi Arabia is so one doesn’t look like an ass) but more to the point Jeff wasn’t the first person to use the expression in print. Not by a long shot.

As Daniel Feinberg (a fellow blogger/Angelino/Sox fan) was kind enough to point out, I used the expression in my The Kingdom piece that I wrote way back in April. At the time, I assumed everyone would come to the exact same conclusion and was amused with myself for all of eight seconds for coming up with something so “witty” and then moved on. But shoot, maybe I should be seeking out royalties from the two dozen or so major market film critics who have reappropriated the expression. Can we get it written in stone somewhere that I was the first one to belch out this t-shirt worthy expression?

What made me most happy about the whole thing is that before I even had a chance to meekly chime in to plug my site, Feinberg had beaten me to the punch. This implies that I not only have readers but they’re actually retaining this drivel? The mind boggles. Makes me wish I proofread more carefully.

Anyway, you can read the whole sordid affair at the link below. Or you can correctly assume that this self-aggrandizing retelling is probably the most interesting this particular story could *possibly* be and go do something productive with you time. Your choice.

http://hollywood-elsewhere.com/archives/2007/09/csi_riyadh.php

Has everyone seen this already?

I’m way late to the party on this one as I needed an Apple commercial to find out about it, but this music video is better directed, choreographed and conceived than just about every movie musical of the past thirty years. For those in the unenviable position of being more oblivious to pop culture than I am, this is the Canadian singer Leslie Feist who had a song in a Verizon Wireless commercial a few months back (profitable year for her). It’s a catchy song but nothing mind-blowing and from a production value standpoint it’s pretty minimal (reminds me a bit of the single-take “Praise You” video Spike Jonze and Roman Coppola did for Fatboy Slim only less self-consciously dorky) but I’m digging on the rustic charm big time. Specifically the on-set echo of the claps and the way it appears uncoordinated and hectic when it fact it’s intimately designed and elaborately staged. Apparently the whole thing was done without CGI or hidden edits which may or may not be impressive to you depending on how you respond to the video.

I initially guessed that it was directed by Valerie Faris and Jonathan Dayton who between Little Miss Sunshine and that Gap commercial with Patrick Wilson and Clare Danes have been coming across as a little too cutesy-pooh (how’s that for a lacerating critical assessment?) lately, but apparently it’s directed by a thirty-one year old video-director named Patrick Daughters. This guy should absolutely be directing features (certainly over guys like Adam Shankman and Rob Marshall). I haven’t seen Across the Universe yet (and by yet, I of course mean never will I while sober) but my gut tells me that nothing in that film is quite as charming or wondrous as this video.

90 Second Film Review: Into the Wild (Sean Penn)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

Tough, tough film to externalize my thoughts on. On one hand you have the undeniable pull of the material, oscillating between exhilarating and meditative and tragic. It’s easy to see why so many are responding so strongly to the film as it does tap into the sense of idealism and hope and belief in change and leading by example that most twenty-two year olds possess right out of school. I’ve always found Penn’s directorial-projects to be gnashing, method-fests (shocker!) but there’s a real sense of naturalism and warmth and unfussy grandeur to (most of) the film that permeates everything from Eric Gautier's (The Motorcycle Diaries) photography to Eddie Vedder’s way less obnoxious than anticipated music to the devastatingly empathic performances from the likes of Catherine Keener and Hal Holbrook. It’s also worth commending the job Penn does with adapting the film’s screenplay, maintaining the structure of a novel (complete with onscreen chapter headings), externalizing Christopher McCandless’ (a fine Emile Hirsch) isolation, jumping around seamlessly from one time frame to another and doing his darndest to keep the film from becoming episodic (it’s a failed endeavor but the effort is appreciated none the less).

But then on the other hand you have Penn who clearly identifies with, if not outright idolizes, McCandless, leaving the character unaccountable for almost all of his actions. In short, the kid is an asshole. A self-absorbed, condescending, preachy, hurtful asshole particularly in the way the character treats his parents (the film attempts to off-set and compensate for this by depicting them as bourgeoisie gargoyles) who’s deified on repeated occasions (at one point a character jokingly asks if he’s Jesus), dipping in and out of people’s lives, leaving behind pearls of wisdom and enlightening everyone from the half-naked jailbait throwing herself at him to the kindly old man who wishes to adopt him. The film has so much admiration for McCandless’ journey that is brushes right over the emotional damage left in his wake, never quite willing to acknowledge that his ultimate fate may have less to do with martyrdom than with a shithead getting exactly what he deserved.

I’m told Jon Krakauer’s 1996 book of the same name—which of course I haven’t read—placed more culpability at McCandless’ feet in addition to inferring most of the perceived slights at the hands of his parents (I have a hard time imagining it contains anything quite as embarrassing as a scene in the film where William Hurt tackles Marcia Gay Harden in plain sight of their understandably horrified children). At times Into the Wild feels like you’re trapped in a booth at a coffee house, forced to listen to a boorish trust-fund brat tell you how little you know about the world (it’s ultimately the film’s greatest failing the McCandless’ interactions come across no less arrogant at the end of the film than they do at the beginning). I have a hunch Matt & Trey are going to have a field day with this one. Like I said, tough film to get my arms around. I anticipate being on the outside looking in, so take with more granules of flavorful mineral than usual. B-

90 Second Film Review: Reservation Road (Terry George)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

May I propose as an alternate title, Crash. Both in the literal sense (Ruffalo kills Phoenix’s son in a hit and run accident) as well as the implied shortcomings shared by both films. Specifically the contrivances, the histrionic performances, and the cursory-level exploration of human anguish. Way less white, liberal guilt at least.

The film is essentially In the Bedroom, big studio edition (mini-major distributor not withstanding) with every emotion broadly telegraphed (cry when you’re sad, rage when you’re upset, etc…), indifferently plotted, building towards an anti-catharsis that’s less ambiguous than it is letting the film off the hook from having to follow through on its own tired premise. Director George, who showed admirable restraint with material infinitely more tragic in Hotel Rwanda, directs his actors like their auditioning for guest spots on "Law & Order." Never quite finds a unique angle in approaching neither the waking tragedy of losing a child nor the torment of being responsible for said act, so it ends up playing like scenes from a drama class.

At the risk of sounding biased, a film like Steel City at least brought a sense of working-class, under-stated angst to similar material. Reservation Road meanwhile appears to have been engineered from the For Your Consideration clips up. Furthermore, the film engenders zero good will by depicting perhaps the most unengaged Red Sox fans (a father and son in the throws of the 2004 post-season run, no less) in history. Jennifer Connolly is of course cast as “least interesting thing in the film” yet again. Seriously Jen, go back to playing crack whores; your career was a lot more promising. C-

2 Minute Film Review: The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Andrew Dominik)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

Easy to see what attracted Pitt to this piece of material as the film isn’t a horse opera (comparisons between this and 3:10 to Yuma are unavoidable but absurd to their core) so much as an indictment of fame and the toll of celebrity worship. Ditto for Dominik, whose return to directing six years after the release of Chopper again finds him chronicling the exploits of a charismatic sociopath. Now the only question is how either of these people convinced Warner Brothers to pay for the film.

Frequently lovely but almost impossible to love, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is an ungainly, digressive, morose, over-long meditation on death (it wouldn’t be incorrect to refer to the film as a dirge, with Nick Cave and Warren Ellis’ mournful, Appalachian-themed score calling the tune) and the impossible demands of living up to a legend. A not entirely successful stylistic amalgamation of Days of Heaven, McCabe & Mrs. Miller and Seabiscuit (seriously), the film celebrates the iconography of James as seen both through the eyes of Casey Affleck’s titular sycophant (we witness James as he strides through opaque sheets of steam and wraps himself in serpents) as well as a hero-starved public, with the film often employing a pin-hole camera effect, blurring the edges of Roger Deakins’ glorious widescreen photography, while at the same time presenting James as a paranoid, hollowed-out shell of a man, suspicious of all and never at peace. Gregarious and avuncular up until the moment he slits your throat, Pitt plays James as a man who hasn’t had a moment’s rest from the law and is own unbearable mystique in fifteen years, leaving him suspicious and haunted and incapable of sustained joy.

Arguably even more impressive is Affleck, in an inspired bit of casting, as the less “talented” younger brother hoping to prove his worth and greatness. A fan and scholar of James’ violent exploits, Ford is shown here idolizing the famed bandit like a schoolgirl admiring the star quarterback, building up fantasies and relationships that will never come to fruition inside of his own mind, only to turn cold once his advances are rebuffed (in a strictly platonic sense). Speaking in a high pitched whine and unable to sustain eye contact for more than a few seconds, Affleck’s clingy need for acknowledgment calls to mind everyone from Mark David Chapman to Paris Hilton. In perhaps the most important exchange of the film, James asks Ford if he wants to be like him or actually be him, a question the film, quite justifiably, never answers.

There’s a great film to be found buried underneath nearly three hours of atmosphere and production design but it sadly doesn’t reveal itself until the film’s final act when it is Ford who’s literally been thrust into the spotlight, having eclipsed James in infamy if not in esteem. A slow, self-destructive decline continuing the cycle of hero-worship only to be torn down to size by a fickle public, herein lies the film’s greatest purpose and ultimately its tragic underlining, making it all the more disappointing that it’s been hastily telescoped into what amounts to a disproportionate denouement. Lost and adrift for much of its run-time, with almost an hour of the film dedicated to the misadventures of the buffoonish and forgettable James gang (think of all those subplots in Heat featuring Dennis Haysbert and Val Kilmer’s characters only without energy or purpose), The Assassination of Jesse James seems at a loss for purpose when it doesn’t feature one of the two men of its title. Equal parts poetic and pretentious, flabby and anemic, The Assassination of Jesse James may end up being the most maddening film I recommend all year. B

Because People Are Lazy...

I'm getting comfortable with my ever-expanding (both in length and volume) mini-movie-reviews both as a (hopefully) useful guide for my readers as well as a way for cataloging my thoughts, so I'll probably keep at it at least through "Oscar Season." One film however that won't be getting this kind of treatment is Paul Haggis' In the Valley of Elah which I saw early in the summer. If you're interested in my thoughts on this pre-release version of the film, which I've been told is almost identical to what's playing in theaters (save for what I'm hearing is a truly horrendous Annie Lennox ballad over the end credits), then click the link below. I'll probably do the same thing for The Kingdom in a couple weeks so I can renew the latest round of arguments about why the film isn't (according to some people anyway) better than Miami Vice.

http://andrewdignan.blogspot.com/2007/06/valley-gall.html

Congratulations America

First of all, I still don't watch your show. A) because I'm a guy and B) because it conflicts with about 2 dozen other programs. And no, you're newly christened super-stardom hasn't helped Steel City get sold domestically like we'd all been not so quietly banking on. But you've always been really down to earth and approachable on every occasion we've spoken over the past three-years and you seem to be taking fame in stride which is really cool of you. Furthermore you're still dating the same non-famous, regular-looking dude you were before you became the nation's darling, which gives hope to all of us non-famous, regular-looking dudes who aspire to date a star of stage and screen some day. You're good people and you deserve nothing but the best. Cheers!

2 Minute Film Review: Eastern Promises (David Cronenberg)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

As part of the microscopic minority that was under-whelmed by A History of Violence I’m likely to be in an equally small grouping in considering this a return to form for Cronenberg, retreating to familiar territory and some of the ickier, transgressive imagery his career has been built upon, the irony being that Eastern Promises is also the most widely-accessible film he’s made since The Fly. Like all of his best films, this is one of icy tone and alien settings, with most of the film’s emphasis placed on the clash between various immigrant subcultures in contemporary London, particularly the violent, densely-layered Russian underworld. After taking a detour to skewer the perception (and celebration) of homicidal tendencies bubbling beneath the surface of placid Americana with History, the director’s back to deconstructing the seemingly infinite number of ways a human body can be violated, with almost fetishistic appreciation of prison tattoos as a form of self-identification and mob hierarchy.

If Eastern Promises feels greater than the sum of its parts it’s because it is, following the minimalist lead of star Viggo Mortensen (who probably rivals Matt Damon in The Bourne Ultimatum for least dialogue spoken by a leading man in a film this year), the film slithers along on attitude and malevolence always hinting at violence that may never come to pass yet places the viewer in the role of the Naomi Watts character as the outsider bearing witness to everyday, almost disaffected, evil so corpulent it resides in plain sight. We’re getting a peek behind the curtain, catching a glimpse of archaic rituals and old world traditions with the director equally transfixed by the professional detachment of “processing” a body for disposal as he is the arrangements of flower pedals on an ornate pastry. The broad strokes of the film’s criminal activities are largely ignored or inferred (this is a decidedly claustrophobic look at both contemporary England as well as organized crime) yet the details are presented in horrific, and at times quite amusing, detail.

The themes are far from groundbreaking (he types a few hours after “The Sopranos” sweeps The Emmys for its final time) but the milieu is fascinating and if Cronenberg merely intended it as set dressing to gussy up a fairly pedestrian child in peril hand-wringer (second one as many weeks, funny enough) it’s enough slight of hand to convince me for long stretches I was watching the best film of the year.

The problem is, no matter how skillfully it neglects it, the film is ultimately a slave to its own disconnected plot, and if it goes to great distances to push all that dispiriting “why-done-it?” stuff to the film’s final act (like saving your vegetables for the end of dinner) it’s especially unpleasant when it arrives to collect its bill. The film was written by Steve Knight who also wrote Dirty, Pretty Things, which if memory serves was a pretty compelling film about London’s immigrant working class that became weighed down by a dopey plot (something about harvesting organs, right?) and as evidenced by Eastern Promises, he hasn’t really switched up his M.O. any. Without giving anything away, the film begins to resemble the low-rent genre piece its detractors are convinced it is the deeper it gets into Viggo’s motivations, doing a hell of a disservice to the actor’s mesmerizing and evasive performance. The safer the film makes the passage for the viewer as outsider, the less interesting the journey is. B+

60 Second Film Review: Shoot ‘Em Up (Michael Davis)

Those looking for depth, as always, are advised to search elsewhere.

We’re a long way from True Lies folks. This one’s getting a pass from a lot of reviewers who are throwing around the “live action cartoon” label, as if that were somehow able to justify the slapdash execution and rampant laziness of the film. The fact is the film isn’t so much a cartoon (although God knows it does everything short of have Clive say “What’s Up Doc?” to try and propagate the idea) as an under-conceived Tsui Hark knock-off dumbed down and shoddied-up for American audiences. The great Peter Pau (Crouching Tiger) shot the film but you’d be hard pressed to identify his work as everything has been edited to ribbons to compensate for the budgetary constraints and the depressing reality that 40-something Clive Owen is not Jet Li.

Crumminess might be more palatable if the film wasn’t essentially a hat on a hat for 90-minutes, frequently commenting on the genre staples and narrative contrivances it wallows in as a validation for how little actual tension and excitement it generates. Something like Rodriguez’s Planet Terror took a lot of these same ideas and came away with something more joyful and observant. Too much sizzle, not enough steak really. Remarkably contains the worst performances of Owen’s, Giamatti’s and Bellucci’s (whose butchery of the English language is especially hard to endure) respective careers, which I suppose speaks to the unique talents of a director responsible for such direct to video gems as Girl Fever, 100 Girls, and Eight Days a Week. You know what I hate? A supposed “down and dirty” R-rated film that casts Monica Bellucci as a prostitute who specializes in lactation that doesn’t even give her a decent boob shot. You know what else I hate… D+

Going Back to Texas

I’ll be returning to Austin this fall for the Austin Film Festival and I’m super stoked. The first time I’d ever been to Austin was at last October’s festival when I was there representing Steel City so I only had a couple days in town to figure out the lay of the town, jump through promotional hopes, attend half a dozen parties and mixers, baby-sit the break-out star (and soon to be Emmy winner) of that fall’s TV season who was in town to support the film, and even make time to see a couple movies. Like all the festivals we took the film to last year, it was pretty whirlwind without a lot of time to relax and really appreciate the city (in a slight I’m still kicking myself over, I never did get any Texas BBQ) so when I’d proposed to my boss we finance a trip this year for me to head back for “research and development” it was about 10% business and 90% vacation.

Here’s where things get interesting. Right around the time my boss agree to pony up the money for the trip, my good friend Linnea (she being the overworked conference coordinator at AFF) asked me apropos of nothing if I’d be interested in flying down to the festival and moderate a couple panels during the festival’s screenwriter conference. I don’t do much public speaking and I’m fairly certain there’s a reason for that but the gig comes with a complimentary All-Access Pass (retail value around $600) and will force me to interact with filmmakers way more successful than myself so, fully aware of the shit pile I was likely stepping into, I agreed. So now my trip would be closer to 30% business, 70% vacation.

Except…

While all this was happening a film my company was helping to produce called On the Doll had applied and been accepted to play the festival. It’s been argued our friendly relationship with AFF helped tip things in the film’s favor so maybe this was all destined to happen, but all of a sudden now all anyone wants to talk about is flying to Texas for the festival. I’m taking meetings and drawing up schedules and being called upon for my expertise which if you get right down to it is still pretty touristy in nature.

I feel like oil was just discovered under the cabin I’d planned on using for quiet solitude. It’s not a simply a case of more familiar faces joining me on my trip south. Now I’m being rolled into the agenda of shameless self promotion and talent managing which is a full-time job often spent wearing a false smile and living and breathing at the end of a cell phone. It’s the ugly side of producing and I hadn’t anticipated doing much of it on this trip. Basically my trip’s now a coin flip business and pleasure.

There are upsides, of course, to all this. For starters I probably won’t have to pick up a tab the entire time I’m down there between my boss and the director and producer of On the Doll, which considering how much I drink while I’m on the road is a big plus for me. There’s also the “I’m with the film” factor, which I suspect is more impressive sounding than “I’m with the festival.” The thing is, now I’m accountable to people so I’ll have to be a lot more discrete with my goofing off.

The most immediate bit of discretion will be what screenings I attend and when. I’d sold my boss on a plan to seek out distribution-less darlings on the fringes of the festival with the not so modest intentions of acquiring them. Not that we have the money or infrastructure to do so mind you, but he’d worked out some fantasy a while back that we were going to be the next Miramax or something. It was a fool-proof plan, or so I’d thought: I tell my boss I went to see a bunch of no-budget, no-tripod-using DV-shot junkers that just didn’t quit fit the bill, while secretly sneaking off to see, say, the new Coens film at a gala premiere (this by the way is strictly conjecture on my part; I am not privy to any advance info regarding what films are playing AFF this year and if No Country for Old Men is in fact playing this will merely have been an educated guess proving correct)*. Now I’m not sure how I’m gonna swing this. Yeah, I know festivals are supposed to be about discovering unpolished gems and championing little films. So sue me, I know what I like.

Even with company interference, I’m still anticipating a great time in the Lone Star State. Austin sets a fine example for what all film festivals should aspire to live up to, specifically the sense of community it cultivates between filmmakers and festival attendees. There’s a real chummy, pull up a seat vibe to the after-parties. No pretense or velvet rope bullshit. A far cry from snobby, starfucker driven fests like Sundance. It’s the sort of place where all it takes to make friends is to buy someone a drink or offer a cigarette. Writers and talent are frequently roaming around and open to chat. Last year when I was being sexiled from my hotel room (long story) I ended up hanging out with the writers of When a Stranger Called and The Hitcher till 2 in the morning just talking about what a barren wasteland the horror genre had become (give me credit for holding my tongue and not stating the obvious).

The schedule should be announced in the next couple weeks so I’ll have a better idea of what’s in store for me then. I won’t be heading back to Sundance any time soon and obviously I’m not at Toronto so this will be my big, immersive film festival experience of the year and I intend on making the most of it.

*Nope, No Country won't be playing AFF because that would be too perfect. I really am going to have to wait till November to see this fucking movie.

Not Dead, Just Uninspired

No updates in almost a month. I barely noticed, did you? This blog was created for short, off-the-cuff commentaries (or in the words of Matt Stone and Trey Parker, “commentary: mini”) but I’d pretty much fallen back into the habit of long, dishy tirades well suited to the House Next Door’s Links of the Day. It’s fun to stretch my essay muscles every once in a while but I tend to get bored halfway through them. I’d rather write twelve one-paragraph-long pieces than one twelve-paragraphs-long, so to encourage renewed activity I’m going to try and get into the habit of writing something… anything at least once a day.

Part of the problem has been that I haven’t been to the movies in four weeks (hooray for late August!) when the only thing out are bummer docs about genocide in Darfur, films that should have remained skits on “SNL” and Jason Statham movies. I also haven’t been to a test screening since early summer, and this one can be directly be attributed to the construction being done to turn the Sherman Oaks Galleria into another Arclight. The Galleria is about 10 mins from my front door and hosts 2-3 test screenings a week but during renovations (and recently, a temporary shuttering) they’ve halted or have been scattered up the 101. I really want to see David Gordon Green’s Pineapple Express and Jake Kasdan’s Walk Hard but I’m not driving to Thousand Oaks on a work night to do so.

Netflix has definitely come in handy lately. I only saw a couple of movies in theaters during the spring so I’ve finally been able to catch up on the likes of Fracture, The Lookout and Vacancy (PS: I wasn’t missing much) from the comfort of home. I’m also trying to get caught up on “Friday Night Lights” before the new season starts later this month, but my initial response is that of slight disappointment. I’m weary of passing judgment too early (only four-episodes in, with the second disk due in the mail tomorrow) as most great shows get better as they go, but I can’t help but wonder if all the people who went nuts over it, especially the ones who claim it’s not really about football, realize that it’s essentially a better written and directed version of “The O.C.”?

I’m actually going to cut this entry short here as I’ve got a lot to get into but I think if I keep going it’ll all just sort of peter out and die on the page. Short, quick and to the point is the new motto.