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+