The "Charlie Rose Goes to the Movies" Post

Item 1.

As usual, David Denby nails it. Excuse me: Denby. Nails. It.

So cut to the scene, Friend Daniel and I outside the Sunshine Cinema, me with requisite twig, Daniel having just emerged from el bano. After watching The Tree of Life.

Me: Just go with me on this one. I need to say the words, and then either back down or back them up. But I need to test the words out.


Daniel: And we haven't talked about the film yet, but those words are?


Me: That was the most infuriating film I've ever seen. 


Now, the Denby interview happens on Charlie Rose, talking about the summer films either out or previewed in some capacity. And he's on a panel with A.O. Scott and the always foxy Dana Stevens. The clip:



The thing that killed me about the film was it's near-perfectness of the middle section. Talking with Friend Sarah afterwards, it was a new Raw. It was a new way of conveying Emotion, Life, the Ineffable. The middle section, for all its faults (and there were a spare few), it was about as perfect as you could get in filmmaking. Unfortunately, tacked around it was a probably well-placed Job quote, an IMAX nature film, and Mitch Albom's The Five People You Meet in Heaven.

I resolved that night that I need to own this film. That at least says something.

Item 2.

Mr. Abrams. Give it up. You're a hack. I completely get the fact that you provided that niche so sorely pining for Wachowski-sibling ruminations, but cereal-box philosophy is not your thing. You're a melodramatist. It involves a certain loss of complexity and depth, but I'm sure you'll understand when we say you're just not cut out for anything intellectually deeper than a wading pool filled with Kierkegaard. The cereal box was veneer, anyway.

I should retrace. I never saw Lost, save for a few episodes. I have watched Fringe, and do enjoy it but it's always seemed somewhat off. As for his other stuff: Alias and Felicity and Cloverdale and Undercover something -- Great, I think. Not really familiar with most of it, although the few bits I've seen have done nothing but make me realize that certain people trade on their ability to get more attractive people around them.

But wait, I forgot to mention this little beast:


I should be fair. He was only the writer, and it was an early script. But, as one of the less than three films I have ever walked out on in my life, I can comfortably and assuredly say that not only was this one of the most unpleasant film experiences of my life, but it was largely because of the dialogue and writing.

Thank you, JJ Abrams, for ruining what should have been a good mother-son bonding experience. I left her alone, while going to the arcade.In other words, Thank you JJ Abrams for destroying a little bit of my childhood with your shit, formulaic drivel striving for a deeper resonance but that found its stride as shit, formulaic melodramatic drivel.

And what I'm really saying: Mr. Abrams, your attempt at the New -- the junky quasi-intellectual sci-fi -- is just that. It's Junky. There is a market out there for the hearts and minds of sixteen-year-old girls. Judging by the general reaction and demographics of the defenders of said piece, you should absolutely stick with it. Absolutely. Positively.

But those smarts? Leave it to those of us who have it. We're a dying breed, we get defensive and a little bit round-the-wagons cold.

Jingles and Ho-Ho-Hos

Movie notes from the weekend, which otherwise involved Christmas Eve-rolled to morning drinks and a compliment on my teeth. Amid a showdown between a bartender and a patron over who could be the most charming (the answer: both and neither).

The movie reviews, in haiku form:

Excuse me while I attend to my Brecht

Having been slightly chided for my last, football-referencing post, the Good Addler will now refrain for exactly fifteen minutes and instead talk about his weekend. In tones mauve and taupe. Think of it as his summer vacation post, a one-day snippet from the permanent vacation that is his life, and rather only two events from it. Like canoeing and poison sumac, only not in that order and not comparable in the enjoyability department.

First off: Bronson. Saw the movie, had some thoughts. But to get you all caught up, here's the trailer --

Now, to catch you guys up, this was the same director as the well-regarded Pusher series, which I have not seen but understand that it gives him some indie street cred. The story: A biopic based on the most dangerous man in the UK prison system. The story on the story: The prisoner realizes that he's always wanted to be famous, and further realizes he's become so in prison by beating up guards. The story behind all that: You have to do something to be famous, you idiot. Besides beat up guards. Now cue the Brecht, now cue A Clockwork Orange.

So I guess the best news of all of this is that it's oh-so timely (I should probably underline that, but it'd be too much). A black comedy to the point that when Tom Hardy strips to his skin-suit (literally, he fights the guards in the buff), all I can think as his junk is dangling there is how hilarious it all looks. The mustache doesn't help. Of course, I didn't realize I was going in costume, what with the neglect for getting dressed and the mustache and chrome-top I was rocking at the theater. You get the idea, and that is an aside.

Tom Hardy, however, is the reason to see this. Some of the direction I'm not sure about, but Hardy pulls off both menacing wild dog and and absolute dopiness at the same time. Which seemed about right for the character -- the character is essentially a big mewling baby, and the facial expressions, the fighting angry, the craving for attention, the general cluelessness. As an artistic direction, they also threw in some cabaret elements. Again, interesting, and Hardy pulls it off, but ultimately I'm not convinced it couldn't have been a better film.

And if we could just get the guy a loincloth.

@ @ @

And on the other front, I went to see roller derby on Saturday. All female, naturally, tons of hip checks, women displaying inhumanity to other women. With cheerleaders and bondage gear on the sideline. There should be pictures, but I couldn't sneak into the locker room.

There's your sumac.