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Sumptuous light, favorably bathed across richly-drawn characters and their worlds, have long been signifiers of a Patrice Leconte film, yet while such environments exist in the auteur’s 1996 comedy-drama, “Ridicule,” the words produced within them hold much more prominence.
Streaming on Netflix Instant
When I watched “The Intouchables” (2011) at the local movie theater several months ago, I got a nagging dissatisfaction with that crowd-pleaser, which was about the warm friendship between a disabled man and a caregiver hired by him. The movie was surely a pleasant drama with two amiable lead performances, but I found it too mild and superficial; it merely loitered around thin stereotypes and worn-out clichés and it went no further than that.
Movies usually present the life and religion of conservative masses as that of simple-minded, bigoted country bumpkins. Paul Thomas Anderson’s “The Master” (2012) explores the life and religion of the liberal elite, presenting them as sophisticated frauds eagerly exploiting eagerly exploitable colleagues. If we spoke of “There Will Be Blood” (2007) as “madness,” we might accurately speak of this film as “intoxication.” And, as is the case with the previous film, “The Master” is amazing in its characterizations, sails us through its cinematography and faded colors, but its narrative confuses us. It is said to be a story about the development of Scientology, but it also recalls Byrne’s “The Secret,” as well as most every television healer on either side of the Atlantic or Pacific. I don’t know that the story is about the religion or the cult leader, as much as it is about the rabid pit-bull he keeps on his leash.
“The Insider” is one of Michael Mann’s best films and it represents a departure from the usual themes. One constant in his other movies is the imposing, menacing but sympathetic villain figure. They may all be capable of great violence but the tragic side of their stories helps the audience identify. In contrast, “The Insider” gives us something completely different: a faceless and unsympathetic enemy that bends the will of those who get in its way without the need of doing anything particularly spectacular or even executing it on-screen: a villain aware that the fear of losing something like health insurance may be enough to shut its victims up. Its power comes from the income provided by the countless smokers unable to quit its product and its most important goal is to make sure that they never do.
Josh Trank’s “Chronicle” is the kind of film that curious teenage boys dedicate their hopes and dreams to, before succumbing to thoughts about health insurance and car payments. It advertises itself as a small movie about a few giggling, frowning high schoolers. The movie starts out as a curious plastic toy. Along the way, however, it carefully reveals itself as a colossal amusement park of screams and shouts. Don’t let anyone spoil this movie for you, because it is the cult film of its generation.
“The Godfather Part III” is one of my favorite movies. I admit a personal obsession with the film that would have never existed had it simply been either good or bad. Some fans of the series clearly love to hate it; they equate Sofia Coppola’s presence to that of Jar Jar Binks in the “Star Wars” trilogies, but I believe this is an over-simplification. “Part III” is an uneven picture that could and should have been great. That’s what’s maddening about it.
I was born on February 6, 1975, into a quiet family in San Juan, Metro Manila (Philippines). I barely remember anything in that time before we moved at the turn of the 80s. From what I recall, I grew up in a fairly middle class neighborhood, but my mother would tell you that we were always poor. Thanks to mom and dad though, it never felt that way.
My mother grew up in much harder conditions, having only a pair of shoes to walk several kilometers to get to school in the province. Though she was a local beauty, she was smart and tough, working hard all the way to high school. Once she got the chance to move to the city to study at the University of the Philippines , she never looked back. It was still pretty tough for her even after she finished, helping support her 6 sisters. But she did find her way to work as a secretary for several government offices.
My father grew up in the same kind of environment (same province, Bicol region) with his three brothers. He told of childhood memories dating back to the
There are great movies and there are others which can only be described as special; movies with philosophies we can’t help but apply to our daily lives. Robert Rossen’s “The Hustler” for me is such a movie.
A film with a great, main subject (pool) that is secondary in importance to character. A film with unforgettable characters who have unforgettable names. A film with more classic lines than you can count. A film that made me feel disappointed about the hero over and over until the moment arrived when I couldn’t feel any prouder.
It has four great performances: Paul Newman, George C. Scott, Jackie Gleason and Piper Laurie, all in top form and all four nominated for Oscars.
Fathers are usually proud of their sons’ achievements, but that is not the case with the orthodox scholar patriarch of the Israeli film “Footnote.” His son’s success adds another layer of envy and resentment to a lifelong grudge, and he hates when that happens. He has regarded his son and other prominent scholars as a bunch of superficial philistines who merely happen to be more popular than him, but he cannot help but envy their academic positions, and he desperately hopes for recognition as he stubbornly and solitarily sticks to his own uncompromising research methods deep in the library.
On the subway, the beautiful woman returns his gaze with a smile. Noticing the desire of the man before her, she crosses her legs suggestively, indicating an awareness of what’s happening while waiting for a more direct approach. Gradually, however, something occurs to her: the man is not smiling nor showing any sign that he’s enjoying the pleasure of mutual seduction, seeming only interested in establishing the possibility of sex before making any move. Suddenly, the situation becomes unbearably uncomfortable and the girl, not understanding exactly what goes on his mind, runs out of the car, fearing the cool evaluation of that look.
During the 1970s and 80s the typical Clint Eastwood vehicle was heavier in plot than characters. In most cases, he simply played another variation of his usual loner, with a different name and leading lady. The female role was barely relevant, came well in second place to Clint’s and was nothing more than a plot resource. It didn’t really matter who ended up playing her but for a while Sondra Locke got the part repeatedly.
He had these smiling eyes. And a self-deprecating manner which seemed to belie his very good looks (“He’s so cute,” my 19-year-old assistant exclaimed), about which he was fairly oblivious. Most of all, he was simply a very good guy.
Gary Winick, a many-hats-wearing filmmaker and digital pioneer, died of complications following a 2 year battle with brain cancer on February 27th, the day of the Academy Awards — an especially sad irony for a vital man, weeks shy of 50, whose passion for film and storytelling had filled the decades of his adult life.
The private memorial service was held at the Time-Warner Center in Winick’s beloved New York. Overlooking Central Park as the sun set, an invited group of 400 (some going back to childhood, some famous, many with whom he’d worked, even some he’d made sure got a decent meal when they were struggling) assembled to watch film clips, to hear and tell stories – to cry, yes, but also to laugh at so many experiences they certainly cherish now.
Absolute silence while the Warner logo, the name of the production company and the title of the movie are displayed on the screen. Suddenly, we see ourselves orbiting the Earth while a cacophony of radio and television transmissions confuses us by their sheer volume and sound pollution they cause. Then, slowly, we begin a journey throughout the universe that will last for the next few minutes, taking us far from our old and familiar planet while we experience a kind of time traveling as sounds of our atmosphere become older and older – until, eventually, we are involved by an oppressive silence and we realize that we traveled further than our oldest sound emission. And when we begin to realize the dimension of our surroundings – that goes much beyond our capacity for abstraction -, we are back to the starting point, returning to Earth through the portal represented by the blue and young eyes of Ellie Arroway, our leading character.
I don’t know if people actually deal with grief in five stages, but I’ve always done it in two: depression and acceptance. I really commit to the sadness, too. I lock myself up for a good week, let the woe take me to the places it wants to show me, and I make sure to get a good look. Eventually I work my way to my near-ornamental piano. I’ll revisit Chopin, Beethoven and show tunes. Sometimes the disappointment of my rustiness adds volume to the misery, which isn’t uninvited. Giving in somehow makes it go away.
Raging Bull, Henry V and Heat are primary examples of films acclaimed on their releases and steadily more since then. But this is far from being the case with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein: slaughtered by the majority of critics in 1994, when it was released, the movie by British director Kenneth Branagh didn’t please the audience either, becoming an embarrassing box office flop in the career of its director, which had so far been in ascension.
Even the surprising casting of Robert De Niro in the role of the “monster” wasn’t enough to attract the attention of the audience, which therefore lost the opportunity to witness yet another immensely sensitive performance by the actor – and I use the word “monster” in quotes because DeNiro may have played many in his brilliant career (Louis Cyphre, Al Capone, Max Cady and even Jake La Motta come to mind), but the creature conceived by British writer Mary Shelley certainly isn’t one of them. At least, not in Branagh’s beautiful version.
Mike Nichols’ 1971 drama “Carnal Knowledge” is part of a canon of American films of the late 1960s to mid-1970s that mirrored the freewheeling sexual culture and society from which they emerged. These films (“Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice”, “Shampoo” and others) examined varied notions of commitment, companionship and sex. “Carnal Knowledge”, written by playwright, author and cartoonist Jules Feiffer, shows men talking casually, bluntly and frankly about women, their bodies, of strategies to get sex and of sexual belt-notching, though not necessarily much about the specific act of sex.
Describing Steve James’ “The Interrupters,” I might sound like I’m talking about some dry public heath study. The centerpiece of the film is a profound theory on human nature. Science and philosophy aside, “The Interrupters” is the closest thing to a real-life superhero origins story that any of us might ever experience. This film is exactly that: a superhero origins documentary. It might be the most powerful movie I have ever seen.
So exactly what is National Theatre LIVE anyway, you may be wondering?
Simply put, it’s a program run by the Royal National Theatre in London, which broadcasts live performances of their productions via satellite, to movie theaters, cinemas and arts centres around the world. If you live in the UK or nearby, you’ll see it as a live simulcast; like watching a sporting event. And if you live farther away (Canada) you’ll see it as delayed broadcast and what we were shown.
Wael is a gifted young film critic who joined his fellow Far-Flung Correspondents at Ebertfest 2010. Today the group received this word from him after a week of silence.
We took a specific safe route to my grandfather’s house on Thursday night. After a good night sleep, I met up with fellow friends and protestors of Zamalek and walked to Tahrir Square where the majority of the protestors chanted and waved their hands in unity. The Friday protest was exhausting for we were struggling to stand our ground. The police fired tear-gas and it was the first time for me to inhale this toxic material.
Why do we go to the movies? I expect the reasons vary. Some people may go to be wowed by an interesting plot, spectacular special effects, tight action sequences. Some may go for an escape, wanting to be absorbed in a world other than their own for a little while. Some may go for the company, for a date, for some bonding time with parents, siblings, friends. Some may go out of boredom, loneliness, or both. Some may go to simply see a good movie, a work of art. The cinema never judges.
