Midnight premieres are mostly a thing of the past for me. Living in Temecula doesn't exactly engender the same excitement when you have to deal with legions of screaming teenagers and a general irreverence for film, even if the movie is just a popcorn summer blockbuster. Despite the enormous payoff, it's also extremely difficult to coordinate dozens of friends from work, school, old school and a lot of different arenas. If there's no awesome payoff, there's no reason to shoulder all that stress. Besides, I'm getting older, and if I'm going to stay up until three in the morning (plus however long it takes to drive back from the theater) to watch a movie, it damned well better be worthwhile.
Luckily, last night was just that.
One of the original midnight premieres I did was at the ArcLight Hollywood, for Iron Man. For those of you that don't know about the ArcLight, it's one of the best things about Los Angeles - a theater with a restaurant/bar where you reserve your seats (so you don't have to stand in line) and they have things like paninis at the concession counter. It's where movie lovers go to watch movies. So, it was a natural thing to want to return there for the much-awaited follow up from Jon Favreau, Iron Man 2.
After some coordination, I found quite a few takers for tickets, despite the price and the distance. Some of my coworkers from The Edge, my brother and some of his friends, my girl Becki and a few randoms comprised our party, flakers notwithstanding. For the original Iron Man, we saw a showing at around 12.15, and later discovered that Robert Downey Jr. and Jon Favreau had shown up at the 12.01 screening just down the hall to introduce the movie. If that was going to happen this time, I wasn't going to miss it. Like I said - if I'm going to drive a hundred miles to watch a movie, it had better be worth it. So, I was calling the ArcLight two months ago, letting the manager know that I had been bringing big groups of people and wanted to make sure I didn't miss out on such promising event programming. He hooked me up and got us awesome seats in the Dome, a theater with a geodesic roof for better sound quality and a screen that partially wraps around, for a completely immersive cinematic experience (I know, I sound like I should work there).
But once the director and star of the movie walked in to introduce their labor of love, none of that mattered.
Yes, for the second time, because they're superstitious about these sorts of things and the first one was such a booming success, director Jon Favreau (he did Elf and Swingers, in case you don't know him) and actor Robert Downey Jr. (who needs no introduction) came out to roaring applause and talked to us for a few minutes, telling us how much they enjoyed making this movie, and expressing their hope that we enjoyed watching it just as much.
After that, we watched the movie, and it was just what you'd expect - lots of winks to the fans, pithy dialogue, gorgeous cinematography and effects, set to the music of AC/DC. It was fun, exhilirating, and everything that a comic book movie should be. But what mattered most was the experience - sitting there, in one of the best theaters in the world, surrounded not only by the woman I love and the people I care about, but by those select few that care about art as much as I do. If you haven't done it, I highly recommend it.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Based on a True Story
It's a measure of convenience and economic pragmatism to base a film on a "true story." Take something with a built-in audience, streamline the narrative to make it more palatable (read: simpler), throw in a couple of name actors, and the advertising claims can run the gamut from "true events" to "inspired by." Somewhere in the middle of this nebulous truthiness is where we can find The Soloist, the story of the friendship between Los Angeles Times columnist Steve Lopez and the inspiration for his magnum opus, the schizophrenic musical savant Nathaniel Ayers.
Before delving into the film itself, a little background - this film was supposed to be an Oscar contender. Filming finished last fall and Dreamworks was poised for a heavy push. It was an easy sell to get behind the remarkable comeback year of Robert Downey Jr. in a film by Atonement director Joe Wright. But once the economy committed suicide, the studio only had enough money for one Oscar push, and The Soloist wasn't it. So, instead of releasing it with minimal fanfare among the heavy hitters, the release was pushed back to April, where the competition would be things like Fighting and Fast & Furious.
In retrospect, it was a wise decision not to measure this film against the likes of Slumdog Millionaire. Strong performances by both Downey and Foxx can't quite carry a narrative that gets bogged down in trying to tell too many stories without emotional resonance. Wright's direction is polished but distant, never allowing the closeness that could really connect the discordant notes forming this imperfect symphony. Each time Downey shows us the frustrated side of a journalist in search of humanity in Los Angeles, it's juxtaposed by some sort of crass pratfall involving urine. Whenever Foxx, the remarkable mimic who nearly lost himself in this role, peels away the layers of schizophrenia to show us something both poignant and stirring, the film steers us back to the gritty, crime-infested Skid Row, as if to make sure we understand the gravity of the situation.
It is this lack of trust in an intelligent audience that characterizes the majority of the film. It's not enough to see Foxx's Ayers immersed in the melodic rehearsal of the L.A. Philharmonic; the point must be driven home with a two-minute psychedelic interlude. Simply showing Downey's Lopez struggle to humanize such a uniquely objectified population wasn't adequate for Wright - he needs to add an ex-wife/editor (an annoying Catherine Keener) nagging at him, getting drunk at black tie affairs and embarrassing him in front of the mayor.
Aside from the typically outstanding work from Foxx and Downey, the other major character in The Soloist is L.A.'s Skid Row. While those on the streets are cliched thugs and addicts, overdosing and beating each other to a pulp for no apparent reason, the residents just next to the edge of chaos, in the LAMP community, are much more nuanced. The filmmakers insisted on using some of Skid Row's real residents instead of actors, and the result, however brief, is captivating. On a personal level, the reason I was so transfixed was because, a few months ago, I worked for a couple of days as a Production Assistant for The Chorus, the companion documentary for The Soloist, which depicts the real-life residents of Skid Row and how they cope with living in such a place.
When I went down there, I was a bit nervous. Not because of the homeless population - I've done plenty of work with this city's disenfranchised. But because Skid Row is a notoriously rough place, even for a small crew of filmmakers. Once I arrived, the producer I knew didn't have the time to show me around, so instead she introduced me to K.K. K.K. was one of Skid Row's longtime residents, a lanky, graying black man with a kind word for everyone and a story for every corner. He took me around, telling me about the culture of a place that few people from my neck of the woods ever bother delving into. It was fascinating, having this tour guide who was utterly unabashed about a place so awash in poverty, crime and addiction. He loved everyone there in spite of the mistakes they'd made, because he'd made plenty of his own, and was better for it.
So, we went and picked up lunch for the crew while I absorbed the street wisdom of a man who'd seen enough for several lifetimes. We talked about the mayor's efforts to clean up the area, where you couldn't go after dark without a weapon, and what it meant to him to have a documentary being made about the people he loved so much. He was my liaison throughout both days, and the experience was all the better for his guidance. When we finished, I said goodbye to K.K. and all the wonderful people he'd introduced me to, thanking him profusely for an experience I would never forget. I looked forward to the opening of The Soloist this week, knowing that K.K. and some of his friends would be in the movie.
And then, two days before the film's release, I heard that K.K. had been murdered.
He was doing bodyguard work (without a weapon, he didn't carry one) and was shot on Easter Sunday. Typically, he was giving everything he had without ever really having anything. His senseless death resonated with me in the way a family member's would, because for someone who had nothing to give but his time, he gave me two days toward what turned out to be the end of his life. I have nothing but gratitude for what he showed me and regret that no one else will get to see it. When we were walking the streets of Skid Row, he painted a picture for me that was at once both tragic and beautiful, weaving the grit of Los Angeles' gutter with the hopes and dreams of a forgotten population. If only The Soloist had achieved such narrative harmony, the film could aspire to tell a story as touching and remarkable as K.K.'s.
Before delving into the film itself, a little background - this film was supposed to be an Oscar contender. Filming finished last fall and Dreamworks was poised for a heavy push. It was an easy sell to get behind the remarkable comeback year of Robert Downey Jr. in a film by Atonement director Joe Wright. But once the economy committed suicide, the studio only had enough money for one Oscar push, and The Soloist wasn't it. So, instead of releasing it with minimal fanfare among the heavy hitters, the release was pushed back to April, where the competition would be things like Fighting and Fast & Furious.
In retrospect, it was a wise decision not to measure this film against the likes of Slumdog Millionaire. Strong performances by both Downey and Foxx can't quite carry a narrative that gets bogged down in trying to tell too many stories without emotional resonance. Wright's direction is polished but distant, never allowing the closeness that could really connect the discordant notes forming this imperfect symphony. Each time Downey shows us the frustrated side of a journalist in search of humanity in Los Angeles, it's juxtaposed by some sort of crass pratfall involving urine. Whenever Foxx, the remarkable mimic who nearly lost himself in this role, peels away the layers of schizophrenia to show us something both poignant and stirring, the film steers us back to the gritty, crime-infested Skid Row, as if to make sure we understand the gravity of the situation.
It is this lack of trust in an intelligent audience that characterizes the majority of the film. It's not enough to see Foxx's Ayers immersed in the melodic rehearsal of the L.A. Philharmonic; the point must be driven home with a two-minute psychedelic interlude. Simply showing Downey's Lopez struggle to humanize such a uniquely objectified population wasn't adequate for Wright - he needs to add an ex-wife/editor (an annoying Catherine Keener) nagging at him, getting drunk at black tie affairs and embarrassing him in front of the mayor.
Aside from the typically outstanding work from Foxx and Downey, the other major character in The Soloist is L.A.'s Skid Row. While those on the streets are cliched thugs and addicts, overdosing and beating each other to a pulp for no apparent reason, the residents just next to the edge of chaos, in the LAMP community, are much more nuanced. The filmmakers insisted on using some of Skid Row's real residents instead of actors, and the result, however brief, is captivating. On a personal level, the reason I was so transfixed was because, a few months ago, I worked for a couple of days as a Production Assistant for The Chorus, the companion documentary for The Soloist, which depicts the real-life residents of Skid Row and how they cope with living in such a place.
When I went down there, I was a bit nervous. Not because of the homeless population - I've done plenty of work with this city's disenfranchised. But because Skid Row is a notoriously rough place, even for a small crew of filmmakers. Once I arrived, the producer I knew didn't have the time to show me around, so instead she introduced me to K.K. K.K. was one of Skid Row's longtime residents, a lanky, graying black man with a kind word for everyone and a story for every corner. He took me around, telling me about the culture of a place that few people from my neck of the woods ever bother delving into. It was fascinating, having this tour guide who was utterly unabashed about a place so awash in poverty, crime and addiction. He loved everyone there in spite of the mistakes they'd made, because he'd made plenty of his own, and was better for it.
So, we went and picked up lunch for the crew while I absorbed the street wisdom of a man who'd seen enough for several lifetimes. We talked about the mayor's efforts to clean up the area, where you couldn't go after dark without a weapon, and what it meant to him to have a documentary being made about the people he loved so much. He was my liaison throughout both days, and the experience was all the better for his guidance. When we finished, I said goodbye to K.K. and all the wonderful people he'd introduced me to, thanking him profusely for an experience I would never forget. I looked forward to the opening of The Soloist this week, knowing that K.K. and some of his friends would be in the movie.
And then, two days before the film's release, I heard that K.K. had been murdered.
He was doing bodyguard work (without a weapon, he didn't carry one) and was shot on Easter Sunday. Typically, he was giving everything he had without ever really having anything. His senseless death resonated with me in the way a family member's would, because for someone who had nothing to give but his time, he gave me two days toward what turned out to be the end of his life. I have nothing but gratitude for what he showed me and regret that no one else will get to see it. When we were walking the streets of Skid Row, he painted a picture for me that was at once both tragic and beautiful, weaving the grit of Los Angeles' gutter with the hopes and dreams of a forgotten population. If only The Soloist had achieved such narrative harmony, the film could aspire to tell a story as touching and remarkable as K.K.'s.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Before The Dawn
The Hollywood hype machine makes it nearly impossible for anything to live up to inflated, lofty expectations in modern filmmaking. If internet, television, and print media coverage weren't enough, factor in legions of rabid fans when the event release is something of comic book caliber, and disappointment is almost a certainty. Look only so far as some of the more recent releases from major comic book labels and their studio partners - The Incredible Hulk, Superman Returns, Spider-Man 3 - and see that gargantuan efforts made to try and please everyone end up feeling hollow and falling flat.
So in the age of oversaturation, the viral marketing campaign and endless stream of buzz surrounding Warner Brothers' The Dark Knight, particularly in light of the untimely death of Heath Ledger, may have seemed overblown, even exploitative. Midnight showings across the country sold out weeks and months in advance, and zealous fanboys peppered cyberspace with declarations of the film's supremacy over everything from Tim Burton's original Batman to sliced bread.
And then The Dark Knight opened up and swallowed us all.
Christopher Nolan's second offering in the series does more than deliver on its myriad promises - it shatters the glass ceiling previously thought to contain comic book adaptations. Where even the genre's best efforts (Spider-Man 2, Batman Begins) have fallen a little short, The Dark Knight far outstrips them in every category - and it does so not by upping the ante, but by grounding the hero in the trappings of his own humanity. The scale that expanded for Nolan and his team this time around was not one involving explosions, computer graphics, or a bloated budget (though all are present and accounted for), but rather the measure of a man, and the lengths to which he'll go to further his own agenda.
The three particular men who are measured are Bruce Wayne, new Gotham District Attorney Harvey Dent, and The Joker. Christian Bale returns as Wayne/Batman, all grit and gusto, putting the bad guys in Arkham and trying to convince the good guys he doesn't belong in the loony bin with the likes of The Scarecrow. There is no joy in Bale's performance - his Wayne is a man of supreme utility, carousing with the trust fund brigade only as much as it serves his alter ego. His fleet of unattainable toys and never-ending parade of beautiful, disposable women are not escapes - they are tools used to further the interests of vigilante justice. As the film's namesake, he doesn't disappoint - precise, calculating, and electric in the pursuit of the evil he's driven to eradicate. Some will have qualms with his gruff, gravelly voice when he dons his cowl, but in the larger picture of a superhero film so grounded in reality, it makes sense to disguise himself in as many ways as possible, even if it is a bit jarring.
Superbly guided by an excellent script, the supporting players don't disappoint, either. Maggie Gyllenhaal is a more-than-capable replacement for Katie "Scheduling Conflict" Holmes, Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine give Bruce Wayne the sage advice and sublime acting we're used to from them, and Aaron Eckhart's portrayal of Harvey Dent, and his subsequent transformation into the pathologically dichotomal Two-Face, is an image not soon forgotten when you leave the theater.
But towering above all of them is the indelible swan song of the late Heath Ledger. It is as if someone switched off the showing of his promising career far too early, but the final image has been burned onto the screen. Such complete immersion in his role as The Joker recalls some of the great villain performances of yesteryear, particularly because it seems like he's combining every available influence in a single frame. Insane, diabolical, funny, manipulative, perfect... There aren't enough words to describe such a performance, so one will have to suffice: Oscar. That's right, Mr. Ledger's family - do not pass go, do not collect $200, go straight to the Kodak Theater next spring and wait for the first posthumous gold statue in over 30 years, because nothing can top this.
On the back of Ledger's performance goes The Dark Knight, and it goes well. A hauntingly tense score by Hans Zimmer pushes the breakneck pace, barely giving you time to breathe as the action ramps up. However, credit to Christopher Nolan for not overwhelming the audience with massive CGI set pieces. The action is not driven by escalating violence, but rather the converse - the escalating violence is driven by the actions and decisions of those involved.
There are flaws among the accomplishments, though. There are parts where the film drags - perhaps a result of such a relentless pace needing to slow down a few times over two and a half hours, but it drags nonetheless. There's little in the way of comic relief, but after all, it is The Dark Knight. Bale isn't perfect, but were it not for Ledger's commanding presence, no one else would be under such a scrutinizing microscope.
But really, we're finding pimples on Miss America here. Not only has Christopher Nolan made arguably the greatest comic-book film of all time, he's redefined the genre. Remember a few years ago, when Gladiator was released over the summer, and it was simply too good to be ignored by Academy voters, even though they have notoriously short memories? Beyond the legacy of a film that will be remembered as both Ledger's greatest work and the best film of the summer of 2008, The Dark Knight has taken the mask-and-tights crowd and lifted it to a place Stan Lee, Bob Kane, and Jerry Siegel always dreamed it could rise to - the upper echelon of American cinema.
So in the age of oversaturation, the viral marketing campaign and endless stream of buzz surrounding Warner Brothers' The Dark Knight, particularly in light of the untimely death of Heath Ledger, may have seemed overblown, even exploitative. Midnight showings across the country sold out weeks and months in advance, and zealous fanboys peppered cyberspace with declarations of the film's supremacy over everything from Tim Burton's original Batman to sliced bread.
And then The Dark Knight opened up and swallowed us all.
Christopher Nolan's second offering in the series does more than deliver on its myriad promises - it shatters the glass ceiling previously thought to contain comic book adaptations. Where even the genre's best efforts (Spider-Man 2, Batman Begins) have fallen a little short, The Dark Knight far outstrips them in every category - and it does so not by upping the ante, but by grounding the hero in the trappings of his own humanity. The scale that expanded for Nolan and his team this time around was not one involving explosions, computer graphics, or a bloated budget (though all are present and accounted for), but rather the measure of a man, and the lengths to which he'll go to further his own agenda.
The three particular men who are measured are Bruce Wayne, new Gotham District Attorney Harvey Dent, and The Joker. Christian Bale returns as Wayne/Batman, all grit and gusto, putting the bad guys in Arkham and trying to convince the good guys he doesn't belong in the loony bin with the likes of The Scarecrow. There is no joy in Bale's performance - his Wayne is a man of supreme utility, carousing with the trust fund brigade only as much as it serves his alter ego. His fleet of unattainable toys and never-ending parade of beautiful, disposable women are not escapes - they are tools used to further the interests of vigilante justice. As the film's namesake, he doesn't disappoint - precise, calculating, and electric in the pursuit of the evil he's driven to eradicate. Some will have qualms with his gruff, gravelly voice when he dons his cowl, but in the larger picture of a superhero film so grounded in reality, it makes sense to disguise himself in as many ways as possible, even if it is a bit jarring.
Superbly guided by an excellent script, the supporting players don't disappoint, either. Maggie Gyllenhaal is a more-than-capable replacement for Katie "Scheduling Conflict" Holmes, Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine give Bruce Wayne the sage advice and sublime acting we're used to from them, and Aaron Eckhart's portrayal of Harvey Dent, and his subsequent transformation into the pathologically dichotomal Two-Face, is an image not soon forgotten when you leave the theater.
But towering above all of them is the indelible swan song of the late Heath Ledger. It is as if someone switched off the showing of his promising career far too early, but the final image has been burned onto the screen. Such complete immersion in his role as The Joker recalls some of the great villain performances of yesteryear, particularly because it seems like he's combining every available influence in a single frame. Insane, diabolical, funny, manipulative, perfect... There aren't enough words to describe such a performance, so one will have to suffice: Oscar. That's right, Mr. Ledger's family - do not pass go, do not collect $200, go straight to the Kodak Theater next spring and wait for the first posthumous gold statue in over 30 years, because nothing can top this.
On the back of Ledger's performance goes The Dark Knight, and it goes well. A hauntingly tense score by Hans Zimmer pushes the breakneck pace, barely giving you time to breathe as the action ramps up. However, credit to Christopher Nolan for not overwhelming the audience with massive CGI set pieces. The action is not driven by escalating violence, but rather the converse - the escalating violence is driven by the actions and decisions of those involved.
There are flaws among the accomplishments, though. There are parts where the film drags - perhaps a result of such a relentless pace needing to slow down a few times over two and a half hours, but it drags nonetheless. There's little in the way of comic relief, but after all, it is The Dark Knight. Bale isn't perfect, but were it not for Ledger's commanding presence, no one else would be under such a scrutinizing microscope.
But really, we're finding pimples on Miss America here. Not only has Christopher Nolan made arguably the greatest comic-book film of all time, he's redefined the genre. Remember a few years ago, when Gladiator was released over the summer, and it was simply too good to be ignored by Academy voters, even though they have notoriously short memories? Beyond the legacy of a film that will be remembered as both Ledger's greatest work and the best film of the summer of 2008, The Dark Knight has taken the mask-and-tights crowd and lifted it to a place Stan Lee, Bob Kane, and Jerry Siegel always dreamed it could rise to - the upper echelon of American cinema.
Tangled Web
Superheroes are funny things. They can embody so much about the American dream - the ability to fight crime, right the world, get the girl and wear a goofy leotard while they're at it. Superman not only leaps tall buildings in a single bound, he can teach us why the human part of him is the most important. Batman shows us that a dark past can mean a bright future, if put to the right use. And Spider-Man has always been the hero for the nerd in all of us, the awkward science whiz who dons his red and blue costume and becomes graceful, witty, and charismatic. So, the nerd in me (which is pretty much the whole thing, when you get down to it) was very excited for the opening of Spider-Man 3 last week. So excited, that I invited 20 of my closest friends to the legendary ArcLight Cinema in Hollywood for a midnight showing of the year's biggest blockbuster to date.
The idea behind the third installment of the webslinger's story was a complex one - everything seems to be going right for Spidey, but no one around him is happy about it, least of all his girlfriend Mary Jane, or his vengeful former best friend, Harry. Then, in the midst of all this turmoil, a black symbiote takes him over, causing both Spider-Man and Peter Parker all sorts of trouble, not the least of which is pissing off new supervillain Sandman, hospitalizing Harry, and putting his relationship on life support. Once Emo-Spidey realizes that this thing is ruining his life, he gets rid of it, only to have it immediately latch onto the umpteenth person that wants to kill him - revenge-minded photographer Eddie Brock. Thus, the stage is set for an epic showdown between Spider-Man, the Sandman, and his arch-nemesis, Venom.
On the surface, this sounds like one hell of a setup - drama on multiple levels, some truly classic villains from Marvel lore, and enough duality to make Two-Face do a double take. But Spider-Man, the movie, has just as many problems as Spider-Man, the character, starting with the writing. The duo behind the creation of Smallville, Alfred Gough and Miles Millar, who infused Spider-Man 2 with the wit and charisma that made it great, were inexplicably not invited back for the third film. Instead, a little old-fashioned Hollywood nepotism was put to use, as Alvin Sargent invited his brother Ivan to share scriptwriting duties with director Sam Raimi. The result is dialogue that feels flat and contrived, even wincingly awkward at times. Where the first sequel was sharp, funny, and even sublime, this version is dull and unintentionally funny - you find yourself laughing at parts that are meant to be high drama, and making excuses for whole sequences that simply don't fit.
Because of the high bar that had been set in the previous two movies, this one needed to reach new heights in order to justify the rabid hype, not to mention the nine-figure opening weekend. In short, it didn't. The subpar script threw every other aspect of this film under intense scrutiny, and not a lot survived. The acting was typically strong from leads Kirsten Dunst, Tobey Maguire, and James Franco. But the supporting cast, dealing with lines that even Stan Lee might have found a bit campy, struggled to provide the glue to hold this movie together. Bryce Dallas Howard and Thomas Haden Church were particular disappointments - fine actors in their own rights, but they seemed to be there as plot devices rather than full-fledged characters, means by which to evolve Peter Parker's character arc.
The team behind bringing Spider-Man 3 to life, headed by Sam Raimi, appeared this time to have fallen in love with the process, rather than the result. Instead of turning out a good product - a superhero film that makes us laugh and examine who we are, they made a movie that they enjoyed. Budget-consuming, albeit breathtaking special effects, long, ridiculous sequences involving "evil" Peter/Spider-Man with a Hitler haircut and a penchant for ruining lives, even one shot with Spider-Man looking heroic in front of a billowing American flag that drew uproarious laughter - they all contributed to the dumbing down of a truly intelligent, layered superhero.
Despite all of this, there are bright spots here. The excellent J.K. Simmons is once again hilarious as Daily Bugle editor J. Jonah Jameson, and crowd favorite Bruce Campbell has a scene-stealing cameo as a French Maitre'd. The graphics department for this series has once more outdone themselves, blending computer and camera seamlessly in some of the few moments in the film that actually transfix you. But for all the fanfare, the good parts of this film are the exception this time, not the standard. If it proved difficult for Sam Raimi's team to top themselves once, the second time proved impossible - they were equipped with a Spider-Man budget and cast, but only delivered a Peter Parker effort.
The idea behind the third installment of the webslinger's story was a complex one - everything seems to be going right for Spidey, but no one around him is happy about it, least of all his girlfriend Mary Jane, or his vengeful former best friend, Harry. Then, in the midst of all this turmoil, a black symbiote takes him over, causing both Spider-Man and Peter Parker all sorts of trouble, not the least of which is pissing off new supervillain Sandman, hospitalizing Harry, and putting his relationship on life support. Once Emo-Spidey realizes that this thing is ruining his life, he gets rid of it, only to have it immediately latch onto the umpteenth person that wants to kill him - revenge-minded photographer Eddie Brock. Thus, the stage is set for an epic showdown between Spider-Man, the Sandman, and his arch-nemesis, Venom.
On the surface, this sounds like one hell of a setup - drama on multiple levels, some truly classic villains from Marvel lore, and enough duality to make Two-Face do a double take. But Spider-Man, the movie, has just as many problems as Spider-Man, the character, starting with the writing. The duo behind the creation of Smallville, Alfred Gough and Miles Millar, who infused Spider-Man 2 with the wit and charisma that made it great, were inexplicably not invited back for the third film. Instead, a little old-fashioned Hollywood nepotism was put to use, as Alvin Sargent invited his brother Ivan to share scriptwriting duties with director Sam Raimi. The result is dialogue that feels flat and contrived, even wincingly awkward at times. Where the first sequel was sharp, funny, and even sublime, this version is dull and unintentionally funny - you find yourself laughing at parts that are meant to be high drama, and making excuses for whole sequences that simply don't fit.
Because of the high bar that had been set in the previous two movies, this one needed to reach new heights in order to justify the rabid hype, not to mention the nine-figure opening weekend. In short, it didn't. The subpar script threw every other aspect of this film under intense scrutiny, and not a lot survived. The acting was typically strong from leads Kirsten Dunst, Tobey Maguire, and James Franco. But the supporting cast, dealing with lines that even Stan Lee might have found a bit campy, struggled to provide the glue to hold this movie together. Bryce Dallas Howard and Thomas Haden Church were particular disappointments - fine actors in their own rights, but they seemed to be there as plot devices rather than full-fledged characters, means by which to evolve Peter Parker's character arc.
The team behind bringing Spider-Man 3 to life, headed by Sam Raimi, appeared this time to have fallen in love with the process, rather than the result. Instead of turning out a good product - a superhero film that makes us laugh and examine who we are, they made a movie that they enjoyed. Budget-consuming, albeit breathtaking special effects, long, ridiculous sequences involving "evil" Peter/Spider-Man with a Hitler haircut and a penchant for ruining lives, even one shot with Spider-Man looking heroic in front of a billowing American flag that drew uproarious laughter - they all contributed to the dumbing down of a truly intelligent, layered superhero.
Despite all of this, there are bright spots here. The excellent J.K. Simmons is once again hilarious as Daily Bugle editor J. Jonah Jameson, and crowd favorite Bruce Campbell has a scene-stealing cameo as a French Maitre'd. The graphics department for this series has once more outdone themselves, blending computer and camera seamlessly in some of the few moments in the film that actually transfix you. But for all the fanfare, the good parts of this film are the exception this time, not the standard. If it proved difficult for Sam Raimi's team to top themselves once, the second time proved impossible - they were equipped with a Spider-Man budget and cast, but only delivered a Peter Parker effort.
Thermopylae
Heading into the first important film of 2007, there were three ways to think about it. The first was to consider it within the context of the sword-and-sandal epic, a Hollywood genre as old and common as the romantic comedy. Films like Ben-Hur, Gladiator and Spartacus had all gone before 300, and had set the bar quite high. The second light to cast 300 in was an historical one - looking back on the conflict that took place between the Greeks and the Persians, what transpired, and how it's portrayed. Finally, consider the previous work of those involved with the film, particularly Frank Miller, the graphic novelist whose last effort, Sin City, was so full of debauchery that it made Showgirls look like Sesame Street.
These things in mind, I was taking 300 with a grain of salt. Miller's history as someone with little restraint, combined with the high standards the film had to live up to, not only from its predecessors but the ridiculous level of hype surrounding it, had me wondering if it could meet anyone's expectations. So, after two hours of Spartans, swords, and Persians, I came to the conclusion that it didn't meet my expectations. It exceeded them.
Firstly, Gerard Butler (Phantom of the Opera) gives a stunning performance as the Spartan leader, King Leonidas. Full of the requisite strength and bombast, it was a pleasant surprise to find that he was able to inject what could have been a stereotype with such humor, emotion and depth. Combined with a thinly veiled Scottish accent, such characteristics strongly reminded me of a young Sean Connery - powerful and resolute, but still human enough to joke about being civil on a battlefield littered with fallen Persian conscripts. He's the center of 300's universe - everyone else just orbits around him and hopes to catch some of the energy he exudes throughout the film.
The second star in 300 was the effects. These days, special effects are commonplace, a fixture as permanent in films as the SteadyCam. It's rare to notice them anymore. In fact, most of the time, they're doing their job if they're invisible. Director Zack Snyder (Dawn of the Dead) and his crew disagree. Nearly every shot in this film takes your breath away, even if it's designed to be relatively ordinary. Sepia toning, combined with using traditional film rather than digital photography for effects shots, created a look unlike any other - not even Sin City looked this good. There's something to be said for choosing a different wave in a sea of sameness, and the direction this film took was so bold, it's bound to get noticed come awards season next year.
But disparate elements like acting and effects wouldn't work well together were it not for the synchronous in-betweens like the score, supporting cast, choreography and story. The music in this film was dynamic, to say the least. I was more than a little leery of a score that was supposed to include rock, chanting, and classical overtones, but it worked. Nothing was overdone and it felt refreshingly different to have someone other than Hans Zimmer or John Williams conducting the melodies. The supporting cast worked for two reasons. The first was that none of them overplayed their part, and they fit together like the pieces of a puzzle, rather than feeling like the quickly assembled all-star teams of pictures like Babel or Ocean's Eleven. The second was that none of them were played by Nicolas Cage, Brad Pitt, or Tom Cruise. Because most of the cast members were relative unknowns, you were able to connect with them as their characters, rather than thinking of the actor behind the armor.
Finally, the choreography and story in 300 felt like a dance - there were certain steps that needed to be taken, but a lot of it didn't go according to custom. Improvisation in place of sticking by traditional standards served the film well. Battle scenes deviated from the recent trend of "let's speed everything up so you have no idea who's winning" and drew back, revealing a beauty and patience unseen in an epic for some time. The story paced wonderfully, with subtle foreshadowing juxtaposed against a quiet crafting of the context of the age. There were several points at which the film could have easily fallen back on a cliche, but opted for originality over safety, again employing a boldness that the Spartans would have been proud of.
Despite its greatness, 300 wasn't perfect. Lines like, "Freedom isn't free at all," and the undertones of fighting for democracy felt vaguely like conservative rhetoric. Scenes including goat-men and monstrous hybrids of Jabba the Hutt and a hacksaw were left to the suspension of disbelief and were never adequately explained. But truly, 300 was incredible, dynamic and original. If only more filmmakers felt the need to challenge the status quo - to make a film about battle that didn't involve World War II, to use filming techniques that no one's used before, and to cast actors that haven't already worked on ten projects this year - then maybe the odds of finding an original voice in Hollywood wouldn't feel like three hundred to a million.
These things in mind, I was taking 300 with a grain of salt. Miller's history as someone with little restraint, combined with the high standards the film had to live up to, not only from its predecessors but the ridiculous level of hype surrounding it, had me wondering if it could meet anyone's expectations. So, after two hours of Spartans, swords, and Persians, I came to the conclusion that it didn't meet my expectations. It exceeded them.
Firstly, Gerard Butler (Phantom of the Opera) gives a stunning performance as the Spartan leader, King Leonidas. Full of the requisite strength and bombast, it was a pleasant surprise to find that he was able to inject what could have been a stereotype with such humor, emotion and depth. Combined with a thinly veiled Scottish accent, such characteristics strongly reminded me of a young Sean Connery - powerful and resolute, but still human enough to joke about being civil on a battlefield littered with fallen Persian conscripts. He's the center of 300's universe - everyone else just orbits around him and hopes to catch some of the energy he exudes throughout the film.
The second star in 300 was the effects. These days, special effects are commonplace, a fixture as permanent in films as the SteadyCam. It's rare to notice them anymore. In fact, most of the time, they're doing their job if they're invisible. Director Zack Snyder (Dawn of the Dead) and his crew disagree. Nearly every shot in this film takes your breath away, even if it's designed to be relatively ordinary. Sepia toning, combined with using traditional film rather than digital photography for effects shots, created a look unlike any other - not even Sin City looked this good. There's something to be said for choosing a different wave in a sea of sameness, and the direction this film took was so bold, it's bound to get noticed come awards season next year.
But disparate elements like acting and effects wouldn't work well together were it not for the synchronous in-betweens like the score, supporting cast, choreography and story. The music in this film was dynamic, to say the least. I was more than a little leery of a score that was supposed to include rock, chanting, and classical overtones, but it worked. Nothing was overdone and it felt refreshingly different to have someone other than Hans Zimmer or John Williams conducting the melodies. The supporting cast worked for two reasons. The first was that none of them overplayed their part, and they fit together like the pieces of a puzzle, rather than feeling like the quickly assembled all-star teams of pictures like Babel or Ocean's Eleven. The second was that none of them were played by Nicolas Cage, Brad Pitt, or Tom Cruise. Because most of the cast members were relative unknowns, you were able to connect with them as their characters, rather than thinking of the actor behind the armor.
Finally, the choreography and story in 300 felt like a dance - there were certain steps that needed to be taken, but a lot of it didn't go according to custom. Improvisation in place of sticking by traditional standards served the film well. Battle scenes deviated from the recent trend of "let's speed everything up so you have no idea who's winning" and drew back, revealing a beauty and patience unseen in an epic for some time. The story paced wonderfully, with subtle foreshadowing juxtaposed against a quiet crafting of the context of the age. There were several points at which the film could have easily fallen back on a cliche, but opted for originality over safety, again employing a boldness that the Spartans would have been proud of.
Despite its greatness, 300 wasn't perfect. Lines like, "Freedom isn't free at all," and the undertones of fighting for democracy felt vaguely like conservative rhetoric. Scenes including goat-men and monstrous hybrids of Jabba the Hutt and a hacksaw were left to the suspension of disbelief and were never adequately explained. But truly, 300 was incredible, dynamic and original. If only more filmmakers felt the need to challenge the status quo - to make a film about battle that didn't involve World War II, to use filming techniques that no one's used before, and to cast actors that haven't already worked on ten projects this year - then maybe the odds of finding an original voice in Hollywood wouldn't feel like three hundred to a million.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)