Wonder of Wonders: 'Avatar' Delights

As if I needed further proof of how wrong I can be about movies.

Avatar turned out to be quite a good show. Solid sci-fi, though the dialogue here and there was a bit expository and sometimes downright silly. And yes, it did appear to "borrow" elements from other films and literature, including Isaac Asimov's Foundation series and the Wachowski siblings' The Matrix, as well as proto-eco-pictures such as Silent Running.

Who cares, though. I had a jolly good time.

I didn't see it in 3D, in part because I wanted to see if the movie was good enough to stand on its own. It was. The theme of reality and whose it is was intriguing, and the world director James Cameron created on the fictitious moon Pandora, where Avatar was set, was straight out of the most brilliant, detailed sci-fi imaginations. Surprisingly, most of the script was on point, and the performances, especially Sam Worthington's, were strong. I kind of wanted to hate this film, but I couldn't. The world was too vivid. The themes were too prescient.

And I was just too wrong to dismiss it before seeing it. Silly me.

Yes, I Will Be Gnashing My Teeth at 'Avatar'

After all these years, I'm still not sure why I force myself to see movies that offer "spectacle"--and little else.

I have a big feeling that James Cameron's forest-fest Avatar is going to be just that. Granted, it does have an interesting subtext (the question of reality and who "owns" it) inherent in the story about the paraplegic soldier who has another, alien persona, his "avatar," while sleeping. That's the stuff of which good science-fiction is made.

Unfortunately, I'll bet a whole box of CGI effects that the script will leave a lot to be desired.

OK, so sometimes I like Cameron's style. His 1986 actioner Aliens, I believe, surpasses the original (which, in my opinion, had too much Tom Skerritt-style mumbling, despite the frightful atmosphere). And of course, 1984's The Terminator is a classic of low-budget, high-impact film making.

I think we can safely say Avatar is not cut out of that same low-budget mold.

I just worry. I worry it's going to waste a good idea and present us with woefully stupid dialogue and situations. I worry the leads are going to be wooden and uninteresting, never mind sympathetic. And I worry that the CGI effects will overwhelm the story.

I'm sure it'll be something to see. But when I see it--and that's a when, not an if--I'm sure I'll come out griping.

What else is new?

What a Surprise: Pixar's 'Up' Didn't Let Me Down

It's possible that the first 15 minutes of Pixar's latest triumph, Up, are the saddest of any animated film in history...and that includes Bambi and Watership Down.

This is no ordinary kids' movie. In fact, it's really a movie for adults disguised as a cartoon.

But it's really more than that, anyway.

Up, directed smoothly by Pete Docter and Bob Peterson, is the story of an elderly widower (voiced by the amazing Ed Asner) who takes his house on a balloon trip to South America, where he yearns to see his childhood fantasyland, Paradise Falls. A significant suspension of disbelief is required when viewing this film--more so, perhaps, than any other Pixar film, even Ratatouille, which convinced me, despite my desire to resist, that rats could become great French chefs--owing to the extraordinary circumstances in the widower's life that somehow mesh together in the everyday. Still, this is a small challenge to take on...the film's rewards are much greater.

And they are myriad. A gigantic female bird named "Kevin" who squawks threateningly at anyone it dislikes but is loyal to a T. An army of "talking" dogs that serve (and eat) dinner whilst speaking in bizarre complete sentences. And, of course, the animation, as gorgeous as always, and yet highly stylized...which is part of the reason why I'm in awe of this film. This relatively "unrealistic" animation generated a movie that was much more moving than Robert Zemeckis' Beowulf or most other cartoons attempting a more fluid realism.

I'm not sure why that is, but I'll tell you: I think it has something to do with Up's initial 15 minutes.

Unpretentiously, without resorting to bathos or sentiment, this small segment tells the tale of the widower's life...and perhaps gives good reason not to judge anyone in real life by his or her cover. It's spare, sublime storytelling--much of which is done without dialogue but edited, like the great silents, with precision.

And it beats Beowulf by a mile.

I don't think Up is as structured as earlier Pixar films such as Ratatouille or Monsters, Inc.; it does feel a bit as if it's been "made up along the way" (though I suspect that's far from the truth). But its powerful sentiments and brilliant touches make it spellbinding, and I'm glad I spent the time to watch it.

I just rue the fact that I didn't bring any hankies.

Excesses Aside, 'Vikings' Proves Good Fun

Richard Fleischer's 1958 Odin-fest The Vikings should have been a piece of Hollywooden trash.

Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis as Norse half-brothers? Hardy-har-har. Ernest Borgnine as a Viking leader? Excuse me while I laugh into the recesses of my horned helmet.

But lo--a funny thing happened while Trudi and I were watching this film last night: It actually was...believe it...entertaining.

To a certain degree.

Yea, verily, Trudi fell asleep during the epic castle siege toward the end...probably the best-mounted scene in the flick, though it did appear to "borrow" quite a bit of the imagery and techniques from Sergei Eisenstein's Alexander Nevsky, which still, in my opinion, has the greatest battle sequences in the history of film. But then again, Trudi doesn't like battle scenes. Boring, she says.

I agree...if you're watching snoozers such as Troy or Alexander.

Look, The Vikings is no great film. It's not exactly The Seven Samurai in terms of characterization. There's too much forced rowdiness from Kirk and the gang, and some of the dialogue--especially the Christian-pagan love scene between Curtis and (supposedly) English princess Janet Leigh--is a wee bit silly. Plus, the plot, which revolves around the rivalry between the slave Curtis and the Viking heir Douglas, is convoluted to the point where it diminishes the capacity to care for the characters as much as one should.

But I was kind of surprised by the excellence of the production design, as well as some of the photography (though some murky night shots were slightly off-putting). And despite the fact that some of the costumes probably weren't around in the Dark Ages (hey, Kirk, is there any film in which your sleeves aren't cut off?), there wasn't a horned helmet in sight.

At least they got that right, huh?

Anyway, most of the time I had fun watching this movie--it was spirited entertainment, and I didn't take it too seriously. Trudi, on the other hand, had a different kind of experience, as she was able to catch some Zs during the proceedings. I can't say I blame her, however; a masterpiece this wasn't. But for some good, old-fashioned, ludicrous fun, I'd say this was a good pick.

Onward and upward...

'2012' Demolishes the Grandeur that Was Earth

Sometimes it seems Hell will freeze over before Roland Emmerich learns to focus on one character in his films.

2012, Emmerich's the-warnings-were-wrong-and-now-we're-screwed eco-disaster flick, is the most recent example of the director's tendency to think big and overlook the really, really important. Like a good script, for example. Or subtle performances.

Ah, no matter. That's not what you go to a disaster film for, right?

To be fair, 2012 wasn't as horrible as I expected...though it certainly wasn't good. It had all the usual stereotypes: the divorced dad who really cares for his family and somehow winds up back together with them (played with little nuance by John Cusack in his patented likable mode); the scientist (portrayed ably but thanklessly by Chiwetel Ejiofor) who really cares for humanity and doesn't want to see them wiped out by a bad script, er, the world turning into a puddle of lava and seawater; the President (interpreted with irritating bathos by Danny Glover) who decides to remain and die with everyone else, like that's gonna happen; and the evil fundraiser (!) who basically wants everyone to die so he can, er, live or something (represented by the slumming Oliver Platt). And the special effects--the film's selling point--were generally impressive, though a few screens, uh, seams appeared to show here and there, which mitigated the impact somewhat.

But oh, the script. 'Twas yucky. And the focus, or lack thereof, on multiple characters made it impossible to care about anyone. That was a problem Emmerich faced in movies such as Independence Day, though that picture had a bit of character to go along with all the jingoistic nonsense. I'd like to see a disaster film that, for once, homes in on one protagonist, rather than a multitude.

I know, however, that'll probably only happen when Hell freezes over. I'm fine with that--I can wait.

At Least 'Ruins' Had Some Nice Scenery

When a good movie tells me the world is flat, I believe it.

When a bad movie tells me the world is round, I don't.

Such was the case with My Life in Ruins, director Donald Petrie's dreadful Nia Vardalos vehicle from earlier this year--perhaps the most disingenuous film I've seen in 2009. Certainly, it had all the ingredients for an enjoyable flick: a breezy cast (including the effervescent Vardalos, who was so terrific in 2002's My Big Fat Greek Wedding, as well as Richard Dreyfuss and a host of other character actors), a glorious setting (the lovely streets and architecture, old and new, of Athens) and a potentially charming little plot (wannabe college professor Vardalos works as tour guide for crummy company and finds love in a surprising place).

Unfortunately, nothing worked. And I think I figured out why.

Vardalos didn't write it.

Perhaps that would've made all the difference, as it did in the cute MBFGW. Because the biggest problem with Ruins is its flat, cardboard script, generated by someone named Mike Reiss. The laughs are minimal; the bathos is apparent. Worst of all, the flick descends into what I call the "friends syndrome," an ailment that usually affects bad romantic comedies by providing the protagonists with supposedly empathetic friends who do little but support their buddies during their amorous adventures. In the case of Ruins, this job falls to Dreyfuss, playing a crude, obnoxious widower tourist with a big heart and a lot of cheesy advice on love that trickles out of him like butter oozing from chicken Kiev.

As Mad Magazine's Alfred E. Neuman would say, "Ecch!"

Sadly, Reiss and director Petrie paint Dreyfuss' character, as well as the others, in two dimensions rather than three. I just didn't care, and the purported development--in which Vardalos discovers the wisecracking Duddy, I mean Dreyfuss, to be suffering owing to his wife's recent demise--rings fake. This becomes especially appalling when the film enters The Bathetic Zone, after Dreyfuss' alter kocker is hospitalized (presumably for overacting) and then is visited by his entire tour group.

Come on, folks. Does every lousy romcom have to descend to this purportedly "dramatic" madness?

Oddly enough, the film Ruins most reminded me of was the dismal With Honors, another disingenuous flick that encouraged us to care about its tiresome, unpleasant characters while providing a Doomed Wise Man (in WH's case, played in the most over-the-top manner by Joe Pesci) as a dramatic crutch. Same treatment, different setting.

And I guess that was the element that elevated Ruins to a height just above the usual dreck. Trudi and I enjoyed watching the shots of Greece and figured if the movie comprised solely that, it would be a much greater film.

Maybe we should've just watched the Travel Channel. Eh bien.

On Family, Loss and 'Mother Night'

I think my cousin's matured into a fine filmmaker.

That was my reaction after seeing Mother Night, director Keith Gordon's adaptation of the eponymous Kurt Vonnegut novel. Gordon, an auteur who these days works primarily in TV, is a director whose works have intrigued me for some time--dating back to his interesting 1988 adaptation of the Robert Cormier book The Chocolate War.

Of course, there's another reason why his films have been on my radar. He's my cousin...although, admittedly, one I've never met.

Strangely enough, my ex-wife once admitted having a crush on Gordon during his days as an actor, when he starred in movies such as Christine and Back to School. Not sure if that has something to do with the distinctive visages so prevalent on my mother's side (the area of the family whence Gordon came), but I thought it was an interesting aside.

What's more interesting, however, is the talent that Gordon has summoned up--both internally and externally--for Mother Night, a film I wasn't prepared to like.

The story, concerning an American playwright (played superbly by Nick Nolte) who is recruited during World War II as a double-agenty spy in an effort to transmit code disguised as anti-Semitic rants from Germany to the United States, has a fascinating subtext: that of lost identity, and the ingratitude following anonymous service. Gordon films the proceedings sumptuously, in painterly tones, switching to black-and-white at times a la Lindsay Anderson's If..... The ironic quality of the tale is enhanced by some excellent, solemn music by Michael Convertino that seems to echo Javier Navarrete's score for Pan's Labyrinth. But the real star is the script, adapted wonderfully by Robert B. Weide from Vonnegut's work. It's a dark, melancholy screenplay, negative but not inhuman, and cognizant of the inextricable forces that bind people within unwinnable situations. It's very nicely done.

Which is not to say that there aren't any issues with the film. It's not completely clear why Nolte's character, Howard Campbell, takes the spy role in the first place, as he admits to being a man without politics. And Gordon sometimes gets a bit too fancy with his direction, especially in a scene between Campbell and his recruiter in which the camera circles the duo as it did in Hitchcock's Vertigo...albeit with less intrigue. (I have to admit: I'm not a big fan of the ever-popular camera-circling technique, as I feel it generally detracts from the goings-on in the scene.)

Still, Mother Night is a distinctive, unusual work and deserves to be better known. I'd say my cousin has grown up a lot from his days in Back to School. But that's what happens with talent: It matures with age. Now we have to see where it goes from here.

'Rififi' Proves Me Wrong Once Again

This might be the 2,000th time I've been off base about a great movie.

For some reason, I was under the mistaken impression that the downbeat ending of Jule Dassin's 1955 jewel-heist thriller en francais Rififi would make for gloomy evening viewing.

Boy, was I wrong.

What a masterpiece. Just brilliant. I had last seen it many years ago and remembered the daring half-hour robbery scene that features no dialogue and only incidental sound, but that was only one part of this terrific film...though it was as extraordinary as ever. The frank dialogue, vivid characterizations and ugly realism were striking, and the wonderful music (by Georges Auric, who also did the superb score for Jean Cocteau's La Belle et la Bete, among others) and gorgeous, stark black-and-white photography (by Philippe Agostini, whose shots reminded me of Robert Krasker's stunning lenswork in The Third Man and Odd Man Out) augmented the picture. And yes, the ending was downbeat, but warranted within the context of the film; instead of having a negative effect, it had a positive one...like all great movies do.

And that's the purpose of watching a good movie, isn't it? To be uplifted?

A bad movie makes me feel, well, bad. A good movie makes me elated.

Rififi did just that.

So next time, I think I'll ignore any inner voice that tells me to avoid a great film just because of its ending. The path that gets me there is worth the cost.

And I'm all about the road that should be taken.

Lock Up Your Baubles: 'Rififi' Is Up Next

Here it is, the original jewel-heist-gone-awry movie...and I just can't bear to watch it.

Yes, Jules Dassin's 1955 classic Rififi has landed, en Francais, at chez Butler, fresh from the halls of Netflix. I haven't seen it in years, though I remember it with a fondness, especially the fabled "no talking" theft sequence.

The trouble is, I also remember the ending, which is a real downer. Warranted in the context of the film, of course, but not happy.

I don't wanna see "not happy" tonight.

OK, so I've been slumming a bit. Last evening, I saw a bit of Mark Lester's 1985 squib-fest Commando, which happened to be on cable and was one of the films that required the least amount of thought at 11 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. There were no concerns about the amount of melancholy in that flick--especially since I didn't care about the characters enough to worry about whether things would turn out all right in the end. (Not that it matters.)

That was then, however. This is...now.

UPDATE: Trudi has just informed me that she wants to see Rififi. Looks like we're gonna watch it tonight. I'll keep you posted.

Dialing 'S' for 'Stagy'

When will everyone start to realize that Alfred Hitchcock's 1954 thriller Dial M for Murder just isn't the classic that it should be?

Sure, it has Grace Kelly, luminous as always. Sure it has a terrific murder scene featuring a strategically placed scissors. Sure it has some great camerawork and quintessentially Hitch angles (such as the "I'm Looking at the Action from Above" perspective).

But unfortunately, the film never works for me--perhaps because it's derived from the eponymous play by Frederick Knott (who also wrote the script). And I can't get past the fact that the action in the film almost always seems stage-bound, as if all the tricks in Hitch's book couldn't make the goings-on cinematic.

One thing I noticed on my most recent viewing of DMFM is that there are some interesting long takes that feature a heckuva lot of talking. And I mean a lot. This is a Hitchy-like thing to do as well; after all, he featured it in 1948's Rope. But Rope seems like more of an experiment, while DMFM just makes the impression (at least on me) that it's a misfire. It's too stagy, too confined. It seems the actors aren't allowed to breathe like they often do in the Master's greatest films.

And yet--although I don't have the statistics to prove it--DMFM seems to come up on TV more frequently than The 39 Steps or The Lady Vanishes...two Hitchcock classics that use dialogue in the best, freest way possible, are completely cinematic (despite some camera trickery used to convey location) and are among the director's best films.

Something's rotten in the state of TV, methinks. But what else is new?