The Exterminating Angel
Monday, October 17, 2005
CONFOUNDED
I'm sure you've all had the experience of defeated expectations, well I got it in spades this weekend.
Saw Wallace and Gromit: Curse of The Were-Rabbit in Evanston on Friday. The Vivster was in attendance with me. We both expected to like this movie, as we're dog-lovers and had heard good things about it, but it wasn't meant to be. Not only did we not like the film, we actually found ourselves dozing off during it. It was just dull. The story wasn't interesting and the jokes weren't funny. My theory is that clay-mation is such a long, painstaking process that it's just too difficult to pack a lot of interesting material into a feature length film. It would take decades to complete. Were-Rabbit wasn't even bad, it was just boring.
So, on to Saturday. Viv and I met up with our friend Emily in Hyde Park for dinner at the Med. We then went over to Doc and took in a screening of War of the Worlds. Not even my four dollar ticket could get me excited about seeing this film. Well, imagine my surprise when I found it to be quite riveting.
I think you all know the story, so we'll skip to what I thought was interesting:
The Set Pieces. Partcicularly the first one, when the aliens attack Tom Cruise's New Jersey town. There's nice build-up to the catastrophe. We get to know Cruise's character and his family before the shit hits the fan. Then these extremely ominous clouds show up. Cruise's character notices that the wind is being sucked into them and all hell breaks loose. From the much talked-about 9/11-ish human ash, to the collapsing buildings and bridges, I thought this sequence was genuinely frightening. The other set-pieces - a crashed airplane, a capsized ferry, and a basement visit by the aliens - are also well-executed and disturbing. My particular favorite was a flame-engulfed train hurtling through a crossing. I liked that the film provided no explanation for it. You just have to assume that you would see bizarre, terrifying events like that in this situation.
On the other hand, I had some reservations about the set pieces, which led me to a more critical response to War of the Worlds overall. I thought it was more than a little preposterous that Cruise and Co. could live through so many catastrophes. I can see them living through one of these disasters, maybe even two, but not through five or six of them. Isn't the point of the film that most of the people involved in these events die? Shouldn't Cruise and his family be dead too? I know, I know, there wouldn't be much of a movie if the main characters either died immediately, or avoided all contact with the aliens. But I think the film could have still been interesting if Spielberg could have resisted the urge to keep piling on more bravura, knock-'em-dead spectacles. Perhaps instead of the ferry turning over, we could have had more of Cruise chasing after his wayward son. I mean, the film keeps hammering into our heads that Cruise is a flawed, selfish guy, who's not much of a father. What better way for his character to demonstrate his worth than risk life and limb tracking down one of his children?
The eventual overkill of the set pieces and the corresponding lack of development of the human story got me thinking about War of the Worlds. What is the purpose of this film? I suppose most people would say that it's just summer blockbuster entertainment. But since when has light entertainment been associated with depicting the shockingly gruesome deaths of thousands of people? Is this really how we want to enjoy ourselves? And what about Spielberg? I get the sense that he really enjoys the carnage and, looking back on his career, I think I'm right. From Jaws, to Schindler's List, to Saving Private Ryan, to War of the Worlds, Spielberg seems to delight in finding new and spectacular ways to mangle and destroy human bodies on film. If Spielberg's private fantasies involve mutilation and mayhem, that's fine, but what I object to is that he has nothing to say about the violence he depicts. He just wants to impress us with his film-making skill. Even someone like Brian DePalma is more sophisticated than this; DePalma tries too go too far with the violence in his films and, I think, implicate us in it, as silent accomplices. I find no similar sense of purpose in Spielberg. He needs to find his outlet for violence in socially acceptable frameworks, like his World War II films and this disaster flick. I think that Spielberg has it in him to make a very sick, perverse, violent film (his Peeping Tom, if you will), but he's much too concerned with taste, decorum, money, and awards to do that. It's a shame, because I think there could be a much more interesting film-maker lurking behind the virtuoso. ¶ 9:01 AM 1 comments
Saw Wallace and Gromit: Curse of The Were-Rabbit in Evanston on Friday. The Vivster was in attendance with me. We both expected to like this movie, as we're dog-lovers and had heard good things about it, but it wasn't meant to be. Not only did we not like the film, we actually found ourselves dozing off during it. It was just dull. The story wasn't interesting and the jokes weren't funny. My theory is that clay-mation is such a long, painstaking process that it's just too difficult to pack a lot of interesting material into a feature length film. It would take decades to complete. Were-Rabbit wasn't even bad, it was just boring.
So, on to Saturday. Viv and I met up with our friend Emily in Hyde Park for dinner at the Med. We then went over to Doc and took in a screening of War of the Worlds. Not even my four dollar ticket could get me excited about seeing this film. Well, imagine my surprise when I found it to be quite riveting.
I think you all know the story, so we'll skip to what I thought was interesting:
The Set Pieces. Partcicularly the first one, when the aliens attack Tom Cruise's New Jersey town. There's nice build-up to the catastrophe. We get to know Cruise's character and his family before the shit hits the fan. Then these extremely ominous clouds show up. Cruise's character notices that the wind is being sucked into them and all hell breaks loose. From the much talked-about 9/11-ish human ash, to the collapsing buildings and bridges, I thought this sequence was genuinely frightening. The other set-pieces - a crashed airplane, a capsized ferry, and a basement visit by the aliens - are also well-executed and disturbing. My particular favorite was a flame-engulfed train hurtling through a crossing. I liked that the film provided no explanation for it. You just have to assume that you would see bizarre, terrifying events like that in this situation.
On the other hand, I had some reservations about the set pieces, which led me to a more critical response to War of the Worlds overall. I thought it was more than a little preposterous that Cruise and Co. could live through so many catastrophes. I can see them living through one of these disasters, maybe even two, but not through five or six of them. Isn't the point of the film that most of the people involved in these events die? Shouldn't Cruise and his family be dead too? I know, I know, there wouldn't be much of a movie if the main characters either died immediately, or avoided all contact with the aliens. But I think the film could have still been interesting if Spielberg could have resisted the urge to keep piling on more bravura, knock-'em-dead spectacles. Perhaps instead of the ferry turning over, we could have had more of Cruise chasing after his wayward son. I mean, the film keeps hammering into our heads that Cruise is a flawed, selfish guy, who's not much of a father. What better way for his character to demonstrate his worth than risk life and limb tracking down one of his children?
The eventual overkill of the set pieces and the corresponding lack of development of the human story got me thinking about War of the Worlds. What is the purpose of this film? I suppose most people would say that it's just summer blockbuster entertainment. But since when has light entertainment been associated with depicting the shockingly gruesome deaths of thousands of people? Is this really how we want to enjoy ourselves? And what about Spielberg? I get the sense that he really enjoys the carnage and, looking back on his career, I think I'm right. From Jaws, to Schindler's List, to Saving Private Ryan, to War of the Worlds, Spielberg seems to delight in finding new and spectacular ways to mangle and destroy human bodies on film. If Spielberg's private fantasies involve mutilation and mayhem, that's fine, but what I object to is that he has nothing to say about the violence he depicts. He just wants to impress us with his film-making skill. Even someone like Brian DePalma is more sophisticated than this; DePalma tries too go too far with the violence in his films and, I think, implicate us in it, as silent accomplices. I find no similar sense of purpose in Spielberg. He needs to find his outlet for violence in socially acceptable frameworks, like his World War II films and this disaster flick. I think that Spielberg has it in him to make a very sick, perverse, violent film (his Peeping Tom, if you will), but he's much too concerned with taste, decorum, money, and awards to do that. It's a shame, because I think there could be a much more interesting film-maker lurking behind the virtuoso. ¶ 9:01 AM 1 comments
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
STAN THE MAN
Long time, no see. As the two of you who read this blog may have noticed, the Exterminating Angel was on a bit of a hiatus, preparing for and running the Chicago Marathon. Well, I finished the race, although not with a very good time. However, on the upside, I did get to see more women urinating in public than I ever thought I'd see in my life.
Anyway, on to the review.
Saw Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey at the Music Box last night. It was a 70 millimeter print, shown on the big screen. Which was nice. Since, I'm sure most of you have seen the film, or are familiar with it, I'm not going to do a regular review, but will just provide some thoughts, Larry King-style:
Kubrick's use of Strauss's Also Sprach Zarathrustra sets the tone for the film. The music is stately and impressive, but also cold and bombastic. It has a bullying self-importance that practically dares you to not be intimidated by it...like the film itself.
I've always liked the opening sequence, The Dawn of Man. Who were those actors who played the apes? They were fantastic. Whenever I watch this sequence, I always find myself believing that I'm watching real apes. Really good use of sound here. The ape grunts are thick and primal. A soundtrack in their own right.
And then the monolith showed up...and I found myself supressing the urge to giggle. I've probably seen 2001 too many times, so it's lost its ability to surprise me, but I just can't understand how anyone ever took that piece of black cardboard seriously. I mean, yes, I suppose it does look eerie, just being there, doing nothin', but it is kind of silly. And then we get that creepy, choral bee-hive music, just to underline that we're seeing something really weird. Together, the monolith and the music do create a sense of the uncanny, but it's all slightly ridiculous.
Well, we know what happens next, don't we? That's no ordinary monolith, but the Monolith of Knowledge that precipitates the fall of the apes. They quickly figure out how to use bones as weapons and go from generally peaceful herbivores to murderous meat-eaters. Yep, that's right, the birth of the Republican party. Ha, ha! Take that Dubya!
So that one ape throws his bone up into the air and it becomes a spaceship and it's on to the dreaded middle section of the film. It's not that this part of the film is bad, but it's pretty dull. Just a lot of ships and people floating around to waltz music. This was probably a lot more impressive in 1968. I don't mean to be condescending when I write that. I just think that these visual effects were a lot more surprising back then.
The monolith reappears at the moon base and lets out a burst of radio energy as the American scientists are attempting to take a see-what-I-found-on-my-trip-to-the-moon group photo. You can almost hear a pissed off monolith shouting, "Hey, I'm the monolith here, goddamit! This isn't a joke! Put that fucking camera down!"
So then we jump to Jupiter and the best part of the film. How great is HAL? He's got to be one of the most memorable characters in film history. Is HAL a conscious being? Is he more human or more machine? He certainly acts more human than the two astronauts, Dave and Frank. Talk amongst yourselves.
As I've noted before, one of my favorite film moments is Dave Bowman shutting down HAL. Hearing HAL sing "A Bicycle Built For Two" is funny, chilling, and sad.
Then it's on to the groovy, far-out, mind trip. This part of the film is exciting and embarassing at the same time. I've gotta give Kubrick some credit for his guts. Can you imagine him telling studio execs in the late 60s that he was going to end the film with a special effects light show? This sequence is visually stunning, but it's also empty. Yeah, yeah, I suppose the monolith is showing Dave the beginning of the universe or something like that, but so what? The film has nothing to say about why Dave is being shown all of this or what it all means. I don't expect to be told the meaning of a work of art, but I get the feeling that the emperor has no clothes here.
And then the three different Daves in the overlit Louis XIV room. And let's not even talk about that giant space-fetus.
Overall, I felt curiously nostalgic and sad while watching 2001. Nostalgic for the recent past, for that time just before my birth. When Kubrick made this film there were no cell phones, or fax machines, or internet, or SUVs. I kept thinking that a lot of other people back in the 60s thought that something interesting or wonderful could happen to mankind in the future. That man would gain some sort of knowledge or insight about his position in the universe. Well, I've lived through 2001 and beyond and, as I'm sure a lot of you will agree, we haven't learned anything. ¶ 6:40 AM 1 comments
Anyway, on to the review.
Saw Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey at the Music Box last night. It was a 70 millimeter print, shown on the big screen. Which was nice. Since, I'm sure most of you have seen the film, or are familiar with it, I'm not going to do a regular review, but will just provide some thoughts, Larry King-style:
Kubrick's use of Strauss's Also Sprach Zarathrustra sets the tone for the film. The music is stately and impressive, but also cold and bombastic. It has a bullying self-importance that practically dares you to not be intimidated by it...like the film itself.
I've always liked the opening sequence, The Dawn of Man. Who were those actors who played the apes? They were fantastic. Whenever I watch this sequence, I always find myself believing that I'm watching real apes. Really good use of sound here. The ape grunts are thick and primal. A soundtrack in their own right.
And then the monolith showed up...and I found myself supressing the urge to giggle. I've probably seen 2001 too many times, so it's lost its ability to surprise me, but I just can't understand how anyone ever took that piece of black cardboard seriously. I mean, yes, I suppose it does look eerie, just being there, doing nothin', but it is kind of silly. And then we get that creepy, choral bee-hive music, just to underline that we're seeing something really weird. Together, the monolith and the music do create a sense of the uncanny, but it's all slightly ridiculous.
Well, we know what happens next, don't we? That's no ordinary monolith, but the Monolith of Knowledge that precipitates the fall of the apes. They quickly figure out how to use bones as weapons and go from generally peaceful herbivores to murderous meat-eaters. Yep, that's right, the birth of the Republican party. Ha, ha! Take that Dubya!
So that one ape throws his bone up into the air and it becomes a spaceship and it's on to the dreaded middle section of the film. It's not that this part of the film is bad, but it's pretty dull. Just a lot of ships and people floating around to waltz music. This was probably a lot more impressive in 1968. I don't mean to be condescending when I write that. I just think that these visual effects were a lot more surprising back then.
The monolith reappears at the moon base and lets out a burst of radio energy as the American scientists are attempting to take a see-what-I-found-on-my-trip-to-the-moon group photo. You can almost hear a pissed off monolith shouting, "Hey, I'm the monolith here, goddamit! This isn't a joke! Put that fucking camera down!"
So then we jump to Jupiter and the best part of the film. How great is HAL? He's got to be one of the most memorable characters in film history. Is HAL a conscious being? Is he more human or more machine? He certainly acts more human than the two astronauts, Dave and Frank. Talk amongst yourselves.
As I've noted before, one of my favorite film moments is Dave Bowman shutting down HAL. Hearing HAL sing "A Bicycle Built For Two" is funny, chilling, and sad.
Then it's on to the groovy, far-out, mind trip. This part of the film is exciting and embarassing at the same time. I've gotta give Kubrick some credit for his guts. Can you imagine him telling studio execs in the late 60s that he was going to end the film with a special effects light show? This sequence is visually stunning, but it's also empty. Yeah, yeah, I suppose the monolith is showing Dave the beginning of the universe or something like that, but so what? The film has nothing to say about why Dave is being shown all of this or what it all means. I don't expect to be told the meaning of a work of art, but I get the feeling that the emperor has no clothes here.
And then the three different Daves in the overlit Louis XIV room. And let's not even talk about that giant space-fetus.
Overall, I felt curiously nostalgic and sad while watching 2001. Nostalgic for the recent past, for that time just before my birth. When Kubrick made this film there were no cell phones, or fax machines, or internet, or SUVs. I kept thinking that a lot of other people back in the 60s thought that something interesting or wonderful could happen to mankind in the future. That man would gain some sort of knowledge or insight about his position in the universe. Well, I've lived through 2001 and beyond and, as I'm sure a lot of you will agree, we haven't learned anything. ¶ 6:40 AM 1 comments
