God Bless Suburbia

Based upon a true story or not, you can't make a picture like THE BLIND SIDE without certain considerations. Namely, that it will automatically function as a culturally loaded film. It's preceded by historical memory, which takes many forms, such as advertising and the arts. One can't exempt THE BLIND SIDE from the scrutiny of a critical eye merely because it originates from events that actually transpired. Any commercial venture is worthy of discussion and analysis (even if it is as syrupy and "inspiring" as THE BLIND SIDE). I'm not here to crucify a film because it is offensive to me and my liberal arts education. But one has little trouble finding major qualms with a story – put to the screen, in the spring of the twenty-first century – about the regeneration of an anonymous, urban black male youth through the sanctifying intervention and embrace of white, affluent, and overtly Christian America. I don't mind pointing out that the film ends with a montage of news clippings – a catalog of the damned, if you will: casualties of the alternative lifestyle, supposing one does not have Sandra Bullock to guide one out of the slums and into blessed suburbia! And she does it with such style and grace! – and fierce determination! Bullock plays an interior designer, a mother, a wife, an NRA member, and a saint! Quite a tall order for any woman, but she sashays from one obstacle to another in designer shades and a luminous head of bleach-blonde hair! Her features are as chiseled and polished as the castle she lives in – and it is a castle. When Michael (aforementioned urban black male youth) is taken into the captivity of Bullock (rather aggressively, I might add), his eyes are wide with wonderment as he beholds the towering fortress he's meant to stay in – Might this be Tara?! More troublesome still is Bullock's youngest progeny, a precocious squirt called S.J. – I half expected this character to put on a wig, don a frilly dress, and engage Michael in some cute and heavily choreographed tap dancing. There is no such dancing (too bad), but S.J. is a willful and consummate commander, second only to his mama. In one delightful montage, he whips a helpless and blundering Michael into the adroit football hero he's to become; in another, S.J. is seen negotiating with college football recruiters, while Michael sits quietly, passively, mute. I realize these amusing segments are meant to be just that; on the other hand, so was Shirley Temple in black face. Bullock and her family don't just serve as a bastion of moral authority; they're guardians of opportunity and advancement. The film itself is, admittedly, more tolerable and easier to digest than the dumb, loud, and grating promotional material you've been unable to avoid for the last three months. Bullock is one of the most charming actresses working in Hollywood today. But her movies tend to be rather unsavory affairs that audiences consume with voracious passion (as the indiscriminate masses often do). Once upon a time, in the late 1950s, a similar narrative emerged – it starred Lana Turner and Juanita Moore, exquisitely rendered in brilliant Technicolor with direction by the master filmmaker Douglas Sirk. And this was a remake of the 1930s Claudette Colbert vehicle costarring Louise Beavers. Both films were well-meaning in their respective eras, though we may simultaneously cringe and laugh at their overtly racist content today. But these classics have the penitently absolving element of time on their side. Not so with THE BLIND SIDE. Besides being a fairly shrewd exploitation film (with allusions to Uncle Tom and all!), it also fails to be a very good one. At least Sirk gave us a masterpiece.

Happy Endings

All my girlfriends swear by Colin Firth's interpretation of Mr. Darcy. . .but I can only vouch for his performance in Tom Ford's directorial debut, A SINGLE MAN – as an English academic in 1960s L.A., consumed by grief over the loss of his male companion. Firth is very good – much better than Ford's drizzly and sentimental examination of a man's search for clarity and resolution in the bleak aftermath of tragedy. We certainly feel Firth's desperation – the slow procession of each day (as we gather from the representative anecdote of a single one) is registered in unfriendly monotones, and the presence of time – arduous, sluggish, unrelenting – is unbearable. Firth is painfully aware of every single moment of his captivity; he must suffer a despairing routine of wading through shrouds; intimacy is but a memory – though when briefly excited by the sensual dimension (a pair of young men playing tennis; the sudden apparition of a pig-tailed innocent in a frilly dress) that has otherwise forsaken him, the screen blooms with warm, rosy hues. In these moments something is rekindled within him – but it isn't sustaining. Nor can he be consoled absolutely by his swanky, alcoholic friend and former lover, Julianne Moore (who is absolutely superb in this role). She resents his melancholy and even challenges its authenticity – though this is only an ostensible doubt; by her own admission, she is infatuated with Firth and longs for a traditional American fantasy in which they find deep communion and solace through marriage and healthy breeding. (Even this may be a convenient confusion for the ineffable yearning of the soul.) There are some amusing exchanges between Firth and the tidy, nuclear family that lives next door (Ginnifer Goodwin, as always, is a major treat in a minor role as the radiant housewife and mother), and Ford nails the spirit of the early 1960s, with its Cold War tensions and jacket-clad rebels and extravagantly coiffed hairstyles. Sometimes the style is very effective and funny – as when a distorted close-up of Moore's eye (with generous amounts of black mascara and liner) seems to be conducting a phone conversation with Firth (that largely concerns the hopeful acquisition of gin). But some of the quick cutting (particularly at the beginning) is unnecessary, and there is at least one troublesome accessory: the shiny and doting and vapid androgyne that stalks Firth throughout the picture. One has much difficulty understanding this character's motives (not to mention his appeal); his eyes glisten with wonderment, curiosity, surprise – there's even a rather obligatory incident wherein the student and teacher strip down for some old-fashioned skinny dipping (this is a movie, after all). The silly hiatus is cooked up by the boy, of course – but finally he seems more of a protector than a seducer. And by the end of the picture, it's clear he's been but a device all along – a deliberate contrivance in a film that, despite its few outward moments of dazzling splendor, feels too familiar and overwrought – even much of the score recalls the weight and fussiness of THE HOURS. Firth might be living in quiet desperation, but Ford entrenches the audience with a deafening lack of subtlety.

Indie Royalty

Having finally seen THE YOUNG VICTORIA, my list of last year's ten best pictures requires revision (I suspect it will remain a work in progress until I've tracked down THE ROAD, CRAZY HEART, and Tom Ford's A SINGLE MAN). . .

 01. THE HURT LOCKER

02. INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS

03. ADVENTURELAND

04. THE YOUNG VICTORIA

05. COCO BEFORE CHANEL

06. FANTASTIC MR. FOX

07. CAPITALISM: A LOVE STORY

08. AN EDUCATION

09. ZOMBIELAND

10. PRECIOUS

One of the most exhilarating and beautiful films I've seen in a very long time. I've become increasingly dissatisfied with overwrought CGI spectacles, and ambivalent at the notion of being painterly with pixels. So often the result is a weightless and superficial confectionary of images that carry about as much resonance as the stories they're animating. There may be some digital augmentation in THE YOUNG VICTORIA, but the good news is that one wouldn't know it – the frames are far more akin to those in Stanley Kubrick's BARRY LYNDON than anything Peter Jackson has concocted. And that's an enormous relief! Here's a film that returns to the basics of the medium: namely light. The exteriors are dazzling and sunlit – from that extreme we maneuver inside the sprawling and lavish castles, where shadows are rich and abundant – some scenes play with chiaroscuro; others are evenly dim; and then there's the sensational moment in which Victoria addresses someone on the staircase – her face is virtually a silhouette, but her bare shoulders are positively aglow. The sets and costumes are fascinating spectacles to behold in their own right (I'll be rooting for Sandy Powell come Oscar night (again)) – it is a profusion of intoxicating visual detail – nearly to the point of distraction. But that's hardly a criticism. We should be so lucky. The narrative is pretty standard fare for this subgenre of historical costume dramas – a young woman's rapid ascension to the English throne ignites doubt, scandal, and all manner of minor dramas that make a movie a movie – including one of the great screen romances, if I may be so bold: Rupert Friend charmed Michelle Pfeiffer in the not-stellar-but-too-soon-forgotten CHERI. He's back as Emily Blunt's lover and better than ever. It's a solid match – they look as good in the last shot of the picture as Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable ever did. Blunt has been funny and reliable in supporting roles (THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA, SUNSHINE CLEANING), but I hope this role and this movie catapult her star power appropriately. The same with Friend, who gives one of my favorite performances of the year – he's irresistible. As is the film; though it's not perfect (the narrative isn't quite as lucid as its startling beauty, and it does end rather abruptly), one easily absolves minor blunders when so utterly enraptured by all the rest. God save the Queen, indeed!

>> An excerpt from the vault, if you please. . .

"Keitel is a wonder in his own right, but De Niro is appropriately mesmerizing – he's sexual and dangerous and unhinged – he's tirelessly kinetic. And there's no affectation in his performance – I think there's a lot of talent in movies today, but there's very little purity. De Niro – even in his extremity – tapped into the immediate, the undigested, the wondrously unaffected. I probably love TAXI DRIVER and RAGING BULL slightly more than MEAN STREETS, but somehow Ne Niro's "Johnny Boy" is the most arousing and titillating and breathtaking performance of his career (that I have seen). When De Niro and Keitel are together, it's a new kind of Shakespearean orgy. Scorsese is there to render the actors' poetry in red, to sweep the camera here and there, and to keep the music hoppin' (the film has one of the great soundtracks). For me, a big part of Scorsese's appeal is his employment of such stunning, raunchy vessels of testosterone and the tension that festers when these masculinities collide and erupt in sudden and very shocking displays of violence and aggression!" – January 7, 2009 / From my review of Martin Scorsese's MEAN STREETS (1973)

"The Young Victoria" / Bic pen and Crayola colored pencils, 2010

2009: A MOVIE ODYSSEY

Greatest (Relative) Cinematic Triumphs of 2009 >>

01. THE HURT LOCKER
02. INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS
03. ADVENTURELAND
04. COCO BEFORE CHANEL
05. FANTASTIC MR. FOX
06. CAPITALISM: A LOVE STORY
07. AN EDUCATION
08. ZOMBIELAND
09. PRECIOUS
10. CHERI

Honorable Mentions >> Surrogates, Brothers, Where the Wild Things Are, The Road

Anxiously Awaiting >> Tom Ford's A Single Man

Biggest Cinematic Mishaps of 2009 >>

01. THE PROPOSAL
02. ROB ZOMBIE'S HALLOWEEN II
03. FRIDAY THE 13^TH
04. 2012
05. TERMINATOR SALVATION
06. FAME
07. AVATAR
08. PARANORMAL ACTIVITY
09. THE BOX
10. WATCHMEN

"The Hurt Locker" / Photoshop, 2009