I have mixed feelings about Manohla Dargis. OK, OK, twist my arm why don't you-- I hate her. I hate her background in art cinema, I hate how she comes from Los Angeles, I hate how she doesn't have a wikipedia entry so I can't find more to hate about her.
One of my favorite games to play is "guess which Times critic wrote this review;" with A.O. Scott and Stephen Holden it can be a toss-up, but Manohla is a cinch, largely because her reviews make so little sense. As my friend Jordan pointed out a few weeks ago, her reviews can be fun to read because they make you believe she's actually insane. She tends to focus on minute details of films-- Santa's sack resembling testicles?-- or digress into something only marginally related, like the brilliant but unnecessary mini-review she gave of 1978's "Superman" within her actual review of "Superman Returns."
It's not that I don't respect her as a critic, and her lunacy can often lead way to intentionalof comedy, as when she states up-front in today's review of "Lady in the Water" that M. Night Shyamalan has "lost his creative marbles...[and] Shyamalan's marbles are bigger than those most people." This is just a few paragraphs before she calls him a "Chatty Cathy."
It was this review that set me off, however, and got me to what I really hate about Dargis. She actually liked "Lady in the Water," even though she seems to be alone in that one, and gives props to the film's use of myth and fairy tale as part of this self-proclaimed "bedtime story." What gets her goat, however, is not Shyamalan's arrogance or the plot's incoherence, but that Shyamalan "appears insistent on clinging to myths, particularly about innocence and faith, that serve the myth of his own genius." About Bryce Dallas Howard's water nymph/narf Story, she writes "she’s one of those juiceless virginal fantasies who inspire pure thoughts, noble deeds and stifled yawns. Disney’s Little Mermaid comes off like a tramp by comparison, which suggests that Mr. Shyamalan needs to add a fairy-tale revisionist like Angela Carter to his bedtime reading."
And that's what really makes me hate Manohla. There's very little in filmmaking that's sacred-- one man's flawless crane shot is another woman's bloated budget-drainer-- but when you take on which myths can and cannot be used, you're messing with what makes film worth it to begin with. All art forms deal with myth and legend in some way or another, from the Last Supper to every production of Hamlet that works in references to the war in Iraq. There's no telling which myths are relevant or not, or who should revise them and break down the old stereotypes; there's room to play with mythmaking and room for revision, but if you're going to make a good old-fashioned fairy tale, your heroine can be as virginal and juiceless (as an aside: yuck) as you please.
I haven't seen "Lady in the Water," and I have no idea how it actually deals with the classic fairy tale. If Manohla thinks it works, though, then it works; as "Hoodwinked" showed us a few months ago, revision doesn't always work so well either. Manohla Dargis will probably continue to both infuriate me and make me laugh for a while now, but if she keeps picking on the bones of cinema like that, well, I guess I have no choice but to take her job. Obviously.
Friday, July 21, 2006
bound to reach my timeless end
As I contemplate a potential move to New York this fall, I try to think of all the things that will change dramatically for me. It doesn't seem hard to think of differences between a sleepy Southern town and the harshest, biggest city in the country, but since my primary reason for moving would be proximity to my friends, I tend to think of the softer side of things. Still, I know I'm in for a rude awakening.
Take tonight, for example. My mother is performing in a play as a fundraiser for an ostensibly charitable organization, whose purpose no one knows for sure. It's dinner theater, which is sure to make my theater hound friends bleed from the eyes, and beacuse it's for "charity" they've roped friends and family who don't want to pay the $65 admission fee to be waiter. Including me, whose last waitstaff experience was bussing tables in a restaurant patronized largely by people who had known me my entire life.
I'm supposed to show up for duty at 6:15 tonight, with only the instruction to "wear all black." I have received no training-- I don't even know what the menu will be--but in a few hours I'll be serving moderately-fancy food to people who paid exorbitantly for the honor of eating while watching my mother recite Shakespeare in a bad British accent.
Here's the kicker-- these people will not care. No matter how many orders I screw up, no matter how many glasses of water spilled, no matter how cold the rolls are, they will not bitch and moan or blame me. And even though I know I could supplement my guaranteed-pathetic New York City writing job with a waitressing gig, my fear of rich, or even middle class, New Yorkers in restaurants will keep me out of the kitchen for life.
I'm not really sure which of these groups are right, either. Even though Xanax prescriptions and other self-medicating techniques have made their way down here, the easygoing attitude of Southerners is pretty much inborn around here. I'm one of them, too; I feel guilty when requesting salad dressing on the side. As much as I hate listening to people bitch and moan, I wonder if they don't have the right idea, refusing to treat everything in life with the same standards of a fourth-grade Christmas pageant: as long as you tried.
Still, when I'm finally serving dessert (whatever it turns out to be) and my mom is taking her well-received curtain call, it will probably feel nice. And it feels even nicer to know that, wherever I may roam, I can always come back somewhere that a mixed-up order is just a little mistake, and where literally anyone can be a star.
Take tonight, for example. My mother is performing in a play as a fundraiser for an ostensibly charitable organization, whose purpose no one knows for sure. It's dinner theater, which is sure to make my theater hound friends bleed from the eyes, and beacuse it's for "charity" they've roped friends and family who don't want to pay the $65 admission fee to be waiter. Including me, whose last waitstaff experience was bussing tables in a restaurant patronized largely by people who had known me my entire life.
I'm supposed to show up for duty at 6:15 tonight, with only the instruction to "wear all black." I have received no training-- I don't even know what the menu will be--but in a few hours I'll be serving moderately-fancy food to people who paid exorbitantly for the honor of eating while watching my mother recite Shakespeare in a bad British accent.
Here's the kicker-- these people will not care. No matter how many orders I screw up, no matter how many glasses of water spilled, no matter how cold the rolls are, they will not bitch and moan or blame me. And even though I know I could supplement my guaranteed-pathetic New York City writing job with a waitressing gig, my fear of rich, or even middle class, New Yorkers in restaurants will keep me out of the kitchen for life.
I'm not really sure which of these groups are right, either. Even though Xanax prescriptions and other self-medicating techniques have made their way down here, the easygoing attitude of Southerners is pretty much inborn around here. I'm one of them, too; I feel guilty when requesting salad dressing on the side. As much as I hate listening to people bitch and moan, I wonder if they don't have the right idea, refusing to treat everything in life with the same standards of a fourth-grade Christmas pageant: as long as you tried.
Still, when I'm finally serving dessert (whatever it turns out to be) and my mom is taking her well-received curtain call, it will probably feel nice. And it feels even nicer to know that, wherever I may roam, I can always come back somewhere that a mixed-up order is just a little mistake, and where literally anyone can be a star.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
the man of metropolis (almost) steals our hearts: superman returns
Early in the film, under the guise of Lois Lane's Pulitzer-winning editorial, "Superman Returns" asks itself a pretty heavy question-- does the world need Superman? The filmmakers waste little time answering with a resounding "Well, duh," but it's a question that's been heard a lot since the movie's opening. In a Hollywood where the real heroes are geeky teenagers in spider suits, geeky middle schoolers in robes and wands, and meek hobbits with furry feet, is there still room for blue tights and a cape?
Well, sort of. "Superman Returns" is welcome in the way all well-crafted superhero movies are, a chance to marvel at spectacle and indulge in fantasy that still resembles our own world (well, sorta: plenty of people would kill for Lois' waterfront mansion facing "Metropolis" from "Brookopolis" or whatever, but it's not gonna happen). Director Bryan Singer, as he did with the X-Men films and even "The Usual Suspects," takes care to endow the characters with dimensions and feelings without letting all that development overwhelm the real show of explosions and last-minute rescues. Some of the most dazzling moments in the film aren't pure action but moments of reflection, like Superman hanging in the stratosphere as he contemplates his fate as the light of the world, or his and Lois' elegant late-night flight. They're both CGI-heavy scenes, but as Peter Jackson has proven and George Lucas has failed to do, CGI is always best when there's a human heart pounding behind it.
Unfortunately, for all the heart (not to mention money) that was clearly put into the film, the result is occasionally spectacular but largely half-baked and messy. The film wastes about 30 minutes in the beginning setting up the concept but basically abandons character setup other than what we already know. In this film Clark will be geeky, Lois will be brassy, Jimmy Olsen will be overeager and Lex Luthor will be evil. Thanks very much, moving on.
It doesn't help matters that talent in this film is essentially wasted or nonexistent. Kevin Spacey as Luthor and Parker Posey as his assistant/girlfriend are glorious in the moments when they're allowed to cut loose, but are largely limited to evil glowering (Spacey) and looking hilarious holding a silly dog (Posey). Bosworth and Routh, on the other hand, are fine but unspectacular, bringing little to their roles that I-- with a very casual understanding of the world of Superman--didn't know already. You can see why Lois loves Superman and why Clark loves Lois, but that much was clear when they were two-dimensional and had word bubbles. Other instances of talent-- particularly the young actor playing Jimmy Olsen-- are shining but brief, because with plots and subplots and the bizarre four-person love triangle at the center of it all, there's not really much more time.
And oh, the plot. Superhero movies, even the best ones, rarely rely too much on plot (quick: tell me about the plot of "Spiderman 2" other than that Alfred Molina was involved). Still, this one is a doozy, something about crystals and real estate that is no less fun or interesting when Kevin Spacey explains it, crazy giggles and all. There seem to be better ways of taking over the world than creating entirely new landmasses, especially when you're an evil genius, and especially when the landmasses you create resemble a rockier, uglier version of the Maine coastline. I went along with the plot initially because I had no other choice, but once I saw Luthor's evil creation, all I could think was, "Come on, who would actually want to live there?"
The one cool trick of the plot, that of Luthor's inclusion of kryptonite in the very foundation of his new world, brings up yet again an interesting question that is never answered: what about a world without Superman? The necessary scene in which Superman is felled by kryptonite is beautiful and painful, the tights black and the cape maroon in the shadows and the mud he's plunged in, mortal and suffering. Who cares if the world needs Superman-- what if the world needed him, and he couldn't be there? It's not really a possibility the film has time to dive into, which is forgivable, but it's a lot cooler than crystals or whatever else Luthor is up to.
In the end, "Superman Returns" is satisfying for what it is, but a total disappointment for what it could be. The ideas and setups are there, from the possibility of a SuperBoy to even a mild flirtation with acknowledging the mild flirtation between Mr. Olsen and Mr. Kent. It seems logical for Singer to play it safe with such an expensive and anticipated franchise revival, and there are few who will be seriously upset with what they find. But because Superman is, in a weird way, every man-- no bat gimmick or sidekicks to work around-- there are limitless possiblities with his character, and it's disheartening to find such a mild effort.
If there are sequels-- and despite all this, I hope there will be-- we can only hope for a little more invention, a little more (coherent plot), and maybe even a little more fun. In a time when so many superhero and action films, included those by Singer himself, have been stellar, it's not really OK to come up with something that's fine but nothing special. But it's Superman, guys, and for him we have a lot of forgiveness left. The world does need Superman-- it always has-- and with a little more effort maybe we can convince ourselves to need this one as well.
Well, sort of. "Superman Returns" is welcome in the way all well-crafted superhero movies are, a chance to marvel at spectacle and indulge in fantasy that still resembles our own world (well, sorta: plenty of people would kill for Lois' waterfront mansion facing "Metropolis" from "Brookopolis" or whatever, but it's not gonna happen). Director Bryan Singer, as he did with the X-Men films and even "The Usual Suspects," takes care to endow the characters with dimensions and feelings without letting all that development overwhelm the real show of explosions and last-minute rescues. Some of the most dazzling moments in the film aren't pure action but moments of reflection, like Superman hanging in the stratosphere as he contemplates his fate as the light of the world, or his and Lois' elegant late-night flight. They're both CGI-heavy scenes, but as Peter Jackson has proven and George Lucas has failed to do, CGI is always best when there's a human heart pounding behind it.
Unfortunately, for all the heart (not to mention money) that was clearly put into the film, the result is occasionally spectacular but largely half-baked and messy. The film wastes about 30 minutes in the beginning setting up the concept but basically abandons character setup other than what we already know. In this film Clark will be geeky, Lois will be brassy, Jimmy Olsen will be overeager and Lex Luthor will be evil. Thanks very much, moving on.
It doesn't help matters that talent in this film is essentially wasted or nonexistent. Kevin Spacey as Luthor and Parker Posey as his assistant/girlfriend are glorious in the moments when they're allowed to cut loose, but are largely limited to evil glowering (Spacey) and looking hilarious holding a silly dog (Posey). Bosworth and Routh, on the other hand, are fine but unspectacular, bringing little to their roles that I-- with a very casual understanding of the world of Superman--didn't know already. You can see why Lois loves Superman and why Clark loves Lois, but that much was clear when they were two-dimensional and had word bubbles. Other instances of talent-- particularly the young actor playing Jimmy Olsen-- are shining but brief, because with plots and subplots and the bizarre four-person love triangle at the center of it all, there's not really much more time.
And oh, the plot. Superhero movies, even the best ones, rarely rely too much on plot (quick: tell me about the plot of "Spiderman 2" other than that Alfred Molina was involved). Still, this one is a doozy, something about crystals and real estate that is no less fun or interesting when Kevin Spacey explains it, crazy giggles and all. There seem to be better ways of taking over the world than creating entirely new landmasses, especially when you're an evil genius, and especially when the landmasses you create resemble a rockier, uglier version of the Maine coastline. I went along with the plot initially because I had no other choice, but once I saw Luthor's evil creation, all I could think was, "Come on, who would actually want to live there?"
The one cool trick of the plot, that of Luthor's inclusion of kryptonite in the very foundation of his new world, brings up yet again an interesting question that is never answered: what about a world without Superman? The necessary scene in which Superman is felled by kryptonite is beautiful and painful, the tights black and the cape maroon in the shadows and the mud he's plunged in, mortal and suffering. Who cares if the world needs Superman-- what if the world needed him, and he couldn't be there? It's not really a possibility the film has time to dive into, which is forgivable, but it's a lot cooler than crystals or whatever else Luthor is up to.
In the end, "Superman Returns" is satisfying for what it is, but a total disappointment for what it could be. The ideas and setups are there, from the possibility of a SuperBoy to even a mild flirtation with acknowledging the mild flirtation between Mr. Olsen and Mr. Kent. It seems logical for Singer to play it safe with such an expensive and anticipated franchise revival, and there are few who will be seriously upset with what they find. But because Superman is, in a weird way, every man-- no bat gimmick or sidekicks to work around-- there are limitless possiblities with his character, and it's disheartening to find such a mild effort.
If there are sequels-- and despite all this, I hope there will be-- we can only hope for a little more invention, a little more (coherent plot), and maybe even a little more fun. In a time when so many superhero and action films, included those by Singer himself, have been stellar, it's not really OK to come up with something that's fine but nothing special. But it's Superman, guys, and for him we have a lot of forgiveness left. The world does need Superman-- it always has-- and with a little more effort maybe we can convince ourselves to need this one as well.
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