DWIGHT DEKEYSER REVIEWS

"Midnight in Paris" (2011)

2011-07-22T18:57:00.001-04:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: Charming, Nostalgic, Meaningful

Dear Friend,

There was something strangely familiar about Woody Allen’s new movie, Midnight in Paris. The movie opened to stunning urban vistas and the sound of a jazz clarinet, Allen’s signature instrument. What was different was the city itself. It was not Allen’s urban inspiration New York but Paris. Was this to be a remake of his 1979 romantic comedy Manhattan, starring Allen, Diane Keaton, and a precocious new talent, Mariel Hemingway? Was this familiar opening the result of a lack of new ideas or a playful nod and a wink at an old favorite flick? I have always loved Manhattan, so a rerun of an old formula in a different setting might not have been a terrible way to spend 94 minutes. I was just a little sad to think the old boy might have nothing new to say.

Manhattan was not the only Allen classic to come to mind. The story centers on the relationship of a frustrated, young television writer, Gil (Owen Wilson) and his high-maintenance fiancée Inez (Rachel McAdams). Her family does not approve of his values and eccentricities. He dislikes her pseudo-intellectual pretentious friends. (Sound a bit like Annie Hall [1977] to you?) What was most reminiscent of Allen’s oeuvre was the main character. Gil was nothing less than a reincarnated Woody Allen in the role. The dialogue and delivery were classic Allen. (He did write and direct the movie, after all.) It were as if Allen had become an invisible ventriloquist with a human dummy. (Isn’t that what all screenwriters do?)

The fiancée becomes sick of charming bistros and restaurants and throws herself into high-end shopping with her materialistic parents and night clubbing with her shallow companions. Gil tires of her and escapes at night to discover a greater mistress, Paris. (Spoiler alert! Read the rest after you’ve seen the movie.) Lost at night, a vintage Peugeot pulls up and invites our hero to a party for Jean Cocteau – a tip of Allen’s cap to the late French poet/artist/film director by using the same vehicle he used in his film Orphee (1950). (Actually, it was a Rolls-Royce, but you get the double entendre.) The timeslip transports Gil to a party circa 1927, hosted by Cole Porter, attended by his literary heroes F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway – Mariel’s granddad. (I must admit I was touched to see them and Zelda looking so young and gay knowing what the future held for them – alcoholism, madness, sudden death.)

There was certainly no shortage of Lost Generation luminaries in this picture. The actors were cast to resemble the real characters: Picasso, Matisse (too old for the period -- plus he smiled), Salvador Dali, Man Ray, Luis Brunel, Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, Leo Stein. All of whom were rather pointedly identified in case we missed anyone. The only one who apparently did not need a name tag was Josephine Baker who appeared at Bricktop’s. The ambiance was worth the price of admission. The ladies wore a catalogue of the Patou-inspired drop waist couture of the time, Chanel’s little black Ford, Vionnet’s handkerchief dress, Molyneux’s tiered-fringe frock. “Charleston, Charleston… .” (Sorry, it was my inner flapper.) The other ladies of the street-variety with their spit-curled coiffures and dangling fags looked like they had just walked out of a Brassai photo. It was an amusing contrast.

Gil falls in love with Picasso’s model and mistress Adriana (Marion Cottilard), a recreated Kiki de Montparnasse, who was actually Man Ray’s lover. (Kiki was so embarrassed by her lack of body hair that she actually penciled it in before modeling.) Adriana, a dead ringer for Sylvia Sidney, along with Gil make their own foray into the past by carriage to the (early) Belle Epoque and wind up at Maxim’s for dinner and the Moulin Rouge for a little can-can where they meet Toulouse-Lautrec, Gauguin, and Degas. She chooses to remain. It is only then that Gil realizes the futility of worshiping the giants of the past and the importance of living and creating in the present: L’age d’Or always precedes our own; yet the great masters are always with us. In a strange way it was also a subtle reminder by Allen of just who the great masters of the present age are (ahem), namely himself. Well, a little self-promotion can go a long way, I always say. (Did I just quote myself?)

Here’s the trailer: http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi853581081/

From the vault: Manhattan (1979). Written and directed by Woody Allen, starring Woody Allen and Diane Keaton. If I could save but one Woody Allen film from the flames it would be this one. Hope you like black and white and Gershwin. (There he goes being nostalgic again! Unfortunately, the movie lacks the technical mastery of the great black and white era.) Meryl Streep is cast as Woody’s ex – who knew she could play such a convincing lesbian?!

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

“POM Wonderful Presents: The Greatest Movie Ever Sold” (2011)

2011-05-31T06:42:00.000-04:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BBB

Dear Friend,

Filmmaker Morgan Spurlock alleges to “pull the curtain back” on product placement and advertising in the motion picture industry in this amusing high-octane documentary. It is not the type of industry expose that made him famous in his documentary, Super Size Me (2004), where he chronicled the toxic effect of McDonald’s food on the human body (his own), but rather it is an exploration of the art and science of the advertising industry and its effect on the human mind. While he does not come to the conclusion that incessant product promotion in our society has the same deleterious results as fast food, I wonder if he would not have come to that conclusion had he not been so eager to find sponsors in order to produce his film. It is this fatal flaw that denied this documentary the impact it might have had were it free from commercial contamination. Nonetheless, this picture does have much to commend it.

Viewing The Greatest Movie Ever Sold, was like attending an entertaining crash course on modern advertising. (I bet even Spurlock never thought of pitching his picture to universities as course material.) A super salesman, he relentlessly peddles his idea of product promotion within a film about product promotion to any company that will listen. Many did not as Spurlock suffered one rejection after another from companies well aware of his reputation for investigative filmmaking. They were not going to be the next McDonald’s. The companies that actually allowed Spurlock to film his hilarious storyboard presentations became part of the film. In this way, they got to be more than a sponsor, but a part of the story – an unheard of side benefit. (Now, aren’t they sorry?)

Spurlock was forced to broaden his examination of product placement in movies to include the advertising business as a whole. He did this by visiting advertising consultants, who gave him extensive psychological tests to determine his “brand personality” (He was found “mindful” and “playful.”) He even had his brain scanned to record his reactivity to commercial stimulation with its concomitant release of dopamine. (“Dopamine is addiction.”) Then there was the holy trinity of buyer motivation. (Fear, Craving, and you guessed it, Sex.) We also learn that “products do not lead to contentment, but are a conduit for what we want.” (Products are the means to the end, not the end.) And above all else, “advertising as a concept is a means of manipulation.” (No explanation required.)

Some of his other consultants included Noam Chomsky, who counseled the director to allow sponsors to co-opt him, if just a little; Ralph Nader, who was delighted to get a free pair of shoes in his size, no less; and the ultimate self-promoter Donald Trump, who could not understand why recording artists would not lend their music to promote his products, i.e. himself. It is this point that I find most instructive about this documentary. When people asked Arthur Miller what Willy Lowman sold in Death of a Salesman (1949), he would always answer “himself.” This was exactly what Morgan Spurlock did though out the entire movie. Spurlock was not the just the salesman, he was the product. This was the greatest lesson I learned from this documentary – how to sell one’s self. I certainly did not hurt that Spurlock was charming and attractive, but it was his dogged determination that made him so admirable. He was unstoppable. The documentary may have been focused on its promotion, but it was ultimately about its creator. We are all our own products. I wonder how many of us know what we’re selling.

From the vault: Super Size Me (2004), directed by Morgan Spurlock. Spurlock makes himself sick by eating exclusively from McDonald’s for one month. It took his girlfriend, a vegan chef, to detox him and then turned the experience into a cookbook. (Did you know a single McDonald’s hamburger could come from as many as three different countries? Now, you do.)

Here's the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5jXReCaZ5Ts

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"Atlas Shrugged" (2011)

2011-05-02T07:51:00.004-04:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: DDD

Dear Friend,

“Who is John Gault?” is the question asked repeatedly in the making of this iconic classic of Objectivism, the philosophy of free market capitalism, also known as libertarianism by Russian-born Jewish writer Ayn Rand. More to the point after having seen Part I of this epic saga of the same name from 1957 is who cares? This is one of the strangest movies I have ever seen. It was like the Night of the Living Dead (1968) meets Dynasty (1981-89). Rich industrialists recite lines with all the passion zombies can muster in an attempt to animate this ponderous screen play from death by rationalism. It was not that the quality of acting was lacking, it was that the dialogue was so artificial and so cerebral that scenes were devoid of any human spontaneity. Everything that was spoken was said with such deliberation and sincerity one wonders whether this novel had been written by an alien who had encountered the inhabitants of planet Earth only once or twice. No, this movie/book was written by someone on the outside looking in – someone not native to the language or culture, someone who made reckless assumptions about that which she did not understand, i.e., human nature and the American scene.

The movie’s dubious legitimacy as a motion picture had its roots in its inception. The screen rights were leased to John Aglialoro, the CEO of an exercise equipment company in 1992, for a million dollars. Aglialoro was so impressed by the novel, he was certain it could be made into a major motion picture. With messianic fervor, he peddled his prized property all over Hollywood. Despite five or six different scripts, no major studio would touch it. With time running out on the lease, Aglialoro decided to make the film himself contributing another ten millions dollars of his own and enlisting the assistance of fellow Randroid Ed Snider, chairman of Comcast-Spector. As of April 2010, this folie-a-deux dream team of novice movie moguls had no viable script, no cast, no director or anything else resembling a film crew or production company – one hundred days before the lease was to expire on June 14, 2010! Miraculously, a film crew of 250 was assembled and the film was shot in six weeks. This "triumph of the will" would have been complete had the movie resulted in a coherent narrative instead of a succession of ponderous scenes of awkward dialogue and uncomfortable situations leading nowhere.

Despite being a Vanity Fair release, the production values were credible. (It is reassuring to know one can buy the trappings of a movie with enough cash in hand on short notice.) Although, there were no Grade-A Jumbo movie stars, the actors were appealing and well-cast. Unfortunately, there not enough eggs in the basket for them to scramble an edible omelet. Grant Bowler (who looks and sounds like a young Cliff Robertson) and Taylor Schilling (who looks like an Americanized Catherine Deneuve) did their best to ignite a spark, but no one could have set a fire on this sinking ship. They were as trapped as the audience on this Titanic melodrama devoid of any genuine human emotion. It must have taken all their acting ability to recite such insipid lines with such seriousness of purpose. A stony Miss Taggart to her brother, “I have never hurt a fly, but if you oppose me, I will destroy you.” Exit stage left. (Oh, the drama of the corporate board room! I knew Leona Helmsley could be tough, but nothing like this!)

There is no getting around it, the fault lies with Ayn Rand. The novel as communicated by the movie is a message with a story as opposed to a story with a message. If one has a message, by all means: write a thesis, an op-ed piece or a sermon. Don’t pretend that your philosophy can be literature. Unless some element of genuine emotion or the human condition is present, no dramatic presentation can succeed. The promulgation of economic theory and ethical philosophy by two-dimensional characters reciting lines of dogma in unnatural settings is not art or entertainment. It is a pretentious bore. The message itself is ironic at best: government regulation of business will destroy industry. Evidently, Rand was not able to conceive of the idea that it was Wall Street that was to co-opt democratically elected government by corporate lobbyists and their campaign contributions. (See, my January 4-review of Casino Jack, 2010). Nor was Rand able to envision this corporate corruption of the democratic process was to be enshrined by the United States Supreme Court which ruled that corporations were individuals under the First Amendment, and were therefore entitled to the same forms of free speech, i.e., campaign contributions. Further, it was the Congressional rollback of banking and insurance regulations that precipitated the Great Recession of 2008, not government oversight. In this picture, not only had the drama failed, but its message as well.

Here is the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6W07bFa4TzM

From the vault: The Sweet Smell of Success (1957). Directed by Alexander Mackendrick; written by Clifford Odets and Ernest Lehman; starring Burt Lancaster, Tony Curtis, and Susan Harrison. Hard to believe this was released the same year as Atlas Shrugged. No lack of drama in this film noire indictment of the newspaper business and Walter Winchell, in particular. “It's a dirty job, but I pay clean money for it.” How’s that for a business slogan?

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"Super" (2010)

2011-04-11T07:08:00.006-04:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BCD

“Super” is not an adjective I would use to describe this movie in any capacity. It appears to have come from the Black Swan (2010) school of film making. This particular genre is much like a football fourth down that entails an ambitious long pass that results in an artlessly dropped ball, and ends in an amassed pile of bodies. Like the Black Swan, Super was the steady digression of a reasonable plot that ran out of ideas and turned to raw violence and sheer depravity as a second and third act respectively. Did I mention this was a partially animated comedy? The emergency parachute for these free falling films appears to be activated by the slasher ripcord. When in doubt of a safe landing employ butchery and debauchery – forms of entertainment that require no legitimate justification providing their depiction provides a new height of heinous human degradation and destruction.

What I find most disturbing about this descent-into-hell cinematography is how dishonest it is. It is the classic bait-and-switch sales technique. The seller advertises one product and then turns the customer to another, usually a higher priced item. Black Swan was a ballet picture. At the time of its release I wondered how many little girls in their pale pink tights with their pulled back hair and ballet bags would be exposed to that grim story of graphic sexuality, mental illness, and gruesome murder? (It was rated “R – Restricted. Under 17 requires the accompanying of parent or adult.”) (On the other hand, a cautionary tale about the professional ballet world might not have been such a bad idea.) Super played the same trick. It is billed as a comedy using illustrated comic book figures. What boy would not like to see a picture about a loser who becomes a action superhero turn vigilante serial killer? Sounds something like the old Superman to me (hence the title), but this is not the dashing George Reeves-, Christopher Reeve-leading man we have come to expect, but character actor Rainn Wilson.

Rainn Wilson is a great supporting actor. His performances as the daffy but earnest “Arthur” in the brilliant television series Six-Feet Under (2001), and as the obsequious but scheming “Dwight” in The Office, (2005) have established him as an identifiable “type.” (One has to be a type to be named “Dwight,” after all.) He makes a poignant jerk – someone you love to hate and enjoy feeling superior to. I could see Rainn finding a happy home in old Hollywood in such film noir classics as The Maltese Falcon (1941) or The Killers (1946) – a neurotic sinister heavy in a an overcoat, fedora, and dangling cigarette with an inch of ash ready to drop. There is a wonderful pathos to the edgy rigid characters he portrays. The prayer scene is this movie was most pathetic.

The part of Frank D’Arbo who becomes superhero The Crimson Bolt was a perfect vehicle for Wilson’s extraordinary range of emotion. It is unfortunate that his performance was not enough to save this picture or the performance of his partner in crime “Libby” aka “Boltie” (Ellen Page), who reminded me of a particularly annoying consort of Dr. Who. (“You’re not going to leave me, Dr. Who? No!!!!) I couldn’t decide whether she was a bad actress or if her character was so insipid there was nothing that could have been done with the part to make the girl credible or even likeable. Despite my reservations about the performance, I thought her demise was gratuitous and unspeakable. I think the devil in this production was in the concentration of power. The film was written and directed by actor James Gunn, who also appeared (convincingly) as the devil. At some point, a director must tell the writer, “this isn’t working,” and this film did not work on many levels. It was the pastiche of genres lacking a single meaningful message that ultimately lead to the sinking of this ship of fools. Comedy and brutality are not escape hatches for a pointless storyline. The epilogue itself was a travesty of failed irony. Saying, in effect, “I didn’t mean it” is no way to end a picture. Super was a rocky raft with the feel of an after-school project. No matter what cinematic devices were deployed to keep it afloat it was never meant to sail.

P.S. Did I mention Kevin Bacon was fabulous as Jacques, the wife-stealing drug dealer? (Actors, I am told, draw upon their own personal experiences for inspiration.) He was utterly convincing and perfectly repulsive. As a supporting actor, he was fortunately spared from appearing in some of the more humiliating and frankly embarrassing scenes forced upon Wilson. Although, I have to admit I did burst out laughing at his gruesome demise at the hands of The Crimson Bolt, as I suspect the actors did during the filming.

Here’s the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctcURFb7XE4&feature=related

From the vault: The Maltese Falcon (1941), directed by John Huston; written by Dashiell Hammitt; staring Humphrey Bogart, Mary Astor, Peter Lorre, and Sydney Greenstreet. People rave about Casablanca (1942), I know I do. But, I prefer the Falcon. The plot is practically incomprehensible, but who cares? The whole movie is an acting class. Foolish Geraldine Fitzgerald turned down the female lead because she did not want to work with an unknown director. Mary Astor knew a good part when she saw one and tore it up. (Can’t you just see Rainn Wilson as Elijah Cooke, Jr.’s Wilmer? "Wilmer!")

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

Bill Cunningham New York (2011)

2011-04-05T21:50:00.004-04:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: AAA

Dear Friend,

This documentary is about the “most important man in the world,” and you have never heard of him! What could be better? This film is a touching biography of a lovely old man in love with his work, New York, and its people. He’s an eighty-year-old eccentric fashion photographer who rides his bicycle through the streets of downtown Manhattan to shoot pedestrian New Yorkers in all their native splendor. Whether they be attired in dyed fur and denim, leather and feathers or African animal prints, Bill Cunningham has captured this untamed species of sauntering sophisticates in their jungle habitat for some fifty years now. He is a hunter with big game to shoot and the hunt is still on. If anyone can claim to have “seen it all” it is the indomitable and irrepressible Bill Cunningham.

Bill Cunningham has been a fashion-photojournalist for so long, he knows everyone in art, fashion, and society in New York – and they know him. His self-effacing bonhomie and his dogged determination to document and memorialize New Yorkers and their fashion trends have won him a unique respect and admiration in the city, as he dodges death-defying traffic to get to his next photo shoot for The New York Times. It could be a swank benefit for the New York City Ballet, Mrs. Astor’s 100^th birthday party (they’re old friends) or two black girls threatening to break his camera if he takes their picture. (He takes the picture and smiles.) They are all the same to him. People either have style or they don’t. He’s not interested in “celebrities with their free dresses.” For someone who is not a name dropper, he has no problem naming names. (Apparently, Ginger Rogers and Marilyn Monroe had no style.) He has been called the “ultimate egalitarian” in a city described by the all white-wearing writer Thomas Wolfe as being “all about status.”

There are plenty of celebrities and notable freaks of fashion in this documentary. It is a social column in itself of the notable and the notorious. Making appearances were society swells: the late Mrs. Vincent Astor, Mrs. Oscar de la Renta, Mr. David Rockefeller, and Dr. Henry Kissinger. (I must have missed Nancy – she always looks great.) Then we had the fashion professionals: editor Anna Wintour (the Devil Wears Prada herself), ex-supermodel Carmen Dell’Orefice, Met costume curator Harold Koda, and textile executive and style-icon extraordinaire Iris Apfel. By far the most amusing people were the fashion eccentrics: “the Dandy” Patrick McDonald, ex-Nepali diplomat Shail Upadhya, drag queen Kenny Kenny (with her inspired painted-on veil), and from Paris the incomparable Anna Piaggi. You won’t find these characters in your hometown and you won’t find their clothes there either. These are serious stylists making serious personal statements about whom and what they are through their apparel. Ignore them at your peril! These people are fierce!

Bill Cunningham witnessed great change in the fashion business in the past sixty years having been a fashion writer, milliner, and lastly photographer. When he started in the 1950s, fashion was tightly controlled industry. Rich women who were serious about their wardrobe went to Paris twice a year to select their garments at any one of the numerous fashion houses to be personally fitted. It was said that a single fitting at Balenciaga was like five or six fittings anywhere else. Five or six fittings?! Yup! These women had time on their hands. Fashion editor and Met costume curator Diana Vreeland once had a lingerie shop in London where women would come in for two fittings for a single slip! A small clique of Paris couturiers, amongst them Dior, Chanel, Ricci, Balmain, Fath, Schiaparelli, and Saint Laurent, determined what fashionable women of the Western world would look like. This meant that twice a year American designers and fashion journalists would trek to Paris to see the collections to copy the styles and promote the new looks. As the world became more democratic in the 1960s, the street became the arbiter of fashion. People told Paris what they were going to wear and it was up to Paris to adopt their stylish innovations. This is where Bill Cunningham found his niche in the fashion world – by becoming the world’s greatest trend spotter, “the most important man in the world.”

What Bill Cunningham did not become was a stylist himself. While everyone in New York knows Bill, no one seems to know anything about him. No one seems to know where he came from, if he has a family or where he lives. Despite covering the glamorous and powerful for years, Bill lives an ascetic almost monastic life above Carnegie Hall in an apartment with no kitchen or bathroom (that’s down the hall). His sole piece of furniture is a make-shift cot that is lodged between tight rows of gray metal file cabinets that contain his life’s work of photographs, negatives, and publications. His “closet” consists of a few articles of clothing on metal hangers hung from the handles of file drawers. All that he eats comes from fast food restaurants or cafes. A bachelor, he has few friends, and goes to church every Sunday. He shuns the comforts and distractions of the material world in order to pursue his art. To call him a workaholic would be facile. He is a completely committed artist to the exclusion of (almost) all else. It is this approach to life that makes Bill Cunningham such a special, fascinating, and endangered species.

Here’s the trailer: http://www.zeitgeistfilms.com/billcunninghamnewyork/trailer.html

From the vault: Funny Face (1957). Directed by Stanley Donen; written by Leonard Gershe; staring Audrey Hepburn, Fred Astaire, and Kay Thompson. Talk about what the fashion industry used to be! Two of principals are supposed to be Richard Avedon, and Diana Vreeland (funny face). Kay Thompson was the voice coach and “special friend” of Judy Garland. This movie also has uber-super-duper models Dovima, Suzy Parker, and Sunny Hartnett. (How much glamour can one stand?)

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"Limitless" (2011)

2011-03-31T23:56:00.001-04:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BBA

Dear Friend,

This was a good movie that ended great! What I liked about this movie was that it got better as it went along. It was not like some pictures with a provocative theme or idea that floundered in search of a cogent meaningful story. I was leery at first. The film was narrated by the main character in the first person. This can become very tiresome – the reflective actor commenting on his past behavior and motives when it is plain for all to see events as they transpire. Yes, you’re an untidy, unproductive, alcoholic writer who lives in and dank, dirty, and depressing studio in New York. (I hope this is not sounding as familiar to you as it is to me.) In this sense, the movie started on a cliché note and developed into what I thought would be a parable about drug abuse. (Don’t tell me this is a Nancy Reagan “just say no” campaign!) But this movie become much more than its seemingly obvious pretext. It was an actual original screen play.

This was a movie written by a real writer, in that, it was a story that came full circle. (N.B.: a writer writing about a writer writing about a writer.) Its structure was not just beginning, middle, and end, but it was ultimately circular. The story started on a cliff hanger, literally, and ended on the same ledge – bravo! It was not the usual succession of existentialist events we have come to expect as a movie, but it was a carefully crafted fable that asked profound questions about what it takes to be a creative successful individual in a complex and confusing world of recrimination, results, and retribution. “Show me the money!” He showed them, alright with the help of a little opaque pill, “NZT-48,” to be exact. (Sound like AZT to you, too?) This magical drug made this loser of a self-pitying scribe into a superman of confidence, productivity, and supernatural intelligence. This elixir of life allowed our hero to use the alleged 80% of his brain he was not utilizing into a force majeure. There was no circumstance or situation that he could not overcome by his sheer mental might. Or was this “medication” just a metaphor for Dutch courage or a shot of self-confidence?

The picture is centered around a grubby young writer Eddie Morra (Bradley Cooper), who is more adept at drinking beer and playing pool during the day than actually producing his purported novel. He has a pretty plucky girlfriend Lindy (Abbie Cornish), an up-and-coming editor who dumps her ne’er-do-well writer in frustration with his dependant disposition. Life could not get any lower for our hapless Hemingway as he is abused by his (female) book editor for no manuscript and by his (female) landlord for non-payment of rent – a trifecta of terrifying termagants, one might say. But fate has a funny way of finding those on their last leg (so I am told) and he runs into his ex-brother-in-law, the ex-drug dealer – now pharmaceutical rep., who gives him a gift of magical medicine. You can keep your Cialis -- I want NZT! This drug is a combination of everything you have ever heard of: speed, ecstasy, cocaine, crystal meth, with a just a touch of LSD. Eddie becomes productive, prodigious, precognizant, and prophetic, until the buzz wears off, and he needs to pop another pill. His hopeless addiction leads him on an adventure that is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. (Did I say, “just say no” to drugs?)

The movie was beautifully cast. Bradley Cooper really carried this movie of metamorphosis and mayhem. Limitless was about his character’s evolution from sub- to superhuman. It was a great part well-played. For a movie that centered on a single actor, one never tired of focusing on him throughout the picture, much in the way of Dennis Price in Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949), there was such cunning character development. Unlike the restrained Kind Hearts, there was a lot of sex and violence in this movie. (It is an American picture, after all.) However, it was incidental to the story and suited the purpose of the film; it was none-the-less an entertaining aspect to the film, not its purpose. There was a genuine chemistry between Cooper and Cornish, which kept the audience routing for their relationship. Cooper was up to the task of facing his nemesis, the formidable Robert DeNiro, with equal aplomb. I think you’re really going to like this movie.

Here is the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X3U9RsXeJ3w

From the vault: Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949), directed by Robert Hammer, starring Dennis Price, Joan Greenwood, Alec Guinness, and Valerie Hobson. In my opinion, this is one of the best written screenplays (by Hammer) ever. The BBC English is pure heaven to hear. It is chock full of British understatement and sly humor. Sibella, “I’ve married the dullest man in London.” Louis, “In England!” Sibella, “In Europe!”

Best of luck in your viewing selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"The Adjustment Bureau" (2011)

2011-03-20T10:35:00.002-04:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BBB

Dear Friend:

Pizzicato: DOO DOO, doo doo. DOO DOO, doo, doo. Rod Serling: “You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead — your next stop, The Adjustment Bureau?!” Well, they tried. And for the most part they succeeded in trying to revive the unique genre of what I will call the “supernatural film noir” of The Twilight Zone (1959-64). Film noir was an edgy but stylish dramatic genre filled with marginal, often desperate, characters struggling to stay alive in an unforgiving, usually criminal, world during the 1940s and 50s. The films were generally low budget and always filmed in black and white, which I might add was not a problem for the seasoned experts of the studio system before their destruction by the antitrust division of the United States Department of Justice. But, that’s another story.

I (and everyone else) loved The Twilight Zone. (The opening with music by Bernard Hermann was enough to give you the creeps for the next half hour.) The series spanned the “utopian” Eisenhower years to the disillusioned never-to-be had last year of the Kennedy administration. Faith in America’s unlimited future popped like a soap bubble with the Kennedy assassination. They tried to warn us that all was not well in Levittown – those leftist Jewish intellectuals we thought we excoriated from Hollywood during the McCarthy era. Despite all the appearance of success and security of middle America, people were unhappy in their assigned roles. It was the rigidity of thought and behavioral codes that exploded into the counter culture of the 1960s. But I digress.

The Adjustment Bureau is in many ways a comment on post 9/11/2001-America. (I add the year because people forget.) It is the Patriot Act gone gaa gaa. Men in black hats (government/god agents) assume control over the fate of a young couple in an attempt to separate the two lovers for their own good, much like controlling parents might. But these parental figures have magic powers. The hatted-ones (and we know dangerous they can be) have plans for these two, which does not include marriage. The failed senatorial candidate (Matt Damon) is to become president and his dancer girlfriend (Emily Blunt) is to become a great choreographer – but only if they stay apart. Is love stronger than professional ambition and the predestination of government/god? I found the issue posed by the movie to be a curious one: that marriage for a presidential candidate would be injurious, in fact fatal, to his candidacy. Perhaps, the filmmakers have no knowledge of the public’s presumption of any unmarried man over the age of thirty. But this is the supernatural, and one must suspend one’s sense of reality for the movie to succeed.

In fact, the ability of the director and screenwriter, George Norfi, to cast a spell of plausible deniability upon the audience for 106 minutes had to have been a real challenge. The screen play was based on a short story by Philip K. Dick. As one supernatural event followed the next, the film at times resembled a malignant Bewitched (1964-72) episode. This is where the television format has an advantage. The Twilight Zone was for the most part a one-act play. It opened with a mundane premise, introduced the supernatural element which created a dilemma, and resolved the story with an ironic surprise ending – all within a thirty-minute timeslot. There wasn’t time for the audience to appreciate the absurdity of the plot because they were so engrossed in the intensity of the drama. To lengthen the plot for this movie, chase scenes (i.e., car/bus/bike/boat/people) were added. To this extent it would appear, The Adjustment Bureau just might carved out a new triple genre for itself, the supernatural-film noir-action picture. Holy Triple Threat, Batman!

I mentioned the Hollywood studio system, where the great film companies made their movies in-house by using a full-time staff of professional specialists. The lighting directors, the costumers, the set designers, the sound and film editors all worked together for years. They knew what the director wanted and they would pull it off. Consequently, the movies had a unity to them and a predicable studio stamp of style and elegance. Modern movies often lack this quality as this one did. The production value was rough around the edges. For a film that placed such significance on hats, I was astonished to see the cheap rumpled ones the costumer selected for the government/god agents. For me, it was genuine distraction. It is beyond me that a movie with a budget of $51,000,000.00 would dress main characters in cheap rumpled hats purchased from Target. It did not help that they were ill-fitting. This is something that would not have occurred in studio system. When it came to hats, this movie was no Casablanca (1942).

Here’s the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H78XCiJamXc

From the vault: Casablanca (1942), directed by Michael Curtiz; written by Julius J. Epstein, Philip Epstein, and others; starring, Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and Claude Raines. Bogart and Bergman were convinced this was going to be a monumental flop. Studio chief Jack Warner reported co-writers and twin brothers Julius and Philip Epstein to the House Un-American Activities Committee. Although they were never called to testify, when asked if they ever were members of a "subversive organization," they responded, "Yes. Warner Brothers.”

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

“Nénette” (2010)

2011-03-01T00:00:00.022-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: ZZZ

Dear Friend:

It was Oscar night and there was nothing showing I wanted to see. I had never reviewed a documentary before, so I thought I would live dangerously and take a walk on the wild side and review this coquettish-sounding documentary about an “octogenarian” orangutan called Nénette. (Actually, she was only 40, about five years past her life expectancy.) It was not as if I were expecting Nana (1880) by Emile Zola, but I was expecting something more than this excruciating excursion to this abysmal French apiary. No, I am not talking about Paris! I am talking about the Menagerie du Jardin des Plantes. The zoo which, according to some accounts, was once a dreadful place with small cages, rusty wire over the terrarium, and smelled like an open sewer. Quel charme!

As you can imagine, the history of French zoo keeping has not always been pretty. According to The Divine Sarah, food was so scarce during the Franco-Prussian War (1870-71), Parisians resorted to eating their exotic exhibits. Things have improved since the fall of the Second Empire. In the 1980s, the Jardin des Plantes was rehabilitated into a respectable zoo worthy of the City of Lights and La Belle France. However, that was some time after Nénette’s arrival, circa 1968. But this is ancient history, except for the poor girl’s petit appartement, which is not anyone’s idea of the Ritz. (Perhaps, Mr. Fayed might have some suggestions for a changer de décor.) In fact, one observer remarked her lack of space was most probably a result of the high rents in Paris – competition even Darwin could not have contemplated.

Watching this documentary had all the excitement of watching (Jacques Cousteau would agree) a home aquarium. Yes, it’s very pleasant for a few moments, but not for 70 minutes. Orangutans are not mischievous monkeys or majestic mountain gorillas. No, they are the sloths of the ape world. The sheer inertia of these magnificent orange oafs was oppressive. They are a species that would try the patience of Jane Goodall. They hardly move at all and almost never utter a noise – sort of like tropical fish. Except these fish look like us, and there’s the fascination. We look like them, they look like us. We stare at them, they stare at us – except they don’t talk. In many ways this movie was like visiting a nursing home for the aged or mentally retarded. You know they’re human – "there's just no there there," to quote Gertrude Stein. At some point it became clear to me that this wildlife documentary was actually a captivity documentary, a sort of inaction film and that that I was just another captive ape with nothing to do but stare back at the screen until I was released by my theater handlers. At least, they got complementary yogurt and a jug of tea, which I discovered is just as easily unscrewed with one's lips as one's hands in Orangutan-land.

The cinematography, if you could call it that, was unimpressive. It was deliberately minimalistic. It was one camera focusing on an animal, usually straight-on and in extreme close-up. It felt as if one were in a relentless starring contest with a bored depressed catatonic creature that would not make eye contact. There was no Desi Arnaz three-camera simultaneous shooting here. It was more like The Honeymooners (1951—55) single camera “keep the camera on Jackie” approach, except this Jackie never moved, but for her eyes from side to side. It was almost like watching Andy Warhol's Empire (1964), eight hours and five minutes of continuous slow motion footage of the Empire State Building. It was absolutely the most unimaginative and frankly lazy approach to film making I have ever seen. It was shooting fish in a barrel.

Visitors to the exhibit were heard but not seen. The subtitles came fast and furious. (At least the movie was good French practice.) Some of the children were very funny. One insisted that Nénette and his father were not the same age, his father was 40 and a half. A zoo keeper said if the glass ever broke between the orangutans and the humans, it would be “run for your life.” Now, that would have been a movie! I can just see a band of orange apes terrorizing Paris, climbing the Eiffel Tower, invading the Louvre, and commanding the cat-walk on Fashion Week. But, as we now know, that would be out of character for our furry fellows. They would be much more likely to be smugly ensconced in the front row between Anna Wintour and André Leon Talley at the Chanel show. No faux fur for these guys.

Here is the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INjYL3M_WF4

From the vault: Any Which Way but Loose (1978), directed by James Fargo; starring Clint Eastwood, Sondra Locke, and Geoffrey Lewis. I have never seen this movie. I have no idea what it’s about. I do know that it has an orangutan in it. Maybe this one knows some tricks.

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

“127 Hours” (2010)

2011-02-26T21:28:00.000-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BBB

Dear Friend:

Why did I see this movie?! “Because it was there!” to quote the mountain climber or in this case the canyon creeper. I suppose “canyon climber” would be more respectful, but after you have seen this picture, you will know what I mean. Based on a true story this canyon commando Aron Roylston (James Franco) did more creeping than climbing in this terrible tale of horrendous human suffering. The story was an updated version of Jack London’s To Build a Fire (1902), set in desert Utah instead of snowbound Alaska. This was the classic “man versus nature” theme. (Remember high school English?) Or in this case, man versus rock. The plot can be summarized in two sentences. A solitary young man falls into a canyon crevice and is pinned by a small boulder. After all reasonable attempts have failed to free himself, our hapless hero is compelled to cut off his arm. There! Now there is no reason for you to see this movie – even if, James Franco gave an extraordinary performance. Unless, of course, you think you might enjoy seeing someone suffer for 127 Hours.

This was pretty much a one man show, give or take a view flash backs, hallucinations, and some trained ants. However, this was not exactly “Uncle Milton’s Ant Farm” fun-for-the-whole-family kind of entertainment. Our protagonist was pretty much a desperate bug in a jar trying to climb out for most of the picture. It reminded me of existentialist plays written by Beckett or Sartre with No Exit (1944), out of this hole in the ground. A lot of waiting, wondering, and worrying over the meaning of existence by a helpless hopeless individual caught in circumstances he cannot control or comprehend. (His CapitalOne card was of no help to him under the circumstances.) In other words, this was a production that was not intended to be necessarily sensually pleasurable but intellectually meaningful. It was entertainment that is supposed to be good for you, like a Wagnerian opera you cannot stand or a Shakespearean play you cannot understand.

In addition to the American realism and the French existentialism, I found there was a striking surreal theme to the movie. The desert landscape was a stunning dream-like setting that turned into a nightmare of despair and deprivation in an instant. Roylston was a lonely loner who rode for miles on his mountain bike on solitary sojourns to get to Blue John Canyon. From the flashbacks he experiences, we learn he is unable to accept love and finds his missions through the monastic mountains and canyon crevices an exhilarating escape from the entanglements of human relationships. If I might be allowed to make a Freudian observation, all the squeezing, sliding, and slinking through narrow rock walls was a recreation of the birth canal. (This movie is not for the claustrophobic.) It is only when our hero realizes that “No man is an island,” John Donne (1624), that he realizes the futility of his attempts to return to the womb. He needs other people to survive. When he severed the arm he cut the umbilical cord.

Perhaps the greater challenge of this movie was not how our foolish friend (he told no one where he was going) would escape from the bolder bowels of bedrock, but how the filmmaker, director and writer Danny Boyle was able to maintain an audience’s attention for the entire length of the picture with a single immobile actor stuck in a deep crack? Roylston may have been up Shit’s Creek without a paddle but he did bring his video camera. (He brought his cell phone too but like this credit card it was of no use – alas, no bars.) I told this was an updated tale! When our forlorn fellow was not recording the ecstasy of his agony, he entertained himself by replaying events he had captured prior to his piteous precipitous pitfall. In the end our prodigal Prometheus pried himself from the rock as the deus ex machina or state police helicopter swooped him away to Hollywood immortality. Some people have all the luck!

Here's the trailer: http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi768149785/

From the vault: Harold and Maud (1971), directed by Hal Ashby; starring Ruth Gordon, Bud Cord, and Vivian Pickles. After this crucible of 127 Hours, you could use another kind of inspirational movie. Like an improbable love story? Maud to Harold, “A lot of people enjoy being dead. But they are not dead, really. They're just backing away from life. Reach out. Take a chance. Get hurt even. But play as well as you can. Go team, go! Give me an L. Give me an I. Give me a V. Give me an E. L-I-V-E. LIVE! Otherwise, you got nothing to talk about in the locker room.”

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"Cedar Rapids" (2011)

2011-02-14T10:37:00.002-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BBB

Dear Friend,

I really liked this movie. It was a fresh and fun parody of a slice of the American way of life – the annual national sales convention. The hero of the story is a thirty-something innocent named Tim Leppe (Ed Helms) an insurance salesman from the mythical town on Brown Valley, Wisconsin. The local agency’s star salesman died suddenly under tawdry circumstances just before the national sales convention in big-city Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It fell upon Leppe’s shoulders to take his first business trip to the convention and give the agency’s pitch for the coveted “Two Diamond Award” that they have won consistently for the past several years at this conservative Christian conference. The pressure is on to restore the company’s chaste reputation as Leppe’s job at the agency is at stake – the only place he’s ever worked.

“Innocent” may not be quite the right word to describe Leppe. Perhaps “inexperienced” would be more appropriate. He was “practically pre-engaged” to his former seventh grade teacher Macy Vanderhei (Sigourney Weaver) whom he ran into one day at the True Value store. Their Mrs. Robinson relationship was consummated once a week at his dreary split level. While Benjamin Braddock may have been The Graduate (1967), Leppe was emotionally the undergraduate – at best. Until this trip, he had never flown in an airplane, rented a car or stayed in a hotel before. A teetotaler, he had his work cut out for him fitting-in at this reunion of hard-drinking sales hacks. While his new friends ordered shots, he was persuaded to change his order from root beer to something hard. His concession was to order a cream sherry. This was the first of may compromises he would make in this latter-day coming of age story that would lead to his corruption and redemption.

There was something terribly familiar about this film. It had a television show immediacy to it, perhaps because two of the main characters have appeared on major shows in similar roles. Ed Helms plays nice guy Andy Bernard in The Office (2005—present), and Kurtwood Smith (Orin Helgesson) played the prickly father Reginald “Red” Forman in That 70’s Show (1998—2006). Helgesson was the intimidating owner of the insurance company who presided over the compulsory prayer breakfast as well as the madcap scavenger hunt and the aforesaid “Two Diamond Award” competition. The company’s traditional “talent show” of usual suspects was left to others to run. It was this peculiar combination of business rituals and rites of spring (drunken debauchery) that made this a uniquely American comedy of corporate culture.

The story was very clever and took some unexpected turns that injected elements of sex and violence into this otherwise insouciant tale, but I will not spoil the story. Let’s just say the bikers and the prostitutes were not in town for the convention. It was a crazy and touching story. Leppe and his roommates (John C. Reilly and Isiah Whitlock, Jr.) were three men who could not have been more different. Together with a frisky redhead from Omaha (Anne Hecke) they bonded to form a confederacy of dunces to become the “wild and crazy guys!” at the convention. (Hope you can withstand a little potty humor.) The foursome made a solid cast of outcasts that compared notes, combined experiences, and triumphed over the hypocritical and corrupt business establishment. It was the classic victory for the little guy that provided such a gratifying and unexpected ending to this manic movie.

Here’s the trailer (spoiler alert): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJqFUWbITug&playnext=1&list=PLDC20F60DF68904EE

From the vault: Breaking Away (1979), Directed by Peter Yates; starring Dennis Christopher, Dennis Quaid, Daniel Stern, and Paul Dooley. This movie has nothing to do with insurance salesmen or business conventions, but it is an inspiring coming of age story set in the Midwest. Now, who couldn’t use a little inspiration every once in a while? Speaking of prickly fathers: “No, I don't feel lucky to be alive! I feel lucky I'm not dead. There's a difference.” Thanks, Dad!

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"The Fighter" (2010)

2011-02-06T18:34:00.006-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: AAA

Dear Friend,

I like boxing. It’s pure unmitigated violence – nothing pretentious. Oh, there’s plenty of hype. But let’s face it, this sport is as basic as it gets: two guys enter the ring and pummel each other until one of them drops. There is no score for artistry or originality; it’s who can inflict the greatest injury on the opposing party. The last man standing wins. This is as close to the Roman coliseum as we ever get in modern times. Thumbs down meant a lot more than a bad movie review in those days. Nowadays, we are enlightened. We allow the vanquished to survive. The entertainment value may suffer, but our conscious is clear. What’s a little brain damage amongst washed-out warriors? “Old boxers never die, they just fade away,” to paraphrase General MacArthur. This movie is about an aging athlete who would not fade away – not until his self-confidence was restored and his triumph complete.

There have been many wonderful boxing movies throughout the years including Rocky (1976), Raging Bull (1980), Diggstown (1992), Million Dollar Baby (2004), and Cinderella Man (2005). It’s a theme that appeals to a lot of people. The effort is superhuman and the result is either triumph or tragedy and sometimes both. The Fighter is right up there with the best of them. What is appealing about this picture is that it is the story of a young man, a young couple, brothers, an extended family, a community, and a sport that mixes them together in a combustible cauldron of emotion and action. The fighting outside the ring was every bit as intense as inside the ring as the family grappled with how best to promote their favorite son in a rough world of brawn, braggadocio, and broken dreams. As any Roman could tell you, the fight for survival is the most compelling competition of all.

The movie is based on a true story. Boxing was a family business for this Irish-American clan in Lowell, Massachusetts in 1993: one mother, two fathers, two brothers (both fighters), and seven sisters. The chain-smoking mother (Melissa Leo) was the fight manager and the crack-addict older brother (Christian Bale) trained the younger brother (Mark Wahlberg). Sound intense? It was. Add a beautiful ambitious girlfriend (Amy Adams) and a chorus of seven jealous sisters and you have one giant dysfunctional family. Although, most of them lived in one house, no one would mistake their cramped headquarters for the Kennedy compound. (Touch football? Ya-gotta-be-kiddin’ me!) These people were rough and tough. While their vocabulary was in no way impressive, they had no problem making their opinions known. Mother to adult daughter: “You talk that way to me in my own kitchen when you owe me $200.00?” (Mom’s rhetoric was not much better than her promotional abilities.)

What was so refreshing about The Fighter was its down-to-earth quality. These were blue collar people living in a run down town doing dirty jobs. No glamor here. (Bette Davis was born in Lowell, but that was some time ago.) When the brothers were not training they were working on a road crew or doing a roofing job, sometimes with their sisters. Boxing was their excitement and their means of social mobility. Winning in the ring made them important and admired in the community. It also meant money and a way out of Lowell, a major textile center before it lost its industry to the non-unionized Southern states. (Remember Norma Rae, 1979? She’s unemployed now that the textile industry moved to the no-minimum wage Third World.) The history of Lowell is a parable for our fading country. In fact, it is the nation’s current economic condition that makes the timeliness of this movie so appropriate. While it would be tempting to compare this movie to Rocky for its urban ethnic character, it makes one wonder whether The Grapes of Wrath (1940) would not be a more suitable predecessor for a desperate family struggling to survive forces beyond its control.

Not all was struggle and grief. Much of the movie was funny. The sisters were a hoot! (Where did find these actresses – West Virginia?) The acting was a pure joy to watch. Melissa Leo and Christian Bale were awesome. In fact, the casting of the whole movie was flawless. Mark Wahlberg and Amy Adams were a perfect match. Local casting added to the authenticity of the picture. Wahlberg himself is the youngest of nine children from a working-class family in Dorchester, Boston, Massachusetts. Making appearances as walk-ons were members of the actual Eklund-Ward clan. Burgess Meredith was unavailable, so they hired Lowell police sergeant and boxing trainer Mikey O’Keefe to portray himself – very convincingly. The producers couldn’t find anyone locally as debonair as Sugar Ray Leonard or in Hollywood, so they had to hire the real deal for his appearance, “What’s that movie about, again?”

Here’s the trailer: http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi2330986777/

From the Vault: The Grapes of Wrath (1940). Directed by John Ford; starring Henry Fonda, Jane Darwell, and John Carradine. Dust bowl Okies are forced off their land (along with 300,000-400,000 others during the 1930s) and move to “Californie” in a Beverly Hillbillies-style limousine. Jane Darwell gave a heartbreaking performance as Ma Joad and won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress. From the book by John Steinbeck, “The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It’s the monster. Men made it, but they can’t control it.” (Just a little nostalgia for pre-bank regulated America.)

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"True Grit" (2010)

2011-01-31T13:46:00.003-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: AAA

Dear Friend,

I didn’t intend to see this movie. The movies I wanted to see would not accommodate my schedule. Besides, I am not a big Western fan. We all know the plot: the black hats ride into town looking for trouble, swing open the saloon doors, do shots of whiskey, cheat at poker, make passes at the saloon girls, argue with the white hats, and die in a shoot out with the sheriff. Sound like a movie or a T.V. show you’ve seen a hundred times? I have enjoyed some Westerns: Westward the Women (1951), High Noon (1952), Cat Ballou (1965), and Heartland (1979). And who could forget The Harvey Girls (1946)? (So, it was an MGM musical starring Judy Garland!)

The macho swagger and tough talk of John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and their ilk never appealed to me. It’s just not my style. (I bet Ronald Coleman, George Saunders, and James Mason would have felt right at home in a pair of chaps. It’s the all the dust they couldn’t have handled.) In any case, my expectations were not high for this remake of the ultimate John Wayne movie, True Grit (1969). I never saw the original for which Wayne received a Golden Globe Award and an Academy Award for best actor. (So, he wore an eye patch. Who cares? It was a John Wayne movie.)

Nonetheless, I was completely won over by this movie. It was not a perfect production by any means. It was that I found myself completely engrossed with the story and the characters. I found myself really caring about these three unlikely comrades as they set out on an incredible adventure in the pursuit of justice. In this sense it was a very American story. Yes, it was the old story line of the white hats versus the black hats. It’s just that the hats were all checkered in different patterns. The characters were complex and the plot was intricate. Cooperation won-out over personal conflicts as their character and guile triumphed over incredible adversity to avenge injustice and defy death. It was inspiring to see the extent to which each person risked their life in an effort to rescue the other. It was an heroic story beautifully told.

What I liked about the movie was the use of character actors, obscure performers who portrayed a particular type of person: the business man, the undertaker, the hotel keeper, the town drunk. During the days of the Hollywood studio people made entire careers out of these roles. Actors like Gabby Hayes, Jack Elam, Andy Devine, and Marjorie Main were essential ingredients to any Western as much as any leading gunslinger or bad ass bronco. They added local color and comic relief to the picture and made the main characters look good in comparison. Their eccentric personalities and peculiar appearances added an authenticity to casts lead by tightly controlled actors mumbling sparse dialogue. “Don’t say it’s a fine morning or I’ll shoot ya.” McLintock (1963). (Thanks for the warning, Duke!)

The story centers around young Mattie Ross (Hailee Steinfeld), who set out to hire the meanest marshal or bounty hunter to capture her father’s killer – someone with true grit. As much as I liked the movie, I did have problems with this character. I thought the part was too mature for a fourteen-year-old. No teenager knows that much about business, contracts, negotiation, and criminal law as expounded upon by this crackerjack kid. Yes, this made her an exception little girl, but I found myself having to suspend my sense of reality to entertain the plausibility of this uber-precocious young lady. The fact that she was self-confident, determined, and canny I was ready to concede. However, I found her business acumen and her keen legal analysis hard to believe for a fourteen-year-old girl from Arkansas, c. 1867.

Second, I thought Steinfeld’s portrayal of Mattie Ross was too stiff. There was almost something British about her delivery. It was like watching Anne of Green Gables (1985) with Megan Follows or even Glenda Jackson in Elizabeth R (1971). Steinfeld’s Mattie Ross made haughty pronouncements with enunciation and intelligence as if she were in a Shakespearian production. There was nothing country in the way she spoke. I know she was a city girl, but we’re talking Little Rock here. In a perfect world, I would have liked to have seen little Addie Loggins (Tatum O’Neal) from Paper Moon (1973) in the role. (They grow up so fast, don’t they?) I also would have liked to have cast her father Ryan O’Neal as LeBoeuf. As much as I wanted to like Matt Damon, I was a little disappointed. He looked the part. (He looked like Ryan O’Neal.) But, I found his performance a little too refined for a Texas marshal.

That clearly was not Jeff Bridges’s problem. His portrayal of Rooster Cogburn was truly extraordinary. His performance put him in the same league as the greatest living actors: Robert Duvall, Robert De Niro, Mickey Rooney, Ernest Borgnine, (fill in your favorite). His performance transcended acting in the way great actors are able – it was being. Maybe a little rubbed off from his father the late Lloyd Bridges, the deputy marshal in High Noon. His brother actor Beau Bridges claims Jeff is a perfectionist who likes to do a lot of takes in order to exhaust every possibility before ending a scene. His approach appears to have worked because his performance was perfection.

Here's the trailer: http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi1984862489/

From the vault: Paper Moon (1973), directed by Peter Bogdanovich, starring Ryan O’Neal, Tatum O’Neal, and Madeline Kahn. It’s not a Western, but they were desperadoes during the Great Depression (as opposed to this one). It is a great American classic. Why is it orphans seem to have all the fun, “Are you pushing?!”

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"Somewhere" (2010)

2011-01-21T20:23:00.005-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: CCC

Dear Friend,

This wasn’t a bad movie – for a student. It was more like a pleasant drive through the Hollywood Hills with a brief sojourn to Italy to receive an award for being fabulous. You know how hard it is to be a movie star, after awhile one becomes blasé. The parties, the sex, the drugs, the drinking – surely there must be more to life than unlimited adulation and compensation in the land of golden dreams. Not according to industry insider Sofia Coppola the writer and director of this uninspired commentary on contemporary Hollywood from whom, I must say, I expected more. Instead of making any original editorial or provocative documentary, Coppola gave us a rather uninteresting look at the private life of a popular film star Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff). You think your life is meaningless? Try being a healthy handsome movie star, at the top of the heap with the world at your feet, according to Coppola.

Sofia Coppola, as we all know, is the daughter of Francis Ford Coppola, niece of Talia Shire, cousin of Nicolas Cage, and the relative of a virtual film studio of industry professionals. She appeared in her first movie as a sleeping infant in The Godfather (1972), her best performance; as an open-mouthed child extra abord the “Moshulu” in The Godfather: Part II (1974), usually edited out; and as an adult actress in The Godfather: Part III (1990), universally panned. She also had a brief career as a teen model (hands and feet?) and on television. Weary of the rotten tomatoes and raw eggs cast in her direction, she retired from acting and turned to directing (as you would). Her four previous movies were Lick the Star (1998), The Virgin Suicides (1999), Lost in Translation (2003) for which she won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, and Marie Antoinette (2006). That’s quite a resume for someone not quite forty.

Nepotism aside, this woman is Hollywood royalty, someone born to the celluloid. Think of the stories she must have heard from the cradle! (She was baptized in The Godfather.) Think of the celebrities she’s met and the palaces she’s seen! She’s got to know where all the bodies are buried. Unfortunately, this movie was not the industry indictment or the torrid tale I so eagerly anticipated. No, the Hollywood community may rest safely – this semi-autobiographic movie was no Answered Prayers (1987). It appears it was all a bore. Poor Sofia, how she must have suffered!

I suppose my disappointment comes from the expectation of seeing a movie about Hollywood. There have been some excellent ones, A Star is Born (1937, 1954, 1976), Singing in the Rain (1952), Sunset Boulevard (1950), The Day of the Locusts (1975), Mommie Dearest (1981). You know, a story with some depravity to it. The closest this movie got to depravity was identical twin pole dancers performing synchronized routines at the Chateau Marmont. We were treated to two separate scenes of this slice of Sodom. Unfortunately, the gag was lost in the timing of these private performances – the scenes simply went too long (for my taste). Real time is not always real interesting.

The other problem in this film of entertainment industry ennui was the lack of characters. There were really only two main characters Johnny Marco and his eleven-year-old daughter Cleo (Elle Fanning). The rest of the cast were either servants, employees, handlers, fans, hangers-on, star “gazers,” or anonymous females brandishing their breasts all in an attempt to curry favor with the star who was bored with it all. Stephen Dorff convincingly played the macho male star the way most men attempt to portray themselves: stoic, blunt, rough around the edges, and above all “cool.” Johnny Marco was not interesting in any way, most depressed people are not. When he was not drinking and seducing women, he was playing video games with his daughter or chain smoking. The storied Chateau Marmont where much of film took place was portrayed as a faded fraternity house. Considering all the Hollywood history that has taken place within those walls, I am surprised the hotel was not better utilized than a common set. (John Belushi is said to haunt bungalow #3 by the pool.)

Elle Fanning was a delightful discovery. This enchanting twelve year old has it all. She can skate, swim, and dance with equal grace. She can even act without dialogue, her eyes do all the talking. This girl could be a big star. She reminds me of when I first saw Mariel Hemingway in Lipstick (1976), precocious without being precious. (She can even make Eggs Benedict with hollandaise sauce and chives.) The only thing that made me a little uncomfortable was the scenes of Cleo and her father engaging in (wholesome) activity much as a romantic couple might. She was very mature for her age. That being said, along with Roman Polanski and Woody Allen, I am all for wholesome entertainment. Aren’t we all?

Here is the trailer: http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi2394490393/

From the vault: Mommie Dearest (1981), directed by Frank Perry, starring Faye Dunaway, Diana Scarwid, Steve Forrest, and Mara Hobel. Speaking of “Hollywood royalty! Christina, bring me the ax!” This is probably the most quoted film in motion picture history. It was intended to be a Tinseltown tell-all but was generally received as a black comedy. Who knew child abuse could be so amusing?

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"Tron: Legacy" (2010)

2011-01-11T16:43:00.005-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: DDD

Dear Friend,

Disney owes me. I want my $13.00 dollars and 125 minutes back for a movie that should have been entitled, Tron: Marathon. Little did I realize when I saw this 3-D picture, that I would be giving it a triple-D rating, as in Disappointing Disney Disaster. I cannot recall being so bored watching a motion picture. The special effects were “special” for the first fifteen minutes, about the average length of a fireworks display with the same inherent predictability and monotony. The inertia of this action picture was oppressive. Unfortunately, there were 110 more minutes to endure of endless explosions interspersed with occasional dialogue so deadly dull, a silent movie in the vein of the futuristic Metropolis (1927), would have been preferable. Had silent movie star Norma Desmond appeared in this picture she might have said, “We didn’t need dialogue then, we had special effects.”

Was this film written during a writers’ strike? You tell me. Here is the plot. A father disappears into a netherworld of video games. In an attempt to find his father, the son accidentally falls into a virtual rabbit hole only to find himself a gladiator in a coliseum in a frantic Frisbee fight. The son fights in one competition after the other until the film ends in (you’ll never guess) an explosion. He gets the female-unit and rides off on a motorcycle into the sunlight, which she has never seen. If you were to cast Bruce Lee in Alice in Wonderland Meets Spartacus in Space, you would have some idea as to the caliber of this picture. This is a macho movie for macho adolescent boys. My favorite lines (and there weren’t many): father to son, “You’re messin’ with my Zen thing.” And, “What happened? Bio-digital jazz Clu happened.” Yeah, there was plenty of heavy-osity in this movie.

Tron: Legacy is a sequel to the cult classic Tron (1982), written and directed by Steven Lisberger. This review echoes many of the criticisms of that movie with its negligible plot, shallow characters, and extravagant specials effects. However, the film did gross $33 million. (Why mess with success? This is show business, after all.) Tron: Legacy was directed by Joseph Kosinski and had six (count them six) writers, including Lisberger. Perhaps if they had six film editors, this movie would not have been such a test of audience endurance. This was clearly a case of too many cooks in the kitchen spoiling the broth or this case re-hash. The recipe for any story is quite basic: plot, characters, and dialogue for starters. The quality of your final product can only be as good as your ingredients. Costumes, sets, and computer graphics can add flavor but they can never be the substance of a viable theatrical production. In this movie the mise-en-scene completely overwhelmed whatever drama there might have been. This is the difference between theater and art museums.

This movie was a science fiction demolition derby with a story as compelling as a professional wrestling match. It didn’t need to be Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots (Marx, 1964). For heavens sake, we had characters in this movie who could speak to one another. That is the basis for a universe of ideas and situations. There have been science fiction movies with action and meaning. Forbidden Planet (1956) was based on Shakespeare’s The Tempest (1610-11). In The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), the alien Klaatu’s resurrection and unlimited power was a metaphor for Christ’s. There was an attempt in Tron: Legacy to portray Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges) as “the Creator” (of the digital game) in Cecil B. DeMille majesty, but I found it superficial. There was also an Archangel Michael versus the devil struggle theme, but frankly I didn’t care. (It was a fight over software, anyway). All I knew was I had to wait for both of them to explode before the theater lights would be turned on. At the end, when I heard Sam Flynn (Garrett Hedlund) yell, “It’s over!” I knew he was talking about the picture.

Here’s the trailer: http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi4134312217/

From the vault: The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), directed by Robert Wise; staring Patricia Neal, Michael Rennie, and Sam Jaffe. Patricia Neal didn’t want to make this film because she was afraid it going to be a turkey. (You try saying, “Gort! Klaatu baranda nikto!” with a straight face.) Even Aunt Bee is in the picture so you know it has to be scary, “Oh, Andy!”

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"Casino Jack" (2010)

2011-01-04T18:15:00.008-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BAB

Dear Friend:

This is a whale of a story – in more ways than one. A “whale” is casino slang for a gambler who can afford to gamble (i.e., lose) millions of dollars in a single throw of the dice. To reach this level of play one must have skill, guts, brains, and more luck than common sense working for you. It also helps to be slightly insane. This would be a good description of Jack Abramoff, the former super lobbyist and convicted felon. “Super lobbyist” sounds so much nicer than “racketeer” or “organized crime associate” but that it what this one is commonly called. “Casino” is a nice word too; it means “club” in Spanish. In English it implies gambling, and as we have all been taught, gambling is a vice. And to whom do we look to supply our vices (e.g., money, drugs, prostitutes, bootleg whiskey)? Why, our associates in organized crime, or course – some one like Jack Abramoff, conservative Republican activist, observant Jew, and super lobbyist. That is, if you have the millions for him to gamble (i.e., steal) to provide you with Congressional “influence.” Sound like a license to bribe? It is. The Supreme Court would call it “free speech” but I am not here to espouse a polemic. This is a movie review, after all.

2010 was a BIG year for our Jack, if you believe “there is no such thing as bad publicity,” to quote Brendan Behan. Talk about a hot property – he had not one but two films released about him: a documentary I have not seen called Casino Jack and the United States of Money (2010), directed by Alex Gibney, and Casino Jack, directed by the late George Hickenlooper, staring Kevin Spacey, Barry Pepper, and Jon Lovitz. He went from being a felon to a legend before his work release was over. Now, Abramoff is more than a shamed shellfish – he is Moby Dick (1851) and The Great Gatsby (1925)! He is the Bugsy Seigal who lived to count his chips. (They share the same birthday, February 28!) Even Meyer Lansky would have been impressed -- he may have conquered Havana (until Fidel), but Abramoff took Washington. To top it off, as of December he no longer resides at a halfway house in Baltimore and quit working at Tov Pizza, a Kosher pizzeria in the city. The owner Ron Rosenbluth is a mench who has a history of giving employment to others “caught up in the legal system” to give them a “second chance” and to get people “on their feet again.” (Abramoff was his first super lobbyist, bless his heart.)

This is a movie with a lot of story to tell. It could easily have been turned into a serial (and probably will) there are so many angles and subplots. The filmmakers did a good job of supplying the cogent facts, events, and characters without sacrificing the history or overwhelming the viewer with too much information. A quick internet search on Abramoff would be an advisable preparation for a more complete background on the subject. While a little refresher course on the scandal is not required, it could reinforce the scenes as they transpire in rapid succession. These were people on the go and, boy, did they get there. Abramoff and his cohort Michael Scanlon were men in a hurry who dreamt big. Abramoff’s father worked for Arnold Palmer Enterprises (lots of golf in this picture) and became president of the Franchises Unit of the Diners Club, which was owned by Alfred Bloomingdale, a member of Ronald Reagan’s “kitchen cabinet.” Jack went to Beverly Hills High (didn’t we all?) and later became Chairman of the College Republican National Committee while attending Brandeis University. Scanlon was an aide to Majority Leader Tom DeLay. Want to be a super lobbyist? Have super contacts. (I am reminded of Mrs. Hurst’s appraisal of the Bennet family in Pride and Prejudice 1813, “such low connections.”)

Well, there was no pride but plenty of prejudice in this movie. Atlantic City-born Abramoff had gambling in his blood and convinced a Native American tribe they needed his influence in Congress to prevent federal taxation of casinos located on Indian reservations. He succeeded for a signing fee of a cool million and a little help from his friend Tom DeLay. He continued to bill the tribe for work not done for several more million until it was financially ruined. He had no trouble accepting 6.7 million from the government of the Commonwealth of the Mariana Islands to exempt them from U.S. labor and minimum wage laws. The only minority he appeared to have helped were the Israelis for whom he illegally supplied night-vision glasses from Russia.

Cannily, Abramoff was able to forge alliances with such Christian conservative operators as Ralph Reed under the guise of being “men of God” who appeared to believe that “capitalism” (i.e., bribes, lies, theft, and corruption of public officials) was the surest route to heaven and reelection. Their sanctimonious Bible study, prayers groups, sermonizing, and demonization of others gave them all the divine inspiration they needed to justify their criminal behavior at the expense of the American public. Surely, no one would question the work of the Lord. Abramoff was fond of quoting movies, in particular The Godfather: Part II (1974). He would imitate a deadpan Michael Corleone in a meeting with a senator in his home office in Reno. When the senator demanded a cut of the Las Vegas casino profits, Corleone responded, “Senator, you can have my answer now, if you like. My offer is this: nothing.” A more enlightened Abramoff might have quoted an earlier line from the same scene, “Senator, we are all part of the same hypocrisy.”

Here’s the trailer: http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi402888985/

From the vault: The Godfather: Part II (1974), directed by Francis Ford Coppola; staring Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro, Robert Duvall, and Diane Keaton. I just love the scenes of pre-Castro Havana and then the Revolution! In a conversation with Lee Strasberg, Meyer Lansky once told him that Strasberg, “could have made him (Hyman Roth) a little nicer.” In this context, Abramoff comes off quite “nice.”

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

“Rare Exports: A Christmas Tale” (2010)

2010-12-30T19:08:00.009-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BBB

Dear Friend:

Remember the intro to the television show The Outer Limits (1963-65)? Spooky voice, flashing sound waves, high-pitch ringing: “There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission. (Blah, blah, blah.) You are about to participate in a great adventure. You are about to experience the awe and mystery that reaches from the inner mind to The Outer Limits!” This movie could have used the same cold open. Or, at least, the warning outside the witch’s castle in The Wizard of Oz (1939), “I’d turn back if I were you!” This is no Hallmark Hall of Fame presentation (unless “you care enough to scare the very best.”) No Capra corn in this Christmas special and no Jimmy Stewart or Donna Reed, because It's [not] a Wonderful Life (1946). This movie is so rough no women are in it. It is what is referred to as an “all-male cast.”

How can I describe this movie? If you combined Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), Fargo (1996), Rosemary’s Baby (1968), and Night of the Living Dead (1968) you would be getting closer to understanding the nature of this unique [A] Christmas Carol (1843). (Dickens’ tale has nothing on this story for sheer supernatural suspense.) If your children could withstand the shock of seeing all the aforementioned pictures in a single sitting, by all means, take them to see Rare Exports. However, I suspect that the enjoyment of the movie might be compromised for the adults by the presence of the wee ones -- no endless “why?” questions. Besides, the film is in Finnish with English subtitles and shows (horrors!) full-frontal nudity. (Did I mention “all-male cast?”) Yes, I think this movie just might become a Christmas cult classic given enough exposure.

The film takes place above the Arctic Circle in Lapland, northern Finland on the Russian border. It not only sounds like the end of the Earth it is the end of the Earth. It’s December at the North Pole and not a Santa or elf to be seen – yet. The only reindeer in this movie get eaten by wolves. The scenery is so barren, frozen, and desolate it could have been the moon, but for the Appalachian shanties and battered pick-up trucks. The locals hunt big game by snowmobile and kids handle loaded rifles. It is the land of outhouses and hungry roaming wolves: humans are fair game in these woods. Villagers eke out a grim and grimy living in a hostile climate in a pitiless world. Survival is success itself. Christmas means a gingerbread cookie. But, even they have Santa.

On the Russian side of the border (a chain link fence) an American team of archeologists blasts away at the top of a mountain to see what is at its core. This fascinates a Finnish boy, Pietari (Onni Tommila), who sees the parallels of the excavation with his own Santa research. Pietari comes to the conclusion that the contemporary benevolent Father Christmas had much darker origins than modern children were ever told. His research leads him to believe that Santa had more to do with Satan that sainthood. The books that litter his bedroom uncover images of a sadistic and avenging Santa determined to exact corporal punishment on all children, naughty or nice. He is certain that the purpose for all the excavation is to uncover the ancient evil Santa buried by the Sami people thousands of years ago. His fears are confirmed once the children of the village start disappearing.

Sound like a tall tale? Well, it is. We’re talking Santa Claus now, please. (I told you this was The Outer Limits.) Never has the reputation of Santa been so maligned or redefined. You’ve heard of Bad Santa (2003); that was kid stuff. This is Satanic Santa or the anti-Christmas, if you will. The writers of this picture seemed to have incorporated Old Norse mythology or some dark Scandinavian folklore into our Holly Jolly Christmas to create a new legend of pedophile foreboding. Remember, the Brothers Grimm were pretty grim: the cannibalism of children in Hansel and Gretel (1812), was not much different from Rare Exports. (Did I mention gingerbread?)

The ending of this picture is a happy and heroic one for the boy. (Roald Dahl would have approved.) I won’t spoil it for you. However, you may be assured that no child was consumed in the making of this movie. The elves received vocational rehabilitation and were released to service an endless army of expectant exasperating children in department stores around the world every holiday season. (Sounds like a Scandinavian Socialist “experiment” to me.) I know I will never see a store Santa in the same light ever again. Let’s just hope the little dickens get what they deserve.

Here’s the trailer: http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi192256281/

From the vault: Rosemary’s Baby (1968), directed by Roman Polanski; starring, Mia Farrow, John Cassavetes, Ruth Gordon, and Sidney Blackmer. (Did I mention consuming children?) I never get tired of watching this movie. (Sharon Tate is in the Christmas party scene, “Are you alright?”) Satanists try to take over the lives of a young couple to produce the anti-Christ. What would you do? “Think about it, Rosemary.”

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"The King's Speech" (2010)

2010-12-21T19:02:00.013-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: AAA

Dear Reader:

“Hail Britannia! Britannia rules the screen!” When was the last time you saw a movie where the audience burst into applause at The End? This was one of those wonderful times. The King’s Speech is in many ways a nostalgic throw back to the golden years of public television (PBS) starting in 1971, when WGBH/Boston presented Masterpiece Theatre, hosted by the venerable Alistair Cooke, followed by A&E in 1985. The sterling productions from the BBC, ITV, and Granada Television left an indelible impression on those of us lucky enough to have been weaned on them week after week. It was television of a quality not hitherto seen in the United States. Serials like The Forsyte Saga, Upstairs Downstairs, Elizabeth R, The Six Wives of Henry the VIII, the First Churchills, The Jewel in the Crown, Poldark, Lillie, and I, Claudius mesmerized American audiences hungry for sophisticated drama with a decided British bent. After the Beatles, it was the second “British Invasion.”

Indeed, The King’s Speech was a reunion for the audience with some of the actors from those memorable casts: Colin Firth, Jennifer Ehle, and David Bamber from Pride and Prejudice (1985); Claire Bloom and Anthony Edwards from Brideshead Revisited (1981), Michael Gambon from The Singing Detective (1985), and Britain’s most famous stutterer (until now), Derek Jacobi from I, Claudius (1976), in a bit of ironic casting. Remember, these were television productions, not major motion pictures. It was an era when writers actually wrote programs of significance for “the boob tube,” long before reality T.V. was let loose upon the viewing public. Lillie Langtry, the Jersey lily, came from the Isle of Jersey, not the Jersey Shore. No Snooki in these series.

The movie is the true story of how the awkward speech-impaired Duke of York “Bertie” (Colin Firth) ascended to the British throne as George VI, with the help of his unconventional Australian speech therapist Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush). Firth and Rush made an extraordinary team portraying this unlikely partnership of king and commoner. (I will try to resist the use of superlatives in reviewing this film, but fair is fair.) For Firth, especially, this must have been a demanding role. How does one learn to stutter, after all? (Sounds like the movie in reverse.) But it was not just the newly-learned impediment that was so impressive but the agony, energy, and frustration emoted by the duke to “enunciate!” even the most ordinary words. The poor man was tortured. Perhaps, this was why Bertie, the reluctant and accidental king suffered from those awful “nashes,” what we would call hissy fits.

The Duke and Duchess of York (Bertie and Elizabeth) with their children, princesses Elizabeth and Margaret made a happy foursome. Like most modern royals, they were relieved to have “dodged the bullet” of monarchy. That is, they could have all the benefits of being a royal without having the burden of all the scrutiny and ceremony of being the head of state. Standing on a permanent pedestal can make for sore feet. However, history (and his brother David, Edward VIII) had something different in mind. There were several factors in King Edward’s abdication, aside from that old yarn, “without the help and support of the woman I love.” Mrs. Ernest Simpson (Wallis) was a twice-divorced “adventuress,” to quote Queen Mary. She was an ambitious American socialite who lent her sexual favors to men she felt could advance her “career.” She was said to have possessed David more than dominated him and referred to the king as "the little man." He worshiped her and built his world and empire around her or tried to. It didn’t work.

It has been well-known that the King Edward VIII was a “Nazi sympathizer.” He and the duchess paid Hitler an “unofficial state visit” after his abdication in October 1937. The extent to which the duke favored Adolf Hitler’s political beliefs and held a personal admiration for the Fuhrer had been a well-guarded state secret until the 1990s. This was chronicled in the BBC television documentary entitled, Edward VIII, the Traitor King (1995). The King’s Speech alluded to it, but did not press the matter. Mrs. Simpson aside, David as king and later as a British army officer was an imprudent and careless man. As king, he said things to Mrs. Simpson that were reported to the German Ambassador, Joachim von Ribbentrop, her other lover at the time. After the abdication, the couple attracted powerful Nazi agents wherever they traveled telling the Germans state secrets that altered the destiny of the war and the world. He was a traitor and a deserter, she was an enemy spy. They had to go. The double divorcee was just the ticket for the king's departure. (Isn’t this a great story?! It could be the sequel, starring Guy Pearce. Don’t strike that set!)

The production value of the movie was really first rate; the interiors and costumes were period and are reasons enough to see the picture, aside from the tremendous acting and touching story. The costume designer (Jenny Beavan) did a marvelous job on the “dowdy duchess” (Wallis’ term for her full-figured sister-in-law). The production could not have been as successful as it was without a battalion of historic style consultants and artists. They are the very thing that makes these British spectaculars so spectacular – not to mention the legion of the great actors the Empire has to offer. Is there anything more beautiful than hearing a British actor speak BBC English? (Providing they don’t stammer.) Warning: this movie is genuinely moving. “Be prepared,” to quote Lord Baden-Powell. You just might need that hankie.

Here's the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QmtpxP6t57A

From the vault: Women in Love (1969), Directed by Ken Russell, starring Glenda Jackson, Alan Bates, Oliver Reed, and Jennie Linden. No royals but plenty of Brits. AIDS activist Larry Kramer was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Writing, Screen Play Based on Material from Another Medium. (I’d be bitter, too!) “It’s so dark and mysterious.”

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"All Good Things" (2010)

2010-12-17T18:44:00.011-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BBB

Dear Reader:

Never heard of this movie? This one’s under the radar or under the “sonar,” to use the title of the anonymously-authored internet real estate report produced by the late Mark Madoff. (The poor boy was reduced to selling email subscriptions at $20.00 a month.) I don’t know why. It is a perfectly fine picture in the genre of “rich people behaving badly.” I’m not talking about Republicans holding extended unemployment benefits hostage to tax-breaks for the rich and setting the inheritance tax bar at $5,000,000.00. No, no, no, no, no! I’m talking about murder. I love this type of movie; I suppose it is the Dominick Dunne in me. The sordid travails of the super rich can always be counted on to provide Schadenfreude or at least some smug moral superiority to those of us of the lower economic echelons. I know I am not above peeping through the keyholes of those who live behind gilded gates for a little entertainment. After all, not all castles offer guided tours.

This is reported to be fiction based upon a true missing-person mystery. In this case, the names of the guilty have been changed to protect the producers. However, the comparisons to the Durst family and its real estate concern in New York are so apparent, no disclaimer of “any resemblance between the characters of this film to actual persons is purely coincidental” because it was clearly intentional. The actors were cast, in part, to resemble actual family members: wife, Katie Durst (Kirsten Dunst), husband, Robert A. Dunst (Ryan Gosling), and father(-in-law) Seymour Durst (Frank Langella). The most amusing lookalike was the Westchester County prosecutor Jeanine F. Pirro (Diane Venona). Venona did a spot-on portrayal of the ambitious former political candidate, now T.V. judge. (Why bother with constituents when you can have fans?) The only character’s whose name was not changed was the late Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, who is not disposed to sue anyone for defamation.

Yes, the rich are different -- they get away with murder. At least, this rich kid did, which is why this is “fiction.” Nothing has ever been proven, but boy can we fill in those blanks with a glue gun. The movie is about David Marks (Gosling), a disturbed rich boy who at age seven witnessed his mother’s suicide in a leap from the garage roof (a fatal lack of style, I’m afraid). The austere and downright mean father Sanford Marks (Langella), allowed the boy to witness the event. (She could have been faking, I suppose.) The boy never got over seeing his mother’s demise and developed a deep hatred for his father that was never resolved despite extensive (scream) therapy. The father was a Jewish Godfather-type without any affection for his wayward son. In fact, his antipathy for his son was proclaimed in every word to him. The message was clear, “if you defy me by not joining the family business, you are worthless to me.” So, what’s a pothead like David to do? He runs away with his shiksa to Vermont to open a (Kosher?) health food store called, “All Good Things.”

Life in Vermont is a paradise for the young lovers until one day the Devil arrives in a limousine. The father lays a guilt trip on the boy to return to New York and work for the family firm. The son gives in and it’s all down hill from here. This is where the story becomes a Greek tragedy. The father’s relentless pressure to obey and the son’s ambivalent obeyance (I say it’s a word) result in the son’s ultimate downfall. The depravity and murder that ensue scandalize society and disgrace the “noble” family. This is a story that happens in many households. It is the dramatic locations, powerful players, and the exalted family that make this a classic story of family dysfunction. And yes, the rich do get better health care and legal representation.

I was a little disappointed there was not more glamour in the picture. (This was not The Two Mrs. Grenvilles, 1985). All of the surviving Marks members were male and looked like they had just come from a Ralph Lauren catalogue. There was only one brief party of importance in which Mrs. Moynihan looked fabulous in a an evening gown with a yellow satin bodice with black military braiding. But that was as close to fabulosity (this is word, too) as we got in this film. There were no receptions, parties or balls to speak of. Former flower child, Katie Marks, was hopelessly middle class, “she's never going to be one of us.” Consequently, there were no extravagant costumes, freaks of fashion or society beauties. (Don’t look for Babe Paley in this picture.) No, the men in this family meant buttoned-down Brooks Brothers.

The acting in this film was universally excellent. I never cease to be amazed by the breadth of thespian talent in this country. Langella was a very powerful menacing presence. Perhaps, he drew upon his days as a young buck in Dracula (1979). I was especially touched the performance of Philip Baker Hall as Malvern Bump, a down-and-out sad sack manipulated by David Marks. If Sanford Marks were the king, Bump was the pawn. It was heartbreaking to see the things desperate people will do to stay alive -- sometimes the very things the mighty do to maintain an empire. BTW, Mr. Bernie Madoff is not available for comment -- neither is his son.

Here’s the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bMZDdvmQXQQ

From the vault: East of Eden (1955), directed by Elia Kazan, staring James Dean, Julie Harris, and Raymond Massie. No tycoons, no murder, and no Jews (Steinbeck was Episcopalian) but boy is there a lot of family fallout in this classic father-son feud. One of the few films I would venture to call perfect. And, this is Ryan Gosling’s favorite film.

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"I Love You Phillip Morris" (2009/2010)

2010-12-12T13:14:00.022-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BBC

Dear Reader:

Despite the title, this movie is not about a smoker’s gratitude for the Marlboro Man, although he would have fit right into the picture without any trouble, if it were. As you may be aware, the cowboy (or reasonable facsimile there of) is a popular stereotype in gay culture. Appearing to be a recognizable brand or "type" is a quick way of getting recognition in otherwise dim, crowded, and anonymous establishments. And speaking of branding (hold your irons), the title just might have been the greatest feat of product placement since Lloyd's of London (1936), but I digress before I begin.

I Love You Phillip Morris is a funny picture and by “funny” I not only mean humorous, but something unsettling. It’s hard not to laugh at Jim Carrey, he is so good at what he does. (Hope you like him. There is a lot of him in this movie.) Although, I have to admit that at some point I felt uncomfortable with the whole premise of the picture being a comedy. The movie is based on the life of one the great con artists/escape artists/impostors/embezzlers in recent memory, Steven Jay Russell. His nicknames were “Houdini” and “King Con.” Russell, a handsome and charming homosexual, was able to convince people that among other things, he was an attorney, a judge, a corporate executive, a physician, etc. by actually practicing these professions without any education or training. It is said he has an I.Q. of 163. He fell in love with Phillip Morris (Ewan McGregor) in the Harris County Jail, and the two maintained a torrid relationship that endured a prison to palace to prison “destiny.” This is a remarkable story by any measure.

The IMDb website describes this feature as a “Comedy / Romance / Drama.” If I were to define the movie, I would call it a romantic gay screwball-comedy biography. Did I say, “biography?” Yes, and this is what bothers me. It is almost as if the filmmaker were saying, “their lives are our joke.” Have you ever heard of a funny biography? Funny Girl (1962), maybe, but that was because Fanny Brice was a comedienne. IMDb describes Funny Girl as a “Biography / Comedy / Drama.” Brice and her husband Nick Arnstein were two real people in the movie. In I Love You Phillip Morris, Carrey portrays Russell as a cartoon character, someone we can dismiss as unreal, ridiculous, and incredible. Perhaps this is why the promoters of the film kept telling us the movie is, “a story so incredible, it could only be true,” and “based on a story so unbelievable, it has to be true.”

I think this could have been a great romantic thriller, had the writers not decided that “improbable” meant hilarious. Carrey, err, Russell “becomes gay” after a near fatal car accident. (Do you think it was the head injury?) The intrigue, deception, and scheming on the part of Russell could have been a great criminal suspense drama combined with a love story. Perhaps, comedy was the only way to sell this unique saga to the American public, by making the gay couple laughable. Much of the poignancy of the relationship was lost when they were made figures of fun. I personally could not overlook that fact that this was a true love story between two real people whose lives were not a comedy. In many ways the film became the story of “what will those crazy gays do next?”

In fairness to the movie, not all was comic. McGregor was fabulous as Phillip Morris. There has not been such a convincing portrait of a southern belle from a British actor since Vivien Leigh in A Street Car Named Desire (1951), speaking of improbable queer stories. His sensitive and sincere portrayal of Morris was the counterpoint needed to offset Carrey’s buffoonery. Carrey was very good, but then he has portrayed flamboyant homosexuals in the past. He was truly great in How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000).

Structurally, the movie came apart towards the end. The narrative had to describe to the audience in a flashback what they had just seen in real time to explain a crucial plot twist. It was almost as if there were too much story to cover and too little time to tell it adequately. One got the impression that the movie had been edited by too many committees and its cohesion suffered. The “moral of the story” was long overdue and then didactically enunciated before the credits started rolling, that living one’s life as a lie is destructive to one’s identity (as in “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”). Despite all the stereotypes and the comic portrayals, Phillip Morris was a landmark of sorts for gay people, the lovers didn’t die in the end -- just a 144-year sentence.

Here’s the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XoFANivV44g

From the vault: How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000), directed by Ron Howard, starring Jim Carrey, Taylor Momsen, and Jeffrey Tambor. (Has anyone ever figured out what “Fah who for-aze! Dah who dor-aze!” means?) No Boris Karloff narration, but Carrey is scary enough as the over-the-top Grinch. ‘Tis the season, after all.

Best of luck in your movie selection. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"Black Swan" (2010)

2010-12-03T20:09:00.034-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BCD

Dear Reader:

It’s fun to rename movies, especially when their titles are not terribly descriptive of a provocative film. I was toying with the idea of calling this movie Black Eye or maybe Psycho Lake. I finally settled on Scrambled Eggs for this red-plate special is something that has never been served before and will not be served again with any luck. This movie is billed as a “thriller.” A thriller by nature is an edgy mystery designed to keep the audience guessing. The only question I found myself asking was “where is this plot going?” My question was answered in a manner so bizarre, even I could not have imagined: the swan turned turkey and laid a cracked egg.

Oh, I know this film has been getting good notices and ratings, but I don’t read movie reviews. Frankly, I don’t understand it. It started out as a true to life movie about the struggles of a young ballerina in New York. The director, Darren Aronofsky, presented the issues a dancer faces honestly and artfully. It was a serious European-type movie, full of feeling and not much action. Characters struggled with their emotions in atmospheric interiors. Once the pretense of the film was established, not much happened except for some dance scenes featuring Peter Martins lookalike Vincent Cassel and members of the Pennsylvania Ballet. The plot was going nowhere. I was worried. Is this film going to fly?

The story line of this movie was simple and singular. That is to say, there was no sub-plot, just a straight track with a couple of unscheduled stops before the collision of a conclusion. I hate to give away the plot of any movie, but when there is not much of one, I’m afraid it is inevitable. The movie ends in a choreographed train wreck: a truck load of exotic chickens is struck at the railroad crossing. You know the scene, “ding, ding, ding," lights flash on the automatic gate, the speeding engine blows one last frantic warning, and then CRASH: feathers fall from the sky in a heavenly blizzard. But, I am getting ahead of myself.

Lovely Natalie Portman is Nina the conflicted heroine, a tremendous actress and impressive dancer. She lives with her domineering mother (Barbara Hershey) a former ballerina herself who gave up her career when she became pregnant with Nina. Guilt, competition, resentment, and envy define this (typical) mother-daughter relationship. Nina is up for the part of the swan queen(s) Odette/Odile in Swan Lake. She gets the role, but can she handle the pressure? Apparently, not. Nina has paranoid delusions and hallucinations in an endless series of pointless episodes that lead nowhere until we reach the train tracks. This picture is not so much about a young woman who loses her mind but a motion picture that is derailed for lack of a destination.

Black Swan attempted to use the plot of Swan Lake to mirror the inner turmoil of this young dancer, her good side and her bad side. It was not what I call a "good fit," as the psychological dilemma of the ballet was not the one in the movie. In Swan Lake, Prince Siegfried falls in love with the lovely, virginal, and vulnerable Odette, the white swan queen while on a hunting trip. Later, at the palace Odile the black swan shows up impersonating Odette. As they appear identical but for costume (the parts are performed by the same ballerina), Siegfried cannot tell the difference. Odile, the seductive, vindictive, and manipulative instrument of the evil von Rothbart entraps Siegfried into proposing to her. He falls for it. He realizes his mistake. Too late! He is engaged to the wrong swan. In fact, he is engaged to the same woman he fell in love with originally. He discovers to his dismay the (alleged) dual nature of women as symbolized by the white and black swans. Swan Lake is a cautionary tale to men about loving women; it is not about a woman's career crisis.

What makes this film so peculiar is its combination of genres. It starts out a serious art film, morphs into a psycho-sexual drama (no shortage of sexual variety in this ballet company), and climaxes into a slasher movie. There have been many great swan queens: Ulanova, Plisetskaya, Makarova, Fonteyn, Alonso – but Freddy Krueger?! This is a new twist in casting! As the competition between dancers comes to a climax, the melodrama devolves into a farcical blood bath ballet. (There was almost as much blood in this picture as SAW – The Final Chapter, 2010.) There has always been a dilemma in the ending of Swan Lake: do they live happily ever after, die together or die separately? In this final performance, Nina is dropped by her partner like a sack of potatoes, grows feathers like a giant crow, and throws herself off a ramp onto a mattress with a shard of glass impaling her diaphragm spurting blood. How’s that for a finale? Considering the degree of exsanguination throughout Black Swan, I think the only truly descriptive title of this movie could have been Blood Swan.

Here's the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NmraonoCMkI&feature=related

From the vault: The Turning Point (1977), Directed by Herbert Ross, starring Shirley MacLaine, Anne Bancroft, and Mikhail Baryshnikov. “Ballet is the cruelest art.” (I’m quoting myself here.) You give it all you’ve got and, even if you are one of the lucky ones to achieve professional proficiency, the career doesn’t last long. No blood in this picture but plenty of daggers.

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"Burlesque" (2010)

2010-11-30T15:06:00.011-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BBC

Dear Reader:

Here’s a riddle for you: what do you call a movie about a cabaret modeled on another movie about a cabaret? Why, you call it Burlesque, of course, unless you don’t want to be as obvious in your title as you were in your appropriation of its predecessor, Cabaret (1971). It’s not so much the lack of accuracy that bothers me about the title, but the lack of honesty. I’m afraid I have too much respect for cabaret and burlesque to allow these two exceptional forms of theater to be confused for the sake of providing a fig leaf for writer-director Steve Antin.

Forgive me for being pedagogic, but cabaret is not burlesque. According to the online dictionary at Answers.com, burlesque is “a variety show characterized by broad ribald comedy, dancing, and striptease,” whereas cabaret is a “floor show presented by a restaurant or nightclub providing short programs of live entertainment” (i.e., no striptease). In short, cabaret may have been naughty, but burlesque was lascivious -- barely clad glamazons removed their flimsy costume to music, perhaps while singing, but never lip-syncing. "Legitimate” vaudeville acts, often comics, performed between displays of exotic dancing were cover to keep the cops out. (Ever see Gypsy, 1962?) In cabaret, the acts were presumed to be authentic. Burlesque was performed in a theater, cabaret performed in a club. Got it? This movie was about a cabaret.

Silly me, once again I believed what I was told. Frankly, I was disappointed at not seeing reincarnations of the great burlesque queens: Gypsy Rose Lee, Lili St. Cyr, and Ann Corio or at least a little Dita von Teese. (That would have been an original movie.) However, I was astonished to find a shameless rip-off of the film Cabaret, directed and choreographed by Bob Fosse, starring Liza Minnelli and Michael York. Fosse’s direction and choreography were copied and transported from Weimar Republic Germany to twenty-first century Los Angeles, without much alteration. The staging, costumes, and acts were a little déjà vu for my taste. The bowler hats, the bentwood chairs, the silhouetted band were more of a flashback to that classic musical by Kandor and Ebb than anything current. The “Two Ladies” number from Cabaret with Joel Grey was recreated with epicene Alan Cumming with less success than the original. To cover his derriere, Antin threw in one token burlesque number, a sort-of hommage to fan dancer Sally Rand. The contemporary dance numbers were more Broadway and Vegas than cabaret or burlesque.

The plot was perhaps the least original aspect of this movie. It could have been written in the 1930s or 40s, starring Joan Crawford or Judy Garland: a small town girl with a heart of gold runs away to the big city to become a star! It’s not that easy: she gets a job as a cocktail waitress in a club and when one of the dancers becomes unavailable, she gets her big break and becomes a star! In the meantime, she dumps the billionaire real estate developer to return to the open arms of her waiter-song writer roommate, and saves the club from foreclosure! (I did not make this up.) Now, if our little runaway had become a Hollywood pole dancer, we might have had a credible story line.

Burlesque was designed as a vehicle to showcase the talents of Cher and Christina Aguilera, and to that extent, the picture succeeded. Cher did her best performance of Cher to date. The role was “not a stretch” as they say. If you like Cher, you will like this movie. Some of her opening repartee sounded like it could have been a rerun of The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour (1971). (Cher always got the last word.) There was a point in the movie when it came to a complete halt so that she could sing a solo for an impromptu rehearsal. Stop the movie! Cher has to rehearse! She’s gotten older, but then so have her fans. Let Cher be Cher, I say. If you haven’t learned to like her by now, this movie will not change your mind.

Christina Aguilera was a little dynamo. Her part required a lot of talent and she has it. She’s a beautiful woman (under all those wigs) who acts and dances well. Her singing is stupendous. Her voice sounds pop, country, and soul all at the same time. One wonders how so much volume could come from such a tiny lady. In the movie, hardened club-owner and chanteuse Cher becomes the surrogate mother to hapless Hawkeye, Aguilera, a refugee from a dust bowl dive called "Dwight's Bar." (Don't go there!) The make-up tutorial was touching. (Apparently, there is a shortage of make-up brushes in the Iowa.) In fact, it appeared as if Cher were somehow passing her crown to the next super star -- a magnanimous act of Hollywood humility, don’t you think? Could this mean that Cher is considering retirement? Don’t bet the strip club.

Here's the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GC9LakXHgt0

From the vault: How about two musicals this week? Cabaret (1971), this movie will knock your socks off. It takes place In Berlin between the world wars. This movie has it all: Nazis, show people, transvestites, queers, prostitutes. (I am not being redundant.) See how the cabaret acts reflect the political turmoil outside the club. And then there’s Gypsy (1962), directed by Mervyn LeRoy, staring Natalie Wood and Rosalind Russell, and Karl Malden, music by Jule Styne, lyrics by Stephen Sondheim. The allegedly true autobiography Gypsy Rose Lee could not be more innocent or amusing. (No mention of Gypsy's lesbian mother shooting her lover in a jealous rage at her women-only boarding house. That was last pass she ever made at Gypsy.) "You got sumpin’ against strippin’?!”

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"The Social Network" (2010)

2010-11-22T12:04:00.005-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: AAA

Dear Reader:

An historic moment – my first review of an AAA Dwight Dekeyser-rated movie! (Deep breath.) I hardly know where to begin. This is an exciting intelligent movie for adults, so youth-oriented it will appeal to their college and high school kids. The movie is a screen adaption of the fascinating true story of the founding of Facebook, and the ensuing fight for its credit and control. This could have been the dullest movie ever: computer geeks and corporate litigation are unlikely topics of interest for most people unless algorithms and depositions are your preference. What made this movie so exhilarating was its pace: the thrill of discovery, the edge of competition, its attractive characters, and glamorous settings. This movie takes you places. (Ever been sculling with HSH Prince Albert of Monaco?)

The Social Network is in many ways a sophisticated Animal House (1978) for the online generation. As the National Lampoon (1970) magazine was spawned at Harvard, so it appears, was Facebook, the internet social network. The movie exposes aspects of undergraduate life from this hallowed Ivy League institution you may not have known existed. It’s not something one would read in the college catalogue. This place knows how to party! The movie has the computer geeks go to some of the most exclusive, swank, get-down-and-dirty “socials” you have ever seen with some of the hottest boys and girls in higher education. In fact, much of the success of the movie is the succession of fun and frisky parties that never get repetitious. These geeks know how to live!

As Facebook became a tsunami success, the law suits began in what became the equivalent of Harvard Brat v. Harvard Brat. What was unusual in this movie was the use of dramatic testimony given in depositions (pretrial discovery conferences under oath) and not the typical trial setting. The reason, of course, is these law suits never made it to trial as they were settled out of court. Nevertheless, the deposition scenes were gripping and emotional as these bright young men detailed the theft of their ideas and the betrayal of their friendships. The law firm scenes provided a stark and sober contrast to the insouciant undergraduate bacchanals. The intense and often personal interrogation of the youthful litigants by opposing counsel provided high drama and in the process presented an interesting legal issue in deciding the ownership of Facebook: how does one determine the contribution an individual makes to a business enterprise that was generated through the free exchange of ideas with co-creators?

The acting in The Social Network was universally outstanding, as the actors were cast to perfection. Three actors (or four depending upon how you count) struck me as particularly noteworthy. The male lead Jesse Eisenberg portrayed Mark Zuckerberg, the co-founder of Facebook. He was so authentic a character, it never occurred to me he was not the real person. While there was no “star quality” or charisma in his performance, per se, Eisenberg's acting went beyond credibility; it was actual being -- an achievement not to be ignored.

Arnie Hammer played a double roll as the uber-preppy (Neidermeyer?) identical twins Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss. I was unaware of this Patty Duke Show (1963) deception until I read the credits. (I was disappointed to learn there were not two of him, but I have come to accept it.) The grandson of industrialist Armand Hammer (is there no justice in this world?) is what I call old-Hollywood handsome -- he is a real knock out. It is not simply his beauty that makes his performance so noteworthy, but the fact that he is so appealing in every way. He is the type of leading man “all woman want to have and all men want to be” – without resentment. He could be the next James Bond: stirred, not shaken this time.

A pleasant surprise was the performance of Justin Timberlake. I never thought of him as appealing in any capacity, but I must admit he made a favorable impression as a legitimate actor. I thought I detected a little Dennis Hopper in his approach to the role. He had a certain look that I thought projected his character like a Greek mask. ("We didn't need dialogue then, we had faces!" Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard, 1950.) One scene I thoroughly enjoyed was at a California night club where the panning disco lights changed the color of his pale pallor from one gaudy hue to another, a reflection of his mercurial temperament. It reminded me of “The Joker” from Batman (1966), BAM! POW!

Here's the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lB95KLmpLR4

From the vault: Animal House (1978), directed by John Landis, staring John Belushi, Tom Hulce, and Kevin Bacon. College movies, it seems, have come along way. This timeless coming of age comedy had more truth than fiction to it for the times. It is also one of the most quoted films. Dean Wormer to Flounder, “Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go though life, son.” Ouch! (The dean at Harvard wasn't much nicer.)

Best of luck in your movie selections, your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"RED" (2010)

2010-11-14T19:28:00.009-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: CCC

Dear Reader:

Last week, I made the acquaintance of a perky young college professor. He was distressed to learn that I had just viewed SAW 3D – The Final Chapter (2010), for my blog. Apparently, mistaking me for a student, he promptly offered some unsolicited advice. He counseled that I should review “real” movies, and suggested that I see RED, one he had just seen and enjoyed. Trusting, I took his advice. (He seemed cynical enough.) Well, as the saying goes, there is no accounting for taste, even if he did have a Ph.D. in French literature. While the movie may borne a passing resemblance to The Three Musketeers (1844), it was not a classic, not even a French one.

The theater billed Red as an “action/adventure/comedy” movie. That’s a tall order for any picture. It would appear that the producers felt that if they combined sufficient violence, special effects, catchy repartee, and an all-star cast they could pull off this spy-thriller opera buffa. For me, at least, it did not work – not because there were not enough elements, but because they were not the right ones. The critical missing component was style.

The movie is an updated James Bond movie commingled with some popular television situation comedies and movies of the 1960s and 70s. (Sound doable to you?) Our Bond in this case was the affable Bruce Willis. Unlike the Bond portrayed by Sean Connery, Willis was not the suave, sophisticated metrosexual secret agent 007. No, he was a sad, lonely, bald, middle-class, retired CIA hit man we see taking out his garbage in snowy suburban Cleveland. (How far we have fallen!) Don’t look for any martinis in this picture. It’s all shots from here.

Willis quickly teams up with unsuspecting golly-gee-whiz Mary-Louise Parker, who bears a striking resemblance to Susan Saint James of McMillan & Wife (1971-77). (She reads romance novels written by “Susan St. John,” – so clever). Anyway, McMillan & Wife are one step ahead of trigger-happy government agents determined to make Swiss cheese out of the pair. On their journey, they team up with psycho-comic John Malkovich, an ex-CIA agent like Willis. (Now, it really gets good!) The three join forces to become a wacky all-white Mod Squad (1968-73), bent on foiling the forces of evil, in this case the United States government.

A couple scenes and cities later (there is no shortage of post card venues in this production), the Mod Squad teams up with yet two more quixotic ex-CIA agents Morgan Freeman and Helen Mirren to add a little cool and class into what grows into a side-splitting Mission Impossible (1966-73) crew of misfits. If that were not enough, they enlist a cantankerous old KGB crony, Brian Cox, for Mirren to add a little romance to this otherwise sexless picture. (Did I mention missing components?)

There were “memorable” moments in the movie. In one scene Freeman dressed like a Haitian Captain Kangaroo bitch-slaps bad guy Richard Dreyfuss (long overdue). In another, Helen Mirren displayed her feminine firepower dressed in an evening gown and combat boots by outgunning Faye Dunaway in Bonnie and Clyde (1967) with her automatic weapon. (How far we have come!)

What the actors failed to realize was the way Sean Connery as Bond was able to pull-off those improbable scenes with those fantastic gadgets. He played it straight. It was assumed the audience possessed sufficient sophistication to pick up on the absurdity delivered with such style. Instead, in RED we saw a movie of gags and gimmicks from situation comedy before the dawn of reality T.V. Perhaps, this is what my perky young professor found so novel.

Here's the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fKr4JrCdMw

From the vault: Goldfinger, (1964). Directed by Guy Hamilton, starring Sean Connery, Honor Blackman, and Gert Frobe. After the first three notes of the title music sung by sassy Shirley Bassey, “Gold-fing-gah!” you will be sucked in. FYI, Ronald Reagan did not win the Cold War, it was Sean Connery.

Best of luck in your movie selections. Your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

“Saw 3D -- The Last Judgment” (2010)

2010-11-08T10:31:00.004-05:00

Dwight Dekeyser rating: BBC

Dear Reader:

Sometimes, it is best not to know what to expect. Too much foreknowledge could deter a sensitive soul from experiencing an otherwise entertaining and illuminating adventure. Little did I know what I was in for when I decided to view Saw 3D – The Last Chapter. (Don't let the King Kong-esque promotional poster fool you. It's not that kind of horror movie.) It sounded ideal: a horror movie in 3D, and that is what it was. Perhaps the most gruesome movie ever made, it could have been produced by the creators of the OGRISH website of depravity, now kaput. A movie with so much gratuitous torture, violence, and mayhem, it could have been written by Sir Richard Topcliffe and the Marquis de Sade. It was a spectacle so heinous it was worthy of the Roman Coliseum under Caligula. It was the French Revolution and the Spanish Inquisition with an all Rwandan cast. All that was missing was a chorus of corpses singing, “That’s Entertainment!” But this was not a musical.

Little did I realize that this picture was the last and latest sequel to a series of six sadistic SAW movies, and that this was to be the gory grand finale and fond farewell. The film was a series of divertissements of cruel and creative butchery strung together by a theme of marital discord, a sort of “Portrait of a Marriage” in hell. One could argue that the whole movie was a parody of the institution – it was funny at times. I was convinced that more than one messy divorce or bad relationship had been the inspiration for this movie written by Patrick Melton and Marcus Dunstan, the Topcliffe and de Sade of this malignant masterpiece. The execution scenes themselves resembled the most perverse game show ever imagined. “Come on down!” In the picture, an individual is compelled to rescue one or more restrained persons from certain death by performing some grotesque feat involving the freeing of the caged/chained/hog-tied under the unreasonable time constraints of a ticking stopwatch. Like a sick casino, the odds were never on the players’ side.

Taken as a whole, the film was an elaborate snuff movie. Like a pornographic movie, once the “action” started it was tantalizing until repetition and overexposure made the viewer inured to the forbidden. The novel became banal. That being said, the torture and debauchery were tantalizing – for a time. It occurred to me that had the actors been naked during their demise it could have been a double-whammy for the audience. But then, I am reminded that the cover of Larry Flynt’s Hustler magazine (June 1978), of a naked woman being put through a meat grinder was not exactly well-received by some. For this movie, at least, that would have been tame.

The saving grace of the picture was its technical mastery. The contraptions and instruments of torture and execution were so ingenious they looked as if they could have been engineered by Michelangelo, so elaborate Rube Goldberg would have been proud. The shear graphic carnage was only redeemed by the artistry of the make-up and the special effects technicians that presented it so convincingly. (I was tickled with the use a single flashing red light bulb to heighten the suspense in a scene before the coup de grace.) 3D was the perfect vehicle for this orgy of dismembered body parts – duck, flying flesh! There was so much blood, the theater could have issued raincoats for the audience.

One obvious drawback to the movie was the lack of big stars. (It is hard to care about the fate of underdeveloped characters.) How much more interesting it would have been to have had well-known actors fall one-by-one under those sordid circumstances. Take for instance the cast of the yet to be released Little Fockers (2010). Can you imagine the movie trailer: “See Dustin Hoffman’s face blown off! Hear Barbra Streisand’s swan song -- her throat slashed! Watch helpless Blythe Danner, guillotined at the waist! Robert DeNiro, as you’ve never seen him -- roasted alive before your eyes! And Ben Stiller, swinging on a rope!” It could have been It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World (1963) of gore. The cast was just as long, the killer was so prodigious. Perhaps, there was not the budget to hire all big-name victims required. BTW, Actor Tobin Bell was superb as “John.”

Oh, yes, Saw 3D is a murder mystery, too. The ventriloquist did it.

Here's the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XP3mZe1s_nk&playnext=1&list=PLD34DF331269BB00B&index=8

From the vault: originally entitled, Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein (1974), it is now called Flesh for Frankenstein, directed by Paul Morrissey, starring Paul Dallesandro, unique Monique van Vooren, and Udo Kier. (Warhol had zero to do with this movie.) This made a big impression on me when I saw this in 1974. It, too, is a horror movie in 3D. It was like Studio 54 habitués made a Universal Studio movie from the 1930s. There is a little gore in this movie, but it’s the dessert not the main course. Warning: sexual content. Dr. Frankenstein fondles the internal organs of his pastiche patients.

Best of luck in your movie selections, your faithful friend,

Dwight Dekeyser

"Hereafter" (2010)

2010-11-05T10:30:00.002-04:00

Dwight Dekeyser Rating: ABC

Dear Reader:

I like to think of a motion picture as an amusement park ride. The great ones just carry you away emotionally and intellectually. Like riding a roller coaster you are rocked and shaken out of your senses. In a true spellbinder one becomes so engrossed by the characters and their dilemma you are afraid to blink for fear of missing a clue, a look, or a nuanced gesture. A viewer must be intrigued by the circumstances surrounding the hero; the tension building until the storm breaks overwhelming the viewer by the sound and fury flashing before them. Without realizing it, the viewer becomes concerned for his own safety, anxious for the danger to pass and their nerves restored. It’s a fantastic ride with a safe landing.

Hereafter started with sound and fury but, never mounted the second or third wave of excitement equaled to the first. There were attempts, but they were predictable accidents or occurrences as the film meandered down the road of mystical intrigue and mundane romance. In short, the movie became a psychic soap opera. After the terrifying plunge of the roller coaster, the car careened through the lives of three unrelated morbid people to a cozy and comforting end shared by all. The story takes place simultaneously in exotic Asia, upscale Paris, “blue-collar” San Francisco, grimy London, and a quick detour to the Alps for spectacular scenery. The London scenes in particular reminded me of the EastEnders, the cockney British serial, as the scenes rotated between the story lines without any real connection.

If we are to believe studio publicity, Hereafter is “[a] drama centered on three people who are haunted by mortality in different ways. George (Damon) is a blue-collar American who has a special connection to the afterlife. On the other side of the world, Marie (de France), a French journalist, has a near-death experience that shakes her reality. And when Marcus (Frankie/George McLaren), a London schoolboy, loses the person closest to him, he desperately needs answers. Each on a path in search of the truth, their lives will intersect, forever changed by what they believe might-or must-exist in the hereafter. Written by Warner Bros. Pictures” [tortured prose, theirs].

As if death and the afterlife were not enough, there were other compelling emotional issues to amuse oneself along the way: pain, loss, loneliness, separation, drug addition, professional crisis, child molestation, incest, identical twins, a book deal, and a cooking competition. (I thought they would never stop chopping tomatoes.) It seemed a long road to get to boy meets girl (in this case psychic meets near-death survivor) in front of Pizza Express with Clint Eastwood’s ersatz music in the background. A haunting original score could have moved the story along and added atmosphere. What we got was an occasional classic: Puccini, Chopin, Eastwood.

Matt Damon was Matt Damon in the movie. You could tell he was blue-collar because he sometimes wore a construction helmet. Otherwise, one might have confused him for a handsome, middle-aged, Harvard-educated bachelor in San Francisco wearing construction boots, taking cooking classes, and listening to Dickens. “Stella!” Cecile de France, is a French actress who portrayed a French (dead) woman convincingly. Warning: most of Mlle. de France’s scenes are subtitled, as in “foreign film.” The tsunami scene with her bobbing about was a computerized special effects tour-de-force. I know I was carried away.

From the vault: Vertigo, (1958), directed by Alfred Hitchcock, starring James Stewart and Kim Novak. Like Hereafter, it too, takes place in San Francisco and deals with death and the afterlife. No tsunami, but there are other ways to kill a co-star, although Novak and Stewart do take an overdressed plunge into San Francisco Bay. This film even has a young Miss Ellie and a younger Grandma Walton, “you know?”

Here's the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dal7PJotEKo

Best of luck in your movie selection, your faithful friend,