Rave: Tell No One

Tell No One. French. Suspenseful. Economical storytelling. Lyric. Worth it, highly recommended.

2008: Movies

Movies enjoyed (and recommended!) in 2008, both old and new. I have not seen Frost/Nixon or The Wrestler yet, but the best movie I saw this year is Milk. List below, caveats at the end:

Highly Recommended:
Milk
Man on Wire
Slumdog Millionaire
The Dark Knight
Iron Man
Encounters at the End of the World
Mongol
Planet B-Boy
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
There Will Be Blood
(the last two technically from 2007)

Also Recommended:
Gran Torino
Reprise
War, Inc
Wall-E
The Wackness
Tropic Thunder
The Flight of the Red Balloon
Forgetting Sarah Marshall
Role Models

Enjoyed on DVD/Internet/Airplane/etc.
Syriana
Inside Man
Zodiac
Southland Tales
Into the Wild
Gone Baby Gone
Juno
Dogday Afternoon
The Visitor
Baby Mama
Flight of the Conchords (TV)
It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia (TV)
Casino Royale

Missed (i.e., to catch or rent)
The Band's Visit
Paranoid Park
Frozen River
Pineapple Express
Hamlet 2
Appaloosa
Rachel Getting Married
City of Ember
Happy-Go-Lucky
W.
Tell No One
Synecdoche, New York
Cadillac Records
Frost/Nixon
The Wrestler
The Class
Waltz With Bashir

No really incredible movies this year, but a fair amount of quality overall.

Paul Newman, RIP

Does anybody represent what was great about America in the second half of the 20th century more than Paul Newman? In movies and in real life? Will be sorely missed...

An appreciation from NYT.

Two more rememberances, from Stephen Metcalf and Dana Stevens, on Slate.com. Metcalf puts it close to the mark with this closing bit:

Paul Newman reminded us—with a smile, a twinkle, a total economy of gesture—how infrequently the beautiful are comfortable in their own skin, how infrequently the elect are gracious. He enters, and immediately, the pantheon of Grant, Tracy, and Stewart, for reminding us of that magical Emersonian place, of America in its own imagination of itself, where the superhuman and the all-too-human become indistinguishable.

The Art of the Title

The Art of the Title, a site that collects opening and closing title sequences of films and TV shows. The archive isn't quite full yet, but certainly enough of interest initially, and hopefully, continued posting of great title sequences.

Planet B-Boy

On Friday night, headed over to the Landmark Sunshine theater to see the theatrical release of Amy Lo's long-tended film, Planet B-Boy. There was a long line-up to get in to the show, and the crowd, a mix of NYC hipsters, East Asians (and the NYC hipsters who love them) and young and aging hip hop heads (and me), was buzzing. The wait was worth it.

Surveying global b-boy culture, while providing a quick context for b-boy's emergence as one of the four elements of hip hip culture, Planet B-Boy tracks the emergence of five elite B-boy teams from Korea, Japan, the US, and France, demonstrating the range of b-boy styles represented and evolved by different youth cultures world wide, and the surprisingly common, and touching, themes that track many of the young men as they strive for the grand prize of being named world champion at the Battle of the Year.

In line with recent documentaries, the film mixes sweet and engaging human interest stories with a perspective on an emerging global culture around b-boying that has far outgrown its roots in the Bronx, while still being true to the ethics and aesthetics of hip hop. Cheeky visual references, like an homage to the classic scene in Flashdance, transported to Japan, and a wealth of fucking incredible dancing make the film well worth a look-see.

Check it out, when it hits a city near you (and if you don't support it, the run threatens to be limited... so help out the good people who made this movie by turning up!). See the website for screenings in your neighborhood, or go to one of these screenings:

3/21 New York, NY - LANDMARK SUNSHINE
3/21 Los Angeles, CA - LANDMARK NUART
3/28 San Francisco, CA - LANDMARK LUMIERE
3/28 Berkeley, CA - LANDMARK SHATTUCK
3/28 San Diego, CA - LANDMARK KEN
3/28 Irvine, CA - EDWARDS UNIVERSITY TOWN CENTER 6
3/28 Washington, DC - LANDMARK E STREET THEATRE
4/04 or 4/11 Austin, TX - LANDMARK DOBIE
4/04 Boston, MA - LANDMARK KENDALL SQUARE
4/04 Chicago, IL - LANDMARK CENTURY CENTER CINEMA
4/04 Phoenix, AZ - HARKINS VALLEY ART
4/11 Denver, CO - LANDMARK MAYAN THEATRE
4/11 Minneapolis, MN - LANDMARK LAGOON
4/18 Philadelphia, PA - LANDMARK RITZ @ THE BOURSE
4/18 Portland, OR - REGAL FOX TOWER STADIUM 10
4/25 Atlanta, GA - LANDMARK MIDTOWN ART
4/25 Seattle, WA - LANDMARK VARSITY THEATRE
5/02 St. Louis, MO - LANDMARK TIVOLI

And check out Japan's 2nd place team at the 2006 competition, Ichigeki:



It's like a crunked up Busby Berkeley. I love it.

Just This Rock

It's a specific kind of poetry, I know. A bit over-wrought, I'm sure, and it speaks to a special kind of sap. I'm just that kind of sap. I forget how much this movie cut me open when I first saw it. I relish each of Terrence Malick's movies, to me they are the highest art. Since my DVDs are packed away in boxes on either coast, I'll take these small, partially satisfying segments for the moment. And in the light of the day's great struggles - a never ending war in Iraq, a struggle to which I have no claim, a workaday life in professional America, a struggle to which I have every claim - it makes The Thin Red Line all the more crushing. To a sappy man.

Top 10 Favorite Moments in The Jerk

"Escena Romantica En La Playa"

I watched The Jerk again the other night. As I've said before, people don't get it, not nearly enough, the sort of genius that Steve Martin was, starting with The Jerk in 1979, through til LA Story in 1991. Funny, weird, innocent, honest, and beautiful. He projected a world, entirely, but a world that you'd only be overjoyed to be in.

My top (hey, it worked out!) 10 favorite moments in The Jerk:

1. The kiss on the beach, above.

2. Navin finds his special purpose

Patty: "(she lies down on the bed) You know what I'd like to do?"
Navin: "What?"
Patty: "Guess your weight."
Navin: "Hey, that would be interesting for me, no one has tried to guess my weight! You see, I guess their weights..."
Patty: "Put your arms up."
Navin: "This will give me a whole different perspective on this. (Patty squeezes Navin's backside) Hey! You're really trying to be accurate! Is it getting hot in here? Wait a minute - what's happening to my special purpose?"

3. Navin avoids the homicidal sociopath:

Navin: "Get away from those cans! (Navin runs inside the station)"
Navin: "There's cans in there too! (the gas station window breaks)"
Navin: "More cans!"

4. Navin defends himself against racist stereotypes:

Navin: "Select class. Very, very good."
Boss: "We'll keep the eggplants out!"
Navin: "Ah good! We don't want any vegetables."
Con Man: "Na, na. The jungle bunnies!"
Navin: "Oh of course! They'll eat the vegetables!"
Con Man: "Boss, could I talk to him? We're going to keep out the niggers!"
Navin: "The what?"
Boss: "The niggers! We'll keep 'em out."
Navin: "Sir, you are talking to a nigger!"

5. When Navin confounds the hoodlums by tying their bumper to the nave of a church.

6. When Navin writes home about the job that Patty is going to give him next week.

7. Pizza In A Cup

8. Navin on love:

Navin: "Marie, are you awake? Good. You look so beautiful and peaceful, you almost look dead. I'm glad because there is something that has always been very difficult for me to say. I slit the sheet, the sheet I slit, and on the slitted sheet I sit. I've never been relaxed enough around anyone to be able to say that. You give me confidence in myself. I know we've only known each other four weeks and three days, but to me it seems like nine weeks and five days. The first day seemed like a week and the second day seemed like five days and the third day seemed like a week again and the fourth day seemed like eight days and the fifth day you went to see your mother and that seemed just like a day and then you came back and later on the sixth day, in the evening, when we saw each other, that started seeming like two days, so in the evening it seemed like two days spilling over into the next day and that started seeming like four days, so at the end of the sixth day on into the seventh day, it seemed like a total of five days. And the sixth day seemed like a week and a half. I have it written down, but I can show it to you tomorrow if you want to see it. Anyway, I've decided that tomorrow, when the time is right, I'm going to ask you to marry me, if that's o.k. with you. Just don't say anything. You've made me very happy."

9. When Navin sets Shithead free.

10. The denouement:

Navin: "And I don't need any of this! I don't need this stuff, (he pushes all of the letters off the desk), and I don't need you. I don't need anything except this (he picks up the ashtray) and that's it and that's the only thing I need, is this. I don't need this or this. Just this ashtray. And this paddle game, the ashtray and the paddle game and that's all I need. And this remote control. The ashtray, the paddle game and the remote control, and that's all I need. And these matches. The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control and the paddle ball. And this lamp. The ashtray, this paddle game and the remote control and the lamp and that's all I need. And that's all I need too. I don't need one other thing, not one - I need this! The paddle game, and the chair, and the remote control, and the matches, for sure. Well what are you looking at? What do you think I am, some kind of a jerk or something? And this! And that's all I need. The ashtray, the remote control, the paddle game, this magazine and the chair."

I'm Not There

Let's start with what makes a popular biopic (that word I can't pronounce) of a popular musician, with Ray and Walk the Line our recent, obvious examples. First, the narrative should be straightforward, illustrating how the performer's enormous talent allowed him/her to rise from obscurity to fame, wealth, and acclaim, overcoming in the process whatever obstacles stand in his/her way. The narrative should not document a linear ascension from nothing, but rather, should document the many rises and falls (alcohol, drugs, women, prevailing bad attitude of the times , general bad attitude of our star) that the musician must endure through his career (although presented in a chronologically linear fashion).

A good biopic should make the music of the artist immediately approachable, even if you have never heard it before. The biopic should connect the music as directly possible with the person's life. You shouldn't need a lot of previous understanding of the music, or the person's life, or the cultural or social context in which the artist was making their art to appreciate the movie. You should be able to walk in to the movie, knowing fuck-all about the artist, and walk out two hours later humming the songs, with a greater appreciation for the artists struggles, and a clear idea how the artist's talent enabled him/her to overcome both personal and cultural turmoil to forever change the landscape of American music.

Todd Haynes' I'm Not There probably fails against that standard of a biopic. It's convoluted, full of inside jokes, abstract and non-linear in its narrative, and, of course, doesn't include a single character called Bob Dylan. So what.

First, let me suggest why I think I'm Not There succeeds as a movie, in its own right. It's funny. It sends up or celebrates with humor so many of Dylan's contemporary cultural touchpoints (Baez, the Beatles, Ginsberg, Pete Seeger at Newport, the fans, the fans, the fans) and is also wonderfully witty in reference to Dylan's life and music ("C'mon, play your early stuff!" Blanchett's Dylan taunts a crucified Jesus). It's visually appealing and stylized, and feels like it contains at least three different movies in it. It has at least one transcendent performance (Blanchett) and a handful of good ones (Bale, Marcus Carl Franklin, Bruce Greenwood, Charlotte Gainsbourg, even David Cross' Allen Ginsberg cameo is equal parts jubilantly weird and amusing). And while it may not explain Bob Dylan, his work or life, to the lay audience, I think it does a damn good job channeling it.

Now, if you have more than a passing familiarity with Dylan, life and music, I think I'm Not There is extremely rewarding. At a superficial level, the characterizations of the mythic events in Dylan's career (the self-mythologizing tramp from Minneapolis, Robert Zimmerman, the Greenwich Village folk scene, the visit to Woody Guthrie's deathbed, Newport in '65, the Don't Look Back UK tour where he was cheered through the acoustic half of his set and booed through the electric half, turning his back on the protest kids, the Woodstock years, the Christian years) are smart and funny, and when un-jumbled chronologically, surprisingly direct. The stylistic sending up of the Dylan eras and their attendant documentarians (isn't Julianne Moore's Baez great?) are dead-on, if a little too knowing. And the music, while wandering beyond just the recognizable "hits," provides great context to the narrative and stylistic elements of the movie.

Where I'm Not There really takes off, I think, is that it does, actually, get at some of the very important things about Bob Dylan, albeit well below the skin, and in that discomforting way where yesterday, today, and tomorrow are all rolled into one. Through the movie, you come to understand that Dylan, for being anointed the voice of his generation, was always an artist badly out of place in his time - from his personal founding myth as a rail-riding Socialist all the way through to his distancing himself from the turmoil of the Vietnam era in search of a family life and eventually a passing comfort in Christ.

The figurative Richard Gere scenes, which everyone can apparently do without, investigate perhaps the most interesting part of Dylan's career, when he turned away from his music, and for all pop culture knew, lived in as an outlaw, in the wilderness as America profoundly lost its innocence. The confrontational Dylan, wise too young, shines through in Ben Whishaw's performance, as well as Blanchett's, clearly anticipating the damaged relationship between artist and fame.

Even the most deeply anachronistic narrative threads, in my opinion, those showing the collapse of the personal and spiritual life of the extremely wealthy and famous Dylan (the Heath Ledger and Christian Christian Bale sequences) are insightful in appreciating that Dylan not only bore the expectations of a (younger) generation and the scrutiny of an older generation which could sense but not understand its own demise (scored to Blanchett mouthing Stephen Malkmus' version of "Ballad of a Thin Man"), but Dylan also bore that unholy burden of being rich and famous.

Let me also go ahead and say that, while the I'm Not There (Hendrix' "All Along the Watchtower," The original soundtrack isn't great end-t0-end, it has some pretty great tracks. It would be hard to argue that anything is an improvement over the Dylan originals, although Dylan has always been eminently coverable Byrds' "You Ain't Going Nowhere," The Band's "Tears of Rage," and "I Shall Be Released," George Harrison's "If Not For You," to name just a few where the cover competes with the original). Perhaps the Calexico-backed "Goin' to Acapulco" by Jim James and "Yankee" by Willie Nelson join those ranks. And, of course, I'm partial to the Sonic Youth, Malkmus, and YLT stuff... so, thanks, Todd Haynes. Great job on the movie and the music.

2007: Movies

Movies enjoyed (and recommended!) in 2007, both old and new. Caveats at the end:

In the Theater:
I'm Not There
Rescue Dawn
Ratatouille
Hot Fuzz
Michael Clayton
The Lives of Others
Notes on a Scandal
No Country for Old Men
Zidane

On DVD:
The Siege
Batman Begins
Extras
Ong Bak
Once in a Lifetime
A History of Violence
The Science of Sleep
An Inconvenient Truth
Sarah Silverman: Jesus is Magic
The TV Set
Match Point
Grizzly Man
Out of Sight
Me And You And Everyone You Know
Idiocracy
Planet Earth
Why We Fight
Pan's Labyrinth

And, having done the once-over of Dana Stevens' list over on Slate.com, a few films that I have every intention of seeing, and simply haven't at year's end, but I'm guessing will make the list: The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, Persepolis, and There Will Be Blood.

Before The Devil Knows You're Dead

Since everyone seems to have either left the city or gone into hiding, I headed down to the Angelika last Friday to see Sidney Lumet's Before The Devil Knows You're Dead. The movie has gotten exceptional reviews, particularly for the performances of Ethan Hawke and Philip Seymour Hoffman. It was good, not great. I appreciated how cold and brutal it was, but perhaps even a little too heavy? And while Philip Seymour Hoffman is great, I definitely enjoy when his heavy-set, hard-luck with issues schlubs have a halo of good humor surrounding them. Not so here. It was actually Albert Finney who I thought was the most excellent of the lot (for all of the rave reviews of Ethan Hawke's acting, has the bar for praise been set at believable?). And while the opening scene with Philip Seymour Hoffman and Marisa Tomei may have been completely gratuitous (sure, we understand his motivation), if Sidney Lumet wanted to make a two hour movie of Marisa Tomei walking around in her underwear, well, I'd watch it.

Charlie Wilson's War

Thank god for Philip Seymour Hoffman and what a strange history of carelessness we have here in these United States is all I have to say about this otherwise forgettable movie. While womanizing is a step in the right direction, I'm still waiting for a really cut-loose evil Tom Hanks.

No Country For Old Men

Went down to BAM with ED last weekend to see No Country For Old Men. Having not read the novel and been underwhelmed by the last few Coen brothers' movies, in comparison to my always high standards for them, I didn't have much by way of expectation. I must say that I always admire the dark humor that the Coen brothers use to line their violence, and their return to Texas was welcomed. While they might not be as vital as they were in their earlier films, the Coens have certainly mastered the period piece, at least when the period is the 80s or early 90s. Combined with the strange temporal context in which their films get absorbed, the desolate landscapes of West Texas form an evocative backdrop for the brutality and general weirdness of Josh Brolin and Javier Bardem's cat-and-mouse game. Tommy Lee Jones' weathered face and odd, funny ramblings, adds a third distinctive performance to the film, and the off-tempo philosophical coda ("some things happen for no reason / but obey the same calculus"), while somewhat disappointing in its lack of avenging bloodbath, provided an excellent close to the movie. That's my rambling take: Worth your while.

The Darjeeling Limited

For my money, the best scene of The Darjeeling Limited, by far, was the opening scene, which somehow managed to convey the potential, the strengths, and the increasing disappointments of Wes Anderson as a filmmaker. The scene, as I recall it:

Start with a aerial view of a dense and exotic Indian town, suddenly zoom in on a taxi careening through the narrow streets, weaving among the shopkeepers, the pedestrians, the bicycles, mopeds, motorcycles, cows, pushcarts, and lorries, enter the cab to see a perfectly drably dressed businessman, played by Bill Murray, tense and frantic. Shift the perspective to inside the cab as it weaves through the city and comes to a halt in front of the train station, have the camera follow Bill Murray as he dashes from the cab, carrying his suitcases, running through the train station that is both bustling and lacking in hurry, track him along the train platform as he desperately runs to catch a train that is pulling away. Into the tracking shot, enter Adrien Brody, perfectly outfitted in a thin grey suit as if he is the human embodiment of 1982, running effortlessly past the older Bill Murray. Slow the shot down and start playing a Kinks song, as Brody's long and elegant frame jumps onto the train as it pulls away from the station. Watch him swivel and focus in on his sunglasses, as his sad eyes as he surveys the older Murray, panting, unable to make the train. Allow Brody a wry and knowing smile, and then exchange an oddly diffident look with the coolie sitting on the train's caboose. Pan down to the brightly colored train name, serving as a title card.

The opening sequence, from the panoramic view of the city through to when Murray is running down the train platform is the true genius of Wes Anderson, that, since Bottle Rocket, so rarely shines through. The shot is stylish and timeless, immaculately well-detailed in its visual touches, but not staid and archival. The camera moves deftly and eloquently, but in service of the action, not as cinematic gimmick. The strange, the beautiful, the quotidian, the damned, and the absurd all manage to inhabit the same sequence side-by-side without feeling forced or staged. And the central character, although two-dimensional in a plain yet dapper gray suit, manages to convey real emotion and struggle.

With Adrien Brody's entrance into the scene, you see the greatness that Wes Anderson most readily achieves -- that of a director of art-house music videos to a version of the 1970s that never existed. Cue the cool music, cue the slowed down tracking shots, the great clothes, the actors with iconic faces.

And with Brody's wistful stare at Bill Murray (his past and future?), the pure frustration that are Wes Anderson's films. Why should Brody give Murray a knowing stare? Brody's Peter Whitman, a character without a discernible job, scion of an anonymous, but wealthy family, suffering from a specific but unlikely grief, is looking neither at his past nor his future in Bill Murray. Peter Whitman, like all the Whitmans, and like all of Anderson's recent characters, aren't real people. They wear their emotions like clothes, accouterments to their antic and ultimately fraudulent personalities. So what's there? Nothing. So why do they act like something's there? It is impossible to tell...

Ultimately, that over-long analysis of the opening scene reflects my feelings about the movie, and probably, to varying degrees, about every Anderson movie since Rushmore: beautiful tableaus, stylish sequences, but ultimately, the semblance of meaning, without actual meaning forming the core. Thank god Anderson has Owen Wilson to understand how important charm and whimsy is to inhabiting these fundamentally absurd characters, and is able to draw on truly fantastic actors in Angelica Houston, Adrien Brody, and Bill Murray, who through their eyes, mouths, bodies, and delivery of their lines can turn the ridiculous into the almost-believable.

Michael Clayton / The Spy Who Came In From The Cold

1. Denzel
2. Clooney

Simply put, that's how I see it at the top. The two movie stars that I will pay money to see, no matter what. The two movie stars that when we're old and gray, we'll still talk about, tell our grand-kids about. Like Grant, Bogart, Newman, Beatty, Redford. Big stars. Not Hanks. Not Cruise. Not Crowe. That's just how I see it, folks.

In case you care, other movie stars I would pay money to see: Depp. Clive Owen. Christian Bale. Owen Wilson, when he's melancholy. Walken, when he's serious. De Niro, when he's not being a sap. That's it, I think.

I think we should cancel the Democratic and Republican primaries and allow the electorate to pick two from among Denzel, Clooney, Oprah, and Letterman for who gets to run the country for the next eight years. I'm pretty sure the promise of a signed photograph would persuade even the most perverse of dictators and terrorist leaders to their senses. It's worth a shot.

After a late lunch at Mandoo, a Korean mandoo joint on 32nd Street (good, not great), ED and I caught an early evening showing of Michael Clayton. Numerous glowing reviews had got me excited, notably David Denby's in the New Yorker:

In the “Ocean’s” franchise and earlier movies, Clooney played guys who were on top of everything. He’s very intelligent, and it’s easy enough for him to point his chin, glare, and tell people off. But in “Syriana” and now in “Michael Clayton” he has done something more interesting: he’s playing clever guys who lack the killer instinct, who have some strain of personal honor that holds them back from simply winning.

You couldn't sucker me in to a movie any more easily. Coming in with these high hopes, it was with a curious combination of relief and dread that I felt them deflated by the steady onslaught of absolute crap in the previews. ED has good taste -- you can tell by the faces she makes at crappy previews. I wondered if I was in the wrong theater.

By the time Michael Clayton started, I didn't know what to expect. Thankfully, the crappy previews were a function of seeing the movie in midtown, not a prelude to the quality of the film. Michael Clayton was good, quite good, if a little too tidy. Clooney's graceful bemusement as he eases through the world, as a winner or a loser, is a charming thing to watch. Tom Wilkinson and Tilda Swinton's performances added sufficiently rich texture to Clooney's more narrowly-played protagonist, even if their respective pathos were just a little exaggerated. And I thought director Tony Gilroy's navigation of posh midtown law offices, hotel conference lobbies, Mercedes interiors, and corporate meeting rooms were effective in conveying a sinister menace through their sleek, perfectly appointed anonymity. And, of course, the movie's framing scene, with Clooney on a quiet hill in the chill light of a breaking dawn, was both beautiful and used to great effect.

---

When I got off the Q train yesterday morning, I dog-eared John LeCarre's The Spy Who Came In From The Cold on page 185. For no good reason, I had until now avoided reading any LeCarre, and had not read a page-turner in probably a few years. My mistake.

The thought had occurred to me to not get off the train, and keep riding uptown for another few stops. Or simply sit down in Starbuck's before going into the office. That would give me time to finish. But I didn't, and when I got back into the subway at Canal St. in the evening, I was livid to find that I had left the novel on my desk. One more day of suspense had to pass.

TSWCIFTC is great. It's hard and bleak, like a Cold War spy should be. It reflects the gray pallor cast over London and Berlin by the constant threat of double-cross and deceit. It twists and turns, turns back and twists again. Violence is taken for granted, yet there is both a professionalism and professional respect among the men who do the dirty work in the shadows of our fumbling diplomacy. The novel reads fast and with an impending sense of consequence. To the end, it's suspenseful and fun.

I have one quibble, and I will extend it back to Michael Clayton (corporate dirty work is our modern-day equivalent of Cold War espionage, no? Where we can recognize our enemies in ourselves, and aren't quite sure whose side we're on?) and perhaps extend it on to our dramatization of the professions of suspense, in general. My concern, of course, is the habit of adding a moralizing coda to each story, too often broadly wrought, as if to bring along the slower among our audience by saying "In addition to being suspenseful and cool, I am showing you how the world is fucked up, power corrupts, and ambition corrodes our sense of decency." A necessary point, always well illustrated throughout the substance of the book, but our auteurs' apparent concern that some among us might miss the point. From TSWCIFTC:

"Christ Almighty!" Leamas cried. "What else have men done since the world began? I don't believe in anything, don't you see - not even destruction or anarchy. I'm sick, sick of killing but I don't see what else they can do. They don't proselytise; they don't stand in pulpits or on party platforms and tell us to fight for Peace or God or whatever it is. They're the poor sods who try to keep the preachers from blowing each other sky high."

Don't we get this, through the betrayal of our protagonists? Through the abdication of justice finely meted, and the almost-always sacrifice of some lamb? In fact, don't those who who act out not just ambivalence, but actual acts of good or revelation generally crushed by the wheels of the machine, that is greater to them, and whose workings, only at the end, are revealed neatly to us?

Zidane

During the summer of 2006, the VP days when I was living out in FC, even though we were in the midst of the continued flailings and unending urgency of a start-up treading water, I had built a sufficient reservoir of respect that I could disappear during the mid-mornings to watch World Cup games. And even though I was often working weekends, on July 9th I was down in San Jose, kicking it with cousins, watching France-Italy. I have a distinct memory of the moment when the television replay caught up to the action of the game, after Zidane had been shown his red card, when the jaws of all of my cousins and uncles watching the final simply dropped, and hung open. The room went silent for a good ten seconds. Everybody was stunned.

To this day, I cannot imagine a potential scenario in sport more strange and senseless than Zidane, ten minutes from potentially crowning himself world champion for the second time, and placing himself in a pantheon of five, maybe even three, among the greatest of all time, turning from a seemingly placid jog up field, sizing up Materazzi, and then planting his forehead directly in the Italian's chest. The act was at the same moment so awkward and so violent that it challenged comprehension. In watching the replay, it is as if you can see the exact moment when something in Zidane snaps, and he goes from classy footballer to borderline homicidal maniac.

When PG forwarded the excellent idea to check out a screening of Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait at the unfortunately named, but otherwise excellent (part of the we're no longer poor and talented, but rather, rich with exquisite taste movement afoot in Brooklyn) multimedia space and restaurant Monkeytown, over in the WB, I jumped all over it. And the film does not disappoint. Arty without being difficult, Zidane is contemplative and entrancing. Multiple camera angles, all focused on Zidane, are woven together in a complex visual narrative of the match - but one that also feels like football. At a moment graceful, in focus, with sudden bursts of speed and action, stretches that are simply rhythm and flow, alternating perspectives of a part chess match, part ballet of twenty two men, and then closely hewn to the singular actions of physical genius of the individual footballer. And, funny game that it is, the moment you step into the bathroom, a goal is scored. The movie is beautiful, and both the film and sound editing absorbing without being manipulative. It is wonderful to see a film about football in which Beckham is only an extra, crossing the screen out of focus. The pulsating match between Villareal and Madrid servers as a wonderful backdrop, and amazingly, Zidane appears in all his forms: as magician, as mirthful footballer, as workman, and as psychokiller. For someone who is playing in a soccer match, a wonderful performance.

And should his legacy not be one of violent outbursts, a reminder: a genius.

Netflixin' It

Another benefit of living in ER's is that I have a reliable mailbox, again. So, for the first time in my life, I have signed up for Netflix. I know you have no way of knowing all the movies I have already seen, but here are the movies that I am planning on seeing. Any recommendations are welcome. So far, my first installment of Once in a Lifetime, A History of Violence, and The Science of Sleep, was satisfactory.

Rave: BBC's Planet Earth

It was an impulse buy, albeit an informed one, and, boy, was it a good decision. Five discs, fifteen episodes of incredibly filmed landscapes, dramatic predation scenes, cute baby animals, and David Attenborough's mellifluous narration, replete with bizarre and slightly disconcerting double entendres about the animal kingdom: BBC's Planet Earth is simply incredible.

Difficult to do justice through description alone, the DVD series manages to capture stunning landscapes (so far, each of themed episodes for Deserts, Caves, Ice Worlds, and Deep Ocean have been insane) and jaw-dropping animal behavior sequences (a pride of lions stalking an elephant by night, strangely colored lizards hunting flies in the desert, time-lapse films of penguins huddling for warmth in the Antarctic winter, and the terrifying full breach attacks on fur seals by Great White sharks, shown above). Mind-blowing stuff. Watch it.

Rave: Ratatouille

Friday night, I caught up with JWW after work. Following a brief stop in a newly found and sufficiently divey watering hole, Antarctica on the western edge of SoHo, and a just OK meat-leaden meal at the West Village BBQ joint Cowgirl, we wandered in to Union Square to catch a movie. Damned a little bit in our timing, JWW convinced me to see Ratatouille. I should mention here that, despite RM an Slate's positive reviews of the movies, I am not a huge fan of animated movies, and snake-bit earlier in the week by Transformers, I was dubious that a saccharine movie about a rat that cooks would win the day for me.

Well, Ratatouille was great. Charming, funny, visually stunning, with incredibly well-executed chase scenes and some beautiful renditions of Paris - I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, and can only recommend it. While The Incredibles, Iron Giant, Toy Story 2 and Brad Bird movies only did it so much for me, Ratatouille warrants all of the plaudits and cries from every corner hailing Brad Bird as a genius. From the opening sequence, to the stylish closing credits, Ratatouille was ever entertaining, but also, in every way, a film. And extra kudos to Pixar for continuing to run a short before the feature. Lifted, the short, was equal to Ratatouille in charm and humor and was the perfect lead-in to the feature. Go see it.

For your further edification, some Ratatouille-related interviews:

Patton Oswalt in Wired
Brad Bird in MoviesOnline (Pts. 1 and 2)

Rave: Rescue Dawn

War is not in my inheritance. The closest we've really come is our peaceful campaign of civil disobedience against the British. The fiercest I might claim is Netaji, although that is youthful posturing, at best. In truth, my legacy is deeply Ghandian - humble and peaceful to an extreme.

Which is why I've never been to explain my deep fascination with the art of war, or precisely, the art of what war does to men. From precociously young, I've read Heller, Mailer, and O'Brien, and loved movies like The Deerhunter, Full Metal Jacket, and The Thin Red Line. Work that dramatizes the violence that man brings to man, the physical and spiritual embargoes it can place on a life, and the depth of experience that it evokes.

Add to the list Werner Herzog's latest, Rescue Dawn.

Ducking inside the Angelika theater to avoid the heat, humidity, and beautiful women of SoHo, I took in Rescue Dawn on a Sunday afternoon. It was harrowing - the perfect war movie. Opening rather cheekily with a funny send-up of Top Gun (which no one seemed to notice), the movie quickly dives behind enemy lines, into the Laotian jungle. Navy pilot Dieter Dengler crashes on his first sortie, is captured by the Viet Cong, tortured (Christian Bale in some harrowing scenes), imprisoned, and finally, having plotted an escape into the jungle, confronted with the final antagonist in nature itself. All of the elements for a man to prove himself are there: guns, bombs, beauracricies, insane natives, torture, starvation, depraved conditions, monsoons, snakes, mudslides, murdered friends, maggots. You name it.

Herzog made the movie based on a true story he had previously documented (see this Slate article), and as far as true stories go, it is amazing. Herzong and Bale also seem to make an excellent pairing, in so far as they are willing to push each other and the movie to points of extreme. Between his genuinely compelling performances, the physical limits to which he will push himself, and his rakish on-screen charm and star power, I have to wonder - is anyone really coming close to Christian Bale these days?

Not a strictly fun summer movie, but well worth seeing. Also, check out these interviews of Bale and Herzog, if you're killing time...

Rave: Ong Bak

Daytime on the 4th of July was hot, damp, and overcast. I was an unmotivated lump. My new roommates for the summer were watching Ong Bak: The Thai Warrior on DVD with no subtitles. It wasn't hard to follow what was going on, but it wasn't easy, either. Regardless of what the plot significance of the stolen Buddha statues might be, the fight and chase sequences totally redeemed the movie. Maybe no subtitles is the best way to watch it... See above if you doubt me.