Unleashed

I've been a fan of martial art films for going on a decade. It might not be readily apparent now, but once upon a time I even practiced kung fu rather obsessively, though I always shied away from the acrobatics that is the bread and butter of these films. In this genre, Jet Li has always been a favorite for me. (This was a point of contention with my se gung back in the day, who apparently trained Jackie Chan for his Drunken Master role, and was really bent out of shape that I was impressed by Jet Li's "Northern style bullshit." Drunken masters and their weird rivalries.)

Jet Li became known as a stand-out martial artist in Shaolin Temple and the Once Upon A Time In China films, though I was especially a fan of Fist of Legend, a Bruce Lee remake, which in this re-interpretation is possibly more dazzling, even if both suffer from the stereotypical rival-school, you-killed-my-master-now-you-have-to-die premise. For the martial arts buffs out there, I suggest them all.

He is not, however, well known for having acting chops to accompany his martial ones, and many of the American-made movies that don't recognize this fact suffer for it. In fact, his acting is oftentimes downright agony.

As a result of this, I was somewhat stunned to discover that Unleashed (a.k.a. Danny The Dog) is a gritty and touching drama first, and a martial arts film second. Without a solid acting performance from Jet Li, this movie would have been even more painful than the glitzy but vapid Romeo Must Die. Even with this, solid direction, and supporting roles, scuttlebutt on Rotten Tomatoes seems to be that the premise of this movie is "unbelievable." How this is a valid criticism to level at a genre that allows people to fly and get tossed through brick walls, I'll never know. But there it is. If you can accept the premise that someone can be beaten down and re-programmed like one of Pavlov's dogs (no pun), and still retain enough humanity to get really excited by the ripeness of melons and gourds (seriously), then pipe down and enjoy the film.

It struck me that, while it is true that Unleashed clearly has one foot in martial arts-action and the other in drama, this genre-blending isn't done haphazardly. The sappy, child-like Danny seems almost absurd against the stark back-drop of the violence, but that's the entire point, and I can't see any other way the point could be made. In other words, the strength or innate flaw of this movie comes straight out of its central premise- but if you can accept that, and want to watch a martial arts film that is a bit more than "you killed my master, now it is time to die," I suggest Unleashed.

(A final note, the atmospheric soundtrack for this film, beautifully composed and produced by Massive Attack, is a regular in my iPhone playlist. The music alone is reason to check it out.)

--James Curcio.

Drunk For Your Amusement (pt 2)

My stomach still hurts from laughing. This weekend I saw Doug Stanhope at the Trocadero theatre, and I got exactly what I asked for- raw truth and bitterness, served by a drunken lunatic.

Here are some of the thoughts I had when I first encountered his work, (from Alterati). They still hold true, and I'm not a fan of regurgitation:

"For years now, I’ve wondered who the next Bill Hicks was going to be. As things grew more and more grim, I wondered if maybe we would have no more ranting, fool messiahs, because the meter was just fucking broke and we’ve all become too whitebread and insecure to recognize the rallying call if it comes. “COMEDY IS DEAD, GO HOME, GAME OVER.”

There are times when being proven wrong is the best thing in the world. The other night I was stopped dead in my tracks by this man. He made me want to pick up three of the bad habits I’d managed to kick, and start up about twenty new ones. Most importantly, he made me laugh. A lot.

Really, we’re all laughing as Doug goes down like a screeching 747, and we will probably laugh when invariably it crashes and turns into flaming wreckage. Maybe it’s like the sacrifice that gets slaughtered every year so the crops can grow- more likely, we’re just laughing at a world that many times seems too fucked to do anything else with but laugh at it.

Society needs its “fool messiahs”, its jesters. Comedy allows us to express thoughts and feelings that might otherwise cause a lot of trouble. Consider what the Daily Show has done for, or to, news and journalism in general. Stephen Colbert lampooned the president to his face. Comedy gets written off because it’s half pretend, but oftentimes we forget that the things that make us laugh are the things that are true. Doug takes this process a step further though. With him, I don’t think there is actually any satire here. There is no ‘pretend.’ He gives it like he sees it at that particular moment in time. I imagine it might be somewhat alienating for those who don’t understand what’s going on, (arguably the title of his most recent DVD, No Refunds, has something to do with that.)

So, I acknowledge that there’s a fair chance you’re not going to be able to take this journey with me, and by the end of this article I’ll be figuratively standing in an empty hall, drunk and naked, ranting while riding a crack-whore bareback across the stage. (I guess in this fantasy I’m wearing a wireless mic.)

All the same that would at least leave me in the right frame of mind to enjoy Doug’s erudite body of work. So come with me on this one, or don’t. Either way- I think we’ve found this generation’s Bill Hicks. Enjoy it before he finds a nice hole in the ground."

He rightly predicted that many of us would go home and blog about the performance, and pre-emptively told us to fuck off. Which isn't to say he won't be ego googling himself at 2am and come here. So in deference to that, "Doug-- I'm sorry, but your reverse psychology worked. Here I am, like a tool, telling everyone to buy your shit because you told us all to fuck off. Honestly, I'm not sure which one of us is the tool here. But you'll get the royalties."

Fuck it. I'm not going to delve into critique. But I will give you a quick litmus test- if your insides shrivel in the presence of bullshit, if you think an ambien, vodka and mirapex binge in Vegas would be a fantastic time, if you are too smart to buy into the corporate brainwash, but too stupid or apathetic to create something better- then welcome! We can all laugh together as we float into oblivion.

Start with No Refunds. But don't end there. Go out, see him, and buy him a drink at the bar.

--James Curcio.

Anti-Xmas 1: Black Christmas (2006)

The original Black Christmas, made in 1974, was one of the archetypal slasher flicks - a sort-of contemporary of Halloween, and one has to wonder if it's any coincidence that we got two movies wreaking bloody havoc over highly targeted consumer holidays in the midst of the biggest economic slump between WWII and a month ago, but that's a different essay. As were all the proto-slashers, Black Christmas was low-budget, sparse, and effective as much for what it didn't show as for what it did.

The remake, naturally, is slick, highly produced, and well-lit, so of course everyone hates it. That's not a totally unreasonable stand to take, but I'm here to put forward a radical notion - the reason other reviewers hated it is that they're applying the wrong criteria. Black Christmas '06 isn't a classic horror movie; it was just marketed as such because Madison Avenue lacks imagination. If you review it as a critical commentary on modernity, it's both a more interesting story and, frankly, a more credulous review.

The plot doesn't take much explaining, but here it is in a nutshell: a traumatized kid grows up to become a psycho with woman issues and a peeping fetish, and one Christmas he escapes the asylum to return to his family home; since his family home is now a sorority house, you can probably guess where all this is going. With a plot like that, what could it be if not a slasher in the classic vein? Let's look at the charges against:

1) The sorority sisters are essentially interchangeable. Yes, this is pretty true - all the girls are basically bitches to each other, all of them are shallow, and we don't really get to know any of them before they start dying. This makes it difficult for the audience to connect with the protagonists or particularly care when they get offed. Fine, but compare that to watching the nightly news and ask yourself how much you care for the faceless strangers you hear about having been run over by trains or gunned down by gangs.

But it goes further than that. Consider, for example, any season of America's Next Top Model - do those girls each portray a distinct archetype? No, especially as the end draws near, they're basically interchangeable - aside, I suppose, from how their eye and hair color sets off the fabric of whatever bizarre catwalk fetishwear they happen to be selling that day. Consider also the central characters in Mean Girls, Clueless, or hell, even Jawbreaker - the same sort of interchangeability transpires among the the collective groupings of high-fashion anti-heroines. For better or worse, entertainment has evolved since the 70s, and the update of Black Christmas insists only that the slasher genre evolve to pace.

2) The killer's backstory humanizes him. The '74 killer, like most proto-slashers, had no reason for his acts; he just shows up and kills teenagers in what is apparently an existential nod to Descartes (Contrucido ergo sum - I slaughter many, therefore I am). 32 years later, Billy is a messed up cookie who spent his formative years locked up in an attic, spying on people with a telescope and fathering his own sister (in, I will grant, the movie's biggest WTF? moment). Some people say these scenes are overwrought and unnecessary, doing nothing but reducing the splatter per minute ratio; I say they're put in for anyone who watches Lost and is annoyed by the smoke monster.

This, in many ways, is the corollary to the point above - just as entertainment itself has evolved, so too has the audience consuming and interacting with it. Starting arguably with Hill Street Blues in the 80s, television plots have become more and more complex, and movies have had to rise in density to keep pace; even the smugly self-aware Scream had to turn not having a motivation for its murders into yet another cliché to be riffed. If this seems contradictory right after having dissected the genericness of the girls, consider that we know as much about them as we need to - we know the different reasons they're staying in the house, we know their relationships to one another, and we know the kinds of people they are as much as they'll let anyone else know, either. Their only purpose, ultimately, is to be slaughtered; Billy's purpose is to serve as both deus ex machina and metaphor, so a deeper exploration is required.

3) There's no tension. The scars left on my forearms by my girlfriend's fingernails beg to differ. Nonetheless, one of the hallmarks of Christmas horror movies (and this trope was used, albeit with a different intent, in the original as well) is the blasphemous tarnishing of nuclear family togetherness into a portent of unspeakable horror. This is not a haunted house on a lonely hill on a dark and stormy night with a full moon and howling wolves; this is brightly lit, comfortable territory - and despite that you still aren't safe, even if you have a coterie of shallow, self-interested "friends" to back you up. Indeed, one might even see it as a commentary on the lack of modern community - if all you have to count on is friends who don't think about anything but themselves, and then only in vague notions, how can you hope to stand against unstoppable forces of nature?

So we're left with a 94-minute meditation on the futility of modern individuality, the inevitability of death, and the illusory nature of safety. And we get several good death scenes and a few breasts along the way. Starlet Michelle Trachtenberg sums it up: "Merry Christmas, motherfucker."

–Tovarich

Movies For People Who Hate Christmas Movies

I hate It's A Wonderful Life.

Always have, from the moment I laid eyes on it. It feels every bit as disingenuous to me as a Norman Rockwell painting, envisioning an America that never existed and a set of values that would even give Ned Flanders pause. I understand the whole concept of suspension of disbelief, don't get me wrong - I just prefer to get something out of my suspension other than an early take on The Secret.

Which makes this a pretty atrocious time of year to consume media. The boob tube and silver screen abound with titles in which a schmaltzy kid learns A Valuable Lesson™ and everyone wakes up to fully-wrapped gifts under the tree as a non-aerodynamic vehicle pulled by eight grounded quadrupeds invades our airspace without setting off UFO detectors and a booming voice utters "Ho Ho Ho" at a volume adequate to be instantly audible from 30,000 feet without causing a sonic boom.

If we're going to get stupid seasonal fare, says I, at least do something interesting with it.

So over the next few weeks, allow me to indulge in a bit of seasonal whimsy with a few of my favorite anti-Xmas flicks. All will give you a valid seasonal alternative to the Hallmark channel, and all will be linked from this post for easy reference.

1. Black Christmas (2006 remake)

–Tovarich

The Fountain

Darren Aronofsky first gained notoriety in the film world through his movie Pi, a black and white excursion into the fine line between genius and madness, riddled with fascinating but largely unexplored Kabbalistic overtones. Later, his film Requiem For A Dream, though masterfully shot and lushly scored, seemed to lead us into an even deeper abyss, without even the scantest light at the end of the tunnel. I remember feeling the desperate need to shower after watching the film, (and scrub my insides with steel wool)- but was left with little more than the realization that it was an accurate portrayal of the shallow, beautiful horror that is the downward spiral of addiction.

His most recent film, The Fountain, which was in and out of production for several years and almost never made it onto the screen at all, is in my opinion by far his best to date. Partially as a result of these production issues, it was also made into a graphic novel as well, based off of the original script for the movie. The graphic novel, which I recently picked up at a comic convention, is a true work of art in its own right, with a sketchy and yet strangely painterly style that is uncommon and much called for in comics.

The Fountain deals with some of the most central issues we face as humans, the big ones: life, death, what is lost, and what remains. He does so in a visually stunning, deeply moving manner. Aronofsky’s background in myth and metaphor is as clearly apparent as most people’s complete lack of understanding in these areas. To begin with, from review to review, and even in the wikipedia entry (a source well known for its standard of infallibility), there is talk of this story taking place in three times, or of consisting of three plots: a Conquistador, set in the time of Spain’s conquests and search for glory, a scientist, dead-set upon saving his dying wife, and an astronaut or mystic, exploring a nebula referenced in the other “time-lines” as relating to the Mayan creation myth. These converging and diverging time-lines seem to confuse people, as they try to track how they might relate to one another, and try to wrap their heads around three different stories.

News flash: there is only one story here. This is encompassed within three narratives filled with symbolic devices, all of which exist primarily to enrich each other. It is constantly baffling to me what a hard time most people have with layered metaphors. At it’s most extreme, this literary problem results in holy wars. In this case, it just results in baffled critics. The through-line of a plot is most clearly expressed in the narrative of the scientist, as the other two, one above and one below, express emotional and spiritual elements of his futile quest to save what cannot be saved. For, as we learn through millenia of the worlds myths, from various derivations of the pagan “green man” to the Egyptian Osiris and even the more familiar Christian icons, there cannot be gain without loss, and it is not the flesh which remains. In many of these myths it is in fact the flesh which must be ultimately sacrificed to the spirit, which is to say to the rest of the universe so that more matter can come into being, in new forms. This is not unlike the Kabbalistic idea of permutation of symbol, energy, and form. (See: the Sefer Yetzirah.) All of these thoughts were almost undoubtedly in Aronofsky’s mind, in one form or another, when he gave birth to this story.

The true fountain of immortality is a bittersweet potion, as flesh feeds on flesh, life feeds on life. The pain and bliss of love are the same, and some of the overwhelming potency of love comes from it’s immediacy, which is also to say, its fragility and temporality. What remains is a seed, a kernel, which floats willy-nilly from one place to the next. It is irrelevant what time period these characters exist in, as ultimately they are all merely devices for expressing and exploring those ideas which otherwise cannot be explored, cannot be expressed. As with Requiem For A Dream, The Fountain is oftentimes a dark meditation, but here at the end there is a form of redemption, and many insights into what truly matters, as we all make this journey from one shore to the next.

As such, The Fountain takes its place as a work of stunning visual poetry, and should be enjoyed as such. I’ve watched it twice so far, and was rewarded with fresh insights with each viewing. I’ll leave seeking out those delicious secrets to you. Happy hunting.

--James Curcio.

Too Clever By Half

I'd like to share a film with you that I think is, on the whole, highly underrated.  "Too clever by half," as a friend of mine put it. That film is Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang.

But before I discuss the movie directly, let me unpack the idiom. Many people seem to feel that if something is "too" clever, "too" smart, it's an affront to their common sense, an assault upon their salt-of-the-Earth dignity. I don't know if this belief carries across cultural boundaries, but it seems endemic enough in the states that it even determines the results of elections. The Republican party has made this issue a corner-stone of their assault upon the "liberal elite," a fact well recognized and explored by Sorkin's own "too clever by half" drama, The West Wing.

I'm not entirely sure when being witty became a negative, frankly I don't care. Maybe this just makes me another member of the "liberal elite." But if you're not offended by self-aware satire and snarkiness, you'll likely find Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang one of the most entertaining, funny movies you've seen.

The basic structure of the plot is based on a dense collection of noir cliches, but thanks to expert storytelling and execution, this doesn't turn the movie itself into a cliche. In fact, the techniques they employ could make it a worthwhile study on post-modernism narrative: the narrator will stop a scene mid-way, or jump back because he forgot something, or realize mid-stream he was remembering something incorrectly. (Personally, I found it too funny to be  a "study" on anything. But that's just me.)

Yet another reason this film works: that narrator is Robert Downey Jr. Though his acting skills have been well recognized, it's his understated comedic genius that keeps what could be irritating meta-commentary both pity, and often hilarious. The surprising chemistry between Robert Downey Jr. and Val Kilmer also keeps the boat afloat, with Val more than comfortable as the unwitting side-kick, "Gay" Perry.

One of the reasons this film may have lost large audiences is that on its surface it is an action noir, and though these "post-modern" elements I've mentioned are simply used to drive the movie forward, it is anything but an action noir, and the "who done it" is in the end about as important as who the best boy or grips were. (No offense to best boys, grips, or anyone else who are parts of big scary Unions. Really. Don't hurt me.)

Can you tell I love this movie? I've seen it possibly ten times now, and it still makes me laugh. If you haven't had the opportunity, do not pass go, buy it now. That is, unless if you are a salt-of-the-Earth Republican. In that case, get Talladega Nights. And storm out halfway through when you realize that it isn't actually a movie about how awesome Nascar is.

--James Curcio.