An unmitigated disaster, Oliver Stone’s sprawling Alexander is an unbearable 173 minute alternative to Chinese water torture. No movie in recent memory combines atrocious screenwriting, atrocious acting, atrocious directing, and atrocious editing as effectively as this lumbering marathon. Its *defenders*—and they’re few in number—have hailed Alexander as a flawed, but ambitious, motion picture. I fail to see what’s so ambitious about it. Sure, Stone’s always been fascinated by conspiracies and double-crossing (JFK, Nixon) as well as societal conventions (Natural Born Killers), and he sacrifices aspects of the normal epic in Alexander to focus on Alexander’s many weaknesses—and the public perception of him throughout his life. So what? Almost all the sequences of this kind—Alexander’s initial drunken shouting match with King Philip, for instance, or his Oedipal scenes with his mother—are so hammy and over-the-top that they’re impossible to take seriously. It doesn’t help that we’re asked to buy Angelina Jolie as Colin Farrell’s mother. Yeah, okay…it was particularly convincing when she didn’t age a day over the span of sixteen years. Hell, when Farrell finally gives in and kisses her at the end, I was thinking, “About fucking time!”
The narrative is a jumbled mess—characters pop in and out of the picture, yell something at Alexander about what they think of him, and then vanish for 35 minutes. Except for Alexander (Farrell), Hephaistion (Jared Leto), Olympias (Jolie), Philip (Val Kilmer, wearing a distinctive scarred right eye), and a few others, it’s difficult to keep the characters straight, but more troubling is that there’s no emotional connection developed with anybody. Furthermore, if Stone is really aiming for a ‘different kind of epic,’ then can we really forgive all the patented epic melodrama, the hokey score, the predictable slow-motion—few attempting the genre can avoid at least a moment or two of this, but Alexander is ceaselessly irritating and in the most obvious ways imaginable. If Alexander wants to be gutsy and different from the Gladiators of the world, Stone has to at least be consistent with his goals and approach.
The terrible script doesn’t help matters, but even worse is the horrific acting, much of it coming from performers I generally like—ironically, only Val Kilmer (whom I don’t care much for) successfully vanishes into his role. Jolie is sexy as usual—being draped with snakes only helps her already-dripping sex appeal—but she’s so campy that we can’t take seriously any of the mother-son moments. Leto, Rosario Dawson as Alexander’s Macedonian wife, and Hopkins are all beneath comment. Farrell is the true problem, though. I’ve really enjoyed his work in Tigerland, Minority Report, and Phone Booth, and consider him a very talented upcoming actor—that said, he’s absolutely dreadful (and miscast) here. Even though Alexander extensively focuses on Alexander’s vulnerable & paranoid side, Farrell loses us from the start with his wimpy tone and lack of confidence—there’s no reason for us to believe that this man will become Alexander the Great. To care about Alexander’s vulnerability, we have to at least get a sense of the other side of the coin—the Alexander who conquered millions. Instead, Alexander appears to be a sniveling pussy, a chump who probably meekly handed his milk money to Cleitus when he was threatened at age 8. Farrell’s wide eyes and the constant close-ups on his face certainly capture the cowardice, but that’s all there is to him. Every time he rides into battle, or tries to rally his troops, I found myself wishing that Viggo Mortensen would come give him a pep talk. The Lord of the Rings has a couple of clunkers along its (12 hour) path to Mordor, but the casting and writing are so far superior to this—and most epics, for that matter—that even when a line borders on cheesy, the great Ian McKellan or Mortensen gracefully saves it from eye-rolling purgatory. Here, Farrell and the rest of the cast are completely overmatched by the chicken-scrawl script Stone throws at them, and they contribute mightily to the film’s descent into filmic oblivion.
Many critics have bitched about the constant homoerotic tone that pervades the film. That didn’t bother me in the slightest—from what I know of the time period in Greek culture, everyone was constantly steeped in lust (for men and women), and I have no problem with Stone portraying the world as such. However, for the future of romance everywhere, can we please have fewer moments of Colin batting his lovey-dovey eyes at Jared-poo, and lockiing in a long embrace? I wonder what cologne Mr. Leto uses…mmm…the entire movie’s tone is so corny that potentially moving moments just add to the laugh track, which any given theatre could happily provide—just pop it on and let ‘er rip! The aforementioned homoerotic angle is a great example of Alexander overall—passable concept, F-level execution.
Alexander’s stuffed to the brim with shit, some of it so mind-bogglingly awful that it’s difficult to believe Stone helmed this pile of horse dung. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more jaw-dropping piece of absurdly obvious symbolism than the eagle that flies around, symbolizing Alexander’s current status and whereabouts. During every key moment, Stone feels compelled to flash a slo-mo of the glorious bird soaring through the sky. *Luckily* for us, he sticks to his guns, and when Alexander finally dies—something I often felt like doing while in the theater—the eagle drops from the heavens, and Jolie lets out a wail of despair. We hear ya, Angelina, we hear ya. The editing in general is poor, something that Stone—even in his weaker films—normally has a strong grasp on. The first battle has its moments, with some impressive long shots accompanying the frenetic battle sequences, but the second is almost all up-close, without any panoramic compositions to balance it out.
Stone apparently loves taking on projects where the historical outcomes are still in dispute—JFK, Nixon, Alexander—and I now wonder if he does so to avoid taking a concrete stance on these subjects. Here, it’s really caught up with him, as his indecisiveness has led to one of 2004’s most embarrassing movies. Instead of a penetrating look at Alexander the Great—I have no qualms with his choice to keep the battles at a minimum—we get a rambling train-wreck. If you have three hours to kill, go fly a shiny kite, or scoop up pigeon droppings for community service. It’ll be time better spent.
13/100
For an easy zero star picture, Seed of Chucky isn’t that bad. Okay, I’m lying—it definitely is that bad, but it’s more enjoyable than the other bottom-feeding schlock of 2004, like Dodgeball, Walking Tall, and the abominable White Chicks. While calling it a strict satire would be pushing it (how much can you really spoof a series that’s already predominantly ludicrous anyway?), Seed of Chucky does possess a self-awareness that saves it from the deepest bowels of movie hell. It’s not really a horror picture—deaths are presented in stylized Kill Bill fashion, with heads flying twenty feet in the air & blood spurting in 73 directions at once—but a pathetic attempt at a comedic take on an unsuccessful horror franchise, similar to 1998’s Bride of Chucky (unseen by me, though I have seen the other entries, albeit long ago). Sure, it fails miserably—all the laughs are most certainly at it, not with it—but what could be more entertaining than seeing Chucky beat off to the zombie magazine ‘Fangoria,’, then artificially inseminate Jennifer Tilly with a turkey baster? Actually, I suppose a number of things…
Don Mancini, who penned the first four Child’s Play installments, steps behind the camera for the first time here, and his directorial talents appear weak at best. I use such a generous word because, really, how much could anyone do with such an absurd premise? Ah yes, the premise…Chucky from the original Child’s Play films is back, as is his wife Tiffany from Bride of Chucky. They’re revived from the pits of puppetdom by their son // daughter Glen // Glenda (a not-so-subtle ‘ode’ to Ed Wood’s 1954 Glen and Glenda), who brilliantly identifies them on television from the matching ‘Made in Japan’ inscriptions on their wrists. With the family joyously united, Chucky & Tiffany turn their attention to finding human homes for their souls. Tiffany fixates on the voluptuous Jennifer Tilly (whose busty chest and choice outfits almost make Seed of Chucky worth the price of a matinee—I thankfully saw it for free), while Chucky settles on the rapper // “actor” Redman, who’s busy slaving away on his new project: a film on the Virgin Mary. Typical campy horror nonsense ensues.
Some reviews have criticized Seed of Chucky for having no storyline, but I found its plot to be no less lame as any of the previous entries. It’s the same shit—Chucky desperately seeks to get out of his wooden exterior and into some nice, warm flesh (though yes, there is the ‘twist’ at the end of this one). Anyway, it seems nitpicky to damn Seed of Chucky for its narrative structure of all things, when so much else is more fun to ridicule! How about the silly attempt to incorporate familial values into a Child’s Play movie? Or the ‘clever’ wink to the “Here’s Johnnnny!” scene in The Shining (an homage that’s been beaten to death since 1980)? Mancini would have had a better chance of actual success if he’d aimed more for the Ed Wood format—a 100% intentional joke of a movie might have generated some genuinely amusing results (yes, Wood actually was trying for serious movies, but…well, that’s a story for another day). Instead, though the countless nonsensical moments do provide a tiny modicum of laughter, Seed of Chucky really has no raison d’etre for its existence. You can experience the same campy hilarity at any John Waters film (incidentally, Waters makes a brief appearance as a smarmy paparazzi), or any 80’s horror flick—so, why was Seed of Chucky made? Well, when the tired-and-true formula keeps bringing in $$$, why stop, right? We’ve seen it with Friday the 13th, A Nightmare on Elm Street, and Halloween, so it was only a matter of time before Chucky returned to the big screen. Thank heavens for that—hopefully, Seed of Chucky follows the recent box office disasters of Jason X and Halloween: Resurrection, so we can finally put the fucking franchise to bed.
To this reviewer, imagination is life. Ever since high school, one of my favorite activities was to toss on my walkman (I’ve since graduated to an iPod), and immerse myself in other worlds as I walked around the city or my college campus. Don’t misunderstand—I’m comfortable in reality, but fantasy has always been a joyous escape, a way to temporarily shuck aside any concerns or problems that may be weighing on me. It’s no coincidence, then, that Peter Pan (1953) was always among my favorite Disney pictures as a child. I loved the stubborn refusal of these bubbly boys to grow up, their mischievous tendencies alive to the end…but, when needed, taking on the responsibilities of the very adults they fiercely avoided becoming. Rewatching Disney’s Peter Pan about a year ago, I was struck by how well it held up—the final image of Wendy longingly looking out the window at the ship of clouds in the sky is one of the more beautiful images I can remember, and all the sense of wonder remained. A few months later, I screened P.J. Hogan’s live-action version of Peter Pan (2003), and was pleasantly surprised by how charming it was (in large part due to Jeremy Sumpter’s delightful turn as Peter). Around then, I read a bit about Marc Forster’s upcoming Finding Neverland, which was completed but delayed until late this year due to Hogan’s Pan getting the 2003 release. I wasn’t particularly excited, despite Johnny Depp’s presence—could a picture about Barrie really deliver that Peter Pan magic? With images of the clumsy biopic A Beautiful Mind dancing in my head, I didn’t think so.
How wrong I was. Because Finding Neverland, which opened here in Manhattan this past Friday, is 2004’s most captivating picture, and certainly my biggest cinematic surprise to date this year. Like The Fellowship of the Ring in 2001, Spirited Away & The Two Towers in 2002, and The Return of the King in 2003, Finding Neverland possesses that rarest of abilities—it enchants from start to finish. It’s most certainly a tearjerker, but without being soppy or manipulative: tears are as often evoked during quiet or surreal moments as emotional ones. Given that it’s all about imagination and the inner-child, Finding Neverland isn’t subtle (nor is it supposed to be), but it strikes the perfect tone at nearly every moment. It’s a whimsical story that avoids going overboard on whimsy. My eyes were wet for the final 50 minutes, in large part due to how deeply I came to care for Barrie and Ms. Davies. In sharp contrast to Tod Williams’ The Door in the Floor (which I saw earlier in the day), Finding Neverland imbues its characters with a mixture of boyish energy and nuanced subtext; by the time the finale rolls around, there’s not a hint of doubt regarding how strongly Barrie and Davies feel for each other…and no kiss, gift, or romantic speech was needed to convey it. Because it’s all built up so quietly (an ironic word choice, as Barrie’s integration into the Davies family is anything but quiet—nevertheless, Mr. Barrie and Mrs. Davies’ relationship is steeped in delicacy), a particular shot of their clasped hands near the end is devastating.
Finding Neverland isn’t a biopic, nor does it claim to be, so the fact that it doesn’t delve deeply into every demon in Mr. Barrie’s closet doesn’t exhibit the flaws of A Beautiful Mind (sugarcoating John Nash’ homosexuality, for example)—it does touch on a family tragedy among other themes, but they’re not Forster’s (Monster’s Ball) primary concern. Instead, he concentrates on Barrie’s joyful, boundless heart. Stuck in a fuddy-duddy misalliance, James Barrie (a magnificent Johnny Depp; more later on the performances) is in the rut to end all ruts. His plays are being critically panned: they lack the energy that drives him to write. There’s no pleasure for him at work, and there’s even less when he returns to his prim-and-proper (though beautiful) wife at night. As he struggles to rediscover his creative fire in the park—the location where he does much of his writing—Barrie has a chance encounter with Mrs. Sylvia Llewyn Davies (Kate Winslet) and her four boys that sparks his boyish spunk again, injecting him with the surge of passion he’s been missing for so long. Barrie takes particular interest in young Peter, a reserved type, and spends many hours attempting to break into his tightly wound—and wounded—soul (of all the boys, Peter’s taken his father’s death the hardest), and asks his permission to name the lead boy of his upcoming play after him. Barrie’s liveliness, fully restored, shoots through the Davies family like lightning, infusing a moribund group with much-needed laughter, despite the attempts of Sylvia’s mother, Emma du Maier (Julie Christie), to spoil the fun. Unfortunately, Sylvia is suffering from a serious illness herself—probably tuberculosis, though it’s never explicitly stated—but refuses to submit to tests for fear of their potential impact on her children. Meanwhile, Peter Pan has begun production, Barrie’s marriage is teetering on the edge of complete disintegration, Mrs. du Maier’s interference is escalating by the day, and Ms. Davies isn’t getting any better…
Forster’s direction is sublime, particularly several dreamy montages displaying the power of the imagination (my apologies for using this word so much, but really, there’s no choice in this instance!)—an especially delightful sequence presents Barrie dancing with his dog, envisioning them as ringmaster & bear in an upscale circus. The set design, particularly the performances of Peter Pan, mixes simple pieces (cardboard water, boys hanging from strings) with the lavish, surreal conclusion that should stir the heart of the most cynical movie-goer. Color schemes are bright and sunny, belying the underlying sadness that’s present for most of Finding Neverland’s running time. But the picture’s deepest magic comes from the acting, without which it would be significantly less successful. Johnny Depp may be the most versatile actor of the past few decades—consider the roles he took on: Arizona Dream (1993), Ed Wood (1994), Dead Man (1995), Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003), and Pirates of the Carribean (2003). Here, he fills James Barrie with the proper adoration for life, and portrays a level of responsibility far beyond his childish exterior. An especially touching moment occurs in the opening night party for Peter Pan, when a group of admirers gather around young Peter, cooing, “this is Peter Pan!” Politely, Peter points to Mr. Barrie and says, “But I’m not Peter Pan. He is.” Indeed. Depp’s magnificent screen aura wouldn’t let us doubt it for a second. Not to be outdone, Kate Winslet’s Ms. Davies is haggard and reserved, allowing a smile to peek out only when her children are cheerful—this lightness of being seems to take place only when James Barrie is around. Winslet’s a splendid performance also affords us a rare glimpse of Winslet’s lovely, natural English accent. Julie Christie is appropriately snooty as Mrs. du Mille, and Dustin Hoffman gives a great smarmy turn as Charles Frohman, the deep-pocketed theatre owner with a strange, gruff faith in Barrie. The boys are excellent as well, particularly Freddie Highmore (Two Brothers) as the troubled Peter.
As Peter Pan nears opening night, everything at its core—believing, staying young forever, the imagination—is tragically mirrored by Mrs. Davies’ faltering health, and the harsh reality that all the belief in the world won’t save her life. It’s heartbreaking, and handled so deftly that it avoids the melodramatic demise that plagues much of modern Hollywood. Finding Neverland goes on about five minutes too long—had it ended on the fade-to-black following Mrs. Davies’ descent into Neverland, I don’t think I could conjure up a single problem with it—but it’s easy to forgive the clichéd conclusion when the picture strikes every other chord correctly. For anyone who’s dreamed of everything Peter Pan is about, Finding Neverland will take you to the world you’ve always wanted to visit, the world that. Barrie promised Mrs. Davies he’d take her to…a promise he ultimately fulfills in 2004’s best sequence. Become a boy all over again in the cineplex.
Frequently heartbreaking and always poignant, Grave of the Fireflies warrants a spot among the most effective of all war films. It’s a great testament to director Isao Takahata that we rarely remember that we’re watching an animated picture. The animation never decreases the atmosphere or power in the slightest—in fact, the remarkable lighting and use of reds enhance its power by precisely capturing the mood. Cinema’s magic can shine through from many angles, and Grave of the Fireflies easily carves out its own unique niche. Though completely different in style, Grave of the Fireflies can match Miyazaki’s finest work, and deserves the bushels of praise heaped upon it.
Seita and Setsuko’s sibling relationship form Grave of the Fireflies’ core, a core riddled with pain. The story begins in a post-war train station, where a boy lies dying amongst many other victims of the times. He’s ignored by the janitors, signifying the acceptance of seemingly traumatic episodes and events by the Japanese in post-war Japan. I’m not sure the “end-at-the-beginning” device is really necessary here—Setsuko’s absence from the station makes the film’s conclusion pretty evident about fifteen minutes in—but it’s a tribute to Grave’s composition and execution that the picture is nonetheless wrenching throughout. The children’s development is the primary reason; their bond is startling authentic, right down to charming little details like Seita swinging his sister around or Setsuko gingerly licking fruit drops, conserving them out of respect for her brother’s travails in finding food. As the story progresses, Seita is forced into a father’s role of sorts (their father is away fighting for the Japanese navy), but he never loses his unique brotherly perspective—in fact, his remarkable adaptation to their circumstances and his perseverance at such a young age is stunningly moving in and of itself.
One of the films’ most agonizing aspects is how close the children come to conquering the tremendous adversity that they face throughout. Just before Setsuko’s death, Seita discovers at the bank that the war has finally ended, and that Japan will finally begin to return to normal. Ecstatic, he rushes back to the bomb shelter where he and Setsuko have made their makeshift home, only to find her beyond aid. Seita could taste their salvation on the tip of his tongue…and the inevitability that all their gutsy determination will be for naught is difficult for us to accept. Setsuko’s fascination with the fireflies throughout serves as a shattering metaphor for light, something which she finds in her brother but sadly not in any larger scope. As a whole, Japanese cinema values children’s intelligence far more than other cultures, and Grave of the Fireflies is a prime example. Ultimately, the picture’s respect for Seito and Setsuko’s ability to fend for themselves results in a far more powerful piece of cinema than if they’d been portrayed as typical scared kids.
Grave of the Fireflies often comes close to overdosing on treacle, but normally displays just enough restraint to tiptoe around a sappy bombardment. The final montage of Setsuko’s ghost dancing around the bomb shelter could be construed as manipulative, but it’s done in such a tender fashion (not to mention we’ve already developed a strong connection to her character) that my heartstrings never felt yanked. Still, there are a few moments that are too obvious, moments that simply aren’t needed when most of the film is such an impressive portrayal of war-ridden Japan and Seita and Setsuko’s struggles. If it seems that I’m linking the children’s names in practically every description, it just demonstrates how effectively their relationship is presented. Grave of the Fireflies is both a great film and an important one, a picture that must be seen at least once. Just be sure to have a box of tissues handy near the sofa.
An example of Darwinism at its most sadistic, Nazi Medicine is the gripping story of the cold methods taken by heartless doctors during the Holocaust, the systematic weeding out of *lesser* individuals. By this, I mean such *worthless* entities as Jews, Slavs, Africans, Epileptics, and others – humans that weren’t really human in the eyes of these vicious dictators. Essentially, this was a sterilization of the supposed unfit, a dreadful example of the survival of the fittest concept. Racial superiority, eugenics (human experimentation – lovely), and the gory (figuratively speaking) details of this little-known, horrid agenda are all tackled by filmmaker John Michalczyk, who uses real footage in a similar manner to Alain Resnais’s Night and Fog. Nazi Medicine is as surgical as its subject matter, meticulously carving through its topic step-by-step, so unlike Night and Fog, it reaches the brain but not the heart. At just 54 minutes, it doesn’t spend enough time with people who were directly involved in these horrible cases, preferring to document the incidents and focus on details and study in a talky, lecture format. While this works just fine for informative purposes, it doesn’t give us much to chew on emotionally, as it often feels like we could have read all of this in a textbook.
Unlike Michalczyk’s The Cross and the Star, which rarely says anything all that interesting to those of us not schooled in religious history and ideals, Nazi Medicine does probe fairly deeply into an obscure and often fascinating topic matter. While I would have liked Michalczyk to inject more feeling into Nazi Medicine (though there’s certainly more present here than The Cross and the Star), it’s hard to ignore the impressively researched presentation of such an important item. At a time when most Holocaust documentaries appear to run together in terms of their messages and methods, Nazi Medicine is refreshing in its educational value, even for those who may consider themselves learned about the time period. Nazi Medicine is critical viewing for anyone interested in history or medicine, and is worthwhile for everyone else as well. If this review seems a bit skimpy, it’s because cinematically, it takes such a meat-and-potatoes approach that there’s very little to critique beyond what I already have, unless you guys want a word-by-word breakdown. Just rent the movie, though I’d advise against buying it – one viewing is plenty, and not because it’ll haunt your nights like Night and Fog or Schindler’s List. It’s just compact enough to accomplish its goal in one take.
White Thunder, a documentary about the doomed filmmaker Varick Frissell, is alternately absorbing and downright turgid. Early on, we’re given an intriguing portrait of Frissell’s upbringing, back-story, and aspirations—a strapping, 6’8” playboy, Frissell was on top of the world, but also an ambitious director whose ultimate dream was to make a picture about Newfoundland sealers. In 1931, he indeed began filming such a picture, entitled White Thunder; unfortunately, before the stirring finale could be recorded, his ship—the SS Viking—blew up in a tragic onboard explosion, killing Frissell and 26 other men. As a result, White Thunder was never completed; Paramount renamed it Viking and showed it, in all its incomplete glory, to audiences—it was well-received, but forgotten for many years.
Native Newfoundlander Victoria King’s directorial debut is shaky at best. The storytelling is mundane, spiced up only Frissell’s energetic onscreen demeanor and history. As a result, the middle portion of this 51 minute film is unbearably dull. Interviews fail to enlighten the viewer about anything of consequence, and the shifts between black & white and color are clumsily handled; however, the sequence from Viking, which features a long shot of men gingerly bobbing on ice floes, holds up extraordinary well—there’s nothing as chilling as seeing something frightening that you know is real (bullshit like The Blair Witch Product excluded). It’s unfortunate that King’s attempts to illustrate a long-lost filmmaking legend are only sporadically successful—so much time is spent on Frissell the man that we don’t get much of a sense of his true directorial talents. That element is glossed over. As a result, we leave King’s White Thunder impressed by Frissell as an individual, but still mostly in the dark of just how much of a potential auteur we may have lost—the poor souls floating on ice is the only taste we really have. Some of Frissell’s shorts are on the DVD (I’ll check them out shortly), which can only help, but judged on its own merits, King’s White Thunder is a mixed bag, without enough balls to take off beyond the genre norm, or be truly enlightening.