I like my angst (and controversial) cinema served up in many forms; subtle, in-your-face, a hybrid, all are fine as long as the direction is self-assured and authoritative. Larry Clark’s Bully (2001) split audiences with its no-holds-barred presentation of suburban violence and lack of moralistic values, but the directorial conviction is so unrelenting, its imagery so authentically graphic, that it manages to be hypnotically bloody without feeling gratuitous, hypnotically powerful without overexertion or force-feeding on Clark’s part. Bully’s dissenters may sing a different tune, but for this reviewer—one who was mixed on Kids (1998) when he saw it back in college—it was an extremely powerful experience. I bring this up because Paul Haggis’ Crash (2005), an intriguing failure, lacks the follow-through (or visual pizzazz) to make the overly obvious approach to touchy issues (teen bloodshed in Bully, race relations in Crash) successful. Following an eclectic group of homosapiens—the high-powered politician Rick (a surprisingly passable Brendan Fraser) & his paranoid, shallow wife Jean (Sandra Bullock); the Hispanic locksmith Daniel (Million Dollar Baby’s Michael Peña); the chain-smoking black cop Graham (Don Cheadle); the weary Officer Ryan (Matt Dillon) and his wide-eyed partner Officer Hanson (an impressive Ryan Phillipe); the black filmmaker Cameron (Terrence Howard) and his fierce wife Christine (Thandie Newton); the Persian immigrant Farhad (Shaun Taub), who appears to think the USA exists strictly to ostracize him from acceptance; and a pair of thugs, Anthony and Peter (rapper Ludacris and Larenz Tate), one of whom welcomes their criminal ways, but eschews any sort of black-on-black activities—Crash attempts to mold them together into a mass statement about societal values, among other things. To wit:
Crash has several objectives, its primary one being a sweeping indictment of race relations in America. Haggis’ point is clear: there’s racism everywhere, in everyone—those who flaunt it are often secretly tolerant (envious, even); those who act high-and-mighty often secretly harbor some level of disdain. As a topic matter, there’s some serious potential here, but Haggis doesn’t carry it nearly far enough and as a result, Crash ends up not having anything to say despite the obvious manner in which Haggis chooses to say it! While numerous individual sequences border on excellence—Phillipe’s character in particular feels very well fleshed out, despite the meager amounts of time he’s actually on screen—there’s too shallow a treatment of Crash’ many players for the film to tie together well. Bullock’s joust with a fear of minorities (after a stick-up) and subsequent realization that she was *gasp* unjust in her concerns is a particularly vivid example of poor writing on Haggis’ part (he penned the screenplay in addition to his directorial duties); because her segment isn’t given enough attention, her revelation that all non-Whites aren’t actually the Devil reincarnated (in the form of an embrace for her Hispanic maid) comes off as eye-rolling nonsense. Frankly, Haggis would have benefited from a few less storylines: he wrote the superb Million Dollar Baby screenplay, and seems much more at home focusing extensively on a few strongly developed characters, rather than a potpourri of underutilized ones. While it’s hard not to admire Haggis’ ambition here, his lofty aspirations sapped Crash of any real ingenuity or emotional punch.
Aspects of Crash appear to be a rush-job: why is the Persian family speaking English when nobody whose not of their culture is around, for instance? Frequent moments are unbearably hokey (the culmination of the “invisible cloak” storyline, for instance; its initial appearance is certainly cheesy, but charming enough to get away with it), and these moments prevent Crash from attaining any sort of consistent flow. Most of these glitches stem from the script, as the acting is mostly stellar; somewhat startling, considering it stars a slew of folks I generally can’t stomach. Standouts include the aforementioned Phillipe, Terrence Howard, and Ludacris (yes, really), who fills his character with an honest confusion that’s befitting of somehow with such awful ideals. Then again, perhaps he’s just really a confused being…
Oddly, the film that Crash reminded me of most isn’t Bully, but Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia; an ambitious intertwining of lives that are brought together at the end by an extremely, er, *unlikely* event (heavy snow in Los Angeles in Crash, raining frogs in Magnolia). Unlike Magnolia, though, Crash doesn’t explore the inner workings of its numerous characters in enough detail to justify such an apocalyptic, symbolic wrap-up. It’s about 110 minutes, which just isn’t enough to penetrate so many fragile, fucked-up exteriors. In fairness, Crash is far from an abomination: there’s a clever use of time-shift; as I mentioned in the opening paragraph, it’s an interesting misfire; and its occasional outstanding scenes make it compulsively watchable. It’s just a shame they feel like mismatched pieces in a potentially beautiful jigsaw puzzle.
39/100
Analyzing the documentary medium is among the trickier forms of cinematic criticism—it’s easy to overrate a picture on the basis of an engaging topic matter, rather than any real talent from the filmmakers at hand. In the case of Marilyn Agrelo’s cutesy-poo Mad Hot Ballroom, I left the theater moderately impressed by its warmth, and its tender portrayal of the dance programs that now permeate the New York public school system. After a bit of reflection, though, my (already tempered) enthusiasm began to wane further. Firstly, I realized my understanding of the program’s importance had nothing to do with Mad Hot Ballroom’s editing or direction, and everything to do with my current—and ex—girlfriends being teachers in the very system the film depicts. There’s no background on what these kids are escaping, no behind-the-scenes examinations of their home lives, or even what impact the dancing has on their, you know, schoolwork. Were I not from Manhattan, I can’t imagine gleaning anything from Mad Hot Ballroom beyond a desire to pinch those ragamuffin’s precious cheeks.
Mad Hot Ballroom doesn’t follow Spellbound‘s lead in giving us protagonists to cheer for: by tracking three schools’ efforts to reach the finals, we never form a bond with any of them. That would be acceptable if Agrelo’s decision was based on key distinctions in how the programs were run at different public schools, but to these eyes, there was no difference. Everything was identical—encourage, smile, occasionally softly chastise, rinse, repeat. Why not just follow one school, allowing an emotional bond between viewer and onscreen ‘heroes’ to materialize? There’s not enough meat on Mad Hot Ballroom’s bones to warrant a 110 minute run-time: in fact, the filmic drumstick is completely picked clean half-an-hour in. And, topping it off, seeing David LaChapelle’s riveting Rize later the same day sent my feelings about Mad Hot Ballroom plummeting even further (I actually wonder if my rating is too generous, but its heart is in the right place, and there’s nothing offensive about it…plus, I did learn something. So, I’ll leave it where it is.)
For every Mad Hot Ballroom whiff—background, intensity, diversity of subject manner, etc—Rize responds with a barrage of line-drive doubles and home runs. Set in South Central L.A., LaChapelle illustrates the origin of krumpin’—a frenetic free-for-all dance style that’s an outlet for emotional and intellectual frustration in the hood. Every gyration is unique, every morning the dawn of a new take on this fascinating activity. While the footage of the technique itself is mesmerizing in and of itself, what puts Rize so far above Mad Hot Ballroom is what LaChapelle builds off of it. Superb editing keeps us vested in the multiple characters without overextending any of them and, at 84 minutes, we’re left craving more. Interviews with krumpers of all age groups enlighten the audience on just what these kids are escaping from, and several tragic incidents somberly remind us that as magnetic as krumpin’ is (as well as a potent escape from Southern California’s gang-infested misery) it can only take these troubled youths so far—the solution to the gunshot-riddled slums and ghettos is buried much deeper, and its going to take a societal overhaul to significantly improve things. In the meantime, though, seeing a five-year old contort their body in an awesome show of pent-up fire on the Lakers home court is significantly more moving than never-ending close-ups of NYC children’s wide smiles. Rize is full of sugar-rush adrenaline, but it also has the presence of mind to cool our enthusiasm enough to pierce through to its issues’ core, lending a balance to the work that Mad Hot Ballroom is sorely lacking.