Comparing Jim Jarmusch’ Broken Flowers to Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation is, I suppose, inevitable: both pictures boast a subtler-than-usual Bill Murray in a starring role, both directors utilize long takes to enhance the audience’s discomfort during expressive moments, and both films focus on emotional emptiness despite the characters’ apparently happy exteriors. Indeed, there are numerous similarities…but while Lost in Translation follows two protagonists—similar despite hailing from wildly different generations—and is as much about connection as anything, Broken Flowers is all about one man: Don (Murray), a middle-aged womanizer of sorts who fears commitment, yet lives in denial about his hollow lifestyle. Despite being wealthy due to capitalizing on the computer boom, it’s immediately evident that money really can’t buy happiness. His elegant house features a flat-panel TV and flashy furniture, but the absence of a computer is conspicuous: Don unconsciously resents what made him rich, and that it didn’t cure him of his woes. He’s content to pass out on the couch while Don Juan plays in the background (one of Jarmusch’ many artistic references, and a clever parallel to Don’s name), and barely reacts when Sherry (a woefully underused Julie Delpy; okay, that’s just my Before Sunrise infatuation talking) gives up and reluctantly leaves him. However, after a mysterious letter from a former lover arrives at his door—anonymously claiming that Don’s a father, and his son is currently on a quest to find his dad—Don embarks on a road trip of his own (with lots of prodding from his friend Winston, played by a hammy Jeffrey Wright) to track down the potential suspects, and winds up on a spiritual journey of self-examination.
The four women whom Don finds may have all moved on to new lives, but all seem equally unhappy in their own ways. Laura (Sharon Stone) lost her husband in a race-car accident, and now lives in a shithole as a wannabe entrepreneur, with her slutty daughter Lolita (a clever play on names). Dora (Frances Conroy) made a fortune in real estate, but her marriage (to her business partner, though they married before choosing a joint career path) is a loveless one, and an awkward silence at their dinner table is actually difficult to watch. Carmen (Jessica Lange) appears the most stable of the bunch…and this is the woman who abandoned a profitable career as an attorney to speak to animals. Meanwhile, Penny (Tilda Swinton) is trailer trash, and unlike the rest, makes no bones about it—or her lingering disdain for Don. As Don sifts through the memories, he begins to realize why Winston pushed him to go on this wild goose chase—even though he’s no closer to discovering if he really is a father, he’s much closer to discovering himself. His exes react to him in different ways—sexual, indifference, scorn, loathing—but they all distinctly remember him, and he them. Perhaps his life could have been different had he not treated them like short-term entertainment; perhaps theirs could be as well. Broken Flowers superbly captures the inner torment that plagues rich loners, and the regret that tortures almost all of humanity. Jarmusch’ patient camera sometimes lingers too long, taking the audience out of the flow, but mostly effectively mimics and enhances the uncomfortable atmosphere so prevalent throughout the movie. The script is full of witty dialogue and some great laughs (Murray’s deadpan delivery boosts every zinger a few notches), though it must be said that the writing does feel contrived at times. I’m not sure if Broken Flowers is a memorable or great picture, but it’s insightful, entertaining, and a worthy addition to the filmography of one of America’s more interesting modern directors.
62/100
Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins ranks among the more frustrating movie-going experiences of the past year for me: so much is rich with ingenuity and daring that its constant missteps are exceptionally glaring. The pacing, much like Ang Lee’s Hulk, is deliberate, but all the better for it. Batman Begins traces Bruce Wayne’s ascension to the Dark Knight: fear and anger (both born from his parent’s murder) merge to fuel his intense training, and fierce determination to save Gotham from its hordes of corrupt politicians, drug kingpins, and thugs. As such, Wayne (Christian Bale) doesn’t don the bat-outfit until halfway through the picture, and only one classic villain, the Scarecrow (played deliciously by Cillian Murphy), partakes in the main storyline. Rather, Nolan focuses on the never-ending battle with fear that we all fight; even those who are viewed by the public with starry eyes must conquer their worst nightmares, perhaps even more than most. While this angle is certainly uncharacteristic of the Batman movies, it’s a welcome breath of fresh air…theoretically.
As fantastic as the concept is, the execution for much of Batman Begins is equally lackluster. The dialogue is consistently heavy (“What is fear?” serves as the mantra for life in Gotham , which apparently means repeating some semblance of it 97 times), pulling down the tension like a weighted anchor. Esteemed actors such as Michael Caine (Alfred), Liam Neeson (Ducard), and Tom Wilkinson (Falcone) ham it up, and less-esteemed “actresses” like Katie Holmes continue to embarrass themselves. Morgan Freeman plays a superb Morgan Freeman. Gary Oldman (Lt. Gordon) is more than serviceable, though, toning it down quite a bit from his days of Leon: The Professional. As for Bale (the crucial cog here and an actor whom I’ve grown to admire), he does a superb job of harnessing Wayne’s inner demons (as best the script allows, anyway). He’s not quite as successful as Batman, where his enunciations come across as over-the-top, and the frenetic hand-to-hand combat editing (which primarily consists of an onscreen flash, then a whole bunch of unconscious villains on the ground) keep the audience from breathing in the Caped Crusader’s dark grace. And that’s just it: Batman Begins has a dark storyline, dark (and excellent) cinematography, and dark, humanistic characters, but it doesn’t have a particularly dark aura. The shoddy writing and hokey love subplot constantly drag us away from the gritty determination that gave Batman Begins so much potential, and aside from a few great moments—mostly involving Scarecrow—it too often feels like a crushing missed opportunity, eschewing an in-depth character study for cheesy nonsense.I suspect that Nolan—who helmed the indie phenomenon Memento (2001), as well as Insomnia (2002) with Al Pacino—was severely handcuffed by the studio here.
If Batman Begins had been just another empty Hollywood action flick at its core, I would have subscribed to the theory that Nolan betrayed his filmmaking roots, but there’s too much creativity furiously bubbling beneath the finished product, desperate to emerge, to write Nolan off so easily. Perhaps he was handcuffed by the 180 million dollar budget—coaxed into dumbing down the screenplay—or perhaps dollar signs really did seduce him. Whatever caused it, Nolan’s Batman Begins ends up as a maddening, tantalizing failure unwilling to follow through to the end and as much as I admire ambition, the end result is several notches below X2, Hulk, and even Spiderman as genre pieces. And that’s a damn shame, because more than any of those films, Batman Begins had the potential to rise above its genre, and be truly great.
Phil Morrison’s irritating Junebug is a film about mundane caricatures—er, characters—doing mundane things in mundane ways. There’s not a whit of spunk throughout most of the picture. Set in North Carolina, Junebug pits Blue State purity (Madeleine) vs. Red State bottom-feeding (the whole hillbilly family), with the two sides locking horns throughout. Who emerges victorious? Well, theoretically—thanks to a little deus-ex-machina and a whole lot of nonsense—everyone learns their lessons by the end, and goes on the path to their destinies all the wiser. The clichés read like a laundry list of Southern dirty undies:
Only Johnny’s wife Ashley (a superb Amy Adams) shows any richness of character—her breakdown in the hospital after her highly-anticipated baby dies during childbirth is completely believable. Stuck in a loveless marriage and hopeless household, she had viewed the child as an escape from the misery-soaked cloud of gloom that enshrouds her, a misery that she tries to forget by relentlessly smiling and asking a million and one questions. With her salvation never arriving, she’s forced into the realization that all the jokes in the world won’t get her out of hell on earth. Much like Rose in Steven Soderbergh’s recent Bubble, Ashley feels trapped, and the audience empathizes intensely with her longing for a better life.
The aforementioned moment is one of the few emotionally honest sequences in all of Junebug, though; almost everything else is contrived and heavy-handed. For instance, Madeleine is constantly depicted in an angelic light: trying to help Johnny get that finally-within-reach GED, keeping Ashley’s spirits up, etc. Generosity for everyone! But when Ashley’s about to give birth, Madeleine excuses herself from the proceedings, choosing instead to make a last-ditch effort to secure the work of an artist she admires (she succeeds). While this might make sense in a different movie with different people, it’s completely inconsistent with Morrison’s depiction of Madeleine. Although she is portrayed as deeply committed to her art gallery, the script never prepares us for Madeleine’s betrayal, and the victory of careerism over affection. Furthermore, her relationship with George isn’t sufficiently developed: they were married one week after meeting, but their connection is depicted only in scenes of sexual intimacy: what brought them together other than that is never explored, nor does their marriage have any impact on the other relationships in the film. Simplistic characterizations such as these doom Junebug entirely.
You’ll have to pardon my condescending tone, but Junebug annoyed me while in the theater, and annoys me even more as I write about it. Its saving graces are a) the sharp painting of the racist-and-entirely-prejudiced loner artist—his art features black men with enormous cocks, representing the age-old Southern fear of black male sexuality—and b) the dialogue, surprisingly amusing at times but unable to overcome the formulaic approach that pervades the rest of the script. Overall, this gets my Station Agent award of 2005 for most undeservingly praised flick, completely lacking in plausibility or consistency in tone. Skip it, unless you’re a voyeur craving a close-up view of directorial masturbation.
Far superior to John Singleton’s by-the-numbers Boyz n the Hood (1991), Boaz Yakin’s Fresh doesn’t rely on skeletal portrayals of life in the ghetto or preachy, moralistic messages. Rather, Fresh rides a compelling protagonist, outstanding script, and superb pacing to become 1994’s most underappreciated picture. It’s the story of Michael (A.K.A. Fresh), a 12-year-old drug-pusher who lives in a halfway house with his naive aunt and a slew of half-brothers & sisters. His father Sam (Samuel L. Jackson) remains in the picture, playing speed chess for money in the park, but lives in a decrepit trailer without any real life—Fresh is forced to sneak occasional visits to his table for games and fatherly metaphors & advice. Fresh’s quick wit and vast smarts earn him the trust of multiple druglords, including the powerful Esteban, and allow him to accumulate a large, illegal savings account. After a while, however, a series of circumstances cause Fresh to reevaluate his criminal path, leaving him determined to do his part in changing the seemingly predestined fates of so many inner-city youths.
Sean Nelson’s astonishing performance as Fresh stings of authenticity, primarily because there’s no hammy mannerisms. Fresh comes across as a genuine urban kid, forced by the impoverished conditions of Brooklyn to become a full-fledged grown-up far before his time. He routinely witnesses robbery, treachery, and cold-blooded murder, eventually becoming almost steeled to the brutal, nonstop sadism—a particularly unnerving moment features Fresh and his punkish sidekick Chuckie putting a stray, wounded dog out of its misery with a single gunshot. Only his relationship with his sister (a key element to Fresh’s development), and his meetings with his father—who’s unaware of Fresh’ extracurricular activities, but has his own troubled past—relieve his business-like existence of its heavy burden. The film’s final sequence, which features Fresh the man—for perhaps the first time, after a life of unwarranted responsibility—becoming Michael the child, should move the most stoic of viewers. I find it to be one of the most appropriate and powerful finales of the decade.
Unlike the usual trite interpretation of the game, chess in Fresh does not symbolize black vs. white so much as power and respect power—and the cost of achieving success at any price. One of Fresh’s most impressive characteristics is the immense texture of every dramatic scene—when local ruffian and fellow dealer Jake kills a young basketball player who had just schooled him on the court, Yakin smoothly makes it clear that the boy hadn’t done anything to provoke the attack. He was simply playing his game, and actually goes out of his way to avoid causing trouble, at one point saying, “don’t worry about it, man, it’s their ball.” The message is clear: bloodshed is the only *solution* that these thugs know, the only way for them to feel on top of the world. That a young girl whom Fresh clearly has feelings for is caught in the crossfire only enhances the scene’s power—Yakin doesn’t milk her death for tearjerking purposes; instead he gracefully cuts to the police station, where Fresh glumly states that he didn’t see anything. It’s a full-fledged lie, yet doesn’t feel dishonest—in his bleak universe, Fresh has no choice but to roll with the punches, as painful as they may be. It’s not until the sins pile up to unbearable proportions that Fresh uses his numerous intellectual gifts—the very gifts that established him as a cornerstone pusher—to rip the drug empire apart, before the emotional load of his life collapses, leading to the aforementioned wrenching final moment.