While Craig Brewer’s Hustle & Flow manages to avoid the retread feel of many ‘reach your dream’ pictures, it also finds itself unwilling to push the envelope enough to make its own voice heard beyond the surface energy and invigorating music, all while projecting a message rife with social dangers. Set in Memphis, Hustle & Flow follows D-Jay (Terrence Howard), a prototypical pimp who scrapes by ghetto-style by selling his girls’ bodies to straggling drivers. Unhappy with his life, he uses a chance meeting with old high school classmate-turned-producer Key (Anthony Anderson) to launch an attempt at a hip-hop career, culminating in a meeting with omega rap star Skinny Black (Ludacris, once again surprisingly effective after a solid turn in Crash), who’s made the rise from Memphis-nothing-to-shining-star that D-Jay dreams of making himself. Unfortunately for D-Jay, their meeting dissolves into a disaster, leaving him wondering if his dreams of having his voice heard are completely misguided.
Hustle & Flow’s biggest problem is its portrayal of D-Jay, and the emotions it attempts to evoke from the audience. We’re clearly meant to sympathize with his plight—being ‘stuck’ in this miserable lifestyle, being played by Skinny Black at the party, having gone nowhere—but why exactly should we care? D-Jay doesn’t just manipulate his women for cash; he deals drugs, and shows little regard to the ho’s who make him his dough until the very end (by then, it just feels contrived). We’re supposed to root for this jerk, to sit with our knuckles white while praying that his mediocre rapping lifts him from this self-made mess? Perhaps it’s unintentional, but Hustle & Flow frequently reinforces all the racial stereotypes that filmmakers, rappers, and humanity as a whole have all been fighting to shoot down. There’s little in D-Jay’s persona that invokes empathy, and his ultimate redemption—beyond the normal rags-to-riches angle, there’s a finale that I won’t reveal—is infuriating in its careless dismissal of accountability. D-Jay’s actions reek of the irresponsible, resort-to-violence mentality that plagues the hip-hop nation, and indeed, inspires the (ignorant) mentality that rap isn’t really music. That’s nonsense, of course, but Hustle & Flow does nothing to support the intellectual aspirations of artists like Nas and Immortal Technique, instead conforming to the gun-toting rubbish of the new breed of gangster rappers. Howard does the best he can to inject humanity into D-Jay—it’s a heartfelt performance—but through no fault of his own, he’s unable to overcome Brewer’s shoddy directorial work.
There’s no doubt Hustle & Flow is entertaining: the music is exciting (if lyrically tired), and the performances match that energy. Anthony Anderson, who I have trouble associating with anything other than “Pookie” (Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle), is surprisingly effective here in a rare serious role (as is DJ Qualls), and the various girls assert themselves passably. The script, written Brewer, avoids barraging us with groan-inducing moments: a good thing, too, because Hustle & Flow’s chosen direction is questionable enough without creaky dialogue mucking it up further. Brewer’s attempts to create a dusty, gritty world where failure lurks around every corner are sabotaged by his sharp backpedals whenever an opportunity to make a real statement about the do-anything-to-survive mentality that plagues minority culture, and Hustle & Flow winds up being little more than a poor man’s 8 Mile—down-and-out wastrel turns to hip-hop to dig him out of the dirt—but with none of the emotional heft that Curtis Hanson’s direction inspired.
38/100
The eras of romantic love notes and of traditional telephone landlines are behind us, replaced by the rapid-fire, date-a-new-person-each-day Internet era … which shows no signs of slowing down. Since movie stars don’t usually have trouble getting dates, 39-year-old actor, John Cusack, one of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelors and co-star of Must Love Dogs, hasn’t himself tried online dating. However, for the rest of us mortals, 40 percent of our country’s singles have ventured into this cyber option to search for love. Numerous couples strolling hand-in-hand through Central Park knew each other only as “FairyPrncssXXX” and “MachoMan” a month ago, perhaps only graduating to the telephone as recent as last week. While such liaisons were deemed ‘sketchy’ by parents and friends a mere five years ago, it’s become apparent in the popular online frenzy that it’s as safe and worthwhile as any other form of meeting a potential mate. Completely fake profiles or just fudging of personal characteristics—such as a 250 pound woman describing herself as ‘voluptuous,’ or a scrawny 6’5” toothpick of a man claiming an ‘athletic’ physique—are filtered and tolerated by a person’s deep desire to get in touch with another individual predicated on common interests, richer than those randomly encountered in bars, restaurants, or various ‘meat-market’ settings.
Of course, it makes no sense that people who are sincerely seeking a romantic partner list phony interests or post old photos. Don’t they realize that at some point, if the email and/or telephone chemistry clicks, that they’ll eventually have to show up in person and reveal the lies? Clearly this is a rhetorical question since so many lovelorn do pursue this ridiculous course. While people can’t hide their true physical attributes after meeting in person, they can still present false impressions about who they are. So for those who post truthful profiles, online dating can resurrect the loves notes of an earlier time, whereby people get to know each other slowly before even meeting. Similar tastes in film, literature, music, art, etc, may lead a movie-buff to contact someone else who’s actually heard of Emir Kusturica, or a punk rocker to send a note to a big Megadeth fan. While there’s no way to replicate the in-person spark that’s so essential to a strong connection, at least you’re going into the first date knowing that you’ll have something to talk about. In any event, it’s slightly more controlled than a blind date, and though it’s no surer route to long-term happiness than any other form of hook-up, it’s as good a way as any to explore your options.
With the online dating world running rampant, Must Love Dogs—an inconsequential, harmless piece of moderately cute fluff—proves itself to be at least up-to-date in its tired dot-com glory (though oddly, I don’t recall seeing a single cell phone in the picture). It’s your standard tale about two divorced-turned-bitter-and-lonely souls who wind up proving the perfect tonic for each other’s ailments. Along the way, they encounter obstacles in the form of social awkwardness (due to being ‘out of the game’ for so long), anger towards their exes, and intense pressure from friends and family; ultimately, however, they (of course) persevere. It’s typical silliness, but John Cusack as Jake and Diane Lane as Sarah (along with Christopher Plummer as Sarah’s smooth father) give good performances, and the script—though packing its share of clunkers—generally keeps from being too cloying.
Cusack’s ability to deliver dialogue in entertaining, rapid-fire fashion particularly helps. There’s really not much to say about Must Love Dogs on any deeper level. It’s standard fare at its most standard, though less soppy than usual. But what’s most interesting about Must Love Dogs from a modern perspective is its all-encompassing look at the wary, throw-caution-to-the-wind, and shrug-it-off perspectives that the world has regarding this cult phenomenon. Old-fashioned folks think that online dating is untrustworthy; the new-age crowd (which doesn’t necessarily correlate with their age) think it’s loads of fun; and then there are those who dismiss it completely. That Sarah’s father joins the fray before Sarah herself indicates that the generation gap is pretty much meaningless when it comes to the Internet. It’s all about perception and a willingness to change with the times.
Watching the emotional baggage and personal neurosis of these two attractive and smart people unfold, and thwart what should be an obvious match-made-in-heaven, comforts the rest of us oh-so-fabulous, why-can’t-we-find-our-soulmate singles in the knowledge that we’re not alone in the struggle to make that forever after connection. There could be a confluence of factors working against an easy path to romance at any given point in time … he’s got his act together/she doesn’t … she’s got her act together/he doesn’t … working hard on a career … working hard on raising kids as a single parent … chemistry of a rock with a scallop … the astrological misalignment of planets from an errant comet’s wayward path in the cosmos … why not? … it could be. So online dating opens up opportunities to meet people that you wouldn’t necessarily meet at the local grocery store.
Samurai Rebellion (1967) was my first taste of Masaki Kobayashi’s filmic style, and it certainly won’t be the last—the picture is as powerful, meditative, and gripping as anything Akira Kurosawa, Kenji Mizoguchi, Yasujiro Ozu, or the other Japanese masters have created. Set during peacetime in 1725, Samurai Rebellion examines the morality and nobility of fading swordsman Isaburo Sasahara (Toshirô Mifune) and his son Yogoro (Takeshi Katô), as they fight their clan’s decision to rob Yogoro of his wife Ichi (Yôko Tsukasa), who had been unceremoniously dumped—exiled, if you will—upon the family for violent misconduct towards their Lord Masakata (Tatsuo Matsumura) only a short time before (Ichi was Masakata’s concubine). When Masakata’s heir dies of pneumonia, Ichi—who mothered the next-in-line—is summoned back to take her ‘rightful’ place alongside the Lord. However, Ichi and Yogoro have surprisingly fallen deeply in love, have a baby daughter Tomo, and are horrified at the thought of sending Ichi back to the castle. Invigorated by his son’s passion, Isaburo—earlier depicted as a beaten man in many ways—joins the determined couple in making a rebellious stand against the clan’s narrow-minded perspectives, eventually planning to go to Edo and report the clan’s treachery to Japan’s highest powers.
The opening of Samurai Rebellion presents a society with conflicted priorities—as Isaburo and his close friend Tatewaki (Tatsuya Nakadai) evaluate the quality of various swords for the Chamberlain, they find themselves mocked for never dueling (Isaburo and Tatewaki are considered the clan’s finest swordsmen) due to concern for their families. It’s evident immediately that Isaburo and the clan don’t see eye-to-eye on what the word ‘family’ represents: to the Chamberlain and Lord, the clan itself must take precedence, what its members should put first. Wives, sons, daughters, and personal friends are little more than secondary insignificances. Conversely, Isaburo—despite being “henpecked” by a verbally abrasive and cold wife in a loveless marriage—has no such illusions. He respects the clan, but puts his blood in the forefront, and doesn’t view the clan’s every word with reverence. Though Isaburo is submissive in many ways, we get the instantaneous sensation that something’s about to snap; that Isaburo has great quantities of frustration crying to escape, even if we’ve yet to learn what they stem from. As Samurai Rebellion glides along, we learn the extent of his unhappiness with his wife Suga (Michiko Otsuka), and how much he wants his sons to experience more joy than he. That his other son Bunzo (Tatsuyoshi Ehara) is a weak-willed, spineless jellyfish inspires him to support Yogoro and Ichi’s union until the very end. Indeed, one of Samurai Rebellion’s best sequence features Bunzo as the extended family representative, sent as a messenger to plead for Isaburo and Yogoro’s acquiescence, and unable to say a single word other than “father!” whenever he opens his mouth, as Isaburo calmly verbally undresses him, making it crystal clear that he will not back down from what’s right.
As Samurai Rebellion takes place during a serene time in the countryside, Kobayashi portrays unprovoked feudalistic tendencies: that is, customs and rigid hierarchical structures that aren’t stoked by the fires of battle. Indeed, much of Samurai Rebellion’s story can be viewed as a precursor to war—the selfishness, stubbornness, and frosty relations smack of what ultimately leads to senseless fighting in the first place. Suga’s chilly refusal to accept Ichi into the Sasahara family despite unmistakable, continuous evidence of her beautiful soul; the court’s kamikaze orders without regard to the humanity of others; the family’s refusal to stand by their kin in the face of adversity; all are uncomfortable traits of war-mongering tyrants who like to dub themselves ‘pioneers.’ Kobayashi suggests that even in times of overall tranquility, peace is only a surface reality—there’s always infighting and power-hungry dictators infecting societies that would be otherwise living in harmony.
Kobayashi utilizes selective tight framing to accentuate the sweat and tension that pervade most of the participants, but never overuses the close-ups; the fluid black-and-white photography is perfect for the simple-yet resonant world that Samurai Rebellion presents. Mifune turns in one his most nuanced performances: during his emotional outbursts—of which there are several, including a showdown with Masakata’s right-hand man and —he emotionally spits out his lines with the same energetic furor as in Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood and Yojimbo, or Hiroshi Inagaki’s Samurai trilogy. However, when he’s quietly lamenting his empty life, appraising his family, or taking stock of the clan’s most recent disloyalty, his face alternately hardens and softens, his voice fills with wistfulness. He’s a truly remarkable actor. The rest of the cast is uniformly outstanding as complements, from Katô as the distraught and fiercely noble Yogoro, to Yokô as the forlorn-but-faithful Ichi, to Otsuka as the unrelentingly aloof Suga.
When Isaburo and Tatewaki finally draw swords against each other, it’s for entirely selfless reasons: there’s no crowd to admire their talents, merely their nobility and beliefs in their societal positions and a refusal to conform. If Tatewaki isn’t quite as self-sacrificing as Isaburo throughout—he does, at one point, offer to kill Isaburo in exchange for a major promotion, which he’s refused; it’s unclear if he knew he would be rebuffed, and requested it to avoid having to contest Isaburo, which appears likely—his reasons for blocking the gate and finally fighting Isaburo, as well as for declining the Lord’s initial request to duel, speak for themselves, and inject a much-needed dose of faithfulness into an increasingly somber tale. However: Samurai Rebellion doesn’t end on a happy note—though there’s some reason for optimism—but it’s also not unrelentingly bleak and hopeless. As Isaburo notes, Ichi and Yogoro’s ardor is a superior example of love’s richest powers, and the energy and ideals that it can stir up within. And after you finish absorbing the masterpiece Samurai Rebellion, you just might feel inspired yourself.
With 2005′s The Beat That My Heart Skipped joining 2001′s Read my Lips, Jacques Audiard is rapidly asserting himself as a powerhouse in the new wave of French directors. In both films, Audiard shows an interest in sound and communication, and while Read my Lips was more consistently engrossing, The Beat That My Heart Skipped is as worthy a follow-up as can be expected, and a superb picture in its own right. It concentrates on Thomas Seyr (Romain Duris), son of a crooked real estate investor father (Robert, played by Niels Arestrup), and concert pianist mother. Most of his life has been spent following in his father’s footsteps—planting rats in homes where the rent’s overdue, delivering beat-downs to squatters and deadbeat tenants, and violently cleaning up his father’s messes. It’s evident that despite his complaints and curses, Tom cherishes the reliance that his father has in him—filial duty is clearly important to Tom’s makeup. The film’s opening sequence, which shows Tom cloaked in shadow (an important motif, as it turns out), depicts him listening to his close friend vent about having to spend hours on end caring for his dad. While his complaints come in a never-ceasing stream, he obviously relishes playing ‘pops’ himself: this mirrors Tom’s eventual path, as he hopes it will give him the inner strength to rebel against the father whose path he’s half-heartedly followed. As it turns out, it takes an interjection from his dead mother’s past—the random encounter with her former concert instructor—to veer him from the pure thug’s path. He begins taking lessons with Miao Lin (Linh Dan Pham), a Chinese girl who’s new to France, but renowned for her piano-playing gifts, in an effort to channel his tension elsewhere.
udiard primarily focuses on communication and understanding: while Tom has known only one way of getting his point across much of his life—fists and baseball bats—he begins to realize that other non-verbal methods can be equally effective. His ADD-esque nervous energy makes him awkward with spoken words, apt to say the wrong thing at the wrong time (ex: when his best buddies’ wife sees him in a café and asks him where her man is, he forgets that he was supposed to be covering for him, and blurts out that they’re not together that evening), and until his renewed interest in music reemerges, physical aggression is the only way he knows to unleash the pent-up frustration and confusion that plagues his identity. Once his classical instruction begins, however, he starts to realize that there are other ways to get his point across. The Beat That My Heart Skipped zeroes in on these ways: Tom overcomes a language barrier with his teacher, an emotional barrier with his lover, a psychological barrier with his father. He constantly stumbles in his quest for tranquility (being dragged out the night before his recital; whaling on the swindler who owed Robert six month’s rent), but never stops trying to attain it. I’s almost tragic upon reflection, and indeed, The Beat That My Heart Skipped only gets better as it ages in my mind. As Tom, Romain Duris turns in 2005′s most electric performance to date. Every mannerism, tic, and facial expression is pitch-perfect for whatever emotion Audiard wishes to exhibit. The rest of the supporting cast range from adequate to good, but none can match Duris’ exuberance (though it was nice to see Emmanulle Davies, so magnificent in Read My Lips, get a brief cameo as one of Rober’s lovers). Visually, the handheld camerawork is generally effective, though at times Audiard falls in love with the close-up, and winds up blurring the action in the process. He often cloaks Tom’s setting—and face—in darkness, illustrating the lost state Tom finds himself in, and the gloom that he’s constantly battling. The brightness of the concert hall is a perfect contrast, the locale where he can think of his mother, and ideally, truly be at peace. The Beat That My Heart Skipped concludes on a fitting, troubling, yet uplifting note, indicating that as far as Tom’s progressed by the film’s end, he may never fully kick the dangerous instincts instilled by his father, and reach that ultimate goal of calm. His eventual restraint, however, shows he’s come a long way.