While Jonathan Larson’s musical Rent is predominantly sneered at by elitists and adults as teeny-bopper masturbatory nonsense, I’ve always found something richer in the show. Sure, it’s a tear-jerking story, but the topic—AIDS, love, and starving artists in the East Village—are not only universal themes of the heart, but stuffed with New York’s unique identity as well. The lyrics to the songs, fluffy on the exterior, often delve into the troubles that plague(d) artists in Manhattan: vicious landlords (“Rent”), being caught in the frenetic moment without foresight (“No Day but Today”), and, of course, the HIV virus that was running rampant when Rent was first conceived (“Without You”). All this said: if you hate the music to Rent or hated the Broadway show, don’t see the movie. It’s a continuous flow of loud energy, and will equate to Chinese water torture if it’s not your thing. For those who dig Larson’s vision, though, Rent is a wild, emotional rush through the cold streets and tattered bodies and souls, with gripping music to boot.
The film version is directed by Chris Columbus of Home Alone fame—he also directed the first two Harry Potter films. That’s not the most inspiring combination, as Columbus is known for taking a cautious approach with established material, but he pulls out all the stops here. From the opening “Seasons of Love,” Columbus establishes a sense of unity amongst the friends, and keeps it rolling throughout the picture. While there are a few moments of awkwardness in the transition from stage to screen, most of the cast pulls it off marvelously. The holdovers from the musical do their jobs well here, and the newcomers—Rosario Dawson as Mimi and Jesse L. Martin as Tom Collins, in particular—add plenty of fire to the production (seeing Dawson meow in the cat-scratch club is worth the price of admission alone). With the effective chemistry and a strong script in place, Columbus uses some of film’s advantages (a lovely series of fades during the heartbreaking “Without You” number is especially excellent) to add a cinematic flavor to Rent. Aside from a slow patch in the middle, it never lets go. There’s so much Manhattan truth pulsating throughout the movie that those of us who frequent Avenue A or the F train are bound to shed many tears. While the HIV phenomenon isn’t nearly as groundbreaking now as it was 15 years ago, seeing the body’s decomposition mixed with Angel’s optimism and Roger’s rebellious nature is still a shattering sight. There’s been enough written about Rent overall that I don’t feel the need to expand my thematic analysis, but I will happily recommend the onscreen rendition to all fans of the show and musical theater alike. By the time it’s over, we’re privy to how New York City chews up some, conforms others (Benny and, to a much lesser extent, Mark), and most of all, never breaks the true artists’ spirit.
68/100
Number one is out, because Rowling made it clear she wouldn’t stand for it, and it’s too dicey an approach from a financial outlook: while the HP name alone would insure tons of ticket sales, a drastic shift from the thematic core would be unwise from a business standpoint. Perhaps a version with more leeway can be produced in 30 years, when the fervor has died down and Rowling is a bit more detached from the project, but for now, it just wouldn’t work. Number three might have worked with a top-notch director at the helm for the entire on-screen series, but even that could have led to sprawling disaster. So, the studio opted for #2. This has led to a choppy, rushed narrative from a purely cinematic standpoint: though the movies so far have varied in level of execution, I believe all four would be a mixed bag at best when analyzed from a strictly critical perspective. You pretty much need to know the books fervently to get more out of the movies than mere entertainment, using your dorky background knowledge to fill in the gaping blanks. Oh, the films can be enjoyed on their own terms, with their charm and wonderful special effects and sets, but the level to which they can be admired is, to these eyes, limited.
Having said all that, I’ve enjoyed all the cinematic installments thus-far to some degree, and that’s because they’re made for fans like me. These pictures aren’t designed to rope in new gaggles of enthusiasts—anyone who becomes a HP aficionado due to the movies is 1) a bonus, and 2) in for a treat when they read the books. These aren’t Lord of the Rings. What they are is a chance for the real aficionados to ooh and ah at their treasured characters and events, and Goblet of Fire presented Warner Brothers with their biggest challenge yet. Along with having yet another new director (Mike Newell of Donnie Brasco and Four Weddings and a Funeral), Goblet of Fire represented the turning point of the entire franchise, a 1000+ page behemoth where Harry & company realize that their world is about to be turned on its ass. Following up Alfonso Cuarón’s superb adaptation of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Newell finds himself staring a huge challenge in the face: to trim without gutting an ongoing classic. How does he fare? Well, the holes and omissions are gaping at times: Barty Crouch’s death should have just been cut entirely, considering how it was handled, and the Quidditch World Cup features stunningly little Quidditch. The fascinating Severus Snape (played so slimily by Alan Rickman) has no more than a handful of lines, as do most of the supporting characters other than Mad-Eye Moody (a gleeful Brendan Gleeson), and Dumbledore (where Michael Gambon fails to adequately capture the headmaster’s inner calm and unflappable demeanor). It’s possible that those unfamiliar with the books would leave Goblet of Fire having no better idea of what a Death Eater is than three hours earlier. And why do Fred and George have more lines than Draco Malfoy?
However, Newell’s not without his assets. The misty world of Hogwarts is portrayed perfectly, especially the gripping trials of the Tri-Wizard cup. The cinematography and swooping shots are extremely effective at making witchcraft & wizardry feel very real. Many of Goblet of Fire’s most critical moments—particularly the graveyard climax, the forbidden curses, the Yule Ball, and the aforementioned trials—are handled with aplomb, and most (not all, but most) of the sequences that made the cut were extremely satisfying to this HP lover. Goblet of Fire is largely about the growing pains as the children inch towards adulthood, including love and all that comes with it, and Newell does a strong job of painting adolescent jealousy, crushes, and discomfort. The dialogue sputters occasionally, but really avoids the cringe-worthy moments that were too prevalent in Chamber of Secrets in particular, and Cedric’s death is handled brilliantly: no slo-mo, but boom! On the acting front, Daniel Radcliffe as Harry finally shows he’s more than some doofus who happens to look like young Potter, actually generating some real emotion in the role. Emma Watson (Hermione) probably has the brightest future as an actual actress, and Gleeson steals the show as the barking, boorish, good-guy (sort of!) Auror Moody. Rickman and Maggie Smith as Professor McGonagall are their normal fantastic selves, albeit with far too little to work with. Other standouts include Stanislav Ianevski as Viktor Krum, Miranda Richardson hamming it up as the sugary bitch journalist Rita Skeeter, and Robert Pattinson as the noble Cedric Diggory, who was always one of my favorite hybrid characters in the novels. When his ghost whispers to Harry, “take my body back to my father,” my eyes began to glisten. It’s likely someone who hasn’t read Rowling’s masterpieces would look at me cockeyed upon seeing my tears, but fuck it: I’m sure they have their own pleasures. Seeing Harry’s world unfold on celluloid is one of mine, and Newell does plenty to make it a treat.
Sam Mendes’ Jarhead is consistently entertaining, but it’s arguable whether that’s an asset or an indictment: while the snappy war jargon keeps the pacing brisk, there’s little sense of progress throughout, and there’s often a sense that Mendes took the easy way out while making this one. As an anti-war experiment, Jarhead is definitely an odd duck, focusing on the various reasons that young men join the Marines—as well as the mounting frustration and anger that plagued the soldiers during the Gulf War—instead of on combat. The trailers, full of rah-rah music mixed with reggae classics, seemed to hint at a meditative-yet-funky war picture; a blend of Apocalypse Now and The Royal Tennenbaums. As Jarhead comes to a close, though, without much evolving of the various characters, the audience is left with a distinct feeling of “that’s it?” While seeing Swoff (Jake Gyllenhaal) and Troy (Peter Saarsgard) emotionally crumble upon learning that they’d be deprived of that ‘hard-earned kill’ certainly resonates, smacking of the war-mongering bloodlust that plagues the South—and Iraq—today, the sequence is one of the few really honest stretches of Jarhead. We believe that Swoff and Troy wanted to taste the ‘euphoria’ of murder (thought it might have been even more interesting if they had tasted it, and realized that taking someone else’s life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be), but they’re not developed to be sympathetic heroes—as such, there’s no lingering sadness regarding the Gulf War, or its effects on the soldiers. Jarhead has a number of brilliant moments—an adrenaline-charged scene sees the Marines watching Apocalypse Now to get pumped up, for instance—but an equal number of gratuitous scenes that reek of shock value (was infidelity such a big fear during the Gulf War that we needed to see a home video of a Marine’s wife fucking her neighbor, taunting her husband all the while? I mean, this isn’t WWII; the men weren’t away for years). For a movie that’s pretty one-note in tone and theme, Jarhead is a sprawling mess.
Mendes’ first two movies—American Beauty (1999) and Road to Perdition (2002) were glossy, stylized pictures, characterized by bright colors (American Beauty), somber photography (Road to Perdition), and emotional hollowness (both). Jarhead is the polar opposite, but overly so; its grittiness often feels contrived. Gyllenhaal—who shows more range than usual—does the best he can to bring compassion to a character that’s difficult to root for; every seemingly heartfelt action that Swoff brings to the table is accompanied by a blown fuse or boneheaded move. Swoff’s at war for the wrong reasons, and it’s tough to forget it, or pity his fate. The same can be said for Troy, but Saarsgard falls prey to the film’s biggest flaw—his performance lacks any arc, save for the climactic moment behind his sniper rifle. He’s stoic without being a strong personality. Jamie Foxx isn’t bad, but his Sykes isn’t much of a stretch for him—a quick-tongued, slang-spittin’ caricature that’s full of spunk. Seems his 2004 bask in subtlety was ruined by the shiny Oscar he took home…
One of the biggest complaints I’ve read about Jarhead is its historical inaccuracy—I can’t judge that fairly, as I’m a film critic, not a historian (not to mention I was 13 when the war was going on). However, it certainly seemed like much of the behind-the-scenes stuff portrayed was over-the-top, and that’s not a good thing for Jarhead’s credibility. I have yet to see anything resembling a finished product from Mendes, and Jarhead doesn’t do a thing to sway my view on him: he’s clearly a talented guy, but too pompous for his own good (at this point in his career, anyway). For all the interesting aspects of Jarhead, there’s way too much filler for it to be more than a so-so picture. And there are plenty of those around today…given the topic matter and star-power involved here, I was hoping for something more.
Vampire lore generally involves fright, bite, and gushing streams of blood, be it suspense (Murnau’s Nosferatu of 1922), or loud action (Van Helsing of 2004). Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula generated an extraordinary aura of tension with its eloquent language, and when children prance around imitating vampires, they do so with long, sharp fangs and ketchup dripping down their chins. Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu: Phantom Der Nacht (1979), however, presents a different take on the tale, replacing unnerving gore with an eerie, erotic beauty. Like Aguirre: The Wrath of God (1973) and Fitzcarraldo (1982), some of the most striking imagery occur on water or surrounded by manifestations of decay—in Aguirre, it’s monkeys overrunning Aguirre’s raft; in Nosferatu, it’s swarms of rats circling the harbor, symbolically infesting the land with the foul stench of the vampire. As repulsive as the rats may be, Herzog’s long shots & takes (frequently steeped in surreal phantasm) make their presence oddly hypnotic, surrounded by the lunacy of Virna’s residents, as the town goes amok. How much is real and how much isn’t is almost irrelevant—Herzog’s created a world where fantasy and actuality blend into a lavish portrayal of gradual, emotional breakdown, all while injecting the classic tale of terror with his own thematic touches.
Like most of Herzog’s work (the aforementioned gems, as well as Heart of Glass, Cobra Verde, etc), Nosferatu is full of crystalline, vibrant colors, but here, they serve a richer purpose than in his less-successful films. With a focused lens, he unfolds exquisite tapestries of sensual nightmares. Consider a sequence in which Dracula silkily creeps up behind Lucy, who’s combing her Rapunzel-esque locks. As Herzog’s camera refuses to waver, she sees Dracula’s shadow slowly approach, but not his reflection; by the time his actual body appears in the ongoing shot, the viewer finds their attention completely riveted, fearing for Lucy’s neck and well-being, yet strangely rooting for the elegant Count to successfully (and lustfully) reign in his prey. With her exquisitely pale skin, large eyes, and lovely painted lips, Lucy epitomizes the period’s standards for beauty, and there’s something unfair about the grotesque Count’s futile pursuit. Of course, it’s equally difficult to cheer for a creature that turns upstanding real estate salesmen into walking zombies…
Klaus Kinski is in top-notch form; his controlled mannerisms and drawling enunciation (as well as his contorted face, which is, unfortunately for him, not one of his finest off-set features) paint an unusually physical portrayal of Dracula, but the proper stately aura and commanding presence: if he’s not as chaotic as his usual onscreen persona (and, My Best Fiend would have you believe, his offscreen persona as well), he makes up for it with a completely off-kilter piece of restrained genius. It’s not typical Kinski, but it’s a prime example of his massive acting chops. Not quite matching Kinski’s screen presence—but holding their own nicely—are Bruno Ganz as the doomed Jonathan, and the delicious Isabelle Adjani as the fiercely loyal Lucy, whose martyrdom stems from an unwavering adoration for her husband. It’s also amusing to see the stogy portrayal of Dr. Van Helsing by Walter Ladengast after the loud 2004 action film of the same name (unseen by me); of course, an in-your-face doctor wouldn’t fit Herzog’s vision, now would it?
There’s really no character in Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht to hang your hat on, to form an emotional bond with, so those whose filmic mojo is predominantly derived from such form may leave somewhat empty. For this reviewer, though, Herzog’s attention to detail, captivating landscapes drenched in corrosion, and sexy take on Dracula, is a superb picture, soaked in atmospheric lust with a decomposing underbelly. That it doesn’t go as far in its themes as Aguirre can hardly be viewed as an indictment; Nosferatu is my favorite cinematic take on the story, and a must-see for those who enjoy his work.