A solid, if unspectacular, member of the physically-and-psychologically battered fighter genre, John Huston’s late-career entry, Fat City is most notable for terrific performances all around, especially those of Stacy Keach (Tully, an attention-starved ex-boxer who now tries to influence everyone he meets in some way) and Susan Tyrell (as Faye, a perpetually drunk, whiny barfly who churns through husbands & lovers of all ethnicities and backgrounds). It’s also a trip to see a baby-faced Jeff Bridges (as Ernie) of The Big Lebowski fame in one of his first major roles as a lanky, wide-eyed kid (un)fortunate enough to have a chance encounter with Tully while messing around in the gym. Every time Bridges opens his mouth, especially when he says, “man” or something similar, it’s difficult to get The Dude out of sight or mind. Nevertheless, he’s also superb, and the actors help Fat City rise above mediocrity.

The story is fairly typical—Tully, who’s long past his prime, dead broke, and a heavy drinker, is at a crossroads in life just prior to his 30th birthday. His chance meetings with Ernie and Faye, as well as a reconnection with his former manager Ruben (Nicholas Colasanto), inspire him to try to get back in the ring (despite pulling a muscle in his first workout in two years during his spar with Ernie), hoping to recapture that sense of purpose. Throughout Fat City, Tully is regularly drawn to those with whom he can stow a piece of himself. In Faye, he’s found someone even more fucked up than he, someone he can pour his frustrations into while emphasizing, both inwardly and outwardly, his ‘strong points’ (“I’ve never hit a woman in my life”). Hey, at least he’s not in JAIL like her (most recent) ex-husband Earl, right? With Ernie, a clean-cut, good-looking cherub who doesn’t drink, Tully can channel his anger at himself for throwing a potentially promising career down the toilet, and make himself feel better by pulling for Ernie, though he undoubtedly realizes that Ernie—while tall, athletic, and owner of a good reach—isn’t really a first-rate prospect. A part of Tully undoubtedly wants to see Ernie fail, thus spreading some of his misery around (the ending makes it clear he’s unsuccessful at this, despite Ernie’s so-so results in the ring). And Tully’s penchant for living through others is mirrored by the 60-something Ruben’s trainees, a rag-tag group without much luck. It’s clear that Ruben cares less about winning and more about mentoring and being a father figure to whoever pops in the door. Is it any wonder that Tully and Ruben have maintained a relationship for a long time? They’re two peas in a pod, prime examples of failures who mask their unhappiness with faux-friendliness.

The big problem with Fat City is that there’s no emotional arc. Tully’s ultimate fate—that he’s too far gone to be rescued by one ‘final fight,’ regardless of the result—seems pre-ordained after the first ten minutes, and nothing substantive happens during the rest of the film to alter this perspective. If Fat City were directed by Robert Bresson, that would be fine, but it’s not; Huston is at the helm, and he’s far less comfortable making one-note seem otherwise. Huston fares a bit better with Ernie’s character, but not enough to make Fat City anything more than a workmanlike effort. Faye is also somewhat of a caricature, though Tyrell’s performance (frequently hysterical, in both connotations of the word) makes that less of an issue. The potential for a much richer film is here, but instead, audiences will be forced to settle for a minor work from an excellent director. Luckily, secondary pictures from talented filmmakers still have merit (usually), and Fat City certainly has enough of that to be worthwhile viewing.

61/100

Lars Von Trier’s reprehensible Antichrist opens with a four minute, black-and-white sequence—completely in slow motion—of He (Willem Dafoe) and She (Charlotte Gainsbourg) passionately fucking in the shower, juxtaposed with their unattended son jumping out the window to his death. The entire scene, set to swelling opera music, perfectly epitomizes the movie as a whole: excessive, pretentious, gratuitous (we get to see Dafoe’s penis in close up move in-and-out), and extraordinarily annoying to watch.Von Trier (Breaking the Waves, Dancer in the Dark, Dogville…fine pictures, all) was suffering from depression when he conceived Antichrist, and has admitted that he wrote the script as a test to see if he was still capable of making films, and that the screenplay and shooting were done without much enthusiasm. The results are not encouraging, to say the least. Occasionally sumptuous imagery—some of it fleetingly Lynchian—is quickly drowned out by the venom and anger that cut’s through every shot.

Antichrist is a two-person show—aside from the son’s funeral, it’s basically Dafoe, Gainsbourg, and various forms of nature. Von Trier attempts a psychological deconstruction of various stages of post-tragedy reactions: grief, pain, and despair. He (yes, no names are given for either character; clearly, it’s supposed to be a universal analysis…the flaw in this thinking will be discussed later), a therapist, decides it would be a good idea to personally treat his wife, who’s understandably distraught by the loss of their son. Also understandably, her husband’s emotional detachment creates serious tension between the pair, and She is forced to look for another outlet for her misery. She quickly turns to sex and violence, and her masochistic and sadistic tendencies rapidly escalate, culminating in a final 20 minutes that’s nearly impossible to watch without cringing multiple times. The brutality is sickening, and unlike, say, the broken glass sequence in Bergman’s Cries and Whispers—where the entire film built up to one brief, painful moment—it serves no overarching purpose, quickly becoming an exercise in haughty directorial conceit.

Von Trier tends to portray his female leads as broken, flawed women, and Antichrist has been hammered in some circles as being extremely misogynistic. There’s certainly some truth to this, as the cavalier manner with which Von Trier develops She into an out-of-control, raging lunatic & nyphomaniac is troubling. His choice to eschew names for the leads—essentially stripping them of personal identity—indicates a feeling that, indeed, these would be universal psychological reactions to a child’s death; a dubious claim, to say the least. She’s descent into hysteria is mostly ridiculous, and as we’re given no background on who she is or what she stands for, we’re simply expected to buy it as an accurate portal into the tortured soul, and Von Trier doesn’t come close to putting forth a convincing argument.

There will be those who praise Antichrist as a fascinating examination of the psyche, and will argue that the extreme brutality is necessary to truly probe the depths of what tragedy can breed, but it’s all packaged in such an ugly vessel that it borders on unwatchable. To make matters worse, Von Trier shows a surprising lack of command over his material—e.g., we see a fox chewing itself into a bloody mess, only to have any dark connotations totally erased when the fox suddenly deeply croons, “chaos reigns!” It’s such a laughably bad moment that it completely takes the viewer out of the movie’s mood. There are also a few grotesque scenes of mutilation that are bound to inspire a chorus of “owww!” throughout the audience, if not send many people to the exits early. After sitting through this train wreck in full, I wish I’d joined them.

23/100

If Quentin Tarantino’s fondness—nay, passion—for excesses, bloodshed, and controversy generally turns you off, you’re hereby advised to steer clear of his latest roller-coaster ride, Inglourious Basterds. Like Kill Bill (Volumes 1 & 2) and Pulp Fiction, Inglourious Basterds is packed to the brim with homages, violence, and tips of the hat to cinema’s glory and wonder. It has the same obsession with revenge as the aforementioned works (Jackie Brown and Reservoir Dogs also fit into this category). Unlike his earlier films, however, the stylistic flourishes here are accompanied by an extremely controversial subject that’s bound to infuriate some as inexcusable propaganda that does the Jews a disservice by portraying them committing heinous acts, acts that mirror vile Nazi actions. Seeing Hitler’s top henchmen get peppered with gunshots—or scalped, Apache style—can be viewed through many different prisms, however, with poetic and emotional redemption at the forefront. Inglourious Basterds constantly challenges its viewer’s mindset, making us question whether or not we should be feeling the compassion, hatred, or empathy that we do.

Like Kill Bill: Volume 1, Inglourious Basterds (the reason for the misspelling is never made clear) explodes out of the gate with a powerhouse opening sequence, one that combines nail-biting tension with exceptional, controlled direction. Watching Col. Hans Landa (a fantastic Christopher Waltz)—known as the Jew Hunter throughout Nazi-occupied France for his cold and merciless elimination techniques—psychologically destroy a hillside farmer, coercing him into giving up the Jewish family he’s hiding beneath his floorboards, is something to see, and Tarantino uses uncomfortable close-ups to emphasize the once-proud man’s swift-but-agonizingly-gradual breakdown. Inglourious Basterds never really lets up from there, though it doesn’t go in the direction one might expect. The title refers to a group of renegade soldiers—led by Brad Pitt’s Tennessee-twangin’ Lieutenant Aldo Raine—whose goal is to relieve as many Nazis of their scalps as possible. His crew consists of a hodge-podge of fighters with various skillsets, much like Bill’s quintet of assassins in Kill Bill: for instance, Sgt. Donny Donowitz (Eli Roth) enjoys pounding German heads with a baseball bat. The posse is tailor-made for Tarantino, but they’re really only in about 25% of the film; much of Inglourious Basterds is spent on an alternate storyline involving Shosanna Dreyfus (Mélanie Laurent), a Jewish cinema owner who was the lone survivor of the opening sequence’s extermination (and goes by the name Emmanuelle Mimieux), and her German war-hero admirer Frederick Zoller (Daniel Brüll). The brutality is at times savage, but it’s nowhere near as prominent as one would have predicted based on the subject and the Basterds’ presence.

What makes Inglourious Basterds so fascinating is the controversial political subtext and sensitivity beneath the double-crossing and tension, and how deftly Tarantino manipulates it all. The finale, which I won’t spoil here, is alternately poignant and overwhelming, with claustrophobic compositions bringing out a horror that’s bound to prod, poke, and provoke the mind. Does the adrenaline rush one feels watching Laurent get her revenge (albeit in a self-flagellating manner), for instance, inspire guilt? Anger? Pity? A sense of justice? Tarantino’s re-imagination of horrific Nazi tactics (e.g., the gas chamber) is something to behold. The emotional response said tactics evoke is bound to differ for every viewer, and for that, Inglourious Basterds can claim a unique mantle amongst war movies (not that it’s so easily pigeonholed). It mixes pop culture and history in a way I’ve never seen, using every tool at its disposal. Surrealism, imagination, loathing, and whimsy, among others, are all given a part to play.

Like his filmic idol Jean-Luc Godard, Tarantino sings the praises of  cinema itself throughout his work, and Inglourious Basterds is full of passion for movies of all shapes and sizes. Shoshanna owns and operates a cinema, in which a banner for Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Le Corbeau [The Raven] is prominently displayed; Zoll’s war film, Nation’s Pride, is clearly a reference to D.W. Griffith’s controversial racist epic Birth of a Nation (not coincidentally, Shoshanna’s projectionist, a black Frenchman named Marcel [Jacky Ido], also happens to be her lover in a direct ‘fuck you’ to intolerance). And like Godard, Tarantino isn’t afraid to toot his own horn—Inglourious Basterds‘ final line, which involves Raine’s penchant for engraving the Nazi insignia on his victims’ foreheads, hints that Tarantino thinks this may be his most important and complete work yet. And for all its controversy (and as much as I love some of his other films), I’m inclined to agree.

92/100

[NOTE: I upped my rating 11 points after a second look and edited it here accordingly, though my review was originally published after my first viewing. I may or may not publish some further notes on the film at some point, but suffice to say, it's going to be tough to top for #1 of 2009.]

About two-thirds of the way into Margot Benacerraf’s Araya, there’s a mesmerizing slow, 360-degree pan of two shirtless young men pushing boats of gleaming salt through the sparkling water. Graceful and effortless, the camerawork and framing are impeccable in this moment, utilizing space to capture the extreme force with which the relentless workers of the small coastal village battle every day and night—nature. Unfortunately, this superb sequence is mostly bookended by excessive repetition. Benacerraf is clearly aiming to mimic the monotany of the villagers’ lives with his deliberate pacing and editing, but she regrettably achieves tedium instead of poetry.

Tonally, Araya is a bit of an odd duck—it’s not exactly a documentary in the way we think of them (as in, there are no interviews or direct contact with the subjects, and multiple segments are shot as if it’s a drama). Set on a tiny peninsula in Northeastern Venezuela, Araya tracks a community of tireless villagers who toil endlessly, day and night, to tap into and live off the literal salt of the earth; an abundant, natural marsh of it (they also tap the sea for fish). The film predominantly follows two groups of young men who perform the same actions over and over…and over. And over. Occasional moments are beautiful (four boys rhythmically pounding salt with sticks in perfect harmony) or interesting (the young age at which these folks begin their contributions), but most of the runtime involves listening to a monotonic narrator drone on and on, often nearly repeating sentences from a few minutes earlier or discovering new ways to use the word “salt” in a sentence. As a result, Araya never achieves any sort of emotional resonance—by the time the industrial revolution sweeps in and renders the relentless salt-miners and fishermen obsolete, we’re past the point of caring.

Benacerraf deserves credit for aiming high with Araya—her talents with the camera aren’t those of a goofy amateur who stumbled upon an intriguing-looking beach town. It’s a shame the rest of her filmic skillset doesn’t match her visual eye; clichéd phrases and extreme repetition of story severely damage the script and sap a potent story of any juice. Glimpses of character traits beyond work ethic (pride, for instance) are fleeting, and quickly lost in the bland extollments of a dull narrator. And yet, while Araya was quite a disappointment for me, I confess to feeling some pangs of regret upon learning that Benacerraf never made another picture after it. She showed enough ambition and flair that I would have sought out future cultural portraits she might have painted, hoping she turned the specks of talent into something more fulsome.

39/100

As a vicious depiction of a town and its deep-rooted traditions, The Ballad of Narayama is an unmitigated triumph; unfortunately, it’s not as successful at bringing the viewer to care for these (frequently) miserable souls. Less a ballad than a brutal cultural portrait, it’s always gripping…and frequently difficult to stomach. Set in a snowy valley in 19th century rural Japan, a crowded small village deals with the threat of overpopulation by town edict—when a townsperson reaches the age of 70, they’re sent to the mountaintop to Narayama to die an “honorable death.” While most villagers accept—indeed, look forward to—their fate as a badge of lifetime achievement, it’s clear that the younger generation isn’t quite as sold. Tatsuhei (Ken Ogata) sees his 69 year-old mother Orin (Sumiko Sakamota) calmly prepare for her voyage with mixed emotions, emotions that spill into the climactic final 20 minute piggyback ride up the mountain.

Director Shohei Imamura spends much of the movie’s first 2/3′s illustrating the way of life that consumes these simple folks, and what we see is nothing short of horrifying. Because food is so scarce, “excessive” babies are discarded in the soil and used as fertilizer (boys), or sold off to neighboring villages (girls). Provisions are strictly rationed and when one family is caught with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar (hoarding tons of extra potatoes), they’re mercilessly buried alive as punishment. Only firstborns are permitted to marry in order to keep childbirth down, and Stinker, the smelly, lazy younger brother, is insulted and beaten down at every opportunity. Is it any wonder that out of loneliness and desperation, he fucks a dog?

Imamura periodically juxtaposes sequences of nature—such as a snake eating a rodent or a hawk swooping in to snatch its prey from the grass—with the moment-to-moment struggles of the townspeople. By doing so, he’s indicating that even seemingly unfathomable actions may just be part of natural existence, but that anything can be turned upside down (sometimes, the shots indicate the seemingly weaker of the animals coming out on top). The cinematography is breathtaking—Imamura deserves major kudos for his visual flair—and the thought process deserves major kudos, but where Imamura falls short from an execution perspective is in the complete lack of empathy that The Ballad of Narayama evokes. For such a powerful human tale, there’s shockingly little to latch onto or care about. Nearly every character is unrelentingly savage (or the helpless-but-fleeting victim of savage behavior), and while I can appreciate the eloquence of the story, the endless beatings and misogyny wore me down. By the time Tatsuhei and Orin (the lone semi-sympathetic figure in the film) take the trek up Mount Narayama for Orin’s , it feels like a missed opportunity. Had Imamura eschewed some of the earlier suffering for mere glimpses of warmth, it would have been a dynamic ending (there are some breathtaking shots) worthy of The Ballad of Narayama‘s numerous strong points. Instead, it’s a massive tease, a frustrating ending to a good movie that could have been truly great.

66/10

For the generation that grew up on female pioneer Gertrude Berg’s radio and TV shows, Aviva Kempner’s Yoo-Hoo, Mrs. Goldberg will likely serve as a welcome trip through memory lane; to wit, both my mother and my mother-in-law began spouting lines from Berg’s shows when I mentioned the film to them. For everyone else,  it’s likely to come across as slightly repetitive and dull, albeit with some choice tidbits for history buffs.

Mrs. Berg, in many ways, was one of the first woman entrepreneurs—particularly when it comes to the entertainment industry—charging through naysayers and barriers like a bull in a china shop. She was anything but subtle in her approach, essentially telling everyone who told her she couldn’t achieve something to fuck off. To an audience starved for energy and joy during the misery of the Depression and WWII, The Goldbergs—Berg’s enormously successful radio program—, not to mention her never-say-die attitude, was like a jolt of red bull. Families crowded around their radios to listen, much like for baseball games and FDR’s fireside chats. And when TV became all the rage, Berg slyly convinced producers that she could continue her success onscreen, despite being anything but an attractive presence. She was proven right, and her perseverance and success served as a role model for girls and women everywhere.

Berg’s life is certainly interesting—and important—but Kempner brings little to the table that a 30-minute PBS special couldn’t cover, not to mention my brief summary above. Yoo-Hoo, Mrs. Goldberg‘s trajectory is mostly straight forward, and there’s little creativity in the editing. Kempner does just enough to make her documentary educational and somewhat engaging, but it’s a cautious approach to filmmaking that prevents the movie from ever drawing its viewers in; Mrs. Berg herself provides far more juice to the picture than Kempner ever manages. Only fond memories can catapult Yoo-Hoo, Mrs. Goldberg beyond mediocrity.

53/100