I finally caught up to this classic adaptation of Harper Lee’s masterpiece, and while the film can’t quite fully capture the novel’s magnificent portrayals of honor, paternity, and race relations in the deep South, it does an admirable job of trying. Gregory Peck is sensational as Atticus Finch, an upstanding lawyer in prejudice-filled 1932 Alabamba who’s handed the unenviable task of defending Tom Robinson (Brock Peters), a black cotton-picker accused of raping the ignorant-but-white Mayella Ewell (Collin Paxton) by Ms. Ewell and her racial-bile spitting father Bob Ewell (James Anderson). Finch, whose integrity is unshakable, dives into the task with aplomb and vigor—convinced that Robinson is innocent, he refuses to sell out his ideals to fit Maycomb’s old-school, racist ways of life. Much of what drives Atticus is setting the proper example for his children, Jem (Phillip Alford) and Scout (Mary Badham), who have only him to look to for guidance, their mother having passed when they were 6 and 2 respectively.
Lee’s novel is marvelous for many reasons, but perhaps most striking is how she manages to adroitly mix the children, their learning experiences, and their passionate love and admiration for their father into the simmering-beneath-the-surface racial angst in Maycomb. A scant number of townsfolk outwardly confront Atticus about his willingness to represent Robinson—and do so with enthusiasm, nonetheless—but the trial, which encompasses most of the film’s second half, makes it abundantly clear where the town’s heart lies: despite piles of contradictory evidence, those present in the courtroom show no signs of being moved by fact, preferring to see an innocent black man go to prison than a white family embarrassed. It should be noted that Mulligan’s direction is somewhat safe, at times coasting on the massive strength of the source material—there’s not much spice to the camerawork, for instance—but he’s more than competent enough to make To Kill a Mockingbird a strong filmic accomplishment in its own right.
As mentioned, Peck is absolutely perfect as Atticus—he oozes composed authority, dignity, and fortitude—and Badham & Alford are superb as his children as well. Mulligan does a good job displaying the balance that Atticus tries to strike between shielding his kids from the town’s ugly ways and teaching them the proper way to live—a scene where Atticus calmly defends Robinson’s jail cell from a spirited, pitchfork-armed mob while Jem and Scout (who had run down to see their father in the dead of the night) stand resolutely by his side, a mixture of defiance and oblivion, is one of the film’s best. The entire courtroom sequence is gripping and superbly acted as well. Converting a literary masterwork to the screen is always a challenge, but Mulligan does the deed well enough to warrant its praise, and To Kill a Mockingbird should make admirers of the novel weep many times over. As for newcomers to the story? They should, at the very least, get misty a few times.
74/100
Well worth the price of admission to see Woody Harrelson having so much fucking fun. When was the last time that guy relaxed? Kingpin? Anyway, he blows off plenty of steam in Zombieland, a Dawn of the Dead-esque romp through zombie-infested streets without the searing social commentary. Which isn’t to say that Zombieland is a non-stop action picture—on the contrary, the actual confrontations with zombies aren’t all-encompassing (though a total gory blast when they do occur!), and Fleischer is clearly more concerned with his characters than cheap thrills. It’s just that most of the film feels very light: the long conversations, romance (the picture’s weakest link), and overall dynamic just aren’t accomplished enough for Zombieland to achieve anything particularly rich. Which isn’t to say it doesn’t have its moments of enlightenment. Columbus’ (Jesse Eisenberg) “rules of survival” effectively illustrate humanity’s Darwinian tendencies to adapt to our surroundings, and when Tallahassee (Woody Harrelson) decides to name everyone for their place of origin/style of being (we have the sisters Wichita and Little Rock as well, played rather mundanely by Emma Stone and Abigail Breslin), it feels like an appropriate method of being guarded without completely sacrificing one’s identity. Ultimately, though, Zombieland works best as pure, breezy entertainment, with just a pinch of depth. See it for the action, the laughs—the script is surprisingly strong, with multiple moments of black wit—and for one of the best celebrity cameo’s in recent years!
A continuation of the Woodster’s love affair with Manhattan, following Annie Hall and Manhattan (natch) among others. This is one of his better films, using a sharp script to smoothly capture the difficulties of balancing marriage and lust. Bonus; very few annoying moments (not always the case with Allen’s work). Allen—whom I tend to admire much more as a screenwriter and director than an actor—does a nice job here in all roles, his Mickey (Hannah’s hypochondriac ex-husband) chilling in the background to allow a fantastic Michael Caine to lead the way as Elliot, who’s unhappily married to Hannah (Mia Farrow) but smitten by her sister Lee (Barbara Hershey). Meanwhile, Mickey finds himself surprisingly interested in the third sister, Holly (Dianne Wiest), whom he couldn’t have had less in common with years ago. The tangled web of relationships is very effectively done, but just as affecting is Allen’s portrayal of the city he loves. Sprawling Upper West Side apartments and SoHo lofts abound. And when an architect bachelor takes two enchanted ladies on a car tour of the city’s most striking buildings, it’s really Allen puffing out his chest in pride. For despite Allen’s trysts, in reality and in the cinema, for all of his infatuations, confusions, and neuroses, it’s New York that he loves most of all.
Uber-partisan approach? Check. Gimmicky, gotcha filmmaking? Check. Unabashed anger at corporate greed and financial imbalance? Check. Yup, Capitalism: A Love Story is Michael Moore at his most unabashed: attempting to make citizen’s arrests of bank executives, assaulting members of Congress on the steps of Capitol Hill, and assailing members of both parties (but particularly Republicans) for hypocrisy and greed. This approach is par for the course in Moore’s oeuvre, and Capitalism: A Love Story is hit-or-miss, but with a few more base hits than whiffs. There are no grand slams, though, or even much more than a few hard hit doubles off the wall. While that’s still a noteworthy achievement, given the topic matter, it’s hard to keep from being a bit disappointed that Moore hasn’t used the seriousness of the times to craft an ever-so-slightly more balanced documentary.
Where Moore nails it is the country’s overwhelming, bipartisan anger at the big banks’ (Bank of America, Citibank, etc) selfish, fiscal irresponsibility, our desire to see some accountability beyond idle threats, and our overwhelming fury at the $700 billion bailout that George W. Bush and Hank Paulson gave the banks (in fairness, both Barack Obama and John McCain voted for it as well) while normal, working folks everywhere suffered horribly, losing their jobs, savings, dignity, and often their homes. There’s no question that most Americans loathed seeing the fat cats and their private jets rewarded for their own fuck-ups with Federal aid, and even if something had to be done to keep banks everywhere from collapsing (which would have sent our entire economy into a hell that might have taken decades to emerge from), the haphazard, slipshod manner in which Paulson orchestrated things—including cozying up to his old company, Goldman Sachs, and forcing the rescue plan through without taking any time to make sure preventative measures are in place to keep this from happening again—bred contempt throughout the political spectrum’s. Moore does a powerful job of illustrating the cockiness that still runs through the veins of financial head honchos, and how nothing will really change until capitalism’s fundamental flaws (which is NOT to say that capitalism doesn’t have many strong aspects) are addressed. Enhanced regulation and disclosure would be a good start.
However, Moore gets into some trouble when his extreme liberal biases get in the way of any sort of objective reporting. When he says that everyone “lived a good life in the 40′s” when 90% (!) of the wealthy’s income was going to Uncle Sam, it’s impossible to believe that he really thinks such a code could be functional today in a vastly different world. His calls for FDR-esque Government interventionism has its merit, but he conveniently ignores the fact that public works projects that created thousands of jobs back then (hell, on just one road) would accomplish substantially less in today’s economy, due to the major technological increases in equipment and efficiency. And there’s something overly manipulative in his choice of a tubby, mustached Southern family as the poster people for capitalism’s inequalities: while I have no doubt that their suffering is legitimate, it smacked of an attempt to portray a prototypical Republican family getting screwed over by their blind faith in the GOP’s “core values” message. While there’s no question that there’s truth to this, Moore’s filmic choices still rubbed me the wrong way on this subject. Ultimately, the downsides keep Capitalism: A Love Story from being a powerhouse documentary, but there are more than enough notable sequences to make it worthwhile viewing…so long as you don’t treat it as economic doctrine.
Not quite at the level of Buñuel’s greatest masterpieces, but pretty damn close. Mixing his trademark cruelty and surrealism with a deft comedic touch—similar to that of The Exterminating Angel and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoise—Buñuel creates a frequently intoxicating portrayal of love (lust?) that’s essentially an allegory for the forbidden fruit. Only Buñuel can make coldness burn with intoxicating sensuality, and he does so here with ingenious casting—utilizing two superb actresses as the female protagonist (Ángela Molina and Carole Bouquet) to better capture Conchita’s fickle, manipulative nature—and a biting screenplay: the numerous laugh-out-loud moments silkily soften the emotional anguish and suffering that Conchita puts Mathieu (a magnificent Fernando Rey) through. Conchita uses her pouty lips and delectable sex appeal to toy with Mathieu—an extremely wealthy, much older businessman who’s entranced by this young firecracker—and an aura of naughty sexuality emerges from their cat-and-mouse game, creating a hot atmosphere that Buñuel douses with buckets of water at the film’s beginning and end. Hysterical, poignant, and spicy; a must-see.
Unmistakably influential, Russ Meyer’s Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! deserves kudos for the inspirational fodder it undoubtedly provided George Miller (Mad Max) and Quentin Tarantino (Death Proof), among others. Three voluptuous women, dripping sex appeal, wield large, scantily-clad tits and bare fists as their only weapons as they criss-cross the desert in search of thrills. The drag-racing opening sequence sets the tone: these women have no fear, and live for adrenaline and power. Stumbling across a young couple, they make short work of the boyfriend and take the terrified girl hostage, before attempting a conquest of an old cripple and his two sons (one a slow beefcake, the other a scrawny dweeb), who supposedly has a small treasure trove hidden somewhere on his ranch. With its crisp black-and-white photography and Meyer’s use of open space—much of the movie is filmed with the characters swallowed up by the desert’s emptiness—Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! is often atmospheric and occasionally erotic.
Sadly, Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! sounds far better on paper than it actually plays (at least today, though I can see the cult appeal). Much of the problem lies in the performances: even from a campy perspective, they’re more painful than enjoyable. Listening to the actresses enunciate—particularly Haji—is head-slappingly bad. Sentences are delivered awkwardly, and without punch. These sex-kittens may look scrumptious in black leather, but they often deliver their lines in grating half-shrieks that serve as instant cool-downs. The script does them no favors either, with stilted writing and incessant repetition. Worst of all, the movie just isn’t that fun, a criminal act for a film of this sort. Its exploration of sex as a tool of violence and control never really takes hold, and the overall energy level never matches the opening sequence’s bravado. Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! is never overly dull—and its historical importance gives it some added merit—but it’s more of a dated work with a few points of interest than required viewing, even for genre aficionados.
Lurking within Bunny Lake is Missing is a truly great film that never quite comes together, leaving my first Preminger as a solid-but-frustratingly-tantalizing experience. There’s lots to admire here: the narrative structure is very well put together, particularly early on as the camera winds through the school where Felicia “Bunny” Lake has (supposedly) mysteriously disappeared from. An uncomfortable aura permeates Bunny Lake is Missing, from the awkward sexual tension between Ann Lake (Carol Lynley) and her brother Steven (Keir Dullea), to Ann’s obsession with dolls and a legitimate question as to what the fuck’s actually going on here. The cinematography is stellar. Unfortunately, the final 30 minutes drag, pulling down a substantively effective resolution with plodding screenwriting, and Dullea lacks Anthony Perkins’ acting chops to powerfully capture Steven’s descent into Norman Bates-esque madness. Laurence Olivier is also somewhat underwhelming as the Scotland Yards detective. Psychologically, Bunny Lake is Missing is very intriguing and frequently creepy, but the sum never equals the parts, and we’re left with a solid-and-entertaining picture that, with more consistent pacing and editing, could have been first-rate.