Et Cetera, Et Cetera, Et Cetera: The King And I (1956)

Appropriation has been a rather significant point of conversation as I have navigated through this month of musicals, most notably as it relates to the American South and the pictorial depictions both post-War African-American communities, or more commonly the lack of depictions in favor of things like blackface and hyper-performative elements by the few black actors and performers who were able to make a name for themselves in a white entertainment business.  Not known for their particularly subversive depictions of gender, race and by extension class, I knew that the engagement with the Rodgers and Hammerstein fare that was to be The King and I would not be the most ideal of situations.  While Yul Brynner does an exceptional job in the film, met with an equally paced performance on the part of Deborah Kerr, the film does suffer a bit from a dated insight into how to properly depict a country that is less than familiar to the Western world.  There is a high sense of absurdism at play in the film, where joking passes and barbarism on the part of the Siam persons on display takes on a rather blatant and unfortunate level of Orientalism.  I say unfortunate because much like the blackface performances of eras earlier, The King and I is a visually perfected film that happens to incorporate rhetoric and performance that would, and should, be considered racist and sexist in a contemporary setting.  Like The Jazz Singer though, the film represents a considerable shift in the language of cinema, here not so much as a matter of technological advancement, but is instead in direct relationship to shifting understandings of narrative construction and what place a musical interlude can play into a narrative.  I would place this in a similar space as Black Narcissus although that Powell and Pressburger film exists in a world all its own, the only real significant connections being the lead actress and a considerable layer of Western encounters the East through institutionalized colonial movement.  Watching The King and I with a critical eye can prove a rewarding experience, one that is accepting of its ethical problems, while also enamored with its visual audacity.

The King and I centers on the life of Siam dignitary and decided egomaniac King Mongkut (Yul Brynner) whose recent dirge of children, 106 altogether, paired with an expanding world of Western influence, cause him to agree to hire on a teacher for his various children and wives.  The woman hired is Anna Leonowens (Deborah Kerr) who along with her son Louis (Rex Thompson) take to Siam only to discover a world far apart from their demure British life.  Mongkut is a highly assertive figure, demanding complete humility by all those involved, including the equally confrontational Anna, seeing her status as a woman as a thing to serve his male privilege. Furthermore, considering the rather solitary space of Siam, Mongkut has a very limited understanding of the Western world, pulling much of his knowledge from The Bible, whose words are confounding and particularly confusing, when Anna begins to teach his children and wives about the world of science, contradicting the religious text blatantly.  Mongkut is further frustrated by Anna's use of Uncle Tom's Cabin in her curriculum, both in its message about slavery, as well as in the realization that it was written by a woman.  Nonetheless, through some sacrificing of dignity, Anna is able to convince Mongkut of the benefit of her education, while also preparing the somewhat brutish king for a visit by other British dignitaries, one that requires considerable posture training on his part amongst other points of etiquette.  Indeed, it is during their visit that both Anna and Mongkut come to realize that they want similar things, both for themselves and their children to be respected, leading to a unified effort to impress the British by what Siam offers.  Mongkut's various wives and children then put on an ballet adaptation of Uncle Tom's Cabin that is complete with replacing the figure of God with that of Buddha, although the entire performance nearly derails when one of Mongkut's more outspoken wives calls attention to her own status as servant.  While this is corrected, the remainder of the even goes off successfully and Mongkut comes aware to his own aggression and oppressive behavior, which is fortunate as he is very close to dying.  It is indeed in this moment of death that Anna agrees to stay on as an educator, while the previously male-minded king appoints one of his daughters as the new leader of Siam, her first act to remove any act that would create a stander of lesser than another.

While much of the narrative is about issues of appropriation, it is equally so about bargaining with powerful forces, or more specifically patriarchy in a Western context.  Both Anna and Mongkut represent figures who are oppressed in various ways.  As a widowed mother, Anna is allowed very little mobility, particularly in 1860's England, where her economic privilege is inherently tied to a male figure and little was placed on the issue of divorce, death or any situation that might remove that access.  As such the seemingly absurd act of seeking out employment in Siam is met with necessity.  While Mongkut might also seem like a figure of power, it only extends to the space of his incredibly small kingdom, one that is sheltered from the Western world and subject to the eyes of greedy colonizing bodies who see he and his barbaric land as a thing in need of reform to reflect the Christian, Western ideal.  Anna realizes that her financial safety is contingent on Mongkut continuing to keep her employed, therefore she plays into his demands for keeping her head at a lower place than his, while also knowing it is nothing more than a bargaining chip to remain employed, while also subversively teaching the various women in the kingdom of their ability to rebel.  Mongkut is not ignorant to all this by any means and does seem quite hesitant to embrace such a set of teaching, however, he is also bargaining with his own status as a body that is threatened by colonization.  He knows that to teach according to what he believes would make his family look foolish, but he also seems quite aware that he is working with a woman who will be capable of teaching he and his family to fend for themselves in the corrupt world of colonization and imperialist movement.  This all coalesces in the bargaining of the Uncle Tom's Cabin narrative to reconsider the element of servant in a colonial context, by reappropriating the image of the African-American slave to represent Siam, one that further extends to allegorically consider one of Mongkut's wives.  While he is initially frustrated by such a confrontation, he is able to come to a realization of his own problematic oppression in the process.  Here the bargaining is provided with a positive outcome, tragically such maneuvers do not always play out as successfully.

Key Scene:  The entire Uncle Tom's Cabin sequence is quite stunning and aside from its problematic elements, one of the more intriguing rewordings of a narrative I have seen to date.

This is an easy thing to obtain on DVD, but is probably worth renting before owning.

Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair: South Pacific (1958)

I know I have been dropping words like sumptuous, lush and lavish in my descriptions of the musicals I have been watching over the past month and in most of the instances it has been more than a deserved attribute within the larger film, often serving as one of many factors in the escapist cinema and its varied mise-en-scenes.  However, now having seen the absolutely stunning South Pacific I am rather certain that this is the singular example of use of Technicolor within cinema, as not only does it manage to use it to draw attention to the vivid landscape on which the narrative is set, but it also uses the various dyes individually to set a mood for the space of the island in a vibrant and wholly different way.  South Pacific, itself, is not the most moving or stirring of musicals by a long shot, indeed, proving a bit on the dated side throughout and as heteronormative as things come in terms of musicals, yet this factor of visual aesthetics proves to be the most rewarding element carrying the viewer throughout its admittedly exhaustive runtime, looking and feeling more like a western than a musical per se.  Yet, one must remember that this is a Rodgers and Hammerstein production so runtime is a bit more in line, pulling from grand musical numbers and reprises of these numbers as a means to create narrative flow and an evocation of sentiment.  Complete with a overture and intermission theme, this is about as dedicated to a musical recreating its staged look as one can find and while it does not always translate to enjoyable cinema, South Pacific must be acknowledged for its integral approach in moving between the language of film musical and theatrical musical, taking risks that do occasionally pay of in magnificent ways, whether it be the absolutely perfected use of lighting throughout the film to give it a saturated almost humid feeling that is in line with the island or the fact that the performances often break the fourth wall as if to draw attention to the performative elements at play in the genre.

South Pacific is a rather expansive plot considering its lengthy runtime, although much of the narrative is centered on the space of a Word War II military base in a nondescript location in the South Pacific.  The film focuses primarily on the going-ons of Army nurse Nellie Forbush (Mitzi Gaynor) an idealistic young woman who takes great pride in her serving her country, but has also come under questioning for her relationship with a French exile named Emile de Becque (Rossano Brazzi) who is under the watchful eye of the American government for his having killed a man prior to his coming to the South Pacific.  Meanwhile, other members of the military located on the island are doing their best to convince locale native and trading pro Bloody Mary (Jaunita Hill) to allow them access to the island of Bali Ha'i a place that is off limits as sanctioned by the American government.  The understanding that Bali Ha'i is such a lush and untampered place drives many of the men into a blind ambition to navigate the space, most notably Lieutenant Joseph Cable (John Kerr) who is eventually able to make it to the island and meet with a young woman named Liat (France Nuyen) who he becomes romantically involved with, immediately discovering that she is the daughter of Bloody Mary thus leading to their being confirmed as man and wife.  As the narrative unwinds the relationship between Nellie and Emile is complicated by a variety of factors, whether it be Nellie's hesitation to embrace a relationship with the ex-patriate due to his mysterious past, or Emile's own concerns about the lasting possibilities he could possess for a young up-and-coming woman while he is a lowly farmer that also happens to have children from a previous marriage.  After failing to "spy" on Emile for the government, Nellie asserts that he is not as terrible as her higher ups assume and he is recruited to help with a campaign in the area.  After a notedly troublesome engagement with the Axis, Nellie assumes Emile to be lost, thus taking it upon herself to raise his children.  In the final moments of the musical, much to her surprise Emile returns and the two set down to dinner in a new tropical family scape.

Post-colonialism.  Perhaps the most complex and theoretically dense of all the post-modern theories.  However, it is deservedly so, because the mass subjugation of person's based on skin color and economic variants from their mostly western counterparts is problematic and frankly outright absurd. While South Pacific is not the most clear-eyed and well-intentioned consideration of issues of colonization, it becomes bluntly apparent within the opening moments of the film that this is its primary concern.  The setting is perhaps the most obvious element of this, both in the fact that much of it is a recreation of the American space through the GI's using an island as their own personal rec center, complete with a bar and various leisures.  The notion that the American military could move into a space and essentially set up shop is wildy problematic, but a reality in terms of what overseas stations have become, particularly in non-Western countries.  The addition of Emile to the mixture ply makes the narrative that much more complex and decidedly on the side of problematic.  Of course, individuals like Bloody Mary and some of the other locals represent a knowing opposition to this colonizer, particularly in their methodologies for exploiting the various lieutenants and higher ups for money and goods, in exchange for trinkets and non-value items.  This is a literal reverse for what many were doing to Native Americans during westward expansion.  The film does become troubling when all of this is set up in the kaleidoscopic lens of the the Technicolor adding a degree of magical realism to what were, undoubtedly, real issues during American occupation of the South Pacific.  If one needs examples they can certainly consider the occupation of spaces like The Philippines or Tonga, where this film allegedly takes place.  This hyper stylizing is most evident in Cable's sexual encounter with Liat, one that is so stylized and predicated by a heavy filtering of the camera, as to make the entire event seem impressionistic.  Yet immediately following the consummation of their relationship the image of islanders working, moves into a bizarre blue green contrast that suggests an uncertainty, something that helps to ground the inherent problems in such an act as colonization.

Key Scene:  When Nellie sings directly into camera it is paired with the noted Technicolor fade framing and it seems as though the very film itself has fixated on a singular voice.  It is truly fascinating.

Unless you are a person fascinated by the historical evolution of color in cinema, South Pacific is a rental type of film.

Ol' Man River, He Just Keeps Rollin' Along: Show Boat (1936)

Appropriation is a real tricky thing in popular culture.  While music did, for obvious reasons, lift heavily from African-American folk songs and performances the result has been highly rewarding and helped to cement the likes of Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday the American collective memory.  Show Boat includes one of the most stirring musical compositions ever realized in Paul Robeson's version of "Ol' Man River," however, this is only a singular element within the larger narrative of appropriation.  Musical performances during this era, as well as decades earlier pulled quite gladly from minstrelsy and thus found no trouble performing numbers in blackface, even when there were characters within the narrative that also are clearly black themselves.  It is rare for me that the inclusion of a minstrel performance, particularly one with such intense racial elements manages to not make me hate the movie, even if its inclusion is momentary and decidedly arbitrary to the larger narrative.  However, as much as I adore Paul Robeson and even a few of the other musical numbers in this Hammerstein driven musical, it's use of minstrelsy, even if minor proves to reflect a larger issue within the narrative, one that both appropriates black culture and uses it as a stepping stone geographically to set up a narrative that focuses instead on struggles of white persons who simply want to be in love.  As showy and performative as the film may be, Show Boat manages to revert its possibilities for cinematic consideration of the layers of racial identity, by again, making race merely a part of the narrative which must be acknowledged, as opposed to being dealt with in an intense and inquisitive manner.  Employing some of the most prolific African-American actors of the time in Paul Robeson and Hattie McDaniels it is amazing that TCM has not pushed it to the forefront on its screening times, but then again this is the same company that often edited out these very performances to placate audiences not wanting to confront a problematic past.  Show Boat is both a time capsule regarding the racial indifference in Classic Hollywood, as well as an enigma as to how a film could both concern itself with passing and also pass as something completely detached from racial considerations.

Show Boat is narratively set over a forty year span, beginning with the arrival of a boat based revue to a nondescript town on the Mississippi River.  The boat The Cotton Palace is known for a variety of plays, musical numbers and even comedic bits all intended to pull upon the dreary and uneventful lives of the persons existing in the spaces.  Of course, since the space is in the antebellum South, it is also occupied by African-American workers, most notably the Queenie (Hattie McDaniel) and her husband Joe (Paul Robeson) whose backbreaking work provides the livelihood of an otherwise transitory space.  The narrative is also troubled by issues of miscegenation when the leading lady is shown to be of mixed blood and a rumor that she is married to a man who is wholly white causes them to be suspect to breaking the law.  Although the couple is capable of tricking officials into believing that they are not involved in miscegenation, it does require that they step away from the show.  In this moment, aspiring actress and daughter of the river boat captain Magnolia Hawks (Irene Dunne) is able to take the stage, only in need of a new leading man to stand next to her.  In a stroke of pure luck a wandering debonair named Gaylord Ravendal (Allan Jones) serves the part his dashing looks and genuine adoration for Magnolia proving more than enough to make their acting work.  The two quickly hit it off and eventually marry, even having a child.  It is, however, during this time that the Hawks family discovers Gaylord's past as a gambler, even committing a murder although apparently in self-defense.  Becoming a point of frustration, Gaylord and Magnolia move away to Chicago, wherein they live for a considerable amount of time off of Gaylord's gambling winnings.  Tragically, however, Gaylord hits a series of bad luck and loses almost all of his finances.  Julie (Helen Morgan) the very woman who was charged with having mixed blood has managed to remain successful, although also a bit of a lush, still managing to revive Magnolia's career when her and Gaylord part.  In the closing moments of the film, when Magnolia seems content to live a somewhat tragic life, she attends the performance of her daughter, only to have Gaylord arrive and in a show of admiration their daughter asks them to sing a duet to closeout the film, followed all to problematically by Robeson's humming of "Ol' Man River" in the closing moments of the film.

As I noted Show Boat is a performance and should certainly be considered as such.  Indeed, the opening moments of the film have the camera panning into the stage of a play, complete with the title cards as part of the diegetic world, therefore, allowing the possibility that this version of Show Boat is also a metanarrative, or a series of performances within a performance.  This includes the staging of a play as part of the larger play, an occurrence that happens on multiple times.  Take for example the song between Gaylord and Magnolia called "I Have the Room Above Her," by its physical existence it should not serve as a division as in most any apartment setting, a man whaling at the top of his lungs would cause another to hear them and likely inquiring as to why they are singing, particularly if the song is about said person listening.  Yet, assuming Show Boat to exist within a theatrical staging it allows not only Gaylord to sing such a song, but for Magnolia to provide responding melodies completely detached from an awareness that he too is singing.  It is something essentially only possible within the metaperformance.  This would make the film wildly intriguing and worth embracing where this layered performance not also extended to include issues of racial performance as well.  Indeed, the actress playing Julie is white and to suggest her as a mulatto (a person mixed race) character implies a racial performance even if only in narrative.  It is blackface, in that it denies the role to a woman of color and is made all the more an absurd performance in contrast to the blackface number led by Irenne Dunne and a series of minstrel singers and dancers.  This is all in contrast to the staging the film, at least initially, within the rural South, wherein racial elements are at their highest intensity and rather openly confronted via Robeson's singing.  Indeed, while I would never knock what Robeson is doing in this moment, his stirring rendition reflecting the confusion and frustrations at play in race relations, it becomes exploitative in the larger frame of the narrative, one whose closing embraces forgiveness to a river boat gambler, while only marginally acknowledging the previous elements of race.

Key Scene:  "I'm sick of living and scared of dying."

This film is certainly of historical importance and Paul Robeson's singing is enough to be intrigued, but, honestly, you could just watch his section on YouTube and be all the better for it without having to sit through the remainder of this frustrating film.

If I Am Not Me, Then Who The Hell Am I?: Total Recall (1990)

It seems as though Ray Bradbury and Philip K. Dick will be doing a battle of sorts for my favorite sic-fi author whose work has been successfully transferred to film.  A handful of reviews have considered each author and their works as they have been adapted and Total Recall only proves to be the most recent case of this, a film that I had wanted to see for awhile, but always put on the back burner for a variety of reasons.  I am glad to have finally obtained a bluray and popped it into my player, because it was a very redemptive experience on a large scale.  For whatever reason I had written of Arnold Schwarzenneger as a respectable actor, despite being fully aware that he is excellent in the Terminator series amongst other things.  Furthermore, a very terrible experience with Showgirls, as well as a less than stellar response to Basic Instinct had me strongly reconsidering my notions of what constituted Paul Verhoeven as a great filmmaker, aside from Robocop.  Finally, I was rather certain that highly stylized, special effects film had lost their magic by the end of the eighties, but this film seems to really be the swan song of that era and baffled me with its continually experimental and fresh use of visual elements to create a highly watchable and active film.  One would be hard pressed to really criticize Total Recall as a film, because, while it has its moments of terrible acting and occasionally bends under its ambitious plot, it manages to be solidly executed and perfectly timed considering its both inclusive character plot and larger philosophical considerations.  Total Recall, much like Die Hard is just a fun film to engage with, one will find viewing this film to be viscerally enjoyable and visually mesmerizing while also being aware of its general badass nature, particularly in some of the more bizarre moments of special effects and cgi, which manages to exist within the world without the weird showiness present in more contemporary works.  I have not paid the remake a visit to this point, but I feel as though it will only be a let down, because this version is something extraordinary and indicative of what is truly possible with science fiction films that are fun and easily accessible, yet not so watered down as to be insultingly straight forward.

Total Recall centers on the experiences of Douglas Quaid (Arnold Schwarzenneger) a construction worker whose life within his gorgeous wife Lori (Sharon Stone) is constantly at odds given his preoccupation with his dreams about roaming Mars with a brunette woman only to result in his death when his helmet breaks and he suffocates in the toxic air.  These dreams lead Quaid to pursue answers through Rekall, a corporation that specializes in aiding people with their desires through a dream state.  Quaid takes up this opportunity only to result in a technological error that leads to him being woken up while being put under for his unconscious experience.  This awakening finds him with a severe case of memory loss and the knowledge that he must return to a certain place to assure his safety.  However, when Quaid awakes he is also fully aware that he is now a wanted man, one who apparently has ties to a man named Hauser who worked on Mars.  As Quaid begins to navigate this space it becomes clear that the people he assumed to be his friend were spies themselves, even Lori who attempts to kill Quaid when he returns to their apartment.  Despite being completely against odds Quaid's desire for survival affords him the ability to appropriate technology to his advantage, even using brawn when necessary. While running from pursuers, Quaid learns of a deeper layer of exploitation occurring in his world, one that has led to mutations in individuals, specifically groups whose living close to the surface of Mars.    Furthermore, Quaid realizes that his identity as Hauser has layers of problems, some that tie him directly to the exploitation of the persons on Mars, fortunately, Quaid meets a woman named Melina (Rachel Ticotin) and she helps him to realize his past, as well as make larger sense of the dreams he was having at the beginning of the film.  Quaid takes it upon himself to correct the wrongdoings by the large corporation, and uses both his newly obtained technology, as well as a keen awareness of the group and their hubris to his advantage, eventually saving the citizens of Mars.  The closing scene shows Melina and Quaid happily embracing, although it is quite possible that this entire world was simply the result of Quaid's initial dreaming at Rekall.

My relatively recent review of A Scanner Darkly, also an adaptation of a Dick work, considered the problem of reality and physical experiences, and it is certainly a theme in Blade Runner, a personal favorite of mine, again a result of the influence of the great science fiction author.  I would certainly place Total Recall within this context, but where the other two films seem intent on considering the issues of providing validity to a non-sentient being possessing "experience" while the other considers how experience is affected by layers of drugs, Total Recall seems to consider the idea of imagining into existence justice and egalitarianism in the world.  Quaid is certainly not a perfect person, but one can easily see from the onset of the film that he is a just and aware individual who simply wants his presence to validate those around him for something relevant, even if he can be a bit snappy and standoffish in the right circumstances.  The way the narrative, which is quite assumedly the vision of Quaid, plays up on the lesser versus the one's with unyielding power has various layers, whether it be the delusion of unwarranted power and how this affects the psychological outlook a person might have or the way a lesser individual internalizes their oppression,  suggests that Total Recall is decidedly entrenched in denying anything "performed."  It could easily possess layers of Marxism, psychoanalysis and in the right context a feminist reading and each would be able to draw upon the "dream" nature of the narrative to advance a reading of rejecting power, particularly those with such sway that their authority is even difficult to undermine in the unconscious state of the world of Total Recall, assuming of course that the film is an entire dreamscape.  Total Recall is concerned, firstly, with the issues of assuring one's presence in reality when each interaction is predicated upon a series of lies, or at the very least performances for and against expectations, and even if this rather obtuse consideration of the film is frustrating, its clear criticism of capitalist endeavors, much like what occurred in Robocop, is well worth celebrating.

Key Scene: The X-ray machine sequence could have been in a film this year and still been as captivating.

Total Recall on bluray is super cheap and certainly will prove a great film to have on hand for various situations.

Don't You Ever Call Them Tattoos: The Illustrated Man (1969)

I am beginning to think that Ray Bradbury may well be the ideal author to have his works adapted for the screen, considering my apprehension regarding Truffaut's adaptation of Fahrenheit 451, a book I am very fond of, it was a pleasant surprise to find a film that completely embraces and properly appropriates the world and themes of Bradbury's seminal novel.  Of course, I have only read this singular novel by the sci-fi giant, but when I discovered that The Illustrated Man was an adaptation of a Bradbury short story I had considerable degree of excitement, only furthered by the excellent cover work on the DVD copy I obtained.  It is difficult to fully break down what is excellent about this film because it is not necessarily linear and has layers of stories intersecting and is certainly not a perfect film.  However, considering that it was made in 1969, it adheres to a certain stylistic construct to which I am quite fond, one of heavy lighting in a natural setting and experimental match and jump cuts that help capture the viewer within a dreary and dreamlike trance.  While I would never suggest that The Illustrated Man exists on the same plane of brilliance as, say, 2001: A Space Odyssey, it does seem to commit to the same degree of grand introspection and evocative imagery.  What The Illustrated Man does brilliantly is take a set of themes, most of which center around notions of unity, authority and a sense of loss and disconnectedness in an increasingly modern world, much the same as Bradbury's collective works.  However, where his novel and adaptation by Truffaut entrench themselves within the optimistic, The Illustrated Man is a highly pessimistic piece, taking careful strides to note that somewhere in the near future people will simply wander about seeking their own sense of self worth, and while doing so they will constantly run the risk of encountering people who sensibilities favor the highly violent and are completely willing to destroy in the name of self-understanding.  Of course, there  is the more blatant level of the narrative, emphasized in the obvious visual elements of the film that reminds viewers that to truly where your past on your skin, is a jarring and disconcerting thing to encounter, even for the most progressive and idealized of individual.

The Illustrated Man technically falls within the narrative space of a single valley, assumedly somewhere in the Midwest of a futuristic America.  While this world is covered in dirt, brush and a bit of water, the evasive cinematography and generally stark state of nature suggest a dystopic future scape.  It is in this world that we are first introduced to Willie (Robert Drivas) a young man who has taken it upon himself to wander about America in a quest to find himself before meeting up with a family member to get a job.  During a moment of rest he is approached by a hefty man named Carl (Rod Steiger) whose intrusive nature is bizarre on its own, yet when he becomes increasingly evasive and inquisitive, Willie accepts that his presence will not go away soon.  As they begin to talk, Carl shows off his "illustrated" body, which he makes sure Willie knows are not tattoos.  A bit confused as to its relevance, Willie is quickly told that the illustrations were acquired from a elusive woman, while Carl was working as a carnie, each tattoo having a story, such as the one with a rose, which he obtained from the as reminder to carry her in his hand.  These illustrations are more than simple body art, as Willie quickly realizes when he discovers that simply staring into any of them will result in the world of the artwork literally unfolding before his eyes.  One story focuses on a futuristic child's playroom that allows them to play in various dangerous worlds whether they be medieval castles or African savannahs, while another considers the plight of astronauts who have crashed on a planet that is in a constant state of torrential rain.  The final story considers the ethical issues of two parents who have been informed of an impending natural disaster and the choice regarding whether to poison their children in their sleep to avoid suffering.  It is this sense of loss and death that seem to tie the narratives together, both within the illustrations, as well as in regards to Carl's own story as he recollects the tattooing woman and how she inexplicably disappeared when he awoke after receiving the illustrations.  Willie, now being witness to the various stories, envisions his own death as taking up a patch on Carl's unpainted body, leading to him attempting to kill Carl to no success, thus fleeing in fear.  However, Carl, seemingly immune to physical pain, arises and begins a slow chase of Willie.

The film is chocked full of varied and detailed social critiques, which is not really a surprise considering that it is lifted from a Bradbury short story.  However, the one that seems to be the highest concern, at least in regards to the adaptation, is the idea of the sensory experience of the present being ignored in the futile quest to understand the future.  While I am not sure if this is entrenched within issues of drug use, or simply a consideration of technology as evolving to placate the human body and its ability to experience events, it is rather clear that at no point does a sensory experience seem to be an enjoyable thing.  The most blatant case of this comes in the way of the astronauts whose entrapment on a planet that continually rains is not so much an issue of health regards to catching a cold, as much as it is a result of their psychological breakdown as a result of being harmed by the dampness of the rain, or going deaf and eventually insane from the constant pattering of rain drops inside of a cave.  The closing moments of this particular vision witness the captain of the ship finding shelter in a "sun dome," which is a lavishly designed modernist house where sensory pleasure is placated by a sterile environment.  In this case it appears as though the film suggest that modernity has led to man's complete disconnect with the natural, so much so that to step outside of their technological shell is to assure their slippage into insanity, or worse death, which given the wired-in nature of our society at the moment, I would suggest that Bradbury made a rather astute observation.  However, Carl seems to be the exception to sensory suffering in his relationship with the illustrator, one needs to know very little about tattooing to be aware of its truly painful nature, and as Carl openly notes he has been tattooed everywhere from head to toe, suggesting that some incredibly sensitive portions of his body were marked.  It would seem as though he is callous to such sensory pain, in which case the drug element of the film seems to emerge, particularly since for all intents and purposes the work simply manifests itself upon his body, perhaps in the form of a non-physical vision, as opposed to an actual tangible piece of artwork.  If one is to read the extension of the sensory to the non-physical state, it helps to explain Willie's vision of his own death at the films closing moments, as the imagined entering into the real in a very intense and destructive manner, perhaps, again, as the result of some psychotropic experimentation.

Key Scene:  I want to note the overall degree of experimental cinematography in this film, it was what helped push this film from simply being excellent, to being brilliant and worth heavy consideration, there are moments that could rival Welles in their composition.

This is a magnificent film, but it is also one that has suffered from distribution rights issues.  As such, I would suggest renting it until a cheap copy becomes available, although the twenty plus dollar price tag on this film is well worth the investment.

The Happy Childhood Is Hardly Worth Telling: Angela's Ashes (1999)

The adaptation of Frank McCourt's memoir in all its high sentimentalism and Irish charm would have been a standout hit and well-received classic were it to come out any other year but 1999.  As many podcasts and bloggers have noted before me, 1999 has proven to be a standout film for contemporary cinema evidenced by the seemingly unstoppable amount of great, if not, at the very least, unique and important works.  In its two and a half hour undertaking, Angela's Ashes is an absolutely watchable film that has some true moments of heart-wrenching honesty and all around great performances, and given that I often see copies of McCourt's novel at second hand book stores, it is clear that it at one time or another was a widely acclaimed and read book, however, I am also aware that the heavy handedness of the text and subsequent sentimentalizing nature of the film are exploitative in their nature.  For the moments in the film that chronicle the emergence of first love, it is also important to note that these evolutions too come with loss and the film is never sure what to make of the ebb and flow of such natural occurrences, resulting in a linear narrative that manages to fail in its climactic structure.  Of course, I am hardly a person who advocates for such straight forward methodologies when concerning filmmaking, but the particular stylistic choices of McCourt's memoir and the directorial nature of Alan Parker.  The suffering Irish family is a trope culturally at this point and it is simply a matter of how committed the director or author are to the subject as to its success and Angela's Ashes is far from being as intense as My Left Foot.  I do, however, want to make it expressly clear that I am not against Angela's Ashes, I get the narrative it is trying to create and the methods it uses are certainly executed to the highest degree, but given that it was released relativley recently it is hard to embrace it for anything than traditional, deciding to play into the highly stylized romanticizing of poverty and suffering that would be blown into excess a year earlier with Titanic and as witty and energizing as the narrator's coming of age tale proves to be, it is simply not enough to justify its extended runtime and general lack of narrative evolution as characters move from point A to point B, only to realize that point A was the desired location after all.

Angela's Ashes, despite its suggestive name, actually focuses on the childhood and young adult experiences of Frankie McCourt, who is played by a handful of actors in this film since he ages throughout the lengthy temporal narrative.  Regardless, the story begins with Frank as a child and the realization of death when his parents Malachy (Robert Carlyle) and mother Angela (Emily Watson) suffer from the loss of a child due to it being born in the winter in their impoverished living conditions.  This sad misfortune begins the process of them moving from America back to Ireland, the exact opposite of what many were doing at the height of the Depression in both countries.  Upon arrival in the religiously and politically divided country Frank realizes the true powers of stereotyping as he is mocked by his classmates for being a "yank," as well for having a father who is lazy and from the North.  Nonetheless, Frank and his brothers are strong-willed children and they manage to survive even though their father hardly works, and when he does the money he earns is quickly wasted at the local pub.  Frank seems always keenly aware of these tragic actions on the part of his father and continually strives to make a path for himself in the world, while also attempting to earn money for his family, particularly his suffering mother.  Yet, when it becomes quite clear that their only means for survival is to completely remove their father from the live and work as live-in servants to a wealthy bachelor, Frank begins to question his place in the family, becoming quite critical of the discovery that his mother is providing sexual favors to the man for money, and finally moves out when he discovers that she would rather side with the man than her own son for the sake of economic safety.  Frank moves out on his own and finds work as a telegraph courier, which leads to his first sexual encounter with a young woman dying of tuberculosis, which gives him his last push into adulthood via an awakening to lust and death near simultaneously.  After a large sum of money falls in his way, Frank seizes the opportunity to truly begin his life in the only fashion he knows how, by moving back to America, although in the name of narrative closure it is suggested that he returns fondly upon all of the moments of his young life.

It is perhaps this emphasis on fondness that makes the film slightly more frustrating than rewarding, and I realize this is somewhat absurd coming from me, a person who loves when films take leaps and go against the grain of traditionalism.  However, in regards to Angela's Ashes the issue emerges when McCourt's text is vaguely adapted to make negative characters seems sanctimonious or something other than terrible.  Obviously the example I am referring to is Frank's father, Malachy who spends nearly all of his screen time drunk.  Of course, as children Frank and his brothers are less likely to pick up on these problems, and instead; embrace his more light-hearted paternal moments, which would be fine if the film also did not seem content with this methodology.  The fact of the matter is that Malachy is blowing his earnings on booze while allowing his children to go hungry and even worse for his wife to be so malnourished that when she gives birth it results in sick babies who die within hours or days of arriving into the world.  At no point is this truly challenged, sure Angela kicks Malachy out of the house and society seems intent on chastising Malachy, but it is so much more entrenched in his Northernness than in his alcoholism.  I must confess that I have not read the book so I am uncertain as to how Malachy is depicted in the context of the memoir, but it seems as though any attempts at defending his near atrocities should be undercut by the realities, something that the film manages to avoid on a regular basis.  While Malachy's character is the biggest problem of the film it is certainly not the only vague depiction of oppression, the film seems to have a unbalanced and wavering depiction of many of the institutions of the era, particularly the charity based organizations of the government and the Catholic church, as well as the role teachers played in Frank's upbringing.  I am not suggesting that Frank McCourt did not find success without a strong sense of self-worth and determination, but the film is a bit too self-aware about his post experience introspection to see where he was aided and hindered as a child, which causes the films sentimental nature to be more misguided than endearing.

Key Scene:  When Frank begins his affair with the young woman with "consumption" it is one of the few moments of absolute narrative and cinematic cohesion and it is hard not to get emotive at its beautiful depiction of loss of innocence.  If only this film were that consistent throughout it may well have been one of the highlights of a year of excellent film.

Angela's Ashes is not a bad movie, in fact, it is quite good.  My issue arise with some of its obtuse moral statements and considering that it is rather expensive on DVD, I cannot suggest you go out of your way to see it in the near future.

Nothin' But Boobies. Who Needs 'Em?: Valley of the Dolls (1967)

If I want to embrace yesterdays film Foxy Brown for its absolutely brilliant use of metaphor, then I will have to come down quite hard on Mark Robson's 1967 film Valley of the Dolls, an adaptation of a Jaqueline Susann novel of the same name for being far too over the top and showy to really justify its intensity.  Sure the film is absolutely mesmerizing visually, particularly its use of psychedelic sequences to depict pill highs, and the rather innovative method for depicting musical numbers.  Yet, it must be acknowledged that the film really seems to lack a clear direction, social commentary or set of relateable characters in general.  While these are not necessarily mandatory for a film to be enjoyable, just look at anything Harmony Korine has made, when something like Valley of the Dolls attempts to reside within the cinematic and frames itself within the traditional aspects of filmmaking, it can be rather unbearable to watch it crumble under its own overly lofty ambitions.  Perhaps my real problem with the film comes not from its broad ambitions, I enjoy films with audacious hopes, but, instead; from its inability to relate its visual endeavors with the story shown.  While I have never personally read Susann's novel I cannot speak to how faithful Robson's adaptation is or is not, I, however, imagine that some of the "whiteness" of the narrative is undercut by the reality of the then tense racial climate.  The film viewers are provided with plays heavily into assumptions that everything is terrible in the world of well-to-do white people, almost entirely as a result of their large amounts of free time.  In fact, this is a film about a girl moving to the big city and attempting to find her identity, something her class and race afford her to do without question.  I know this is a rambling bit of rage and theoretically obtuse, yet, I just felt really let down by what I assumed would be a far more astute observation of sex, drugs and exploitation in the era, yet, the result was far less thrilling and certainly problematic.  In fact, if it were not for the beautiful voice of Dionne Warwick at the films opening and closing I would be inclined to dismiss the film in its entirety, and to think I almost bought a copy of the film flat out based on the cover alone.

Valley of the Dolls centers on two young girls who decide to take a shot at Broadway and all its illustrious promises.  The first girl Neely O'Hara (Patty Duke) is in possession of a powerful voice, but does not necessarily fit the look of a Broadway starlet.  The second is Anne Welles (Barbara Parkins) a young woman from New England who has travelled to the big city, completely living her somewhat provincial life and middle America lifestyle behind her, including a promising marriage proposal.  The film then becomes, ostensibly, about making the correct choices.  Another girl within the group of women attempting to hit it big on Broadway, Jennifer North (Sharon Tate) takes the approach of marrying into success, assuming that it will afford her open doors to big events and eventually huge theater deals, however, she ends up pregnant and in need of an abortion, which leads to another layer of medical expenses.  In the end Jennifer must break-down and star in European "soft core" erotic films.  On the other hand Neely, in an attempt to use duplicitous and devious behavior to her advantage, much like her idol, an aging Helen Lawson (Susan Hayward), however, in the process, Neely comes to obtain a crippling addiction to barbiturates, known, as "dolls" in the community.  Anne is also not free of the dangerous influence of "dolls," and succumbs to their influence for a considerable amount of time, yet is able to escape their addictive nature.  Neely, however, continues to spiral out of control and ends up in an asylum for a portion of the film, where she is assured that she caught sight of a former lover.  Yet, upon release Neely's addiction worsens, and when she adds alcohol to the mix things only spiral further downward.  In the end, Anne returns home to her family, realizing that, perhaps, the big allure of Broadway is far too much for her and simplicity is her best course of action.

This movie is all over the place philosophically, and seems to desire to dump the entirity of women's issues onto viewers, without properly dealing with any of them.  There is a character who is diagnose with cancer, and its relationship to the overall plot is so loose that I could not help but recall the announcement of having cancer that occurs in Tommy Wiseau's The Room.  I am, obviously, all for films dealing with issues of women's health and their social objectification, in fact, almost every paper or presentation I give concerns this, yet, I have no desire to engage with materials that only do this on a cursory level.  There is an abortion in this film, very little is made of this, despite clearly having rather dire effects of Jennifer and her self-identity.  She spirals into doing softcore pornography and the film never suggests that her inability to talk about her feelings post-abortion may have played into her choices.  Furthermore, the film uses some incredibly derogatory terms for sexual identity as it relates to one character, and while one could certainly suggest that this is due to drug induced rage, little consequence or challenge is given to these slurs and hateful diatribes.  Finally, the film manages to take hysteria and use it as a plot advancement without, simultaneously, condemning it as a illogical and societally constructed phenomena.  In fact, Neely's entire stay at the mental asylum appears to be an "expose" on how hysteria manifests itself, however, she is vilified for these behaviors, nevermind, that she is just as much caught in a love triangle with Anne and another man.  Very little seems to emerge in the way of critiquing males for their involvement in the problems "discussed" in this film and it is perhaps in this that I find the film most frustrating.  Again, I would rather have a film not discuss such dense and controversial topics, than to do so with half-hearted, nearly exploitative intentions.

Key Scene:  Again it is a visually pleasing film and the musical sequences are quite funny, I did, however, laugh out loud during the "European film" sequence.

This is a rental by all means, perhaps I am completely wrong in my opinion of this film and will certainly revisit in the future, however, as it stands I do not particularly care for its messy framework.

We Deal In Lead Friend: The Magnificent Seven (1960)

To call The Magnificent Seven a remake of Seven Samurai is not to correctly identify the type of film it exists as, particularly in its considerable reappropriation of the samurai motifs of the film in order to affect genre tropes of the Western.  Instead, I like the notion, that some people have applied to this film, as being an "Americanization" of The Magnificent Seven, one that stages and executes itself with clear similarities to the original, but making notable changes to the narrative and theatrics of the film in order to better examine themes and concepts within the fictional setting.  I am not literate enough in Japanese film to say with any certainty as to the degree of stardom associated with each of the actors playing the seven samurai in the Kurosawa film, but a considerable amount of the gunmen in The Magnificent Seven were either well established actors at the time, or would go on to build respectable careers.  The film includes some of the following actors, as some may not get mentioned in the plot synopsis: Yul Brynner, Steve McQueen, James Coburn, Charles Bronson, Eli Wallach and Robert Vaughn as well as a handful of other notable performers.  Cement this already excellent cast and respectable remake with the attachment of John Sturges and you have a near-perfect film and a masterpiece of the Western genre.  I would venture to bet that some of the bombastic cinematic excitement of the initial viewing fades after rewatching, but I was astounded, this being my first viewing of this classic, by the sheer commitment to the film on all accounts.  While it is certainly no Sergio Leone western and fails to gather the magnitude of a John Wayne driven film, The Magnificent Seven is an honest adaptation of a cinematic gem, done with such care and compassion that it has earned its own place, deservedly, within the pantheon of great cinematic works.  A film like this represents a time in Hollywood where actors would jump at the opportunity to perform together, claiming a higher place on artistic output than on monetary compensation and while this certainly occurs in contemporary cinema, it does not have near the earnest appeal as this half-century old work manages to still exude.

The Magnificent Seven, much like its inspiration, finds it setting in a rural village, in this case on the Mexican border.  The locals, also, peasants farmers, continually suffer from victimization and oppression by a group of bandits who demand their food and money as a means of survival.  After the death of a villager who attempts to stand up to the bandits, the town decides it is due time to confront the bandits, a task that requires them to hire outside help, because they are simply outnumbered, as well as inept at using weaponry, particularly firearms.  In comes the principled hired gun Larabee (Yul Brynner) who agrees to take the considerably low amount of pay simply as a result of doing the right thing.  He decides that the task will require a set of expert gunmen, and one guy who is profusely good at throwing knives, however, the obtaining of an agreeable party proves rather tedious, particularly considering that most of the men refuse to help for such low pay and lack of other forms of pay off.  Furthermore, Larabee finds difficulty with a particular recruit, a young man who is a bit of a hothead and drunkard that, nonetheless, greatly wants to join in the fight.  After some testing and prodding, a group of seven is assembled and they undertake the task of training and prepping the villagers for the next encounter with the bandits.  At first the job seems hopeless, particularly when the villagers cower to the bandits and allow them into the village to upset carefully laid traps and storage facilities.  Eventually, however, the group becomes attached to the village, one man finding happiness interacting with the youth, while another seeks solace by taking a lover.  Even Larabee seems to find solace in  the simple ways of the villagers and the lack of concern for where his next meal may come.  Battle does ensue though and many of the men are lost, only leaving three in the end, one who decides to stay and build a life with a young woman he has fallen in love with, while the other two ride off into the proverbial sunset, undoubtedly, to find new adventures.

This riding off into the sunset trope is perhaps the most obvious departure from the original Japanese film, in that the three remaining samurai remain with the villagers, their lives now inextricably attached to the lifestyle.  In typical American fashion, the opposite occurs with The Magnificent Seven, everyone is a loner, except in the moment of fighting against an oppressive force of evil.  In this way, the film plays out much like a Hollywood war film, in which you have a diverse group of men coalescing on an agreed moral action, only to disperse after its completion.  As opposed to the Japanese film in which honor is a latent ideology that always and at once unifies the masculine group, to break such a code would have fatal results.  Self-sacrifice seems inherent within the Japanese context, while it is almost used as a form of pity within the American version.  Of course that is not to say that the film is to be condemned for such actions, after all the group did vanquish an evil oppressive group of thieves.  Yet, it is particularly interesting to consider that the film does not necessarily chastise the bandits, going so far as to suggest that their own hunger drives them to act in such problematic ways.  Another observation of note with this American version is that masculinity is a point of contention between certain figures in the group, particularly the hot-headed youth who seems set on proving his worth in the group constantly seeking to engage in a pissing contest with whoever will humor his requests.  Incidentally, it is no coincidence that he is the one who settles down with a woman, offering him a clear vantage point to assert his male power.  Some of these elements are also nonexistent in the Japanese original, yet it has been years since I have seen Seven Samurai so the possibility of incorrect memory is highly probable.

Key Scene:  While it is only title cards and an incredible score, I cannot recall a film in recent memory whose opening credits have managed to set a mood quite like The Magnificent Seven.

This is an awesome movie one well worth watching with a few drinks and some friends.  Owning it does not seem necessary, but I may recant that statement at some point, however, make sure to rent the bluray it really pops off the screen.

There's Nothing Out There: The Mist (2007)

Let me get this out up front.  I am a huge proponent of director's intent.  I loathe Ted Turner's push to "colorize" classic films like It's A Wonderful Life amongst others.  Furthermore, I am completely opposed to when production companies force directors to sacrifice their visions in the name of ticket sales and accessibility.  This was the case for Frank Darabont's adaptation of Stephen King's novella The Mist.  Darbont's intent was to release the film in black and white for a variety of cinematic and thematic reasons, yet; his producers refused him this right and demanded that it be in color.  While I cannot speak to it being the reason it fell to the wayside that year for horror films, I strongly feel as though its critical acclaim may have increased considerably were he allowed to film it with the chiaroscuro elements of black and white present.  Luckily, for cinephiles, the most recent DVD release includes the black and white version of the film as an extra disc feature and it is the vision that this post shall review, because I am simply going to pretend the color version does not exist.  With the choice to remove color, The Mist becomes a much more astute social commentary that emits moments of abrasive imagery that makes viewers cringe in discomfort, much like Tony Kaye's seminal documentary on Abortion titled Lake of Fire...a term that to no surprise emerges on at least one occasion within The Mist.  If it were not for Kubrick's version of The Shining, Darabont's adaptation could well be my new favorite take on a Stephen King work, although it appears that at least one movie a year is an adaptation of the prolific writers work, so that statement could change quite quickly.

The Mist focuses on life in a rural Maine town following a storm of cataclysmic proportions.  Painter David Drayton (Thomas Jane) serves as the films main character, as he attempts to make amends with his neighbor Brent Norton (Andre Braughber) after a tree from his yard destroys his boathouse.  Realizing the frivolity of the entire situation, both David and Brent, along with David's son Billy (Nathan Gamble) head to the town grocery to gather supplies to begin repairing their respective houses.  While the power is out at the grocery things seem relatively normal and each begins doing their shopping, however, things become unusual as military police begin showing up and demanding that a group of young recruits cut their leave short to help in clean up.  Things grow suspicious quickly and are only worsened when a town resident runs out of the mist into the store claiming to have viewed something in the dense fog.  This event begins the flickers of paranoia within the grocery store, which will provide the setting for most of the films remainder, as David leads an expedition to the stores docking bay, which proves the claims of a creature being in the mist to be true.  A tentacled beast and many mutated bugs exist in the fog and begin preying on the various people within the grocery.  At this point, things begin to fall apart within the store, people begin arguing over whether or not to stay, which ultimately proves to be the dividing point between David and Brent.  Furthermore, a fire and brimstone spouting woman begins to convert followers with her claims of the mist and the beasts as being a sing of the end of days.  While at first her claims are dismissed, with the death of various people and the continual attacks of the monsters she begins to recruit followers, eventually becoming so maddened as to suggest sacrificing Billy to the creature.  David reacts quickly and with the help of a handful of other people escapes the grocery store and grabs a truck to escape.  On their drive out of town, toward Portland, they see the various creatures, most notably a gigantic spider like beast roaming above them.  Along the way they run out of gas, completely incapable of doing anything, David uses a gun to take those travelling with him out of their misery, including his own son.  He is left alone without any bullets to linger in loneliness.  As David steps out of his car to scream in agonizing defeat, military vehicles drive by him to rescue survivors and burn down the infestations of the monsters, if only his group had waited ten more minutes they would have survived the entire ordeal.

The Mist, as Darabont has stated himself, is not about the monsters that exist in the exterior world of the film, but instead those that exist in the interior minds of the people within the film, whether it be David's own struggle to assert himself as a respectable father, or Brent's concern with proving himself as a respectable outsider, even if doing so means legal actions.  Even the narratives secondary characters find themselves battling inner demons, most notably Ollie (Toby Jones) the stores assistant manager who constantly struggles to assert authority despite being of small stature and his being victim to continual ridicule by his superior.  King's work also exudes the issues of religious proclamations in the face of troubled times and in Darabont's adaptation it is clearly suggested that the religious zealot Mrs. Carmody (Marcia Gay Harden) is doing more harm than good by proselytizing to the individuals trapped in the store.  However, Darabont also chooses not to depict her character's imminent death, perhaps as a bleak commentary on the future of religious extremism in America.  Finally, the film has a certain timelessness about it, something that Darbont admitted to intending within the film, while David certainly possesses as cellular phone, everything else within the film suggests a an America from various generations, whether it be the 80's style vehicles or the 50's feel of the town grocery.  The struggles and turmoils of an American unity is central to the film and The Mist reminds viewers that a constant demand for opposition only hinders America.  I am unintentionally on a kick of "storm as a metaphor" films, but I do not mind that considering that, they have all been enjoyable and it seems as though the paranoia of something worse to come is pertinent in the rhetoric of the upcoming political election, as well as the continually worsening state of the world economy. 

Key Scene: The scene in which David finds his wife after leaving the grocery store is incredibly oneiric.

The Mist in black and white is something to be viewed, while it is not an incredibly important film it is quite enjoyable and worth renting, although make sure to get the second disc, because that is where you will find the black and white version which is the one you want to watch.

For Your Awareness: Starcrash (1978)

In 1977, the world of sci-fi would forever change with the introduction of the masterpiece Star Wars.  It would be a harbinger of great and well-known space exploration movies, such as Alien and Serenity.  These movies in their own right would receive critical acclaim and advance what viewers came to expect from special effects in space movies.  This blog is not in any way about such a film, instead; it is about a little known Star Wars rip-off called Starcrash, a film that was directed and produce by Italians, but involved a slew of American and British actors.  However, to call it a rip-off is a bit problematic, because to be fair, the producers of Starcrash realized the imminent success of the Star Wars franchise and rushed a film into production.  Using a large amount of character arcs and plot twists from the now famous franchise, Starcrash exists as one of those so terrible it is endearing films that makes its rounds at midnight movie showings and on best cult classics lists.  It appears to border between taking itself completely seriously and not trying to push itself beyond its clearly restrained budget.  Furthermore, you can imagine that any movie involving David Hasselhoff, but the best part of this film comes from an inspired performance of recent Academy Award winner Christopher Plummer.  Essentially, Starcrash is glorious in its seemingly unending amount of "what the..." moments.

I will not bother with a plot explanation here, because it clearly parallels Star Wars in many ways and part of the enjoyability is making these connections during the viewing experience.  Not to mention it has a John Barry soundtrack that is both zany and grandiose.  I will instead tell you to keep an eye out for a few things throughout viewing Starcrash.  First off, continuity is thrown out the window in the film, something that makes a sci-fi film function.  Pay close attention to the amount of ships mentioned in any fight, this will help prove my point.  Secondly, the character of Elle (L) is magnificent, voiced by British folk musician Hamilton Camp, who dons a terrible American Southern accent, and is undoubtedly one of the funniest and most likeable parts of the film.  Thirdly, the women in the films are all ex-models, including one former Bond girl, Caroline Munro, and boy do they go through wardrobe changes, in many instances for no apparent reason.  However, as I noted before, the best part of this film is without a doubt Christopher Plummer.  He delivers monologues with such gravitas that you wonder whether or not he realized that everyone else round him could not act to save their lives.  From turn of the neck line deliveries to yelling out to "stop the flow of time," Plummer's performance culminates in one of the most ridiculous closing monologues ever put on film.  I hope one day to find it on the internet, because I will probably attach it to everything I post. 

Please do yourself a favor and buy this film on Bluray, it is worth getting and sharing with your friends.  Plummer, painted models, scantily clad women and Hasselhoff all combine for the makings of a filmic drinking game.  Also, I hear the commentary is something of unprecedented nerdom.  Shortly after watching you will become a "Crashhead," I know I am myself.

There Is No Real Me, Only An Entity: American Psycho (2000)

American Psycho is a film that sticks with you.  From the fast-paced indifferent dialogue of business tycoons to the free-falling chainsaw murders, it is a film entirely of its own creation.  It displays a unflinching critique of capitalism in all its failed glory taking its problems to an absurdist extreme.  The film is part drama and part thriller with a healthy dose of dark comedy thrown in as well.  Unlike other directors, Mary Harron understands details.  Every scene within American Psycho is intense in its grandiose brutality, yet it is disturbing in its detailed obscenity and excess.  The scene when the executives compare business cards is cinematic brilliance without compare.

American Psycho, as its name implies, follows the life of socio/psychopath Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale), a Wall Street tycoon who has a penchant for murdering coworkers, hookers and anybody he deems socially worthless.  The film begins with Patrick leading a rather normal upper class lifestyle, complete with business lunches, modern apartment fixtures and an attachment to the newest forms of technology.  As the story progresses it is made apparent that Patrick finds others behavior extremely irritating, particularly those of his coworker and rival Paul Allen (Jared Leto).  Patrick invites Paul out for dinner and drinks, which eventually leads both of them back to Patrick's apartment.  After an inspired analysis of Huey Lewis and The News albums, Partrick proceeds to butcher Paul with an ax.  At this point, the film dismisses all rationality and follows Patrick on his rampage, in which he avoid the interrogations of Detective Donald Kimball (Willem Dafoe) while murdering more people.  Patrick becomes more and more violent as the narrative continues, ultimately leading to a night of rampage in which he kills a handful of people publicly.  After his killing spree, Patrick calls his lawyer to confess his actions up until this point.  The movie then cuts to Patrick at lunch with his coworkers as though nothing has happened.  Patrick runs into his lawyer and asks about the message he left, assuming it was a joke his lawyer laughs it off and tells him to have a good day.  Patrick returns to his friends and mumbles his desire to kill everyone in the restaurant, to which his friends chastise him and dismiss his statement.  Viewers are left with Patrick scanning the room in paranoia while wondering whether the scenes of the film were from Patrick's reality or a world of his fantasies.

While I could write extensively on the corporate and capitalist critiques evident in this film, I want to instead draw attention to the issues of the current MPAA rating system.  Upon its initial release, American Psycho received an NC-17 rating.  It is easy to assume that this rating was a result of the film violence, particularly the scene in which Patrick drops a chainsaw on a fleeing prostitute.  However, as Mary Harron notes, in the fascinating documentary This Film Is Not Yet Rated, the committee found the film worthy of an NC-17 rating solely for its portray of female-on-female sexual intercourse.  This choice on profane imagery reflects an issue in regards to the ideals promoted through the current rating imagery.  As many of you can imagine, a multitude of films receive R ratings despite showing countless images of heterosexual intercourse, however, the moment homosexual sex occurs it is deemed unfit for viewing.  I find this to be extremely problematic and would ask you as viewers to consider what goes into our current rating system and to demand a more solid rubrick for a ratings system, as opposed to the current system which is terribly wishy-washy and reflective of WASP ideals.

Do yourself a favor and watch this film immediately.  Its unfortunate ratings issue meant that it was overlooked upon its initial release, but the Blu-ray edition provides a justice to the film and is well worth owning.