JETT Loe

Gareth and myself take an in-depth look at three blockbusters, one of which is great, the other good and the third just rubbish.  Yep, it’s reviews of THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO, SHERLOCK HOLMES: A GAME OF SHADOWS and MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE 4: GHOST PROTOCOL.

Running time:  46 minutes and 24 seconds – 44.6mb

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Join Jett at His New Site:  Edit on a Dime

You know what?  I think this ep is actually better than our Fifth Anniversary Episode.  It has singing, sound effects, Fox Business News, Freud, Jung, 3D and a slight mention of Slavoj Zizek.  What more could you want?  Also reviews of HUGO, THE MUPPETS and A DANGEROUS METHOD.

Running time: 1 Hour 03 minutes and 48 seconds – 61.3mb

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Here it is our Fifth Year Anniversary Special! Includes such items as banter, witticisms, back-talk and reviews of ANONYMOUS and IN TIME.  As well as our favorite filmic picks from the past 187 shows, thoughts on Steve Jobs, the end of the film camera and the Most TFT Film of All Time.

Running time: 1 Hour 16 minutes and 20 seconds – 73.4mb

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Thoughts on the beautiful and disturbing tone poem that is DRIVE and an exhortation to participate in the exciting new film COYOTE REQUIEM.  Oh, and Gareth saw THE IDES OF MARCH apparently.

Running time: 40 minutes and 30 seconds – 37.2mb

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[Spoilers for HOSTEL & HOSTEL: PART II]

I suppose there’s some virtue in showing revolting acts as revolting, and if nothing else, Eli Roth nails that segment of his tragically overreaching statement on globalization, the HOSTEL diptych. As Roth depicts it, torture is dehumanizing and sadistic, as well it should be. What’s more, his crassness keeps him from taking the easy way out, really challenging—insofar as such a film can—notions of deserved violence. Because the entitled hero-victims of HOSTEL are the ugliest Americans (and one Icelander) imaginable, laughing off any cultural experience and even throwing their weight around at a club—“I’m an American, I have rights!”—Roth gives us decidedly unsympathetic protagonists and then tortures them. The position is clear. Even these guys don’t deserve what’s coming (not that they’re warlords or something, either). There’s a parallel in HOSTEL: PART II where the torturer is trying to extract information from her victim. It shouldn’t work, as studies show, but it does, and not out of irresponsibility. It works to show the extreme: even if torture were efficacious, is it worth it?

There’s been some discussion lately about challenging yourself to sit through certain films like SALO or IRREVERSIBLE. It seems to me that lately the horror supergenre has been held rapt not by terror of what’s to come or horror of what just happened but revulsion. Torture-porn, a term that fits the subgenre like an overly starched hand-me-down suit jacket it wouldn’t be caught dead wearing, isn’t about scaring you but revolting you, which is its own kind of endurance test but one that, for me, lacks the fun of anticipating a good scare. Like the B-movies I rail against, it’s mired in self-seriousness with nothing to counterbalance. It’s 100-proof melancholy. HOSTEL always struck me as something that would mostly have my stomach in knots for a couple hours, so when I say I finally watched them, I mean I rented the DVD for HOSTEL in the full sunlight of noon and watched HOSTEL: PART II sanitized for my protection on Syfy. It’s not much different from covering your eyes through the grossest parts and having your parents cover your eyes during the full frontal. Personally, I’ll take it. When are they airing WOLF CREEK?

The grand guignol style weakens whatever topicality Roth is going for, because the obvious response is “CIA torture would look nothing like that.” But as horror, the HOSTEL films cleverly refute the afterschool morality of HALLOWEEN or the ‘80s slasher flicks. Innocence is no shield; only street smarts and a lot of luck can save you here, in—forgive me—a post-9/11 world. But there is hope, if only barely, and that’s a crucial distinction from the films of Michael Haneke or THE LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT. The problem is what that hope represents. Because as near as I can tell, the primary point of HOSTEL isn’t to let a bunch of gorehounds dream up creative ways to autopsy living humans. The HOSTEL films are revenge fantasies. Whatever nonsense Roth says about blowback for America’s foreign misadventures, HOSTEL gives our protagonist every comical opportunity to get even with his tormentors, and by that point, who isn’t cheering him on? Run over those prostitutes or they’ll just lure more unsuspecting kids into the torture factory! Slit that guy’s throat or he’ll strike again! Catharsis doesn’t come from surviving. It comes from killing the bad guys. Are we still talking about geopolitics, Eli?

DEMONLOVER has a few years and tons of style on the HOSTEL films, successfully navigating this labyrinthine (how long until I can use Assayasesque?) multinational corporate infrastructure that treats human beings like toys all through the haze of a good drug trip. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I found HOSTEL: PART II much stronger than its predecessor, even with Derek Richardson’s wrenching performance, though both are tonally flat, blunt exaggerations whose cinematic style seems to rely entirely on drawing parallels, for instance, between an Amsterdam brothel and the torture factory (and a train, so . . . who knows what Eli Roth was trying to say with that). PART II follows in DEMONLOVER’s footsteps, fleshing out the inhumanity of its capitalist enterprise and illustrating the impossibility of toppling such a powerful organization. A bunch of rich white guys bid on victims, a scene with all the rhythm and release of masturbation, not really caring that all this money they’re spending eviscerates—literally—actual human lives. The message is that everything is a game to the superwealthy, not least the running of the world, because they will always be insulated from real life as the rest of us experience it. Both DEMONLOVER and HOSTEL: PART II are vertically integrated, but Assayas intellectualizes while Roth physicalizes. There’s a bold image at the end of the first HOSTEL of blood splattering across a crowd of bystanders. Provocation is HOSTEL’s greatest success, but the series’ impact is achieved with concision in a single frame: the grisly photo of Libyan dictator Muammar Gadhafi that greeted so many of us when we woke up Thursday morning.

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Brandon Nowalk writes about film and television for  the AV Club, the Maroon Weekly in College Station, TX and at his blog But What She Said and Twitter @bnowalk. His favorite films beyond the usual suspects include Henry King’s The Gunfighter, Alain Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad, Orson Welles’ The Trial, Jan Nemec’s Diamonds of the Night, and David Lynch’s Inland Empire.

It’s the Occupy Wall Street Show as we review films that pit the little guy against the boss:  REAL STEEL and MONEYBALL.  Also we talk with director Jason Lehel, producer John Gordon and star Nicole Herold about their beautiful new film COYOTE REQUIEM as part of its exciting Kickstarter Campaign.

Running time: 43 minutes and 14 seconds – 41.6mb

Please do check out the $2 Kickstarter campaign for COYOTE REQUIEM - it’s a great opportunity to be part of the change in cinema culture!

[Photo by Jett at top: Producer John Gordon gives a hand to actor Kevin McNamara on the set of COYOTE REQUIEM]

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Cough, cough.  Eck.  Cough, it’s CONTAGION folks and Gareth’s Film of the Year THE GUARD.  All that plus Jett’s thoughts on the films of TIFF 2011 including THE BROOKLYN BROTHERS BEAT THE BEST, THE HUNTER and THE WOMAN IN THE FIFTH and a brief mention of the new Criterion Jean Vigo Collection.

Running time: 35 minutes and 58 seconds – 34.6mb

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In Which Olive Oyl and Carrie go Head to Head for the Sake of the Female Id, while an English lad and an Australian bloke re-enact the tortured soul of American masculinity, while Nick Nolte tries not to crumble, and Robert Altman smiles down from the heaven he didn’t believe in.

When you’re watching Robert Altman’s 3 WOMEN on Blu-ray, it would be easy, if potentially clichéd, to equate the grain of the image with the seriousness of the director’s intent.  It’s like looking at the lined face of an old professor; but on Blu-ray you can see inside the lines.  Everything looks so clear on the just-released Criterion edition, and the California desert images are so evocative of a world that hasn’t yet left the Old West behind that it almost makes you yearn to be watching it on a scratched and faded print at an isolated Drive In.  The trouble with Blu-ray is that it makes everything perfect, which sometimes crowds out the space for an imperfect human response.  It can be a bit like looking at the Grand Canyon: contemplation is invited, analysis pretty much impossible.  (Think of the difference between watching ‘Attack of the Clones’ in high-definition [on disc or theatrically projected] and the first time you saw THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK in a theatre; the fact that EMPIRE felt more substantial wasn’t just because it has a better script and you were six: the grain and the matte paintings and the models and, yes, even the performances, were more real than a computer can generate, or a digital image can convey.)

But a perfect film deserves perfect presentation, I suppose.  So 3 WOMEN has what it warrants; and it wasn’t a bad way to spend a couple of mild insomnia-induced hours the other night.  Given that the idea behind the film came to Altman in a dream, we were on solid ground.  And when the camera opens us into a swimming pool in which young people are guiding the elderly toward their metaphysical exit, we the audience are being born too, so the shift in consciousness that comes late at night – reflective, open to something new – meant it was natural for me to be along for the trip.

Altman was an intellectual artist of the most engaging kind: his camera, fluid, as Bruce Cockburn would say, like the wind in grass, inviting us to observe just like he did, around and near the action, but never in it.  He was a man of vast tastes (too easy it is to suggest that because his films had a certain demeanor that the themes were unified – I mean, c’mon, this is a guy who had Anouk Aimee take all her clothes off to make a satirical point about fashion, put US army medics in a Last Supper tableau as a preamble to suicide, and had Harry Belafonte invert everything we think we know about Harry Belafonte so that he could channel Christopher Walken into a jazz era Missouri psychopath).  The intellect and tastes here engage the question of what it means to be human – so far, so much that’s-the-point-of-art, I guess – specifically what it means for its trio of female protagonists to be human in a world that wants to make them into machines; either as workers in the factory farm, or as the receptacles of men’s lust or anger, or as the bearers of the very image of humanity by having children.

These are not likeable people – played by Sissy Spacek and Shelley Duvall and Janice Rule – walking around in circles in the water as they’re dying.  Their faces are frightening, their behavior irritating; they invite pity at best, and sometimes fear, because you wouldn’t want to get too close to them, partly because they are carrying on the surface that which you fear most about yourself: that you will never know who you are, that you will always be alone in the world, and that you will spend your life trying to impress people who don’t give a damn.

The murals that Rule is painting in the swimming pool evoke archetypal myth; but the pool obviously has to be drained to permit the paint to dry: it’s a barren space for her to project her fantasies.  The 3 women seem to be animated only in their dreams: when Spacek’s Pinky convinces herself that she is someone else; when Duvall’s Millie thinks of the near-ridiculous cowboy Edgar; when Rule is painting ancient stories without ever uttering a word herself.  No one could accuse Altman of wanting to be someone else – or at least no one could accuse him of being obsessed with trying.  Is this the task of living: to avoid wanting to be someone other than who we are?  Maybe.  But is his coruscating critique of the lives of these women just cynicism?  Does the fact that the film opens with people walking round in circles, waiting to die, suggest nihilism on the part of its director?  I don’t think so.  ‘3 Women’ is the work of a man in love with cinema (not just the obvious antecedent in Bergman’s ‘Persona’, but the mythic American West too, and there’s even a touch of ‘The Exorcist‘ in the nightmare sequence toward the film’s climax)  – and just as Kubrick saw ‘The Shining’ as an optimistic film because it avers a belief in an afterlife, you can’t be entirely cynical if you’re in love.  There’s a very telling moment when Millie walks in on an elderly couple making love, on a night when they are distressed by something that has happened to a loved one.  Bad things happen, but you can still live; as a certain other film-maker/lover might say.  We’ve mislaid some of the tools that might be useful in determining how to function as a whole person; the task for now is to figure out how to figure out who you are without stealing someone else’s soul.

[Brief note: I’ve been thinking about something that Thulsa Doom, the bad-bad-BAD guy  in CONAN THE BARBARIAN (which I saw for only the first time this month), says to the Austrian oak at that film’s violent climax, so derivative of the final encounter between Willard and Kurtz that it’s a good thing John Milius wrote that film too otherwise Francis Coppola would be the new Art Buchwald.  Thulsa Doom killed Conan’s mother when he was a child; and Conan has pursued vengeance against Thulsa Doom ever since.  When he is just about to kill his enemy, Thulsa Doom suggests that this might not be in his best interest, because his whole identity has been so shaped by revenge that he will not know how to live after eradicating his enemy.  ‘It will be as if you never existed,’ says Thulsa; and for a moment I thought that Milius was going to tell the truth about retribution: that it serves to perpetuate, not heal, the wounds of violence.  But such moments of philosophical clarity do not a Dino de Laurentiis 80s epic make; so Conan cuts Thulsa’s head off, and all is well.  Just such a kind of vengeance drives Pinky in ‘3 Women’, and in one of the most surprising collisions of artist intent I’ve seen, you can see a populist male version of ‘3 Women’ at your local multiplex right now.  WARRIOR is a far more thoughtful film than its posters suggest; in fact, it may be the post-9/11/Iraq war/war on terror/WTF just happened? movie we’ve been waiting for.  Two angry brothers and a broken dad isn’t the most original narrative trope, but neither is love conquers all; doesn’t mean it can’t contain vast emotional truth.  WARRIOR is about the need to transcend the violent shadow and the avoidance of anger alike; about how being a man who hopes to do justice to the calling of being human requires integration of what is too simplistically called ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’; about how people deserve a second chance, not least because your desire to withhold that chance from those who have harmed you may actually be continuing your own experience of woundedness.  It’s a wonderfully engaging, brilliantly edited, emotionally honest film that moved me.  Its vision of what the integrated US American male could be is the inversion of Conan’s path: violence begets violence until someone is willing to change the script.  We need an interruption.]

WARRIOR is on general release; 3 WOMEN is available on Blu-ray and DVD from Criterion.

For a film about mixed martial arts, it would have been cool of Gavin O’Connor’s WARRIOR to demonstrate some mixed martial arts. But maybe I’m projecting my own priorities onto a film more interested in showing us, ad nauseam, how this great whatsit is provoking the audience. No matter how fly-on-the-wall the angles or how human the camera, this isn’t FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS. That film and TV series is all about the community investing in the game, whereas WARRIOR is a stage piece with a spotlight just big enough to illuminate its hero-brothers and their father. All the cutting pretends this match means more than it does, desperately seeking entry into the Hall of Fame. I see the potential, but in practice it’s a deathless conceit that clarifies its own redundancy not only with twelve shots of the exact same person doing the exact same thing but also by mimicking the real life audience in every way except one: our furious cries to get the camera back to the ring!

This is just one example of WARRIOR’s overinflation, but most of the two-and-a-half hours is actually muscle. Sure, it’s largely masculine melodrama, but like the MMA process* it’s painstakingly procedural, showing every step of the characters’ reunion. [*Well, every step of the physical MMA process; for some reason they elide the scene where Joel Edgerton gets his vanity shot taken for the program.] It may be lengthy, but that’s because the characters—especially the unstoppable Tom Hardy and Nick Nolte—are so damn restrained, so unsure of how to say the things they’ve bottled up for fourteen years. There are fatty moments— like when the principal refuses to let Edgerton’s students watch the fight in the auditorium, and it’s played like a cancer diagnosis as the sound drops out and thuds boom and they walk away for nine minutes—but WARRIOR doesn’t pretend to be any grand artistic statement. It’s a sports film, right down to its costumed predictability. It’s not trying to be Greek myth, but it sure would like to be a statue.

Unfortunately, they don’t give statues for pretending. The clearest sustained shot of MMA is from the nosebleed section, although there are a few exciting fly-bys including a gasp-worthy body-slam. But mostly O’Connor just wants us to know that two bulls are charging each other, not the specifics of their athleticism. This isn’t the first film to cover for its actors-not-athletes as they manage a demonstration of physical performance sufficient for the film’s purposes and no more—BLACK SWAN, GLEE, BUCKY LARSON—but WARRIOR is practically embarrassed of its sport, like a weedy kicker refusing to take his shirt off at the football team’s pool party. Oh, we get plenty of that, by the way, in this beefcake parade, and it only puts the rest in relief: WARRIOR may be a film about muscles and physicality, but it has no interest in the particular application of those muscles, which is what sports is all about (thereby honoring strength, perseverance, character, and other poster slogans). It gives us trains and factories and old-fashioned crank slot machines and a story about someone ripping a door off a vehicle and a philanthropist who pointedly turned his back on digital Wall Street in favor of sports, but the only physical labor we see is Nick Nolte struggling not to laugh at how typecast he’s become. It’s an exciting, moving male weepie, but it’s hard to concentrate on the fight between the heroes when the real tension is between the filmmaker and the film.

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Brandon Nowalk writes about film and television for  the AV Club, the Maroon Weekly in College Station, TX and at his blog But What She Said and Twitter @bnowalk. His favorite films beyond the usual suspects include Henry King’s The Gunfighter, Alain Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad, Orson Welles’ The Trial, Jan Nemec’s Diamonds of the Night, and David Lynch’s Inland Empire.