Film Review: Maniac (dir. by Franck Khalfoun)


Maniac

By all logic, Maniac has no right to be as good a film as it is.

A remake of William Lustig’s notoriously sleazy (if grimly effective) 1980 film, Maniac tells the story of Frank Zito (Elijah Wood, taking on a role previously played to repulsive perfection by Joe Spinell).  Frank is a twitchy young man who sells mannequins for a living, has frequent conversations with his dead mother, suffers from intense migraines, and relieves stress by scalping strangers.  Much like the original Maniac, the remake is largely plotless.  Frank stalks women.  Frank yells at his mannequins.  Frank pursues an unlikely romance with an incredibly naive photographer (played here by the very sympathetic Nora Arnezeder).  Much blood is spilled and the film eventually comes to a conclusion that’s even darker than Lustig’s original.

One thing that does distinguish this remake from the original Maniac is that director Franck Khalfoun and producer (and screenwriter) Alexandre Aja attempt to truly put the viewers in Frank’s disturbed mind.  With the exception of a few isolated moments, the entire film is a collection of p.o.v. shots.  While we hear Frank talk throughout the film, the only time that we actually see him is during the rare moment that Frank takes the time to look at his reflection.  That may sound gimmicky (and it is) but, at the same time, it actually works surprisingly well.  Much like Frank, the audience spends the film trapped in his disturbed mind and often unsure about whether they’re seeing something real or having another hate-fueled hallucination.

It helps that Elijah Wood gives a surprisingly credible performance in the role of Frank.  While we only actually get to see his face a handful of times, Wood makes every one of those moments count.  Unlike the original’s Joe Spinell (who gave a performance that was so incredibly sleazy that he almost seemed to be surrounded by a cloud of grime whenever he showed up on screen), Elijah Wood uses his youthful face and his deceptively gentle voice to turn Frank into a disturbingly plausible threat.  With his nervous eyes and rather befuddled expression, Wood makes Frank into the murderer next door  One reason why serial killers are so scary is because the majority of them look more like Elijah Wood than Joe Spinell.  Director Khalfoun uses Wood’s passive screen presence to put the audience at ease, just as surely as Frank uses his innocent face to fool his victims.  As a result, the viewers keep expecting Frank to show some shimmer of humanity.  That’s make it all the more disturbing to watch as the film reveals just how much of a monster Frank truly is.

Playing the role of Frank’s love interest, Nora Arnezeder also deserves a lot of credit.  While the original film definitely suffered because you never believed that Caroline Munro’s classy photographer would actually be attracted to Joe Spinell, the relationship between Wood and Arnezeder is a lot more plausible and hence, it also has the potential to be a lot more tragic.  Without Arnezeder’s empathetic performance, Maniac would just be a numbing collection of scenes of people being murdered.   However, Arnezeder creates a character that viewers will actually care about.    We worry about her as we watch her relationship with Frank develop but, at the same time, we can understand what she thinks she sees in this shy and eccentric man.  As opposed to the original film and despite all of the graphic violence (and it is graphic, make no mistake), the remake of Maniac never feels misogynistic and that’s largely due to the work of Nora Arnezeder.  Arnezeder gives us something that the original never bothered to do, a character to sympathize with.

Finally, you can’t talk about the remake of Maniac without mentioning the film’s excellent score.  Composed by a French composer who goes by the name of Rob, the synth-heavy score has a wonderfully retro feel to it that pays homage to both the old grindhouse films and also adds a propulsive element of menace to every scene.  Much like the electronic score of the far different Upstream Color, the score of Maniac becomes a character all of its own.  I would even go as far to say that it’s perhaps one of the best horror score that I’ve ever heard.

I wasn’t expecting much of Maniac.  In fact, the only reason I saw it was out of curiosity.  I was expecting to be a typical horror remake, a cynical film made solely to exploit the notoriety of its source.

Was I ever wrong!

Maniac is not a pleasant film.  It’s a dark and gore-filled movie but, in its disturbing way, it’s also oddly effective and compelling.  It’s a film that probably has no right to be good and yet, that’s exactly what it is.

What Lisa Marie Watched Last Night #84: Jodi Arias: Dirty Little Secret (dir by Jace Alexander)


Last night, I turned over to Lifetime and I watched the world premiere of Jodi Arias: Dirty Little Secret. 
Jodi Arias

Why Was I Watching It?

If you know me then you know that I can’t resist a trashy Lifetime film.  And could anything be trashier than a film about Jodi Arias?

What Was It About?

The film is based on the true story of the most hated woman in America.  Mentally unstable fake blonde Jodi Arias (Tania Raymonde) meets motivational speaker Travis Alexander (Jesse Lee Sofer) and eventually becomes obsessed with him.  Finally, Jodi goes back to her natural hair color and, in a disturbingly graphic scene, murders Travis.

What Worked?

In the role of Jodi Arias, Tania Raymonde (who is probably best known for playing Ben’s daughter on Lost) gave a genuinely unsettling performance.  Not only did Raymonde look a lot like Jodi but she was convincingly crazy as well.

What Did Not Work?

Honestly, this film left me feeling incredibly icky.  Does Jodi Arias really deserve to have a film made about her?

Perhaps I would have felt differently if the film had provided any sort of psychological insight into either Jodi or Travis (who remains a cipher for the majority of the film).  However, the film is content to just reenact all of the sordid details that we’ve already heard about.  The end result is a film that’s occasionally watchable but ultimately disappointing.

“Oh my God!  Just like me!” Moments

I refuse to acknowledge seeing any “Just like me!” moments while watching a movie about Jodi Arias.  Judging from the response on twitter to this movie, I was not alone in this.  For the most part, people seemed to be watching specifically so they could point out how little they had in common with Jodi Arias.  Perhaps that’s the true appeal of films like this, the chance to say, “I may be fucked up but at least I’m not Jodi Arias!”

Okay, I will admit that, much like the film version of Jodi Arias, I believe that dancing can be a great tool of seduction and emotional expression.

However, judging from the moves displayed in this movie, I’m a much better dancer.

Lessons Learned

I’ll watch just about anything that’s on Lifetime.

Scenes That I Love: “Tomorrow Is A Drag” from High School Confidential


high_school_confidential_poster_03Tonight, TCM has been showing a marathon a Mamie Van Doren films.  I just sat through The Beat Generation, a 1959 film where Mamie is among the many women to fall victim to a crazed beatnik known as the Aspirin Kid.

Now, to be honest, The Beat Generation is not a very good film.  In fact, it’s probably one of the most anti-female movies that I’ve ever seen.  Watching it, I found myself very happy that I was not alive during the 50s.

However, it did remind me of the far superior High School Confidential, another film that featured a bunch of faux Beatniks and Mamie Van Doren in a supporting role.  Released in 1958 and directed by Jack Arnold, High School Confidential is a lot of fun.

And that brings us to tonight’s scene that I love.  In the scene below, “beatnik” poetess Philippa Fallon recites a poem while secret drug dealer Jackie Coogan plays the piano.  I love this scene because it’s just so typical of the way that exploitation films from the 50s tended to portray the beat generation.

I have to admit that whenever I see one of these old films that attempted to cluelessly portray (and mock) the beatniks of the 50s, I’m reminded of the similarly clueless way that bloggers are portrayed in most current films and Aaron Sorkin-penned television series.

Before You See Anything Else — “Before Midnight”


before-midnight-poster

 

So, this is it. You can keep your Man Of Steels, your Iron Man 3s, your Star Trek : Into Darknesses, and your Pacific Rims — fun popcorn fare some of those may be, but for me summer 2013 at the movies is all about the third installment in Richard Linklater, Ethan Hawke, and Julie Delpy’s long-running cinematic romance, Before Midnight. I won’t rehash the details of how and why this unlikeliest of indie “franchises” has meant so much to this armchair critic on a personal level over the years — hell, over the decades now! — as my reviews of Before Sunrise and Before Sunset last week covered that ground pretty damn thoroughly already, suffice to say that the chance to see Jesse and Celine living happily ever after is, at the risk of sounding hopelessly corny, a little bit of a celluloid dream come true for yours truly. And so here it is — and here they are, doing just that.

Or are they? Okay, sure, they’re together — and have been, apparently, since the conclusion of Before Sunset nine years ago. They’ve got twin daughters, successful careers (Jesse as a novelist and English professor, Celine as an environmental activist) in Paris, and are just winding up spending a magical summer at a writer’s retreat in the Greek Islands. Sounds ideal, right?

But all is not, of course, well in paradise — Jesse’s torn about the son he left behind in the US and wants to be a more active part of his life, Celine feels stifled by the apparently-tranquil domesticity of her situation and has no desire to move back to America for Jesse to be near his kid, and both are struggling with the the ever-narrowing possibilities life offers up as we age and our thousands of dreams get whittled down to a more concrete set of responsibilities. The passing years have seen “must do”s replace “want to”s in their lives, and one of the running themes of all of these Before pictures is that of  somehow finding a way for love and passion and the sheer wonder of being with another person who understands and accepts us for who we are to survive amidst all that.

They seem to be doing their best. Their sex life is still refreshingly healthy for a cinematic couple on the cusp of middle age, they still walk and talk like the two young lovebirds who met on the train to Vienna, and they still show a genuine affection for one another that can give all of us some small measure of hope. But half the film is consumed by a fairly heated and wide-ranging argument in a hotel room that lays bare the many fault lines underpinning in their relationship. The only question, it seems, is whether they’ll continue to navigate those together or choose to go their separate ways.

Linklater, Delpy, and Hawke, who collaborated on the screenplay together once again (though it’s still nice to see them share character-creation credits with Linklater’s friend, the late Kim Krizan), strike a very delicate balance here between presenting the “heaviest” material we’ve yet to see in this series with the most lighthearted, comedic  sequences to date, as well, and the end result is a film that’s not just a joy to watch, but to absorb, from its first frame to its last.

My long-standing group of friends I’ve seen all these films with waited until we could all see it together, and over the customary after-movie drinks last night we all agreed on two things — we loved it to pieces, even though it was, in many instances, the most difficult of  the bunch to take in; and we couldn’t wait to see it again. It’s just a bit too early to figure out where we’d rank this is the entire — uhhmmmm — “pantheon,” I guess, after only one viewing, ya see.

Now, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to unceremoniously transition into a personal plea here — rumors are swirling that this might be the final Before of the bunch, and if that’s the case, I think it’s well past time for Oscar to show it a little respect. Yes, this series enjoys a deeply passionate and committed following, but it sure would be nice if Hollywood’s establishment paid some attention to this evolving little piece of wonderment that’s been happening under their noses for nearly two decades. Hawke and Delpy have both affected subtle body-language shifts over the years to delineate their characters’ evolving personalities (he walks with more swagger than ever, for instance, while she exudes an air of peace-that’s-looking-for-any-excuse-to-erupt resignation) that perfectly complement their maturation on paper and each is deserving of a Best Actor/Actress in a Leading Role nomination, and if the three collaborators aren’t recognized with a nod for Best Original Screenplay, there seriously ought to be an investigation. Hell, unless something else comes along that completely knocks our collective socks off, there ought to be an investigation if they don’t win it. Let’s get the email, blog, forum, etc. pressure campaign started right here — who’s with me on this?

Before Midnight is the most authentically human picture to come down the pipeline in ages, and traverses a rocky yet rewarding emotional terrain with grace, warmth, and yes, even charm. It shows how love endures when initial , lustful ehuberance ages into a kind of occasionally- resplendent ardor, and how it finds its level and holds us aloft even when we get everything we’ve ever wanted only to find out it’s still not exactly what we were yearning for (humans, we’re so picky). It’s the “happily ever after” we’ve always wanted for Jesse and Celine — and for ourselves — warts and all. And I’m so completely in love with the cinema, and even with life,  again it damn near hurts. If this is, indeed, the end — and I sincerely hope it’s not, I want to grow old with these characters — it couldn’t be more perfectly imperfect, more gloriously flawed, more tragically comedic, more uneasily blissful.

 

Trash Film Guru Vs. The Summer Blockbusters : “Man Of Steel”


New Man of Steel Poster

I know that, in this day and age, we as a society seem to get off on tearing down our myths and legends and “humanizing” them, but seriously — when did Superman develop a split personality?

Before you jump to any conclusions based on that admitted “gotcha” of an opening line, allow me to state for the record that I didn’t actively dislike Zack Snyder’s Man Of Steel, it’s just that it spends its first half or so rather half-heartedly trying to portray its title character in more human terms than we’ve seen in previous iterations before finally throwing all that out the window and deciding that it actually wants to tell a story about a God who walks (and flies) among us, and the film definitely suffers as a result of this abrupt shift in tone.

But first the “plus” side of the ledger : Man Of Steel is pretty much the most awesome visual spectacle the movies have ever produced. I’m no fan of CGI as a general rule, but damn if every single effects shot in this flick isn’t enough to take your breath away, particularly the sequences on Superman’s home planet of Krypton, which Snyder and his WETA-employed staff depict in a markedly new and exciting “biotech on steroids” fashion. When the action goes earthbound, the optical awesomeness continues, never fear, so if spectacle is what you’re after, you’ll walk away from this well pleased indeed.

Pitch-perfect (with one notable exception which we’ll get to in a moment) casting doesn’t hurt matters any, either — Henry Cavill makes an immediate impression in both his Superman and Clark Kent personas; Russell Crowe is suitably above it all as his Kryptonian father, Jor-El; Kevin Costner and Diane Lane are almost too spot-on for words as his adopted human parents; Laurence Fishburne’s Perry White is old-school newspaper vet all the way (even with the pierced ear); and the always-underrated Michael Shannon oozes psychotic menace as lead villain General Zod. Watching all these people at work is a genuine joy.

Granted, the script — by Dark Knight veteran David S. Goyer (from a story co-plotted with the head honcho of this whole enterprise, Christopher Nolan) — doesn’t do any of them any favors dialogue-wise (apparently Kryptonians have evolved beyond good, old-fashioned conversation and speak entirely in grandiose pronouncements — but it’s not like the mere humans in this film are any less prone to dull, dry, wooden,  faux-poetic waxings themselves), but the players by and large manage to rise above the material they’ve been handed.

I say “by and large” (and here comes that exception I talked about a moment ago) because, sadly, one has been dealt such a losing hand that I’m not sure what she could really have done about it — I’m speaking, of course, about Amy Adams’ Lois Lane. Goyer does some brave and interesting things in terms of shaking up the established Clark-Lois backstory ( let’s just say she won’t be sneaking glimpses of him at sly angles when his glasses are off to see how much he might or might not look like Superman), but the cold, emotionally distant nature of this particular big-budget beast means that the whole love story angle falls pretty flat. By the time Goyer, Nolan, and Snyder decide they want to play the Nietzchean uberman card for all it’s worth, the independent, confident journalist we meet at the outset is reduced to becoming more awestruck than she is lovestruck, and rather than being “Superman’s girlfriend” she comes off more as his disciple. Who just so happens to kiss him. I mentioned the abrupt tonal shift in the film at the outset of this review, and poor Lois definitely suffers the brunt of it.

The messianic poses Cavill is forced into during all the flight and battle sequences get pretty old pretty fast as well, it’s gotta be said, and with no real transition period in the way the story is structured between its “simple farm boy from Kansas”  and its “demi-god here to save us all from the evil forces originating from his own homeworld” (that he inadvertently brought here himself, but hey, let’s not dwell on that) segments, well — let’s just say not much thought apparently went into how jarringly that would all play out. Hans Zimmer’s typically percussive, insistent musical score only augments the problem, and while there’s no way anybody was gonna have fans forgetting about John Williams, a “stripped-down,” “less over the top” orchestral accompaniment really doesn’t work when you’re trying to portray Superman as a fucking deity.

Superman purists, for their part,  may also find themselves semi-outraged by more than the snakeskin-fetish-wear take on his costume. There’s no Jimmy Olsen here, no Lex Luthor (although the “Lexcorp” logo appears here and there on props throughout — as do the logos for Sears, 7-11, and an unending and highly annoying litany of corporate sponsors), and “Metropolis” is never mentioned by name even though the entire final act takes place there. So be ready for at least some “nerd-rage” on the internet. Still, if those were the only things that bugged me about Man Of Steel, I’d be feeling a little bit better about it as a whole right about now. Not that I’m all that pissed or disappointed —-just, well, kinda perplexed.

I can’t say that Man Of Steel isn’t a fun movie to watch, because it is — hell, it’s an absolute visual marvel, and if you want to shut your brain off and just be taken along for a wild adventure ride, you’re not gonna do much better this (or any other) summer  Still —my mind kept drifting back to the famous first-encounter-between-Supes-and-Lois scene in Richard Donner’s Superman : The Movie (still the gold standard for all superhero flicks as far as I’m concerned) : when Lois asks him “who are you?,” and he replies, simply and with a smile, “a friend,” that told us all we needed to know right there. Sure, he was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but at the end of the day , Superman as envisioned by Richard Donner, Mario Puzo, and Christopher Reeve was one of us.

By contrast, Superman a la Snyder, Nolan, Goyer and Cavill is above us. He’s not here to help humanity, but to redeem it. He’s not our hero anymore, he’s our savior — whether we want one or not.

Trash Film Guru Vs. The Summer Blockbusters : “After Earth”


After-Earth-poster

 

Given that the always-on-the-ball Lisa Marie Bowman already beat me to the punch with this one on these virtual “pages,” I won’t waste too much of your time, dear reader, on my post-mortem analysis of the decidedly dull, wannabe-mystical-and-“empowering” mess that is Will Smith’s latest vanity project, After Earth, and instead merely remark upon some — -well, remarkable facts.

The first being that precisely two scribes here at TTSL actually saw this thing, and my best guess is that we both saw it in empty theaters because, according to box office receipts from the past weekend, nobody else went. So Sony/Columbia owes us a debt of thanks. And maybe some free passes to some future release of theirs.

Secondly, I’d like to state for the record that this film actually isn’t the abysmal and abject failure so many have quickly taken to labeling it as being so much as it’s just thoroughly predictable and almost relentlessly dull. 1,000 years after the evacuation of the planet due to largely unspecified but apparently quite serious environmental devastation,  emotionally distant military bad-ass-with-focus-group-tested -name Cypher Raige (Smith) and his son, Kitai (Smith’s kid Jaden) crash-land on the supposedly uninhabitable rock and must find a way to — yawn — survive while also learning to — yawn again — finally form the deep bonds of trust that all parents and their offspring are, y’know, supposed  to have.

There’s a bog-standard “warrior monk” mentality that runs through this picture that confuses stoicism for honor and nonchalance for dignity, and while Smith seems to be ill at ease with the material, he’s really got no one to blame but himself given that the film’s plot was apparently hatched in his own mind and the whole thing’s a family affair, with the former “Fresh Prince” not only starring in it, supposedly having a hand in scripting it, and casting his son to appear alongside him, but with his wife,  Jada Pinkett Smith, grabbing a producer’s credit, as well. And while it might be tempting to lay a pretty fair share of the blame for this overwrought snoozer on M. Night Shyamalan’s doorstep, as well — especially given his thoroughly uninspiring track record over the past decade or so —  the fact is that he’s pretty much acting as a director/co-writer-for-hire here, his fifteen minutes as Hollywood’s “next big thing” having apparently — finally! — run their course.

And weird as it sounds considering my disdain for pretty much anything he’s ever had his name attached to in the past, Shyamalan actually acquits himself reasonably well here. His direction doesn’t especially stand out in any respect, mind you, but you know what they say about how tough it is to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. All in all, I got the distinct impression that he was at least trying to inject some life into some pretty goddamn listless proceedings.

His efforts certainly aren’t enough, though. LMB’s right that the film’s environmental message feels both heavy-handed and tacked on — shit, at least Birdemic was so hilariously inept at doing more or less the same thing that you couldn’t help but love it —but its New Agey emotional subtext is even more clumsy and ham-handed than its ecological one,  and to me that’s where the film’s most egregious sermonizing is to be found.

Parents should love their kids and be nice to them? Wow, ya don’t say.

Anyway, there’s probably not much point belaboring the obvious any further here — I’ve never been a big fan of piling on, and as I said, I don’t find  this flick so much actively bad as it is just dull, preachy, and without purpose apart from demonstrating to the world what an awesome, caring, understanding bunch the Smith/Pinkett clan is (after all, they’d never treat their kids like this in real life, right?). So there ya go —  and there it goes, since all indications are that After Earth will probably “enjoy” a well-deserved short-lived run on our nation’s movie screens before slowly dying on the home video and cable TV vine. Hang onto your cash and catch it on TNT or TBS some Saturday afternoon a year from now.

Film Review: After Earth (dir by M. Night Shyamalan)


After Earth is the latest of many forgettable films to have been released in 2013.

The film’s plot — which will be familiar to anyone who has seen Oblivion or any other science fiction film — deals with a father (Will Smith) and his son (Jaden Smith). The father is a great military leader but is emotionally distant.  (Will Smith, who is probably one of the most openly emotional actors working today, deals with being miscast by refusing to smile.)  The son is desperate to prove himself to his father.  When the two of them return to Earth (which was deserted a thousand years ago because of — you guessed it — pollution), their ship crashes.  The father is critically injured and, of course, the son has to save both of their lives, deal with his past guilt, and become a man.

Or something like that.

Did you know that M. Night Shyamalan directed After Earth?  If you didn’t, don’t feel bad.  In the advertising campaign leading up to this film’s release, Columbia Pictures has treated Shyamalan’s involvement like a dirty secret.  It’s understandable, really.  After all, Shyamalan’s last two films were The Happening and The Last Airbender and you can only refer to him as being “the director of The Sixth Sense” for so long.  That said, Shyamalan’s work here isn’t that bad.  It’s not that memorable either.  Instead, it’s the epitome of adequate and bland.  Some scenes (like the crash landing on Earth) actually come close to being exciting but there’s little sense of wonder or surprise to the film’s version of the future and, while the majority of the film is about Jaden Smith trying to survive and conquer the cruelty of nature, the environment of After Earth never truly feels alive.  Perhaps an Ang Lee or a Werner Herzog could have brought After Earth to life but all Shyamalan can do is keep the action plodding forward.

However, it’s unfair to put blame for After Earth on M. Night Shyamalan.  If anybody can truly be considered the auteur of After Earth, it is Will Smith.  Smith produced the film, came up with the film’s storyline, and gave the film’s lead role to his son.  Thematically, After Earth fits into Smith’s feel-good, good-for-you brand of cinema.  The problem, however, is that for an action film like this to work, you need a charismatic hero and, to judge from this film, Jaden Smith has inherited little of his father’s onscreen prowess.  Fairly or not, it’s impossible to watch Jaden in this film without being aware that he (as opposed to an actor who doesn’t have a famous father) got the role solely because he was the producer’s son.  As such, it’s far more difficult to forgive Jaden’s awkward screen presence than it might be otherwise.

After Earth is only 100 minutes long.  It’s considerably shorter than both Iron Man 3 and the latest Star Trek film.  However, when the film’s lack of surprise is combined with Jaden Smith’s bland lead performance, the end result is a film that feels a lot longer than it actually is.

When all I said and done, the only real question about After Earth is whether or not it’s worse than Oblivion.  It’s hard to say because After Earth and Oblivion are both oddly forgettable sci-fi films with similar premises.  In fact, while watching After Earth, I kept expecting Tom Cruise to pop up and say, “I thought I was the only man left on Earth!”

I guess the question really comes down to which film is more annoying and again, there are no easy answers.  Considering how bland both Oblivion and After Earth really are, it’s interesting that both of them manage to feature some overdone accent work.  It’s hard to know how to describe Will Smith’s vaguely Aruban (?) accent in After Earth but honestly, nothing could be more annoying than Melissa Leo’s butchering of the Southern accent in Oblivion.  So, as far as bad accents are concerned, Oblivion has to be considered the winner.

(Add to that, as weird as Smith’s accent was, it could at least be justified by the fact that After Earth was meant to be taking place in the far future.  There was absolutely no justifiable reason for Melissa Leo in Oblivion to sound like Cate Blanchett in Hanna.)

However, After Earth has a tacked-on environmental message, the type that makes Shyamalan’s The Happening seem subtle and intelligent by comparison. Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not objecting to After Earth (or any other film) having a subtext.  What I do object to is when a film uses an obvious and heavy-handed subtext to try to hide the fact that the movie itself isn’t that good.  In the case of After Earth, the environmental message feels lazy and predictable.  It almost feels as if, by paying lip service to a noble cause, Shyamalan is attempting to blackmail us into liking this film.

So, what’s worse?  A bad accent or an insincere message?

Ultimately, that’s a decision that everyone must make on their own.

Or you could just ignore both After Earth and Oblivion altogether and instead make the effort to see and support truly unique films like Upstream Color.

The choice is yours.