In an effort to post with this blog with increasing frequency, and because of a new-found awareness of the obscurity of my music taste while running with an iPod in the cold weather, I've decided to delight you, dear Shallow End reader (all three of you), with some of my thoughts on the random-ness that comes across my shuffle screen. This will be a semi-regular feature (read: whenever I'm not pulling my hair out about a quantitative reading assignment) so stay tuned!
This edition of the inexplicably close look centers on that kooky mid-90s favorite alt rock band, The Presidents of the United States of America. You'll remember them as those guys who wrote that song that Weird Al covered into a Forrest Gump spoof. Well, soon after the trio went on an indefinite hiatus for reasons unknown to this blogger. Perhaps the gents didn't want to be lumped in with the scandals of the second half of the Clinton presidency. Or people started buying their peaches at organic wholesalers.
In any event, the Presidents returned in 2004 with "Some Postman," returning to that odd world in which many of the band's songs take place where apparently the mail carriers are malevolent and Smurfs are 30-feet tall. The angst-filled power pop ditty is told through the eyes of an upset lover whose melodramatic missives are being intercepted by a disturbingly voyeuristic postman. Think Newman, but one who exclusively eats chocolates meant for another.
The song, perhaps self-consciously, is riddled with anachronisms. We're supposed to expect that lovers, in the age of sexting and Skype, are still trusting their love notes to employees of the federal government? And that said employee is clocking in at 6 a.m.? And ignoring the obvious breach of political correctness (why can't a female post carrier be pilfering my sonnets)? The band seems to come to terms with this just before the final verse, as a mournful cry of "1993!!!" follows the chorus. If only, Presidents. If only.
Of course, we could be missing the point entirely. Perhaps the postman is, himself, fictional. And the Presidents are singing out the uncertainty of love. Maybe that lover crying waiting for the package wants to believe there's some mean, hound-dog evading man in a safari hat hoarding her box of chocolate roses from Danny, who's totally committed to her but also wishes to finish his dissertation in a town full of young co-eds longing for a slightly older and grizzled art history Ph.D. candidate. Perhaps some postman is simply a Love in the Time of Cholera-esque metaphor about the idyllic nature of love and the inability to every truly know that it is being returned to you.
Or maybe I'm looking too closely.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Sunday, October 23, 2011
A Sticky Floors and Salty Popcorn Movie Review-Paranormal Activity 3
I'll admit, I was one of the many swept up in the original Paranormal Activity social media frenzy back in 2009. From The Blair Witch Project to Cloverfield, this hesitant horror film fan has always appreciated the clever narratological approaches taken by the so-called "found footage" genre. After seeing the sequel last year, I once again stepped up to the plate to defend the franchise and the increasingly exploited plot conventions that had permeated the grander horror classification in the interim. Success breeds imitation, and what Paranormal Activity 2 did well, it did better than its copycats.
Which brings us to this year's iteration, which despite generally favorable reviews is drawing comparisons to the Saw franchise in film and (among the geeky) the Call of Duty franchise for simply putting a new coat of paint on that same old Buick we've taken around the block a few times. This is a fair criticism-much of what happens in the third film of the incredibly successful franchise we've seen before. This demon, we learn, hasn't really invented any new tricks.
Directors Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman of Catfish fame seem loath to mess with Oren Peli's polished premise in any way. Once again, we are introduced to an almost fetishistic (and, in one scene, this classification becomes more literal than families attending the film may appreciate-but then again, if you're making a family trip to the cineplex to see Paranormal Activity 3, you probably have a few skeletons in the closet of your own) videophile male whose desire to document the strange occurrences in his home draws the ire of his live-in lover. The fresh coat of paint here is a nice pastel white--we're in the year 1988, in all its lovely Magnavox glory. The couple in question is Dennis (Christopher Nicholas Smith) and Julie (Lauren Bittner), mother of the sisters who have become the central possessed entities of the series thus far.
Paranormal Activity 3 serves as a serviceable prequel. There is less exposition at the beginning and throughout the film than perhaps this generation of agitated cinema-goers will allow (this reviewer included), and the ending of the film is clearly geared toward the extenuation of the series for a fourth installment around this time in 2012 (predictions of world catastrophe notwithstanding). As we head toward this inevitably inconclusive conclusion, the filmmakers tread an already well-worn narrative path-tension builds, creepier stuff starts happening, and what started out as innocent conversations between a young girl and her imaginary friend turns horrifically violent.
Which is, of course, the most inexcusable of Paranormal Activity 3's transgressions. The series has not yet reached a point where it has become a parody of itself (though a self-referential "jump" joke from a babysitter--I know, another innocent babysitter is pulled into the fray, surprise!--comes agonizingly close to doing so), but the move is flirting with taking the satirical plunge. It may have been the noisy theater I was in for the screening, or the need for audience members to ease the tension with nervous laughter, but from my experience it seems as though audiences are becoming increasingly cognizant of this threat. There was much more laughter and restlessness during Paranormal Activity 3 than I witnessed in the other entries in the series.
The one shining addition to the series is a cinematic choice by the directors that plays off the technical limitations of the 1980s. Lacking the ability to film the entire downstairs because of the limitations of the widths of lenses, Dennis decides to mount a camera on top of an oscillating fan in the downstairs living room/kitchen area that causes the camera to move agonizingly slow from one end of the room to the other. The directors use this for three specific scares that increase in intensity, but one can't help but feel that the trick was under-utilized just a little bit. The clever tactic becomes subsumed by tricks we've already seen before-flying furniture, human beings, and unexplainable auditory cues.
This happens in the conclusion of the film as well. The final 15 minutes, which are advertised to "mess you up for life," recycle the first-person camera techniques of The Blair Witch Project and, in a much more recent example and to a greater effect, Paranormal Activity 2. Yes, some messed up stuff happens. And you probably won't want to think about it as you fall into listless sleep after watching the film (damn noisy water pipes). But to say that the film does anything extraordinary in the last 15 minutes is a misnomer at best and dubious advertising at worst.
The mark of a desperate horror franchise might be to ratchet up the intensity in succeeding installments in the last few moments to make up for the diminished quality of the film that proceeds it. In Paranormal Activity 3's sense, the opposite may be true. The family unit of Julie, Dennis and the girls may be the most believable and sympathetic of the series yet, and certainly the introduction of the imagination of children allows the film to explore some themes that were absent from the other films. But the denoument (or lack therof) in Paranormal Activity 3 left me unsatisfied...even as I was prying my fingers from those poor armrests in the cinema.
Paranormal Activity 3 does what it needs to do. It moves the series along and provides just enough fright to keep the audience's faith in the filmmakers going. The characters, while fitting into roles already established in the franchise, allow for some inspired performances from another cast of talented non-superstars. The scares, while also derivative, at times (and especially in the final few moments) break out of the expected mold and produce some organic and original horrifying moments. But one gets the feeling that the found footage genre, and the wonderful installment in this series that revitalized it two years ago, is walking a thin line of irrelevancy.
Verdict: 3/5 stars
Which brings us to this year's iteration, which despite generally favorable reviews is drawing comparisons to the Saw franchise in film and (among the geeky) the Call of Duty franchise for simply putting a new coat of paint on that same old Buick we've taken around the block a few times. This is a fair criticism-much of what happens in the third film of the incredibly successful franchise we've seen before. This demon, we learn, hasn't really invented any new tricks.
Directors Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman of Catfish fame seem loath to mess with Oren Peli's polished premise in any way. Once again, we are introduced to an almost fetishistic (and, in one scene, this classification becomes more literal than families attending the film may appreciate-but then again, if you're making a family trip to the cineplex to see Paranormal Activity 3, you probably have a few skeletons in the closet of your own) videophile male whose desire to document the strange occurrences in his home draws the ire of his live-in lover. The fresh coat of paint here is a nice pastel white--we're in the year 1988, in all its lovely Magnavox glory. The couple in question is Dennis (Christopher Nicholas Smith) and Julie (Lauren Bittner), mother of the sisters who have become the central possessed entities of the series thus far.
Paranormal Activity 3 serves as a serviceable prequel. There is less exposition at the beginning and throughout the film than perhaps this generation of agitated cinema-goers will allow (this reviewer included), and the ending of the film is clearly geared toward the extenuation of the series for a fourth installment around this time in 2012 (predictions of world catastrophe notwithstanding). As we head toward this inevitably inconclusive conclusion, the filmmakers tread an already well-worn narrative path-tension builds, creepier stuff starts happening, and what started out as innocent conversations between a young girl and her imaginary friend turns horrifically violent.
Which is, of course, the most inexcusable of Paranormal Activity 3's transgressions. The series has not yet reached a point where it has become a parody of itself (though a self-referential "jump" joke from a babysitter--I know, another innocent babysitter is pulled into the fray, surprise!--comes agonizingly close to doing so), but the move is flirting with taking the satirical plunge. It may have been the noisy theater I was in for the screening, or the need for audience members to ease the tension with nervous laughter, but from my experience it seems as though audiences are becoming increasingly cognizant of this threat. There was much more laughter and restlessness during Paranormal Activity 3 than I witnessed in the other entries in the series.
The one shining addition to the series is a cinematic choice by the directors that plays off the technical limitations of the 1980s. Lacking the ability to film the entire downstairs because of the limitations of the widths of lenses, Dennis decides to mount a camera on top of an oscillating fan in the downstairs living room/kitchen area that causes the camera to move agonizingly slow from one end of the room to the other. The directors use this for three specific scares that increase in intensity, but one can't help but feel that the trick was under-utilized just a little bit. The clever tactic becomes subsumed by tricks we've already seen before-flying furniture, human beings, and unexplainable auditory cues.
This happens in the conclusion of the film as well. The final 15 minutes, which are advertised to "mess you up for life," recycle the first-person camera techniques of The Blair Witch Project and, in a much more recent example and to a greater effect, Paranormal Activity 2. Yes, some messed up stuff happens. And you probably won't want to think about it as you fall into listless sleep after watching the film (damn noisy water pipes). But to say that the film does anything extraordinary in the last 15 minutes is a misnomer at best and dubious advertising at worst.
The mark of a desperate horror franchise might be to ratchet up the intensity in succeeding installments in the last few moments to make up for the diminished quality of the film that proceeds it. In Paranormal Activity 3's sense, the opposite may be true. The family unit of Julie, Dennis and the girls may be the most believable and sympathetic of the series yet, and certainly the introduction of the imagination of children allows the film to explore some themes that were absent from the other films. But the denoument (or lack therof) in Paranormal Activity 3 left me unsatisfied...even as I was prying my fingers from those poor armrests in the cinema.
Paranormal Activity 3 does what it needs to do. It moves the series along and provides just enough fright to keep the audience's faith in the filmmakers going. The characters, while fitting into roles already established in the franchise, allow for some inspired performances from another cast of talented non-superstars. The scares, while also derivative, at times (and especially in the final few moments) break out of the expected mold and produce some organic and original horrifying moments. But one gets the feeling that the found footage genre, and the wonderful installment in this series that revitalized it two years ago, is walking a thin line of irrelevancy.
Verdict: 3/5 stars
Sunday, October 2, 2011
A Sticky Floors and Salty Popcorn Review-Moneyball
*I would like to apologize for the lack of updates in the Shallow End recently. My grad studies have migrated my blogging vigor to misplacedjayhawkreporter. Expect a few more frequent updates when my editing/reporting duties die down next semester.*
So says Billy Beane (Brad Pitt) at a pivotal moment of the denouement in Bennett Miller's "Moneyball." Writ large, we might say the director and film have a hard time not being Romantic about American individualism.
Like Michael Lewis' book that inspired the film, baseball is merely a narrative overhang in Moneyball, a kind of distraction for the sports crowd while more subversive plot threads are un-spooled within. At the center of this narrative web is Beane himself, who is presented as a fractured former player whose impulse to be smarter than the game is endeared emotionally to the audience in a series of biographical flashbacks. This produces the effect of a biopic without an emphasis on the bio, and provides the framework for a climactic merging of timelines that underscores the metaphoric significance of the film as a whole.
Pitt embodies Beane with such perfection that even the tired clubhouse tirades become matters of high drama. Pitt's Beane broods, but Bennett deftly unfolds a narrative that makes this brooding palatable. Voices early in the season about the failure of the A's inundate both the audience and Beane on-screen, exacerbating the "us against hte world" mentality that is established in the opening moments of the film. Actual footage of the 2001 American League Divisional Series dances across the screen, devoid of any type of sociopolitical slant aside from the flashing of the respective payrolls of the two teams before the game's final out. The Yankees, who would eventually lose the World Series to the Arizona Diamondbacks, triumph over the A's in a scene that has the potential to be tasteless in its disregard for post-9/11 sensitivities until it flashes the smiling mug of Rudolph Giuliani. Beane still smashes a transistor radio into tiny bits, and the frame of Moneyball is born.
The other half of the "us against the world" mentality is filled in (literally, the character Peter Brand is merely an amalgamation of several associates Billy Beane worked with at the A's in the early 2000s) by Jonah Hill. Hill plays the part with his usual pathetic charm and naivety, which is entirely called for in his depiction of 25-year-old statistics expert Brand. As the film progresses, a clear rapport develops between Hill and Pitt that keeps the heartfelt moments between them from becoming melodramatic. In particular, a scene near the end of the reel has Beane and Brand reviewing film of a game with Brand's intent to show Billy just how important what he's done to the game of baseball is. Aaron Sorkin is incredibly evident in this scene, as Brand's admission that the game film they have just watched is a "a metaphor" astutely deflects the schmaltzy weight of the scene. Sorkin's writing never lets you forget that this is a sports film, just as "The West Wing" was a show about White House politics, "A Few Good Men" was a courtroom drama and "The Social Networks was "the Facebook movie."
As teased above, though, Moneyball is about much more than the game of baseball. It's equal parts biopic, conventional sports story and Ben Franklin-esque American autobiography. In no scene is this more apparent than when they all come crashing together at the end of the A's record-breaking winning streak in September of 2002. I had a very real moment of cognitive dissonance watching my beloved Kansas City Royals attempt to figuratively destroy the dream of a process they themselves probably should have been employing at the time (don't forget which green pasture Johnny Damon left first, movie-goers), but the importance of this sequence was in no way diminished by my boyhood biases. As Scott Hatteberg (Chris Pratt) rounds the bases after a walk-off home run to win the A's 20th consecutive game, images from Beane's distant and recent past flicker across the screen in a very Roy Hobbs-eseque moment. The success of a man has translated to the success of a team and, by extension, an idea.
Moneyball succeeds in remaining neutral on the analytic/Romantic debate about baseball, as we leave Beane choosing loyalty over prosperity and to the strains of his daughter's guitar and lyrics identifying Beane as a "loser." In an analytically cold sense, maybe this is true. But the Romantic story of American ingenuity expertly draped over this sports film is much more satisfying.
Verdict: 4.5/5 stars
"It's hard not to be romantic about baseball."
So says Billy Beane (Brad Pitt) at a pivotal moment of the denouement in Bennett Miller's "Moneyball." Writ large, we might say the director and film have a hard time not being Romantic about American individualism.
Like Michael Lewis' book that inspired the film, baseball is merely a narrative overhang in Moneyball, a kind of distraction for the sports crowd while more subversive plot threads are un-spooled within. At the center of this narrative web is Beane himself, who is presented as a fractured former player whose impulse to be smarter than the game is endeared emotionally to the audience in a series of biographical flashbacks. This produces the effect of a biopic without an emphasis on the bio, and provides the framework for a climactic merging of timelines that underscores the metaphoric significance of the film as a whole.
Pitt embodies Beane with such perfection that even the tired clubhouse tirades become matters of high drama. Pitt's Beane broods, but Bennett deftly unfolds a narrative that makes this brooding palatable. Voices early in the season about the failure of the A's inundate both the audience and Beane on-screen, exacerbating the "us against hte world" mentality that is established in the opening moments of the film. Actual footage of the 2001 American League Divisional Series dances across the screen, devoid of any type of sociopolitical slant aside from the flashing of the respective payrolls of the two teams before the game's final out. The Yankees, who would eventually lose the World Series to the Arizona Diamondbacks, triumph over the A's in a scene that has the potential to be tasteless in its disregard for post-9/11 sensitivities until it flashes the smiling mug of Rudolph Giuliani. Beane still smashes a transistor radio into tiny bits, and the frame of Moneyball is born.
The other half of the "us against the world" mentality is filled in (literally, the character Peter Brand is merely an amalgamation of several associates Billy Beane worked with at the A's in the early 2000s) by Jonah Hill. Hill plays the part with his usual pathetic charm and naivety, which is entirely called for in his depiction of 25-year-old statistics expert Brand. As the film progresses, a clear rapport develops between Hill and Pitt that keeps the heartfelt moments between them from becoming melodramatic. In particular, a scene near the end of the reel has Beane and Brand reviewing film of a game with Brand's intent to show Billy just how important what he's done to the game of baseball is. Aaron Sorkin is incredibly evident in this scene, as Brand's admission that the game film they have just watched is a "a metaphor" astutely deflects the schmaltzy weight of the scene. Sorkin's writing never lets you forget that this is a sports film, just as "The West Wing" was a show about White House politics, "A Few Good Men" was a courtroom drama and "The Social Networks was "the Facebook movie."
As teased above, though, Moneyball is about much more than the game of baseball. It's equal parts biopic, conventional sports story and Ben Franklin-esque American autobiography. In no scene is this more apparent than when they all come crashing together at the end of the A's record-breaking winning streak in September of 2002. I had a very real moment of cognitive dissonance watching my beloved Kansas City Royals attempt to figuratively destroy the dream of a process they themselves probably should have been employing at the time (don't forget which green pasture Johnny Damon left first, movie-goers), but the importance of this sequence was in no way diminished by my boyhood biases. As Scott Hatteberg (Chris Pratt) rounds the bases after a walk-off home run to win the A's 20th consecutive game, images from Beane's distant and recent past flicker across the screen in a very Roy Hobbs-eseque moment. The success of a man has translated to the success of a team and, by extension, an idea.
Moneyball succeeds in remaining neutral on the analytic/Romantic debate about baseball, as we leave Beane choosing loyalty over prosperity and to the strains of his daughter's guitar and lyrics identifying Beane as a "loser." In an analytically cold sense, maybe this is true. But the Romantic story of American ingenuity expertly draped over this sports film is much more satisfying.
Verdict: 4.5/5 stars
Sunday, September 11, 2011
My 9/11 memories
I debated for a long time whether to write a "What were you doing on 9/11?" piece. All Americans were affected in some way or another that day, to be sure. But reading the accounts of those personally impacted in the Time magazines that have arrived at my doorstep over the past couple of weeks kind of killed my desire to add what I felt to the conversation.
I wasn't directly affected by the attacks. I have some relatives who are/were police officers and firefighters, and I'm extremely proud of them, but they are a part of a community I don't feel attached to on a personal level in any way. The fact that those men and women who charged into the towers that morning were officers of the law or sworn protectors of the citizenry wasn't what mattered, it was their courage to do what was right and necessary.
But perhaps "directly affected" is a misnomer. What American didn't have a strong visceral reaction to seeing the images of the towers engulfed in flames for the first time on that morning ten years ago? Who among us can honestly say our lives weren't changed by the attacks? I'll admit I didn't have a ton of perspective when watching the television coverage in Ms. Sailor's eighth grade Gifted Language Arts class that morning. I didn't know what al-Qaida was. I wasn't even sure of the tenants of the Muslim faith. I was going on 14. My most vivid memory of the day was looking up at the sky, constantly. In Mr. Washburn's fifth period social studies class, we were glued to the TV, as we had been in all my classes that day. As he tried to put what was happening in context, I remember staring out the window at William Jewell on the hill about two miles away. The sky was so damn blue that day, it looked like it could envelop that red facade. And part of me wanted it to, to somehow reveal that this had all been a terrible dream, that I was still asleep in that same bed I went to sleep in the night before.
After school activities were canceled. All the neighborhood kids were home together for the first time since we were in elementary school. We got together and played baseball in a backyard-the first time we'd done that in at least three years, and the only time we've played since. I don't know if we were all wrapped up in the same desire for nostalgic certainty, or we didn't want to be alone. Either way, we tried to keep the chatter on things other than what was going on, but that was an exercise in idyllic futility.
In the evening, my whole family piled into my dad's Honda and went to church. It was the only time I can remember being there on a Tuesday night, except for holidays. I don't remember much about the service. It seemed like another one of those experiences where people were trying to grasp for something concrete on a day that made no sense. I remember when we left, either my brother or I asked my dad what was going to happen now, was everything going to be different? Nobody knew.
I crawled back into bed that night in a state of new normal. I always fell asleep and woke up either watching MTV or ESPN back in those days. MTV got in the habit of showing the same videos on a loop (I saw that Nelly/country "It's All in My Head" video at least fifteen times in one week) in between news coverage and shots from the Times Square Studio where they'd shot thousands of episodes of TRL I'd seen over the past two years. Carson Daly, as sad as it sounds, was my way into New York for a couple of weeks, until Jon Stewart came back on The Daily Show. Gradually, the new normal became the comfortable normal. But it took awhile, and I know for some it never will be a comfortable normal. Viewing the site of the towers in the summer of 2007, and seeing the destruction that was still being cleaned up, "comfortable normal" seems like a wrong phrase. But humans need to rationalize, and we need to filter experiences in order to progress in life. I hope that process has brought comfort to some over the past ten years.
To those still suffering, may you find strength. To those of you seeking meaning, know that it likely won't come in this life. To everyone reflecting on your experiences and emotions today, you are not alone.
I wasn't directly affected by the attacks. I have some relatives who are/were police officers and firefighters, and I'm extremely proud of them, but they are a part of a community I don't feel attached to on a personal level in any way. The fact that those men and women who charged into the towers that morning were officers of the law or sworn protectors of the citizenry wasn't what mattered, it was their courage to do what was right and necessary.
But perhaps "directly affected" is a misnomer. What American didn't have a strong visceral reaction to seeing the images of the towers engulfed in flames for the first time on that morning ten years ago? Who among us can honestly say our lives weren't changed by the attacks? I'll admit I didn't have a ton of perspective when watching the television coverage in Ms. Sailor's eighth grade Gifted Language Arts class that morning. I didn't know what al-Qaida was. I wasn't even sure of the tenants of the Muslim faith. I was going on 14. My most vivid memory of the day was looking up at the sky, constantly. In Mr. Washburn's fifth period social studies class, we were glued to the TV, as we had been in all my classes that day. As he tried to put what was happening in context, I remember staring out the window at William Jewell on the hill about two miles away. The sky was so damn blue that day, it looked like it could envelop that red facade. And part of me wanted it to, to somehow reveal that this had all been a terrible dream, that I was still asleep in that same bed I went to sleep in the night before.
After school activities were canceled. All the neighborhood kids were home together for the first time since we were in elementary school. We got together and played baseball in a backyard-the first time we'd done that in at least three years, and the only time we've played since. I don't know if we were all wrapped up in the same desire for nostalgic certainty, or we didn't want to be alone. Either way, we tried to keep the chatter on things other than what was going on, but that was an exercise in idyllic futility.
In the evening, my whole family piled into my dad's Honda and went to church. It was the only time I can remember being there on a Tuesday night, except for holidays. I don't remember much about the service. It seemed like another one of those experiences where people were trying to grasp for something concrete on a day that made no sense. I remember when we left, either my brother or I asked my dad what was going to happen now, was everything going to be different? Nobody knew.
I crawled back into bed that night in a state of new normal. I always fell asleep and woke up either watching MTV or ESPN back in those days. MTV got in the habit of showing the same videos on a loop (I saw that Nelly/country "It's All in My Head" video at least fifteen times in one week) in between news coverage and shots from the Times Square Studio where they'd shot thousands of episodes of TRL I'd seen over the past two years. Carson Daly, as sad as it sounds, was my way into New York for a couple of weeks, until Jon Stewart came back on The Daily Show. Gradually, the new normal became the comfortable normal. But it took awhile, and I know for some it never will be a comfortable normal. Viewing the site of the towers in the summer of 2007, and seeing the destruction that was still being cleaned up, "comfortable normal" seems like a wrong phrase. But humans need to rationalize, and we need to filter experiences in order to progress in life. I hope that process has brought comfort to some over the past ten years.
To those still suffering, may you find strength. To those of you seeking meaning, know that it likely won't come in this life. To everyone reflecting on your experiences and emotions today, you are not alone.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
A Sticky Floors and Salty Popcorn Review-Grave Encounters
It's about that time again. Time to break out the candy corn, toilet paper rolls and adult diapers for another thrilling season of Halloween cinematic fare. To that end comes "Grave Encounters," a film that piggy-backs on a lot of what we've seen before in the genre while also providing a nice amount of meta-commentary on the cynicism for the paranormal that shows like Ghost Adventures (ripped off pretty heavily here) engender in the general public.
This year's vogue "found footage" flick comes to us courtesy of the Vicious Brothers, making their directorial debut in a rather safe formula. "The Blair Witch Project," "Cloverfield" and the "Paranormal Activity" films have all made millions of dollars in profit at the box office, and who can blame some indie film-makers from thinking they can facilitate horrific lightning striking twice again?
The problem with "Grave Encounters" is that it does none of the things those other films do to make us feel a part of the action. The movie does an excellent job of establishing characters we may actually have sympathy for early on, but relegates them to blubbering buffoons quickly in the second act (if you don't laugh at the fate of Houston Gray, purported paranormal psychic extraordinaire, you weren't watching close enough). The only character who feels like he may have some real weight is the film's main protagonist, Lance Preston (Sean Rogerson), whose Zak Baggans vomit-inducing routine actually shifts into real, disturbing horror as the film progresses.
Another mistake "Grave Encounters" makes is to allow gaps in the narrative to pry viewers from their visceral reaction to the events on-screen. Some creepy shit happens, to be sure, and that's important for these kinds of films, but with "Cloverfield" and "Paranormal Activity" there was always a sense that we were building to some kind of understanding-that the rational world would hold some kind of explanation or means of understanding what we were seeing in the end.
In a bold move, "Grave Encounters" throws realism completely out the window in the middle of the film. It's an interesting take on the genre, but what exactly happens is never fully explained. The significance of what we see on screen, then, is marred completely by the impossibility of contextualizing the images that flicker before our eyes. Okay, a dead woman rises out of a bathtub (real original, guys), some hands come out of a wall, and people disappear. Got it. Tell me what it means, please.
"Grave Encounters" shows flashes of self-referential brilliance in the opening moments that are marred by silly execution at times and overly deferential scares. That doesn't mean you shouldn't turn out the lights and give it a shot, though. Because when the film does scare you, it scares you in a big way. And its most disturbing scenes rank right up there with the classics of the genre. Just make sure you've got those Depends ready.
Verdict: 3/5 stars
If you have vertigo, you might want to sit this one out.
This year's vogue "found footage" flick comes to us courtesy of the Vicious Brothers, making their directorial debut in a rather safe formula. "The Blair Witch Project," "Cloverfield" and the "Paranormal Activity" films have all made millions of dollars in profit at the box office, and who can blame some indie film-makers from thinking they can facilitate horrific lightning striking twice again?
The problem with "Grave Encounters" is that it does none of the things those other films do to make us feel a part of the action. The movie does an excellent job of establishing characters we may actually have sympathy for early on, but relegates them to blubbering buffoons quickly in the second act (if you don't laugh at the fate of Houston Gray, purported paranormal psychic extraordinaire, you weren't watching close enough). The only character who feels like he may have some real weight is the film's main protagonist, Lance Preston (Sean Rogerson), whose Zak Baggans vomit-inducing routine actually shifts into real, disturbing horror as the film progresses.
Another mistake "Grave Encounters" makes is to allow gaps in the narrative to pry viewers from their visceral reaction to the events on-screen. Some creepy shit happens, to be sure, and that's important for these kinds of films, but with "Cloverfield" and "Paranormal Activity" there was always a sense that we were building to some kind of understanding-that the rational world would hold some kind of explanation or means of understanding what we were seeing in the end.
In a bold move, "Grave Encounters" throws realism completely out the window in the middle of the film. It's an interesting take on the genre, but what exactly happens is never fully explained. The significance of what we see on screen, then, is marred completely by the impossibility of contextualizing the images that flicker before our eyes. Okay, a dead woman rises out of a bathtub (real original, guys), some hands come out of a wall, and people disappear. Got it. Tell me what it means, please.
"Grave Encounters" shows flashes of self-referential brilliance in the opening moments that are marred by silly execution at times and overly deferential scares. That doesn't mean you shouldn't turn out the lights and give it a shot, though. Because when the film does scare you, it scares you in a big way. And its most disturbing scenes rank right up there with the classics of the genre. Just make sure you've got those Depends ready.
Verdict: 3/5 stars
Sunday, August 21, 2011
A Place You Never Thought You'd Be
I don't like the idea of using a blog solely for the purpose of personal narrative. To me, a web log should be an outlet to explore ideas and practice the skill of persuasive or argumentative writing. You should always have a point, and you should arrive at it rather quickly in a decisive and satisfying manner.
Of course, sometimes we break the rules to prove a point, or to do something we couldn't possibly have done if we allowed ourselves to become prisoners of habit.
So, I feel the need to explain the reason for the lack of posting on this blog over the past couple of weeks. And the only way I can do that is to destroy the persona and speak to you, the reader, as plainly as I can. Part of the reason I haven't posted here has been technological constraints. My internet service was just hooked up yesterday here in Columbia and I'd been mooching bandwidth from the neighborhood Hy-Vee. You can only refill your coffee cup so many times before that kitchen attendant starts to wonder if maybe you're a transient beatnik poet who's decided to fuel his next cross-country masterpiece with Caribou and crab rangoon. I blame my long hair more than anything.
But I could have posted at Hy-Vee or any other free wi-fi spot I happened to stumble into over the past several weeks. The real reason I didn't post was much more complicated than that. This isn't where I thought I'd be four or five years ago. And, to be honest, it extends beyond the whole Kansas fan selling his soul conundrum. If it was just that, I'd have torched my new student I.D. card with the giant Bengal tiger staring me down and strutted down Broadway with my KU National Champions '08 shirt a long time ago.
No, this is more of an existential concern of mine. I know I want to be a journalist. I'm excited that I have a skill set that I believe will prove useful in informing the public and serving a basic civic function within a democratic society. I know all of that. I knew that when I applied here last fall, and when I made plans to attend here last spring.
Proust said that the individual is never whole or unified, but merely a succession of selves throughout time. The idea implies progress--or, at the very least, some sort of constant evolution in our personality and consciousness. Sometimes, when I find myself in a place I never thought I'd be, doing something completely different than what I've done before, I can't help but wonder if that succession of selves must always build toward something, or if we float around on the whims of a moment and where we end up, be it pre-ordained by a benevolent force or not, is unquestioningly what we are meant to do.
Tomorrow, I officially begin my education at the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of Missouri. I'm excited, nervous, but most of all curious.
It's hard to write about video games, TV and what kind of violent circus is being held in the Kansas City Chiefs locker room with all that floating around in your head. But I promise to try. Stay tuned to the Shallow End, it's going to be an interesting fall.
Of course, sometimes we break the rules to prove a point, or to do something we couldn't possibly have done if we allowed ourselves to become prisoners of habit.
So, I feel the need to explain the reason for the lack of posting on this blog over the past couple of weeks. And the only way I can do that is to destroy the persona and speak to you, the reader, as plainly as I can. Part of the reason I haven't posted here has been technological constraints. My internet service was just hooked up yesterday here in Columbia and I'd been mooching bandwidth from the neighborhood Hy-Vee. You can only refill your coffee cup so many times before that kitchen attendant starts to wonder if maybe you're a transient beatnik poet who's decided to fuel his next cross-country masterpiece with Caribou and crab rangoon. I blame my long hair more than anything.
But I could have posted at Hy-Vee or any other free wi-fi spot I happened to stumble into over the past several weeks. The real reason I didn't post was much more complicated than that. This isn't where I thought I'd be four or five years ago. And, to be honest, it extends beyond the whole Kansas fan selling his soul conundrum. If it was just that, I'd have torched my new student I.D. card with the giant Bengal tiger staring me down and strutted down Broadway with my KU National Champions '08 shirt a long time ago.
No, this is more of an existential concern of mine. I know I want to be a journalist. I'm excited that I have a skill set that I believe will prove useful in informing the public and serving a basic civic function within a democratic society. I know all of that. I knew that when I applied here last fall, and when I made plans to attend here last spring.
Proust said that the individual is never whole or unified, but merely a succession of selves throughout time. The idea implies progress--or, at the very least, some sort of constant evolution in our personality and consciousness. Sometimes, when I find myself in a place I never thought I'd be, doing something completely different than what I've done before, I can't help but wonder if that succession of selves must always build toward something, or if we float around on the whims of a moment and where we end up, be it pre-ordained by a benevolent force or not, is unquestioningly what we are meant to do.
Tomorrow, I officially begin my education at the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of Missouri. I'm excited, nervous, but most of all curious.
It's hard to write about video games, TV and what kind of violent circus is being held in the Kansas City Chiefs locker room with all that floating around in your head. But I promise to try. Stay tuned to the Shallow End, it's going to be an interesting fall.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Sticky Floors and Salty Popcorn-"The Fighter" Review
The Fighter does several things a great sports movie needs to do. It introduces us to a down-on-his-luck journeyman with one last legitimate shot at glory. Mark Wahlberg deftly steps into the shoes of Mickey Ward, a welterweight who has been used one too many times as a "stepping stone" (read: fighter pulverized by others en route to their own title shots) by his overbearing family. Ward's mother and manager, Alice (Academy Award-Winning Supporting Actress Melissa Leo) has a little trouble releasing the umbilical cord, and proves completely inept at getting her younger son into a fight that will allow him to rise in the ranks of his weight class (can someone please draw me a diagram that explains who is the champion of the world in boxing in a weight class anymore? It's like trying to figure out what "spending cut triggers" mean). Meanwhile, Mickey has to deal with his older brother Dicky (played with heart-rending pathos by Skeleto-ahem-Christian Bale), a crack-addicted former fighter himself whose unwillingness to let go of the past (he "knocked down" Sugar Ray Leonard in the late 70s) is only surpassed by his inability to be counted on when Micky needs him.
Add to this bubbling cauldron of familial dysfunction the presence of local law enforcement as Mickey's new trainer after Dicky lets him down for the final time and goes to jail, and a love interest (Amy Adams) with her own thoughts on how Micky can reach the top, and you have the perfect recipe for disaster. Which is precisely what happens about an hour into the movie. Then, a metaphoric cake delivered to his old crack buddies by Dicky himself and one porch-top confession of guilt later, and everyone is back behind Micky again as he fights for the unlikeliest of titles against a far superior foreign fighter.
Is all this sounding familiar? That's because it is. The crack addiction angle with Dicky is perhaps the most interesting and emotionally-realistic part of the film, and undoubtedly as the credits roll the audience gets the sense that Dicky's sobriety is a much more significant accomplishment than David O. Russel's titular hero. It's unsurprising, as a result, that Mark Wahlberg didn't get the dap most that he deserved for portraying Mickey. The movie never really seems to be about him exclusively, even when that last triumphant punch is inevitably thrown. This is no fault of Wahlberg's-the character quite simply goes through most of the movie without a spine. When he finally does develop the backbone to stand up to his brother and mother, it is the actions of others that allow a peaceful resolution and all of his loved ones standing in the corner behind him. "The Fighter" is less a testament to the resiliency of an unsung warrior (even though the obligatory training montage in the middle of the film wants to force you to think otherwise), but more about the wily-nily Cinderalla story that emerges as a result of forces beyond Mickey's control.
The Fighter is an excellent sports movie. It is also a stylish and endearing journey down a well-beaten path, with lots of pretty performances to look at. This "based on a true story" feature somehow still winds up playing out like a Disney miracle (with a larger portion of drug use and language than another Mickey would find acceptable), and less a true character exploration of the titular hero. We should expect more from Oscar-nominated motion pictures.
Verdict: 3.0/5 stars
Add to this bubbling cauldron of familial dysfunction the presence of local law enforcement as Mickey's new trainer after Dicky lets him down for the final time and goes to jail, and a love interest (Amy Adams) with her own thoughts on how Micky can reach the top, and you have the perfect recipe for disaster. Which is precisely what happens about an hour into the movie. Then, a metaphoric cake delivered to his old crack buddies by Dicky himself and one porch-top confession of guilt later, and everyone is back behind Micky again as he fights for the unlikeliest of titles against a far superior foreign fighter.
Is all this sounding familiar? That's because it is. The crack addiction angle with Dicky is perhaps the most interesting and emotionally-realistic part of the film, and undoubtedly as the credits roll the audience gets the sense that Dicky's sobriety is a much more significant accomplishment than David O. Russel's titular hero. It's unsurprising, as a result, that Mark Wahlberg didn't get the dap most that he deserved for portraying Mickey. The movie never really seems to be about him exclusively, even when that last triumphant punch is inevitably thrown. This is no fault of Wahlberg's-the character quite simply goes through most of the movie without a spine. When he finally does develop the backbone to stand up to his brother and mother, it is the actions of others that allow a peaceful resolution and all of his loved ones standing in the corner behind him. "The Fighter" is less a testament to the resiliency of an unsung warrior (even though the obligatory training montage in the middle of the film wants to force you to think otherwise), but more about the wily-nily Cinderalla story that emerges as a result of forces beyond Mickey's control.
The Fighter is an excellent sports movie. It is also a stylish and endearing journey down a well-beaten path, with lots of pretty performances to look at. This "based on a true story" feature somehow still winds up playing out like a Disney miracle (with a larger portion of drug use and language than another Mickey would find acceptable), and less a true character exploration of the titular hero. We should expect more from Oscar-nominated motion pictures.
Verdict: 3.0/5 stars
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