Running Time: 96 minutes
Writers: Boris Khaimsky, Anatoli Nikiforov, Svetlana Proskurina, Aleksandr Sokurov
Director: Aleksandr Sokurov

It’s rare to see a film that almost perfectly embodies the dream-like experience of floating without restraint through time and memory, but Aleksandr Sokurov appears to have hit his creative peak with his latest and most groundbreaking film, Russkij kovcheg (Russian Ark).

I confess that this is my first Sokurov film and that I’m largely ignorant of Russian cinema, apart from a few of the standards such as Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin and the rather goofy Sadko (aka the Magic Voyage of Sinbad — pretty terrible, I should warn you, and nothing much to do with the Sinbad movies you may be familiar with).

First, let’s talk about this film. It’s a significant movie on many levels: it is the first feature-length film to be shot in a single, uninterrupted take (which alone is a remarkable achievement). It is also one of the first films of this length shot directly onto hard drive, bypassing film or videotape entirely. It is really difficult to get people to understand what an incredible feat this is, but I’ll give it another try. Close your eyes and imagine that it’s your job to carry a 60-pound rig on your shoulders for two hours as you climb stairs and follow actors from room to room through a huge Russian mansion and art gallery, with over 2000 actors in period costumes wandering in and out of the action you attempt to capture in a continuous, no-retakes-allowed story. The coordination, the timing, the mechanical effects, the lighting and sound — everything has to be perfect, and you’ll not be sure that you got everything or that everything worked until you’re done.

But ignoring the technical accomplishments of the film (which often overshadow the content in reviews), Sokurov has also crafted a mystical and enchanting dream-like film that meanders through time and history with serious and absurd shadings whose introspection and spectacle threaten to overwhelm the viewer. And even beyond that, the film is an elegy (one of Sokurov’s favourite forms, apparently) to the glory of Russion at it’s height, and a meditation on the past and future of the country and it’s culture.

It’s a difficult film to describe when one tries to summarise the “plot,” since there isn’t really a “story” to speak of: an unnamed, disembodied narrator (later possibly revealed to be a Marquis of some kind) finds himself in The Hermitage in St. Petersburg and drifts along through 33 rooms, countless priceless art treasures and witnessing several moments in Russian history. Indeed, a good grasp of Russian history and European art is almost essential to plumbing the depths of the film’s meaning, but anyone with a good overall grasp on world history will probably know enough to spot Catherine the Great, Peter the Great, Czar Nicholas II and other significant figures from across 300 years of history flit in and out of the film as the narrator and his nameless French diplomat guide (played rather Doctor Who-ishly by Sergei Dreiden) and fellow time-traveller explore all that this cornerstone of Russian history and sensibilities has to offer.

The dialogue has layers of meaning, many of which were probably lost on me, but the ongoing debate between the narrator and the guide on how Russia has usurped a lot of its identity from the European countries it plundered was most amusing. As the film unfolds, we sense three main “levels” to the film — the first is something of a wandering tour of the place, the second is an appreciation of the simply unbelievable number of great artworks scattered throughout the property, and the third attempts to inject the elements of life and passion back into the history of the museum — people actually lived here, great events really happened here, and through the fog of time we catch glimpses of this in a way that a straightforward telling (“now in this room, a formal state apology was given to the King of Prussia blah blah blah”).

People who go to movies for simple, linear stories and fables are likely to be confused and totally out of their element with this film — it doesn’t make “sense,” things happen randomly and out of chronological sequence, and none of the characters are the slightest bit helpful in working out what is going on. But to try and impose a structure on the film is like trying to impose structure on a dream, for this film is a dream.

The climax of the film is one of the few I would truly call “breath-taking,” as in I found myself drawing in breath as the camera made its way through a stunningly faithful, large-scale formal ball in the Great Nicholas hall. Three orchestras are playing, thousands of people are dancing, soldiers soon to be killed and rulers soon to be overthrown — but that hasn’t happened yet (it’s 1913 as the film draws to a close), and this is the last gasp of the aristocracy at its full bloom and power.

It is no accident that as the party ends and we leave the Hermitage along with a class and generation of people who thought they and their ideas would live forever, the music dies away and we slowly find ourselves in a silent, empty fog — it’s a commentary on what became of the Revolution, and a powerful one at that. After over an hour of rich, beautiful European art treasures by El Greco and Rubens among hundreds of others, royalty and pageantry and theatre and excess of all sorts, the final images of wind and sea and desolation are jarring indeed.

This trailer may help prepare you for this astonishing cinematic voyage that is certainly unique in the annals of film, but if you can bring your sense of history and imagination to the cinema with you instead of the usual “just want to be entertained” mentality, a rich reward of life and art await you in the film “Russian Ark.” If at all possible, see this one in a theatre: its breadth vision will likely be constrained on a smaller screen.

My rating: Mandatory.

Running time: 179 minutes
Director: Peter Jackson

Gracious, has this film actually been out for more than six months?

I recently completed what I think is my 10th viewing of the film, and was pleased to say that it’s still as exciting and lovely as the first nine (most of which were done in rapid succession). I can’t tell you how nice it is to go to a cinema and watch a mainstream, “hit” movie and not feel like lowlife scum afterwards.

I think it’s reasonably safe to say that The Two Towers ranks as one of the finest epic battle movies of all time. Even with the extensive number of films I’ve seen behind me, I’m hard-pressed to think of battle-oriented films that surpass this. There are a few, mind you, but they are exceedingly rare.

In case the reader is somehow not aware, The Two Towers is the “middle bit” of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” trilogy of books (actually intended as a single work, broken up into three books by merciful publishers). Both as a book and as a movie, it benefits from all the scene-setting and character-introducing work done in the first book/movie (The Fellowship of the Ring). This means that there is little in the way of backstory and we get straight on into the action. Like the previous film, director Jackson wisely starts off with a bang, in this case a brief (incredibly brief) recap of the “climax” of Fellowship, the fall of Gandalf the Grey. Then there is a good-sized break in the action to update us on the progress of the other characters (Sam and Frodo trying to enter Mordor; Merry and Pippin held hostage by Orcs and Uruk Hai; Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas in hot pursuit). This break also allows us time to properly introduce the real “star” of this second film, the stunningly-crafted Gollum.

Gollum succeeds where all computer-animated characters before him have failed; he convinces us totally of his physical presence. This is entirely due to Gollum having a physical presence during the filming. Played (and voiced by) the incredible Andy Serkis, Gollum is (pardon the pun) fleshed out and made whole. The other actors have something real to interact with, and they hear the voice we hear (one of the more remarkable vocal performances in many a year), and this makes all the difference. Praise should not be spared to the animators as well; though they had a remarkable (and undersung) actor’s performance as a strong starting point, they beautifully embellished it, expanding on Serkis’ unseen physicality and facial expressions in an eerie yet beautiful way. Serkis and the animation team should have been awarded a shared Oscar, for Gollum is the most fluid of collaborations between computers and man yet seen on screen.

Another area where Jackson succeeds on a staggering scale is in pacing. After spending the first half-hour playing catch-up (often literally), he deftly skips from set up characters to another, introducing new ones with ease and flawlessly running us up to the climax of the film (not the climax of the book, it should be noted): the battle for Helm’s Deep.

Lest the reader think me too mindlessly effusive, there are of course little nits to pick with this or that in the course of the film: casual viewers (ie people who haven’t actually read the book) will likely be confused by Theoden’s family ties and importance to the film (remember, everything in LOTR has at least two names — often more — and casual references to them are important to purists but confusing to normal people), some important foreshadowing is glossed over/underplayed, invented and contrived scenes are given longer than perhaps is strictly necessary, and the film doesn’t end where the book does (far short of it, in fact). But the point a lot of critics miss is that this is nit-picking: minor details, not major flaws. Obviously Tolkien fanatics will be displeased at some of the cuts/rearranging of the storyline (not to mention the blasphemy of inventing new scenes to expedite convoluted plot points), but then those people would be perfectly happy with three twelve-hour films, and part of the point of this exercise is to bring Tolkien to the masses. Once you accept that, you start to see the justification behind Jackson’s alterations and for the most part agree with them. Jackson and his co-authors have a real gift for “boiling down” long and complicated sections of the book into easy-to-follow (but not “dumbed down”), excitingly visual sequences.

As I was reading “The Two Towers” the most recent time, I often found myself wondering how the various “scenes” in the book would be realised. Almost to a fault, Jackson predictably compressed long sequences (such as the four-day hunt for the Uruk Hai by Aragon and company), lingered on beautiful but important plot points (like Edoras and of course Helm’s Deep), and barely touched on drawn-out or not-strictly-vital scenes and characters (there was a lot more about the Ents, their “conference” and of course Theodred, Eomer and Grima Wormtongue in the book).

The film is epic, sweeping, and utterly majestic throughout. There are very few spots where the spell is broken (Gandalf’s fall with the Balrog is, however, one such spot), and the cynic in us might wonder how so many dirty, filthy, unwashed people can be so damn good-looking. For my part, I thought the occasional bit of obvious comic relief (even in the height of the battle sequence, which takes up the entire third hour of the film) worked well and was not overplayed. In truth, the only thing that disappointed me was that the film did not end where the book does, though I accept that the battle of Helm’s Deep was an obvious finishing point from a filmic point of view.

Still, there is so much of the book (some fifty pages!) left over for the final film that I fear that Return of the King will either have to be at least half an hour longer that the previous two (and they clocked in at three hours apiece in their theatrical versions), or some important material in ROTK will have to be mercilessly expunged. Neither is a happy thought.

(It should be noted that as of this writing, the Fellowship DVD benefits hugely from it’s extra half-hour of re-inserted footage, but it’s clear that there will be no “addendum” to the ending of the second movie as their was the first.)

Still, if you are one of the people who haven’t seen the film either for fear of getting lost in the incredibly large cast and staggeringly minute plot, or because you missed the first film, fear not: even if you “get” little else out of the film, it’s overall qualities — friendship, good v. evil and above all kick-ass battle sequences — will be more than enough to tide you over. Grab it in the cheap cinemas while you can — this is one film that (even with extended footage and tons of extras) really loses a lot shown on the “small screen.” This is the kind of movie they just don’t make anymore — spectacle with a purpose, long for a reason, visuals and characters and stories with depth.

My rating: Mandatory.

Running time: 86 minutes
Directors: John-Paul Davidson and Trudie Styler

This is the first time a documentary crew have been allowed inside the workings of an animated Disney film, and it will probably be the last — and therein lies a lot of the problem. As this film clearly illustrates, Disney desperately needs to open up it’s film process to people with some actual artistic/creative vision. The people who start these films, and the people who work on these films, are all people of that calibre. It’s the Disney executives (in this case, just two very bizarre people) who sit in judgment of the artists that drive the filmmakers (and the audience) up a wall. These guys are two of the most arrogant, snobbish, uncreative pencil-pushers ever seen on film. They quite clearly brown-nosed their way into these jobs and would be objects of utter ridicule (even without their funny speaking voices) at any other studio. That none of the animators has the balls to say “who the hell are you people? What awards have you won? What creative vision have you ever displayed? How dare you sit in god-like judgment of my work?” is a major disappointment, and our hearts break right along with the animators when High & Mighty (as my little group dubbed them) savage their years-long efforts and completely destroy their work in a matter of seconds.

The Sweatbox purports to document the making of what eventually became The Emperor’s New Groove, but is in reality the story of two films: Kingdom of the Sun was the first attempt, and by all accounts it looks like a fascinating film — but it bears little resemblance to what eventually appeared. Disney probably gave permission for this thinking it would make a great addition to the DVD, but I assure you there is nobody at Disney who thinks that now.

While nobody (obviously) says the slightest thing bad about Disney in the course of the film (except for one outsider who’s remarks are actually applauded by the audience!), it’s crystal clear to the viewer where the real problems in that division lie. I noticed that as soon as Roy Disney got involved (rather late in the day), things immediately began to improve. Roy is also the source of some pretty candid comments about the whole mess, which is surprising given his high position in the company.

The Sweatbox will probably come as a huge eye-opener for anybody who actually liked The Emperor’s New Groove and/or Disney animated films in general, and will probably come as a disappointment to animators and other creative types who had entertained thoughts of ever working there. A stronger anti-recruitment film is hard to imagine, given the ruthless and uncaring executives, the cuckolded animators and the enormous amount of long hours and wasted work involved. If it wasn’t for the electrifying presence of Eartha Kitt (who contributed vocals to both versions) and the funny comments from David Spade, this film would be downright morbid.

The one criticism I have of The Sweatbox itself is that it divides it’s time between being an exposé of the inner turmoil behind a Disney animated movie, and a profile of/documentary about/love letter to Sting. Apparently the project started off focusing on Sting’s contribution to the soundtrack of the original film, or perhaps when things got ice-cold over at Disney the filmmakers sought to salvage their project by focusing on someone completely free to speak his mind.

Sting takes up about half the picture, and amusingly enough every single freakin’ time we see him he’s in a completely different locale. From his sprawling estate in England to the squalid streets of India to the hi-rise hotels of New York City to the stages of Paris, the filmmakers manage to grab a few precious moments with Sting. Sharp-eyed audiance members may notice that the film is “co-directed” by Sting’s wife, Trudie Styler, and this may account for more than a little of the Sting-heaviness (and split focus) of the film. If you’re a fan of Sting’s music or interested in the process, you’ll enjoy this. If you’re not …

To his great credit, Sting provides the “voice of the audience” on a number of occasions. He is quite shocked to hear that most of his material will not be used (twice over), unlike the cuckolded animators, and makes his opinions on the state of things known. At one point he writes a scalding letter to High & Mighty (which they pretend isn’t about them) lambasting the waste of time, money and effort both on his part and on the part of the company. It is this letter, ironically, which gets Roy Disney involved and the project appears to get on track (at last!) very shortly thereafter.

The greatest sadness comes from the fact that this is exactly the sort of thing Disney should put on the Emperor’s New Groove DVD, as an honest document of the pain and work involved in bringing such a film out at all. It is the kind of documentary that every Disney executive should watch over and over until they get it: Pixar, for example, does not have these kinds of problems, and I can immediately think of two reasons why that is. Hopefully somebody at Disney will have the personal temerity to actually sit down and watch this film and then make the changes needed to the Animation Dept. to get them back doing films that not only meet the Disney standard of quality but actually move the company forward. Empire of the Sun would have been such a film — rich in the Disney tradition yet larger and wider in scope, more international (and with more international appeal), more sophisticated to match today’s more sophisticated audiences (yes, even the children), a film that might actually make critics stand up and take notice rather than just dismiss it as a good or bad “Disney film,” a classification that has become synonymous with “safe but tired family fare.”

My recommendation: Recommended — particularly for Disney executives and underpaid, under-appreciated employees.

Running time: 85 minutes
Writer/Director: Greg Pak

The true beauty of independent film is that you can create something that is almost completely your vision as you originally imagined it, or at least create something that complements your original vision but is contributed to by the crew and players. Independent films convey a spirit of the creator’s vision far better than most mainstream features.

Greg Pak, the mind behind Robot Stories, has not one but four visions of what he wants to get across. The vignettes, tied together by their use of technology and how it interacts with people, ends up being very thought-provoking and intimate, imparting to the audience Pak’s love for technology while giving them plenty of food for thought about how technology touches their own lives.

The illustration of humanity reflected in technology is most obvious in the first half of the film, starting with “My Robot Baby.” As the name implies, a career-obsessed couple opt for a robot baby (which looks a lot like a pressure cooker/vacuum cleaner) rather than a real one, thinking to get the best of both worlds — the “experience” of parenting while not giving up their self-centered, shallow lifestyles. When the robot doesn’t react as expected, they have to grow up themselves — and fast. This portion could have been a lot better with more money, but it certainly gets its point across and a few others as well. I wonder how many young people watching this vignette wondered to themselves just how ready they were for parenthood, or if they should rethink those plans.

The most touching tale for me personally was “The Robot Fixer.” A mom vents her anguish and grief over her son’s coma by taking over his compulsion/fixation with small “Transformer”-like toys. This section really worked well both as a film and as a story, and Wai Ching-ho really ought to get some consideration for a heart-breaking performance.

Geeks in the audience will whoop with delight at the third tale, “Machine Love,” which stars the filmmaker as an “iPerson,” the ultimate Macintosh working as a humanoid automaton in an office environment. The term “second-class citizen” springs to life here (and may well have been meant as a subtle comment on racism or classism by Pak) but we see the machine as a person even if nobody else does … until the segment’s hilarious “climax.”

The final tale in the quadrology (is that even a word?) is simply titled “Clay.” There are no robots per se in this segment, just the surprisingly effective use of Artificial Intelligence (AI) doppelgangers. John Lee is a sculptor and stubborn old coot who can’t accept that he’s dying and that he must soon be “scanned” into the matrix-like repository in order to be with his loved ones and achieve a kind of immortality. As he struggles to complete his last big commission, he also struggles to come to terms with death when “death” as we know it is merely optional. This one again is a very subtle commentary both on where technology is taking us as well as the struggle many ethnic groups feels as they are torn between traditions of the past and realities/opportunities inherent in “assimilation.”

Pak’s masterful style makes even the most complex of these ideas go down like a spoonful of sugar and his clever and multi-ethic (though heavily favouring Asian) casting is an added treat. Robot Stories is one of the more thought-provoking films you’ll see on the festival circuit these days, and some of the subtleties may not surface until you’ve had some time to let his stories stew in your mind a little. Though the limitations of budget creep through from time to time in Robot Stories, and the structure of four short films rolled into one may be foreign to audiences used to more traditional narratives, if you have an interest in technology on any level from love to fear, you will find something delightful in this film.

My rating: Highly recommended.

Running time: approx. five minutes each
Written and Directed by T. Arthur Cottam

Kind of an unusual move, but in celebration of the opening of the Florida Film Festival (from which these pages will immensely benefit over the next week or so) I thought I’d take a look at the entire professional output and comedic genius of hit-and-run filmmaker T. Arthur Cottam, whose latest multi-minute epic Pornographic Apathetic is in competition in the Midnight Movies category.

Unlike many filmmakers, Cottam starts with a good idea, and executes the idea perfectly. He does not pad out a five-minutes sketch to 90 minutes just to give some ex-SNL cast member some work. He does not suffer from delusions of grandeur about the importance of his work the way, say, Ed Wood did. He simply wants to tell his tales, the stories that are burning to be told, as quickly and cheaply as possible. Would that more filmmakers would study at the feet of this wunderkind.

Beer Goggles was my introduction to the world of T. Arthur Cottam. Following a magnificent and side-splitting PT Barnum-esque PR buildup, this just-over-five-minutes epic finally arrived at my door and was relished like a kosher hot dog from start to finish. Like the mouth-breather heroes of the film, my jaw was agape and the simple elegance and earthy reality of his plot and characters. I went to high school with some of those guys, ah sway-ah!

It would take me longer to describe the plot than it would for you to watch the film, which you soon will be able to do at dirtylittleshorts.com (later this spring). Suffice to say that on a typical redneck evening out, things don’t go quite as planned. Keystone, but no cops.

So it was with great anticipation that I opened the promo copy of Pornographic Apathetic, a film which by contrast had arrived with minimal fanfare — only the teasing tag of “Sex Like You’ve Never Seen It.” What a lot to live up to!

Again, to discuss the plot at length would really ruin the experience, and since it too will soon be available via the aforementioned website I don’t want to delve into it too deeply. It will hopefully be enough to mention the following facts:

1. It is indeed a take on sex in film that has never been done before.
2. It will leave you flushed and breathless, but not for the reasons you think.
3. In the PR kit, Cottam included some Lubriderm and tissues. Neither were needed, and yet I feel as though I may never need to watch a porno ever again.

For point number one alone, Cottam should get more attention in Hollywood as a bright, inventive filmmaker who puts the emphasis where it belongs — on interesting ideas well told, even with the handicaps of limited resources. This is truly one of those rare auteurs who would take a million dollars (if it were ever offered to him) and make 100 good belly-laugh movies rather than one artsy-fartsy crap one.

Keep an eye out for this fellow — an upstanding example not just of a good filmmaker, but of a good man. You can’t help but admire that rarest of creatures, an American male who actually knows when to stop. I predict great things from our Mr. Cottam.

My rating: Highly Recommended.

Running time: 01:04:00
Writers: Edgar Allen Poe (not really), Edgar G. Ulmer and Peter Ruric
Director: Edgar G. Ulmer

A shout out to Turner Classic Movies for giving me an opportunity to see this flick after harumph years, uncut and commercial-free. I remembered it as disturbing and stilted, but maturity has given me new insights (I think I last saw this film when I was about 12). Man, what a movie!

What’s interesting about The Black Cat are the following three things, in this order:

1. Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff together without monster makeup!

2. That house!

3. How can such an awful movie be so amazingly mesmerising?

Let’s take these points in reverse order, after a brief plot summary.

While on honeymoon in Hungary (huh?), milksop idiot couple Peter and Joan Allison (David Manners and Julie Bishop under the stage name of “Jacqueline Wells”) find themselves sharing a seat with kindly but creepy Dr. Vitus Werdegast (Lugosi) and his hulking manservant Thamal (Harry Cording). There are accidents, and the foursome end up at the home of Werdegast’s best friend/arch enemy, Hjalmar Poelzip (Karloff). While Joan recovers and Peter stumbles about moronically, Werdegast plots to kill Poelzig for his having married and killed Werdegast’s wife and daughter (or so he thinks).

When the truth is revealed and the idiot milksop couple hopelessly entangled, the reality is far more sinister than even Werdegast had imagined. In a fantastic climax, the evil Poelzig is flayed alive by Werdegast (who, despite being nutty as a fruitcake, is the good guy here) who then is shot by a misunderstanding Peter, and the milksop idiot couple move on to the milksop idiot denoument. The (very rushed) end.

Yes, it’s pretty much Standard Horror Plot #37 with a couple of nice twists. One of them is that Lugosi’s character is frightened to death of cats, so much so that he kills one in front of everyone (and nobody bats an eyelash). This is the movie’s only connection to the Edgar Allan Poe story on which it’s ostensibly based.

What makes this movie stand out from the thick river of horror movies produced around the same time is that so much of the actual horror is understated or imagined rather than actually seen by the viewer. This is as close to radio as a horror movie is likely to get!

Instead of blood, guts, gore or monsters to keep up on the edge or our seats, director Ulmer uses eye-poppingly gorgeous Bauhaus sets, costumes and hairstyles, and extremely Ayn Rand-ian performances from Karloff and Lugosi. Their “creepy” phasers were set on “kill” in this one. Stripped of their usual arsenal of makeup, they rely on their great chemistry to light up the set, and they do so easily every time. The architecture of the house and interior sets are so stunning that it should get third billing, behind Karloff and Lugosi but ahead of Manners and Bishop. As another reviewer noted, “architectural nuts probably rent this movie as architecture porn. The house is that cool.” She’s absolutely right.

Once it’s revealed that Karloff (who beautifully underplays his evil) is a Satan worshipper who sacrificed his wife (Werdegast’s former wife) and married Werdegast’s daughter (I told you this was hella creepy!) and has his eyes on sacrificing Joan Allison to the nether gods, we speed all too rapidly to the finale. The first two-thirds of the film are all just getting to the house and then Lugosi and Karloff threatening each other as only old pals can, the last 20 minutes literally fly by with action.

The climax, as I mentioned above, is really quite stylish and stunning, ruined only by the ridiculous denoument, which any viewer of The Rocky Horror Picture Show will have seen coming a mile off (incidentally, this is not the only influence The Black Cat had on Richard O’Brien’s little moneyspinner).

Most “bad” movies are laughably bad, easy to dismiss. This one is laughably bad in a load of places (have I mentioned Karloff’s hair? Chant it with me now: KAR-LOFF’S HAAAAAAIIIIRRRR!), but is hardly easy to dismiss. That’s probably why it still stands out 70 years after it debuted. If you’re ready for something off-beat, classic yet wonderfully dated, silly and scary all at the same time, you are ready to cross paths with The Black Cat.

My rating: Highly Recommended

Running time: 01:03:00
Writers: Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson
Director: Wes Anderson

Finally got a chance to see this movie, one of the few times I’ve ever looked forward to an “all-star” vehicle. At the time of this writing, I have seen Anderson’s Bottle Rockets but I haven’t yet seen the one film of his my friends keep commending to me, Rushmore. Normally when you get a cast of this calibre together, you end up with some overblown nonsense like Cannonball Run or the recent Rat Race, but this time there is no attempt to have a story as grand as the actors, and the focus is smaller and more personal — an approach that seems to work.

Anderson is known for his quirky characters, and The Royal Tenenbaums is little more than a parade of such personalities. Each member has a oddity that is uniquely theirs, a desperate cry for individuality in a family made up almost entirely of facades and a lie to themselves that they are not part and parcel of that facade.

The movie really belongs to Gene Hackman, who brings out his best “comedic scoundrel” persona and moves the plot along with his various plots and embellishments. Royal Tenenbaum (the man) is a perfect homage to a bygone movie stereotype — the lovable but penniless schemer who will do anything to hold on to that last shred of dignity. He is enabled in this by his faithful manservant and would-be assassin Pagoda (scene-stealing Kumar Pallana) and his bellboy and (fake) doctor, Dusty (Seymour Cassel). Like the lovable con artists of yore, Tenenbaum’s deceptions are usually quickly unmasked, but he effortlessly and unrepentantly puts up another in the blink of an eye.

A key scene to illustrate this occurs early in the film, where Royal first contacts his wife Etheline (Angelica Huston) as part of his plan to win her back and move back into their home. He tells her that she has to help him because he is dying of an unspecified disease (a lie, naturally). When her reaction to this news (she hasn’t seen or spoken to him in 14 years) is much stronger than he anticipated, he changes stories and tells her he’s fine. When she gets angry at the deception, he changes stories again. It reminded me of a kid trying to suss out what to tell the folks and trying to tailor his lie to what he thinks they want to hear — before that skill is really fully developed.

The actual plot of the film is rather thin: Royal discovers that another man is wooing his wife and decides that even if she no longer wants him, she can’t have anybody else — a typically selfish position that most everyone in the film shares. He tries to interfere with with his wife’s developing love life while simultaneously winning over his estranged children and their offspring and/or partners in a series of goofy vignettes that often fail but always amuse. The real appeal of TRT is in it’s Welles-meets-Wodehouse literary style, the memorable characters and the delight the filmmaker has in setting up absurd situations and following them to their conclusions.

Each of the grown-children Tenenbaums share their father’s inability to live up to their name: In particular, Gwyneth Paltrow’s uncanny Margot Kidder impersonation as Margot (who makes much hay of her secret obsessions) and Ben Stiller as a too-wound-up Chas (who has forgotten the meaning of the word “relax” so completely that he thinks wearing a track suit 24 hours a day will make up the difference) stand out. Bill Murray contributes as Margot’s long-suffering husband but doesn’t really get the chance to shine that I’d have hoped for. Luke Wilson’s troubled Richie (in love with his adopted sister — a surprisingly dark turn in an otherwise lighthearted film) is masterfully underplayed compared to Eli Cash (Owen Wilson), who is meant to be the comic relief in a film full of comic despair. Doesn’t quite work in my opinion.

The outrageously good soundtrack (compiled by Devo’s Mark Mothersbaugh and made up heavily of forgotten touchstone songs of the target audience’s youth — songs bounce from Nico/Cale laments to Vince Geraldi’s “Peanuts” theme in the blink of an eye) sets the proper mood for the film — familiar but strange, normal on the surface only. It’s David Lynch territory, but Anderson doesn’t feel the need to delve too deeply into the blacker parts of the psyche, whereas Lynch would have made the entire film about Richie and Margot’s secret.

Like all good tales of loss and redemption, TRB works itself out in the end, but hardly as the characters themselves intended. Moviegoers expecting a traditional straightforward tale will likely be befuddled by the film’s refusal to develop these characters in a normal manner, but fans of the Adaams Family and other lovers of dark humour will see this picture as a mild but worthwhile effort to bring dark comedy to the masses. For the most part, I think it succeeds at straddling the line between a film with artistic merit and one with commercial appeal. With the exception of Owen Wilson, all the actors have a chance to play outside their normal range and they clearly relish it. There are enough out-loud laughs and enjoyable moments to keep the film from falling into the “art-house only” category, yet plenty of quirky elements for those that enjoy them.

My rating: Interesting

Running time: 4:06:00
Director/Narrator: Martin Scorsese
Producer: Turner Classic Movies

I’ve chosen a documentary to kick off Film Moi because it is my favourite form of film, particularly when you get something that either takes you to a place you’ve never been before, or when it sheds new light on something you thought you knew.

Being a film dork, I am much better versed than the average bear when it comes to the history of Italian cinema. Thanks to my years of wasted youth in dark art-house theatres in Atlanta, I had a good working knowledge of Fellini, Visconti, and Antonioni’s body of work before I hit my early 20s. I had also seen numerous other examples of Italian filmmaking over the years, such as Umberto D and The Bicycle Thief, but apart from Fellini I had never bothered to actually study these filmmakers, or take in the overall concept of Italian cinema as a whole. I just thought they made either great foreign films (such as Cinema Paradiso) or enjoyably bad ones (like Danger Diabolik!).

If I went to the finest film school in the world, and spent as much money as possible on it, with all the finest teachers, I still could not have gotten one-tenth the education in Italian film I got for free courtesy Martin Scorsese and Turner Classic Movies’ presentation of My Voyage to Italy (now broken up into two mini-docs for TV viewing).

On my first viewing of the doc (when in premiered back in June of 2002), I was so astonished at what I was seeing I could scarcely comprehend the magnitude of it. The best teachers are always the people with the most passion for the subject, and here Scorsese proves this rule by doing a brilliant job of parsing his way through the history, starting with a lengthy look at the roots of Italian cinema in silent pictures (that era itself the subject of a different documentary!), right through the war years, the postwar and experimental fifties and sixties pictures and leaving us teetering on the brink of the mid-60s with Fellini. He devotes a luxurious amount of time to showing key scenes from a huge number of films, but is rarely obtrusive with his comments — and in fact his commentary is minimal, just enough to put the viewer in the proper mood or arm them with a key piece of knowledge, and then let their own imaginations and the scenes themselves take them the rest of the way — the exact opposite of most film teachers who over-explain and bore their students.

By gathering these disparate films together, Scorsese manages to accurately recreate the cumulative impact his viewings of them — mostly from his youth on a tiny black & white TV with bad reception — had then and have now on his own filmmaking and his love of cinema. More than anything else, that part comes through from the softspoken director loud and clear — he is passionate about movies, not just Italian ones (he did an earlier but somewhat less effective homage to the American films that have influenced him called A Personal Journey with Martin Scorsese Through American Movies, but that doc should be considered a dress rehearsal for this one).

After a longish beginning detailing his own personal history as the son of immigrant parents (a reprise of this tale is the subject of yet another doc, Italianamerican) Scorsese recovers with a well-done but too short look at Italian silent movies before moving on to examine the work of Roberto Rosselini, clearly one of his favourite directors (and father of Isabella Rosselini, possibly the most glamourously beautiful movie star ever). While I had boned up on the Italian silent era thanks to a doc a couple years back at the Florida Film Festival, the Rosselini material was largely unknown to me and of great interest.

Most interestingly, Scorsese spends considerable time pointing out a major influence in the form of a TV show –episodes of a show called “Paisa” (“Paisan”) that were mandatory viewing in the Italian-American neighborhoods of New York where Scorsese grew up. The gritty, realistic style of the show, he argues, influenced not just him personally but had an effect on filmmakers of the time (in addition to being like a slightly-fictionalised mirror of Italian life for those who had emigrated away, itself a powerful influence). Not many film directors are personally honest enough to admit the huge effect television has had on their own filmmaking. It is fascinating to see these clips and then realise that Scorsese has sometimes used them shot-for-shot (or at least message-for-message, atmosphere-for-atmosphere) in his own work.

We then move on to Rosselini’s film work, including Year Zero (Germania Anno Zero) and Voyage to Italy (Viaggio In Italia). When we get to the surreal Flowers of St. Francis, the groundwork for Last Temptation of Christ becomes painfully plain.

The second hour is mostly devoted to Vittorio De Sica and Neo-Realism. Long, uninterrupted scenes from The Bicycle Thief and Umberto D are shown to illustrate not just how De Sica’s stories, but how he tells them — how he manipulates the audiences’ attention to small things, or makes entire movies out of “small” things. How he makes us care about the lead characters, how the atmosphere becomes an inherent part of the story, how De Sica uses his own love of cinema to create great cinema. For Italians and much of the rest of the world, this was among the first times that the art of filmmaking rose above the functionary level and became part of the tale being told itself. This was new. This was interesting.

Recognising that few people who view My Voyage to Italy are all that familiar with the films being presented, Scorsese does a brilliant job condensing the essential plot points down and trickling them out like breadcrumbs as we watch the clips … he is leading us subtly but effectively to an appreciation of the film even if we can’t see the entire thing.

In Part Two (or the second half), we finish up with De Sica and head towards the Italian directors most (older) Americans might be familiar with — the trio of Antonioni, Visconti, and of course Fellini. I’ve heard it said that Scorsese plans to do a further documentary outlining and analysing post-1963 Italian cinema, but that’s as far as we go here.

Where I find this documentary most engaging is in Scorsese’s unerring choice of pivotal scenes — sometimes pivotal by plot, but more often by style — and his willingness to divulge plot points and climaxes. It takes little away from seeing the original film “cold,” and acknoledges that 95% of the people lucky enough to see this doc have either already seen many of the films in question, or are never going to see them (in complete form, anyway). So often does Scorsese take a scene or a moment from a film like Guazzoni’s Fabiola or Visconti’s La Terra Trema and really make you feel it — not only does the story leap off the screen, but the director’s intent and technique as well. As an introduction to the art of film appreciation, you could hardly do better than this documentary.

Michaelangelo Antonioni gets something of a short shrift in My Voyage to Italy compared to directors Scorsese was more influenced by, but not before he takes some serious time to thoughtfully dissect Antonioni’s most interesting contribution to what was then being called “New Wave” filmmaking in other parts of Europe: the mind-blowing inventiveness of L’Eclisse (The Eclipse) and L’Avventura (The Adventure) which remain today extremely challenging films.

Scorsese spends his last 45 minutes or so looking closely at Federico Fellini and his awe-inspiring vision of cinema as it’s own art form. Like very few before or since, Fellini paints a complete but jarringly different world in his later work, but bringing out the rarely seen early films such as I Vitelloni and La Dolce Vita show in a stunningly well-done fashion how Fellini grew and changed over the course of his career.

Indeed, my only complaint with My Voyage to Italy is that a few other important Italian directors who were active in the same period (most notably Pier Paolo Pasolini and Bernardo Bertolucci) are completely unmentioned. Perhaps Scorsese intends to give their work more attention in his planned sequel, but it’s a shame that they were left out.

Somebody other than Scorsese probably needs to do a documentary examining the works of less artful but still important Italian directors such as Sergio Leone and Mario Bava. I get the feeling that spaghetti westerns and campy farces are not Martin’s cup of tea and didn’t influence him (as much as they perhaps should have).

If you’re looking to expand your horizons in film (be it Italian cinema or not), if you’re interested in a good primer on the history of cinema d’Italiano, if you’re a filmmaker who needs tips on how to make really compelling, unforgettable movies and want to learn from the best, or if you’re just someone who would like to see some pristine examples of film as art — few documentaries will take you to the heights of My Voyage to Italy.

My rating: Compulsory Viewing