Showing posts with label current obsessions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label current obsessions. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Current Obsession: The Films of Werner Herzog

Herzog on the set of Fitzcarraldo

Werner Herzog has made two or three films that are as close to perfection as the cinema comes, several other films that are fine, at least one film that is just plain bad and no films that I wish I had never seen.  His films are strange, often times descents into madness-- they create strange moods in those who see them.  They tend to feature men at odds with overpowering environments.  They are unlike the films of anyone else.

My favorite is, without doubt, Aguirre, the Wrath of God.  It is, I think, one of the greatest of all films, without an off-putting moment.  It reaches heights of perfection that most filmmakers only dream about.  It centers on a failed mission into the Amazon in search of the fabled El Dorado.  It ends with one of the most memorable sequences I've ever seen as Klaus Kinski rages alone on a raft covered with chattering monkeys, making plans for world conquest whilst floating down the river to his demise.

Kinski worked with Herzog on four other films, including Woyzeck (about the dehumanizing effect of society on an unstable young soldier), Fitzcarraldo (about a man who yearns to drag a steamship over a mountain in order to bring opera to the darkness of the rain forest), and Nosferatu (the remake of the classic silent Dracula film).  Although it's almost a supporting role, my favorite of the Kinski performances is in Nosferatu-- where he combines the beastiality and sensuality of the vampire in ways that are haunting and unforgettable.  It is, in fact, the best thing about that film, otherwise unremarkable, mainly a failure because it chained Herzog to a steadfast plot, something he otherwise tends to avoid in pursuit of transcendence.

Kinski as Dracula in Nosferatu

Fitzcarraldo is another film that suffers due to a plot that seems out of Herzog's comfort range.  He seems to work best with stories that center on men failing to overcome the oppressive environments they find themselves.  When Fitzcarraldo succeeds-- when he drags the ship over the mountain and then rides to glory down the river with his phonograph blaring the music of Caruso, it strikes one of the falsest notes in the Herzog canon. 

If his work with Klaus Kinski provides the most recognizable films in his filmography, his work with other actors may provide the best performances.  Consider his films with Bruno S. (The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser, Stroszeck) or Eva Mattes (Stroszeck, Woyzeck).

The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser, about a man locked in a dark cellar since birth who is suddenly and mysteriously released into a society that baffles him, is the director's second greatest work.  In it, Bruno S. gives a performance that is heartbreaking and poetic.  He played a similar character in Stroszeck, an equally compelling film that is hampered a bit by it's determined off-beatedness. It's a strange film about an ex-convict, an old man, and a prostitute who move to Wisconsin to live in a trailer home.  It says a great deal about the dreams of American immigrants in unexpected and sometimes curious ways.  

In Stroszeck, Eva Mattes, an understated, earthy beauty, plays the prostitute.  She plays a similar character in Woyzeck, where she won a much deserved Best Supporting Actress prize at Cannes.  You won't find acting better than her work her anywhere else.

Mattes and Kinski in Woyzeck

He chose actors not so much for their obvious talents, but for the way they could embody characters.  He wanted people in roles that would require them to act very little and mostly respond as they naturally would.  That gives his fiction films a documentary quality-- he matched that by giving his documentary films a sometimes fictional slant.  Consider in Little Dieter Needs to Fly, about an ex-POW, how some of the actions of Dieter were improvised on the spot to get his point across.  He also made the exceptional Grizzly Man, about a man who believed he could live unharmed with bears and My Best Fiend, about his turbulent relationship with Kinski.

Then, there's Fata Morgana, one of the more curious films in his canon.  Theoretically a documentary on mirages, it combines stunning and hallucinatory shots of the Sahara desert with a curious performance in a music parlor, the Mayan creation myth, a sea turtle, and songs by Leonard Cohen.  It isn't like anything you've seen before.  Good or bad doesn't seem to even apply to it-- it feels less like a motion picture and more like an object or an idea.  Some may find it boring or insufferable.  I found it fascinating.

That is not to say that Herzog cannot make a boring or insufferable film.  He made Heart of Glass, a fiction film about a small village with a glass blowing factory.  The foreman dies, taking the secret of 'Ruby Glass' with him.  The town sinks into despair and eventually madness.  The film itself is maddening, combining long, irritating narration depicting the end of days with odd behaviors and actions by actors under hypnosis.  (Apparently, all the actors aside from the lead performed under hypnosis to better exemplify the descent into insanity.)  The plot gets brutally pushed aside to make room for the oddities, which quickly become dull.

His best known film, by virtue of it's star, Christian Bale, is probably Rescue Dawn, a fictional retelling of Dieter Dengler (of Little Dieter Needs to Fly) and his time in the jungle.  Bale lost a great deal of weight, whittling himself down to a skeletal frame (something he does with some regularity, however), Steve Zahn provides a powerhouse supporting performance, and the film brought Herzog's unique style to a new generation.  Rescue Dawn is one of the better films of this decade.

Herzog on the set of Rescue Dawn

Saturday, July 5, 2008

Current Obsesssion: Seven Eleven

Slurpee. Big Gulp.

These are not pleasant words. Say them to yourself. They sound gross. They sound disgusting, like some sex act you whispered about in Junior High. But like some unpracticed, first time sex act (...for boys, anyway) these things are wonderful.

That's correct, Thank heaven for Seven Eleven.

It's not that they stay open twenty four hours, although that helps. And it's not that they have air conditioning that makes one worshipful. And it's not even the refreshing joys of the afore-mentioned Slurpee and Big Gulp. It's a big, glorious conflation of all three. And more.

It makes me happy to walk in and see some underpaid clerk staring vaguely ahead as some ridiculous customer rambles and bitches on about a nonsensical issue that someone paid twice the counter-help's salary would still be hard-pressed to care about. God knows I've tread there, too. But not anymore. HaHa.

It makes me happy to go there a 3am when the outdoor humidity makes me wish I were dead and ponder the fact that I could buy a burrito and batteries and a chocolate eclair if I wanted. And it makes me even happier when the Spanish clerk doesn't bother me and just lets me hang out for a while.

And it makes me happy to walk in at 1:30 in the afternoon and buy a soda larger than my torso. An 84 ounce Super-Mega-Unbelievably Large Kick-Your-Ass Gulp. Or a 34 ounce slurpee, because anything larger will forever freeze your brain. Slurpee, you taste like air! You are like walking on a cloud of flavorful bliss. And, oh the ecstacy!, how about when you walk in and realize that not only do they have Cherry LimeAide Slurpees, but also Blue Raspberry? HOW IS MORTAL MAN TO MAKE SUCH DECISIONS?!?!? It is too hard. Between the months of April and October I would choose Slurpees over drugs, without hesitation, without question. Which brings around the question of drug-flavored Slurpees. That, I think, must be heaven.

Thank you, Seven Eleven. Nothing else would have me walk a dozen blocks out of my way in the mid-afternoon heat, especially when therre is a CVS on every corner. You are truly the greatest place that exists anywhere in the world. I wish everywhere was a Seven Eleven. I love them.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Current Obsession: Ciaran Hinds

I have seen a lot of Ciaran Hinds lately, and that is not a bad thing.  I was vaguely aware of him before, because I can not pronounce his name which sits with stature and grace on the page.  He was in Steven Spielberg's Munich, but I don't remember him.  Then again, I don't remember Daniel Craig from that film either.  I didn't really like that movie.  Although, anything that puts Eric Bana on the screen is a worthy use of celluloid.
Tangents...sorry.  Anyway, now Hinds has exploded.  He is everywhere, and goddamn in he talented.  He can play cold and vicious with ease.  Warm and lovable effortlessly.  Dull and stupid with enough conviction that you think, for a moment, he may actually be.
He was in Margot at the Wedding, playing Nicole Kidman's greasy lover, and that was one of the best films of last year.  He was in Paul Thomas Andersen's There Will Be Blood, also released last year-- a film which defies all qualifiers.  He was Ryan Phillipe's father in Kimberly Peirce's Stop Loss, which is so far the best film of this year.  Albeit, that isn't high praise, and while the film had flaws it also had an undeniable dramatic scope and power.  And, of course, he was perhaps most visible in Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day as Frances McDormand's crush.  He kept that movie grounded when all it really wanted to do was veer of course in bizarre and unexpected ways.  Those are four extraordinary film choices, Ciaran.
Do you know who this person is?  Probably not.  He does what a good character actor does-- blends seamlessly into the structure of a film adding support without overshadowing.  But, his time has come.  Pettigrew, if nothing else, showed that he can be a viable romantic lead, even if his appearance will limit that.  He looks like a healthier, cleaner version of Pete Postlethwaite.  That's perhaps more of a compliment than it sounds.
Cheers to Ciaran Hinds.  Keep up the good work.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Death of a Dream

It was like making the long trek to Mecca only to find yourself at Sea World.  It was like taking the stairs to the top of the Empire State Building and looking out over Fort Worth.  It was awful-- an explosion of despair and pain.  The end of an era.  The death of a dream.
I walked again tonight, as I often do, to the most beautiful house in New Orleans.  I shall not go again.  It has been tainted.  Ruined.  Those people who live there, those awful, awful souls have turned their beautiful, majestic delight into a canvas of blasphemy and blackness.  I hate them deeply and with yearning.
Shall I begin by saying that they do not own a cat?  The way the curtains were pushed back ever so slightly so suggested that a feline presence slid in between the fabric and the glass and stared unimpressed upon the world while he licked his paws clean.  This is not the case.  They do own a pet, but it is not a cat.  It is a big, grotesque English Bulldog, fat and stupid.  The size of a pot-bellied pig it lumbers about, all brown and white and ridiculous.  It is so fat it doesn't walk, it waddles.  It is a disgusting beast.  That is lives in such a beautiful house makes me yearn to pull out my BB gun and fire a pellet into it's immensity.  It's so hideous my heart breaks because of it's existence.
But, oh, worse horrors did I find upon my final journey to the once-magical place.  Do you remember, from examining the photos of the house, the flag-holder that hung empty on the front of the house?  It is empty no longer.  The house's lovely visage has been tainted by an American flag.  And, no, not a tasteful, subtle decently-sized American flag-- a huge, tacky unbearable flag just whipping in the breeze.  The kind of flag that murdered John Lennon.  The kind of flag that rapes children and steps on the heads of kittens.  It made me want to vomit.
So stricken with sadness I wandered away with a heavy heart and sobbed into the dark, melancholy New Orleans night.  The world shan't ever be the same.  A little piece of my heart has been rent forth and scattered across the ground like the ashes from an alter to God.  There is no more magic in the world.  It had been replaced with poison and bile.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Current Obsession: The Most Beautiful House in New Orleans

There it is... the most beautiful house in all of New Orleans.  It lies delightful on the corner of  Barracks and Chartres, lush and in ruins.  Like something from a dream, it rises triumphantly from the barren, well-kept surroundings of the French Quarter.  It is a fantasy.  Perfection.

It cannot be approached from the Canal Street side.  From that direction, the wonder is lost.  You must circle around and approach it from the Esplanade side.  That is the way to truly experience the house.  On overcast days and sunny afternoons, late nights and early mornings I can often be found sitting on a post across the street, staring into it's unending glory, memorizing every break and flaw, each molding and subtle shade.  I long to see the lucky beast who owns such an enviable piece of property.  I speculate they have a cat.

There was a time when I thought the house was simply myth.  I stumbled blindly onto it one day and fell to my knees, struck by sublimity.  I noted to myself the corner it was located on so I could visit it again.  But later, when I returned, it wasn't there.  I searched and searched for the house, yet couldn't find it anywhere.  Is it magic?  Does the house only appear to those who need it?  Does it travel about, move, lurk throughout the neighborhood?  No, I was simply lost.  But the house is magic nonetheless.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Current Obsession: Colin Farrell

Colin Farrell is grossly underrated.  He proved that (again) earlier today.
 
In Bruges is jut another of those little-seen independent films, like A Home at the End of the World, or Tigerland, or The New World, or Intermission that Colin Farrell makes about every other year and proves, without doubt, that he is a damn fine actor.  Unfortunately, hardly anyone sees these movies, which is a disappointment in itself because they're great. 
 
Everyone does, however, see things like Miami Vice, SWAT, and Daredevil.  He's much, much better than that, people!
I say, for all to hear, that it is time to stop ripping on Colin.  He makes terrific movies.  And he is delicious.

Sometimes, perhaps, his offscreen behavior makes him seem like a cad.  I proclaim "Who cares?".  What has he done that is so bad?  Who among us would not have made out with Britney Spears back when she was attractive and 'sane'?  Who among us do not have  home-made pornography lying around that we hope is never put online?  Is someone does upload a copy, are we to blame?  I think not.  And, finally, who among us does not like to drink a lot and tell jerk-offs to fuck off and go to hell?  I do, and I'm sure I know of several others who feel the same.

He has a curse, it seems, of oftentimes being the very best thing in very bad movies.  And of being in wonderful films that are denied popularity for the same reasons that most good things are under loved.  So, if you think he's a bad actor, expand your horizons.  See his independent films and become enlightened.  If you think he's an asshole, well... it's superfluous to film your sex acts when you live in a glass house.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

27 Dresses--What the critics are saying

"After Knocked Up, this is a step down for the gifted Katherine Heigl, who deserves a better vehicle than this fluffy, formulaic, retro romantic comedy, which makes a strong case for a moratorium on wedding flicks and wedding gowns." Emanuel Levy

"It's white-lace porn for girls of every age, and the way that it revels in that get-me-to-the-altar mood, to the point of making anyone who isn't getting married feel like a loser, is the picture's key selling point." Owen Gleiberman

"Agonizing, flaccid, and about as romantic as bottle of flat champagne, 27 Dresses is a perfect example of the stereotypical Hollywood romantic comedies that Judd Apatow's 40 Year Old Virgin and Knocked Up successfully disemboweled." Cole Smithey

"Its supposed feminism never gets past advocating a woman's right to literally chase after her dreamboat to ensure the attainment of her own perfect moment at the altar." Nick Schager

This goes out with a big 'fuck you' to Katherine Heigl.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Current Obsession: Hating Mike Huckabee and Katherine Heigl

I hate you both so very, very much.  Sometimes I lie awake at night and seethe.

Why don't the two of you get married and be loathsome together?  You can go on a honeymoon to Fiji.  Hopefully for you, Mike, that won't be the island to which you've banished all the world's AIDS patients.  Perhaps on the way to Fiji your plane will crash and you'll be stranded forever together on a raft in the Pacific, with no one to endlessly annoy but driftwood and the occasional tropical fowl.  Hopefully for you, Katherine, you'll never wash up on shore and be subjected to see '27 Dresses', your movie about a woman who is desperate to get married.  Can she not be happy and productive as a single person?  That's a helpful portrayal of women.

 You should never be allowed in public to irritate good people ever again.  

Ugh.  You both suck.

Please go away.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

"Why do you listen to shitty music?"

Current obsession:  Daniel Tosh




This is from a Comedy Central special-- he has a funny CD with similar material called 'True Stories I Made Up."  That's where the post title comes from.

It's obscene.  And delightful.
Much better than Dane Cook.
Stupid Dane Cook...
Why do people listen to shitty comedy?